Кара Хантер: No Way Out

`What can I do for you, Sarge?'

`I'm at Southey Road.' The wind must have got up; his voice is catching in the gusts. `There's been a fire. One fatality and a lad in Intensive Care in the John Rad.'

She sits down on the bed. `Arson?'

`We don't know yet. But looks likely.'

`How can I help?'

`What with Christmas, we're really thin on the ground `“ Baxter's running the house-to-house but we've only got three uniforms.'

Somer knows what that's like and it's a shit of a job. Especially in this weather. She hopes to God he isn't about to ask her to pitch in. And he must have sensed something because he adds, quickly, `But that's not what I was calling about. I'm stuck on-site right now, and Everett doesn't get back till this afternoon, so can you handle the PM?'

Why isn't Quinn doing that? she wonders. But she doesn't say so. She has her own history with Quinn `“ an ill-advised but mercifully brief relationship which she fears rather too many people know about. Notably Fawley.

`Sure. No problem.'

`Have you done a burns case before?'

She hesitates. `No, actually I haven't.' She's only been to one post-mortem, in fact, and that was a stabbing. Gruelling enough but insipid by comparison.

`First time for everything,' says Gislingham. `You'll be fine.' He hesitates, then, `Take some mints.'

Interview with Beverley Draper, conducted at 21 Southey Road, Oxford

4 January 2018, 8.45 a.m.

In attendance, DC A. Baxter

AB:I believe you made the initial 999 call, Mrs Draper? BD:Yes, that was me. My son woke me up `“ he was having a nightmare. His bedroom faces that way. I heard a noise `“ it sounded like a window breaking. I thought it might be a burglar so I pulled the curtain aside. That's when I saw the flames. I remember thinking it must have been on fire for quite a while to have got so bad, but there are so many trees you can't really see the house from the road. I suppose no one realized. AB:And you called the emergency services at 12.47? BD:That's right. AB:You didn't see anyone near the house `“ or running away? BD:No. Like I said, I'd been asleep until Dylan woke me. Do you know how they are `“ the family? AB:We're not in a position to release any information at the moment. BD:I saw them take Matty off in the ambulance, but they're talking on the internet about Michael and Samantha being missing. That can't be right, can it? I mean `“ AB:As I said, we'll be making an official statement in due course. Can you tell me what you know about the family? They were here, were they, over Christmas and New Year? Not away visiting relatives? On a skiing break? BD:I don't think they ski. And yes, they were here. The school did a carol singing thing the day before Christmas Eve and they were all there. AB:Did they have visitors at all? Do you know of anyone else who might have been in the house last night? BD:Well, I'm not sure `“ AB:We just need to be clear who else might have been present. Family members? Friends? Take your time. BD:[ pause ]

To be honest, they don't do that much entertaining as far as I can tell. When we moved in we invited them round, like you do, and Samantha said she'd come back to me with some dates, but somehow it never happened. We had a party in the garden last summer and they came, but I think they were only going through the motions. They didn't stay long.

AB:What about family? BD:Michael's father is dead, that I do know, and I think his mother's in a home. Somewhere out near Wantage I think. I've never heard Samantha mention her family. AB:We also believe the family have a car, but it wasn't at the house. BD:Oh yes, they definitely have a car. A Volvo estate. Quite old. White. But I don't know why it's not in the drive. That's where it usually is. AB:You don't know anywhere Samantha might go? BD:So she really is missing `“ AB:Like I said, we aren't able to comment `“ BD:Don't worry. I get it. But no. I'm afraid I have no idea. AB:And there's no one else you can think of that we could contact? BD:I'm sorry. We just weren't those kind of neighbours.***

The air in the mortuary is even colder than it is outside. Somer has two jumpers on under her scrubs; it was Everett who'd advised the extra layer (`Once your teeth start chattering, that'll be it `“ you won't be able to stop'). The body is on a metal bed. The toddler. Zachary. Though she realizes at once that giving him a name is only going to make it a whole lot worse. Shreds of blue blanket are still clinging to his skin, but underneath he's horribly damaged. His body is lurid with mottled yellow and blistered red, scorched with patches of lumpy, sooty charring. His head is turned away, the soft baby curls burned off, the lips shrunken and waxy. She takes a deep breath and it comes out as something too close to a sob. One of the assistants glances across.

`I know. It's always doubly crappy when it's a kid.'

Somer nods, not trusting herself to speak. Right now, all she can think about is the smell. She's seen all those uber-realistic mock-ups on TV post-mortems but the one thing she hadn't been prepared for was the stink. Even behind her mask, the body smells like a hog roast. She sends up a silent thank you to Gislingham for the mints, and swallows, trying to keep control.

`Our first priority,' says Boddie, `will be to confirm whether or not the victim was alive before the fire began. There being no obvious external injuries, I will therefore be examining the trachea and internal airways for evidence of smoke inhalation.'

He picks up a scalpel and looks across at her. `So, shall we begin?'

Gislingham is still at Southey Road. The low winter sun is casting a deep rose glow over the wreckage of the house. There's frost in the air, but despite the cold the crowd in the road is larger. Perhaps twenty people, in scarves and gloves and big coats, their breath coming in chilly gusts. But they probably won't stay long `“ there's a lot less to see now. One of the fire engines has gone, and the firefighters who remain are damping down last areas of fire and loading kit back on to the truck. Inside, though, it's a different matter. As well as three members of Alan Challow's forensics team, there are two fire investigation officers, one of them with a video camera. The other is in the burnt-out breakfast room, with Gislingham and Challow. The heavy wooden table and chairs are still smouldering and there are flares of soot going up to the ceiling. Water is dropping through, and they can see through the joists to the room above. Winnie the Pooh wallpaper. The bare skeleton of a baby mobile. Gislingham is trying not to look at it.

`We'll need to do more analysis to be sure,' the fire officer is saying, `but like I said, my money's on it starting in the sitting room. That would also account for the delay in the 999 call `“ there's no one overlooking the house at the back and, as far as we can tell, the neighbours that side are away.'

`And you think it was definitely arson?'

The officer nods. `Based on the speed and spread, some sort of accelerant had to be involved, ably supported, no doubt, by the bloody Christmas tree. That would have gone up like the fourth of July. Must have been dry as a bone by now `“ might just as well have piled up a stack of kindling and have done with it. After that it was only a matter of time until boom : the whole place went up.'

`How long could that have taken?' asks Gislingham, making furious notes.

The fire officer straightens up. `To reach flashover point? Three minutes? Possibly even less.' He gestures towards the stairs. `Judging by the charring, I'm guessing they had some sort of garland draped down the banisters too. Holly or something. Which would also have been tinder dry by now, needless to say, making it about as good a trailing fuse as you're ever likely to get. Talk about bad timing. I mean, they'd have been taking it all down tomorrow, wouldn't they?'