Кара Хантер: No Way Out

Speaking last night, Detective Inspector Adam Fawley again offered condolences to the victims' family and friends, saying that he hoped they would at least now have a degree of closure. He declined to speculate on reports that the man found at the Southey Road house was still alive when the fire started. He also refused to comment on what might happen with the Southey Road property. Developers are already thought to be interested in the site, which extends to nearly an acre and is located in one of the city's most prestigious residential streets.

Sunday night. It's been a beautiful day. Clear blue skies, a ghost of warmth in the sun. The first daffodils. On days like this we would walk through Port Meadow and stop at the Perch, or go into town and have lunch in the roof-top restaurant at the Ashmolean. I could have done all of these things today, but I did none of them. It terrifies me `“ that Alex's absence could ever become that normal. That I could create an existence for myself that doesn't include her. Be someone other than the man she loves. Loved.

My life is on hold. In limbo.

I try to read but I can't seem to get beyond the first page. There's been no response to the statement we issued on Friday. Nothing useful, at least. Property developers and ambulance chasers don't count. I turn on the TV but the news is wall-to-wall Royal Wedding.

When it starts to get dark I go upstairs to draw the curtains. Spare room. Jake's room. Ours. The wardrobe that still contains almost all Alex's clothes (which I'm trying to see as positive), and the Indian wooden box that still holds every piece of jewellery I ever gave her (which I'm determined not to see as less so). The diamond earrings I bought for her fortieth, the grey pearl necklace for our tenth anniversary, the platinum ring I gave her when Jake was born. I had that made by a jeweller on North Parade. A broad plain band engraved with A and A and J entwined together. The three of us. Inseparable. As I thought. As I hoped.

I pick it up and feel the chill of it against my skin and wonder how long it is since she wore it. Whether she took it off when he died, because she couldn't bear the reminder. As if the memories weren't reminder enough. The photographs. The roomful of toys and clothes and games. I turn the ring in my hand, the letters catching the light, superimposed, so it's impossible to tell which comes first `“

It's impossible to tell which comes first.

Five minutes later I'm in the car.

`DI Fawley? Sir?'

I wake with a start, disorientated. And cold. And with a banging headache. I look up into Somer's concerned face. The clock on the wall behind her says 7.09. In the morning . How the hell did that happen?

I sit up slowly, feeling the complaints in every joint.

`Are you OK, sir?'

`Yes, I'm fine.'

There appears to be a pizza box and the remains of a six-pack of Becks on the desk in front of me. And a saucer full of cigarette ash. That's not good. I gesture at it all vaguely. `Er, do you think`¦?'

`Oh, of course.' She rushes to consign the evidence to the bin and comes back towards me. `I got the text. About the early meeting.'

I'm standing up now, rubbing the back of my neck. `I meant to go home first.'

`You have something new, sir?' She's looking around, at the documents and photograph albums from Southey Road strewn haphazard on my desk, at the Post-its, the scrawled notes.

`Yes, I think so. That's why I wanted everyone here.'

She's standing right next to me now, our shoulders almost brushing. And then there's the sound of the door opening and when I turn round `“ Gislingham.

He stops, registers the state I'm in, the shirt that looks like I slept in it, the sudden flush on Somer's face.

`Fuck,' he stammers, bright red. `I didn't realize `“'

It occurs to me suddenly, with one of those jolts that wake you in the middle of the night, that he might actually think there's something going on between Somer and me. That he might even have been thinking that for quite some time. That he might not be the only one `“

Shit.

`I've been here all night,' I say quickly, reddening myself now. `And as you can see, DC Somer has only just arrived.'

His mouth is open, but nothing's coming out.

`Right,' I say, with as much professionalism as I can muster in my current state. `I'm going for a shower. Round everyone up, would you, Sergeant?'

By the time I get back, the incident room is charged with expectation. At least, that's what I'm hoping it is.

`Right,' I say, walking up to the front and tapping the photo Davy Jones gave us. The picture of Harry, standing in front of the Radcliffe Camera glowing in golden light, hands on his hips, sunglasses slung around his neck. Harry, which we thought was short for Harold. Or I did. Only I think I got that wrong. That's what hit me last night: it isn't just the Royal family where `Harry' is short for something else entirely.

`This man, who's been going by the name of Harry Brown, is the son of Michael Esmond and Ginevra Marrone, the girl he got pregnant when he was seventeen, and she was only fifteen. We were assuming his Italian first name was Araldo, but I think we were wrong. I think that in his case `њHarry`ќ isn't short for Harold, it's short for Henry : I think his real name is actually Enrico Marrone. And thanks to Esmond's grandfather's will he has an extremely powerful motive to set the fire at the Southey Road house. In fact, given his father was only the younger of the two brothers, burning the house down was the one and only way he was going to get his hands on anything.'

I glance around the room. That piece of information had already done the rounds; it wasn't news. But what I'm about to say next will be.

`There's something else. Something I didn't realize until late last night, though it's blindingly obvious as soon as you see it. If Harry's real name is Enrico Marrone, his initials are EM.'

Silence.

`The same as Michael's,' says Gislingham. `Only backwards. Shit.'

`Right,' I say, pointing at a second photograph. The signet ring. `EM. The same initials that are engraved on this ring, which we found on the corpse at Southey Road. Those letters could stand for ME, but they could just as easily stand for EM .'

I go back to the first picture. `And as you can just about see in this photo, Harry is wearing a silver-coloured signet ring on his left hand.'

People are starting to look at each other now.

`I came back here last night and went through every single photo album we found at Southey Road and I can't find a single picture showing Michael Esmond wearing any sort of ring. Not even a wedding ring.'

Ev is gaping. `But Philip identified that ring as his brother's.'

`I know he did, but all we have is his word for it.'

`But why would he lie?' she continues, before stopping in her tracks. `Oh shit, that body isn't Michael, is it. It's Harry. Michael is still alive. '

The noise level is rising now. I hold up my hand.

`Which is precisely why I dragged you all in here at this godawful hour of the morning.'

`But wouldn't the post-mortem have picked that up?' says Asante. `I mean, if the body was someone as young as that surely the pathologist would have seen it? Can't they prove it from the bones?'

But I'm shaking my head. `I've come across this before. If a body is very old or very young you can age it from the skeleton, but between about twenty-one and forty-five the bones don't change much. And that's exactly the age range we're looking at here. It was a good question though, Asante, well done.'

I look around at the rest of the team. `So, we need to think this through very carefully. If Philip Esmond deliberately misled us about that ring we have to assume it was because he wanted us to think Michael is dead. Because he wanted us to stop looking for him. And if Michael really is still alive `“ and right now that's a very big if `“ then it's Philip who must be helping him to hide. After all, he has his own boat `“ what better place for someone to lie low for a few days.'