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Кара Хантер: No Way Out

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Кара Хантер No Way Out

No Way Out: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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It's one of the most disturbing cases DI Fawley has ever worked. The Christmas holidays, and two children have just been pulled from the wreckage of their burning home in North Oxford. The toddler is dead, and his brother is soon fighting for his life. Why were they left in the house alone? Where is their mother, and why is their father not answering his phone? Then new evidence is discovered, and DI Fawley's worst nightmare comes true. Because this fire wasn't an accident. It was murder.

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`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?'

Gislingham looks blank, then, `Oh, of course, Twelfth Night. Bugger `“ I'd forgotten about that.'

His own house is festooned like a department store `“ Janet wanted it to be special for Billy's first Christmas at home. Gislingham's going to be up all night.

* * *

Verity Everett puts the phone down and sits back in her chair. She was half expecting to come back to a nearly empty office and the sad remains of the Christmas chocolates. But only half: this job has a way of catching you unawares. And to be honest, after several days of Uninterrupted Dad she's rather relieved to be back. Her flat really isn't big enough for the both of them. Especially not when he treats the place like a hotel, leaving his empty mugs wherever he's sitting and never making the bed (her bed, incidentally; she's had to make do with the futon, which is having the predictable effect on both her backache and her disgruntled cat). But tomorrow her father's going home, and today she's back where she belongs. Working. She scans the room, looking for Gislingham, but he obviously isn't back from Southey Road yet. And much as she hates going over his head, this can't wait.

A few moments later she's tapping on Fawley's door. He's on the phone, but motions her forward. She stands there a moment, making a great show of not listening to what he's saying, but thankfully it doesn't sound personal. Not his wife, anyway. Fawley's started shutting the door when he's talking to her. She sneaks a sidelong look at him. He looks OK from a distance, but if you know him well enough you can spot the signs. And she does. Know him.

He puts the phone down and she turns towards him.

`You've got something, Ev?'

`Yes, sir. I spoke to the conference organizers at King's. Michael Esmond registered with them on Tuesday afternoon and attended the dinner that evening. And he was on some panel or other yesterday morning.'

`And after that?'

`The organizer said she saw him in the pub late last night. Around ten thirty.'

`So he's definitely in London.'

`Yes, sir. But he arranged his own accommodation so they don't know where he's staying.'

`Mobile phone?'

She holds out a sheet of paper. `They gave me the number but it's just going straight to voicemail. I've left a message for him to call us.'

`When's his speech scheduled for?'

She has to hand it to him: he always gets to the key fact. `Tomorrow afternoon, sir. Four o'clock.'

Fawley nods slowly. `OK, keep me posted. And if Esmond phones in I want to be the first to know.'

* * *

It takes five hours to complete the post-mortem, and at the end of it Boddie decides he has more than earned a late lunch.

`Would you like to join us?' he asks Somer as they remove their scrubs. `We'll be in Frankie's, just across the road.'

After he's gone, one of the assistants turns to her and smiles awkwardly. `You may want to take a rain check on that invite. Boddie has this tradition. If it's a burns case, he buys us all barbecue ribs.'

`You cannot be serious `“ even when it's a child?'

`I know. Sounds callous, doesn't it. But it's just his way of keeping the horror at bay.'

* * *

We have our first team meeting at three. Somer has only just got back from the mortuary. She still looks a bit pale, and I see Everett asking a silent question and Somer replying with a grimace. Quinn is in the front row with his tablet in his hand and his pen behind his ear (yes, I know, it doesn't make sense, but that's what he does). Baxter is pinning pictures up on the whiteboard. Felix House, before and after the fire, the former clearly from Google Earth. Various shots of the fire damage inside: the dining room, the stairs, some of the bedrooms, what remains of the furniture `“ most of it hefty and old-fashioned. A floorplan for all three storeys, with cross marks where Matty and Zachary were. Photos of Michael and Samantha Esmond. From DVLA, I'm guessing. Esmond is upright, attentive, his hair dark, his skin pale. His wife's contrasts are softer: beige-brown hair, pinkish cheeks, light-coloured eyes, probably hazel. Then there are the pictures of the children, salvaged from the house, by the state of them. Matty in an Arsenal strip, holding a ball under one arm, his big glasses slightly awry. The toddler on his mother's lap, a mischievous smile and a mop of unruly bronze curls she probably couldn't bring herself to cut. And alongside the living child, the dead one. I think, not for the first time, what a cruel mutilator of human flesh fire can be. Believe me, you never get used to that, even when you've seen it as many times as I have. And the minute you do, it's time to quit.

Gislingham comes over. `Do you want to do this, sir?' he asks under his breath.

I've noticed, by the way, that it's not `boss' any more, or at least not in public. Always `sir'. A small Rubicon, as Rubicons go, but a significant one all the same.

I sling my jacket over the back of a chair and sit down. `No, you go ahead. I'll only chip in if I need to.'

Another Rubicon. And rather a bigger one, because the team will register it straight away. Gislingham nods, `Right, sir.'

He goes to the front of the room and turns to face them. `OK, everyone, let's get started.'

Every single person in this room knows this is the first big case Gis has done since he was made Acting DS. A couple of years ago, when Quinn was in exactly the same position, they were mildly sardonic; not hostile, exactly, but not about to bust a gut to help him, either. And more than happy to take the piss whenever the opportunity arose (which with Quinn is pretty much all the time). But this time round it's different. They like Gislingham, and they want him to make a fist of this. They're not going to let him mess it up `“ not if they can help it.

Gislingham clears his throat. `OK. I'm going to do a quick summary of where we are on the Southey Road fire, and then I'll hand over to Paul Rigby, who's a watch manager from Rewley Road fire station and the designated fire investigation officer for this one.'

He nods to a man standing to one side by the door. Tall, balding, clean-shaven. I've definitely seen him before.

`Right,' says Gislingham, turning to the board, `this is the house, 23 Southey Road. Home to the Esmond family `“ Michael, his wife, Samantha, and their children, three-year-old Zachary and Matty, who will be eleven in four days' time.' He stops, takes a deep breath, carries on. `And for anyone who's not up to speed, Matty is still in paediatric Intensive Care. The John Rad have warned us the prognosis isn't that good, but they'll contact us straight away if there's any change.'

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