Кара Хантер - No Way Out

28 July 2017, 10.45 a.m.

160 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Michael Esmond opens the study doors and stands for a moment, staring down the garden. It's one of the hottest days of the year but he had to have the doors closed while the grass was being cut because it was too noisy. But he can let some air into the room now that Harry is on his hands and knees doing the borders. And he's doing a good job, no question: the garden looks better than it has for years. It would almost be worth having another party for the department. Almost, but not quite. He knows from experience that events like that are always far more work than you've bargained for, and Sam probably still isn't up to it. Not to mention the cost. He turns and goes back to his desk, and for an hour all he can hear is the snip of the secateurs, the birdsong and an occasional bark from the dog next door. He's so engrossed he doesn't notice the sounds of gardening have stopped; he doesn't even look up until a shadow falls across the page in front of him. He glances up.

`Present from Sam.'

Harry is standing in front of him, holding out a can of lager. And a glass. He has a can of his own in his other hand.

`Thanks,' says Michael, sitting back. `You're doing well `“ with the garden, I mean.'

Harry smiles. `Most of the heavy lifting's done now, but you have to keep on top of it at this time of year.' He wipes the cold can across his forehead like he's a model in a soft drink ad. And modelling might well be a viable option if he put his mind to it. He has the looks, the height, the six-pack. The tan. There's a line of sweat along his upper lip and he wipes his hand across his mouth. Michael looks away quickly, realizing he was staring. He feels himself redden.

`I didn't realize you had tatts,' he says, desperate for something to fill the silence.

Harry looks down at where his shirt is open. There's a small tattoo just visible on his left pectoral. `Just the one,' he says, touching it. `It's for the woman in my life.' He winks.

Later, when his wife brings him out a sandwich, Michael asks her if Harry has a girlfriend.

`Not that I know of,' she says, looking down the garden to where he's bagging up the grass cuttings. He's taken his shirt off now. `Why?'

`Oh, no reason. It was just something he said. About that tattoo of his. He said it was for the woman in his life.'

`Oh, that ,' she says, smiling. `He told me about that. It's for his mother. It's a reference to her name. She brought him up on her own so they're very close. A bit classier than `њI love my Mum`ќ in big letters, don't you think?'

Harry is coming up the garden now, the bag over his shoulder. The tattoo is clearly visible. A tiny sprig of berries on sharp dark shoots.

`Don't worry,' says Samantha, seeing her husband's face. `I won't let Matty get one.'

`No,' he says, without turning to look at her. `I should hope not.'

Telephone interview with Belinda Bolton,

14 January 2018, 2.55 p.m.

On the call, DC V. Everett

VE:Hello? DC Everett speaking. BB:Oh, hello, it's Belinda Bolton. I spoke to you at the funeral on Friday. You gave me your card, do you remember? My son Jack is in Matty's class. VE:Oh yes, I remember. You said they were good friends. BB:Only in the last term, really, but yes, we did see Matty quite a few times. VE:So how can I help you? BB:You said, at the funeral, that it was possible Jack might remember something. That he might have heard or seen something but not realize how important it was. VE:That often happens, with children. It can sometimes be better not to push it `“ to let them come out with it in their own good time. BB:Yes, well, that's just it. I just dropped him off at one of his friend's, and just as he was getting out of the car he said something really odd. I was a bit distracted because I was parked on a yellow line and I wanted him to get a move on. VE:What did he say? BB:I think he'd been talking about one of his video games. To be honest, I pretty much switch off when he starts on about that stuff, and then he was halfway out of the car `“ VE:Mrs Bolton `“ what did he say? BB:It sounds mad, saying it now, but I'm sure he said something about Matty wanting to kill Zachary.***

`It was just a game. It's not real .'

The four of them are sitting on a bench in the Bishop Christopher's school playground. Everett, Somer, Alison Stevens and Jack Bolton, Matty Esmond's friend. They can hear voices from the classrooms and, somewhere, piano music and children singing. There was a hard frost overnight and the rather scrappy perimeter hedge has turned into a glittering fortification worthy of a fairy castle. A weak sun has just emerged from the clouds, but it's still cold. The boy is swaddled in a blue puffa jacket, scuffing his trainers against the tarmac.

`You like playing games online, don't you, Jack?' says Everett.

`Sometimes,' he says warily.

`Which do you like best?'

A little more energy now. ` Fortnite . But Minecraft is cool too.'

Everett and Somer exchange a glance.

`That was Matty's favourite, wasn't it? His dad said something about that.'

Jack is still scuffing the tarmac. `Matty was ace at it.'

`You said something to your mum yesterday `“ something about killing Zachary,' says Everett. She says it lightly, as if it's not that important.

Jack looks up briefly. ` Attack Zack .'

`What's that then?'

`Matty made it for Minecraft . It was awesome. '

`You played it with him?'

Jack shrugs. `A few times.'

`Did he tell you why he called it after his brother?' asks Everett.

Jack glances up; he's obviously perplexed by the question. `It was just a name. It didn't mean anything.'

He's closing up now and the presence of the head teacher probably isn't helping. Everett elects to try a different tack. `Mrs Stevens said you have a little brother, too, Jack. Is that right?' asks Everett.

He nods. He's avoiding her eye.

`I'm sure you love him, don't you?'

A pause. `Babies are stupid. They're really boring .'

`But you still love him, don't you?'

A shrug. `He just lies there. And he cries. All the time. It's really boring .'

Somer rubs her hands together against the cold. Her gloves don't seem to be helping much. One of her old boyfriends said she needed mittens. He was into adventure sports and said mittens are better because they allow your fingers to touch. Conserves your body heat, apparently. But how the hell does a grown woman get away with wearing mittens? Never mind a bloody police officer. She wonders in passing, surprised she's even having the thought, if Giles Saumarez has an opinion about mittens.

`Did Matty talk to you about his brother?' Everett asks.

Jack nods. `Not much. Sometimes.'

`What did he say?'

Another shrug. `He said his mum cared more about Zachary than she did about him.'

`But Zachary was very little,' says Somer. `He needed someone to look after him. Just like Matty had, when he was little.'

No reply at all this time. Jack is still scuffing the ground. Alison Stevens is clearly itching to ask him to stop.

`I told you,' he says eventually. `It isn't real. Nobody dies. '

Fifteen minutes later the three women are walking back towards the head's office. Everett stops a moment and looks back at where Jack is now playing football with four or five classmates. They look just like all the other kids who've kicked a ball about on this playground over the years. But are they really? Has there ever been a generation so inured to violence, so habituated to casual brutality? All those specialists she reads about in the Sunday papers, with their dire warnings about the impact of playing video games and the erosion of empathy `“ judging by what she's just seen, they don't know the half of it.