Кара Хантер: No Way Out

`Well, that tallies. Michael Esmond wouldn't have had a key.'

`No, boss.'

But there's still something, and for the life of me I can't work out what it is.

And then my phone rings.

4 January 2018, 12.05 a.m.

23 Southey Road, Oxford

When Harry gets to the house, Michael is waiting for him. He opens the door in silence, and then walks away at once to the sitting room.

`What's this about?' says Harry lightly. `Bit cloak and dagger isn't it `“ all this `њmeet me at midnight`ќ stuff?'

`The train was delayed.'

Michael closes the door behind them. He hasn't switched on the lights. There's only the dull glow of the street lamp, casting a long thin stripe through the curtains and across the floor. In the shadows he looks different. Strange. You can almost hear the crackle of nervous energy. He has a half-empty bottle of whisky by the neck. For the first time, Harry starts to feel uneasy. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea.

`What do you want?' he says, all lightness gone. `Because there's somewhere else I need to be.'

`I know who you are,' says Michael.

`Look `“'

`Don't try to deny it. I know who you are. And whatever it is you want, I'm telling you now you're not going to get it.'

Harry raises his eyebrows. `Really? You sure about that? Because I spoke to a lawyer `“'

`I don't care who you've spoken to. I'm not going to let you ruin my life. You have no right `“'

`Oh, I think you'll find I have every right.'

Michael starts moving closer. Harry can smell the alcohol on his breath. There's something unfocused about his eyes. Harry begins to back away. `Look, we can talk about this `“ but not now. Not when `“'

`Not when what, exactly?'

Harry feels the wall crunch against his spine. Michael is so close his spit is on Harry's skin. He lifts his hands and pushes Michael away. `You're pissed.'

`Too right I'm fucking pissed. In every sense of the fucking word.'

He never swears.

He never swears.

`I'm going,' says Harry, pulling his coat back up round his shoulders. `I should never have come in the first place.'

`No you fucking shouldn't,' says Michael, drilling a finger into his chest. `So why don't you just pack up your crap and go back to that shithole you came from.'

Harry moves a little closer. His voice is still low, but there's a menace in it now. `Yeah, well, if I come from a shithole, whose fault is that? Because it can't be the genes, can it. There can't be anything wrong with those. I mean, look at you `“ your wife's in pieces, your son is struggling, and you don't even appear to have bloody noticed.'

`Don't you dare talk about my family like that `“'

`Don't you get it? They're not just your family . Not any more. They're mine . And I've done more for them in the last six months than you have in six bloody years . Look at poor bloody Matt `“ how many times have you promised to do things with him and let him down at the last minute? There's always something more important, isn't there? Always something about you `“ about you and your career and your big important job that as far as I can see you've made such a fucking mess of they're going to fire your sorry arse `“'

`I'm warning you `“'

Michael is swaying now, slurring. Too drunk to take anyone on. Or so Harry thinks.

It's not the only error he's about to make.

Poole is bright but cold. The slap of ropes against fibreglass. Seagulls. High clouds fleeting across a washed blue sky. I breathe a lungful of salt air and think `“ not for the first time `“ that I really should get out of Oxford more often.

`Couldn't have chosen a better place for a hideout if he'd bloody well tried,' says Quinn tetchily, slamming the door and making great show of stretching his legs.

But he's right. In the summer this place must be heaving `“ the social club, the chandlery, the shiny new yachts lined up for sale `“ but at this time of year it's almost deserted. And even if it wasn't, the pontoons stretch out two or three hundred yards into the water. If your boat was moored at the far end you could be on it for days and no one would even know you were there. It's almost too perfect.

We walk towards the water and the manager must have been watching for us, because the door to the office is already opening. And a few yards away, in the car park, I can see a red Nissan Juke.

`Detective Inspector Fawley?' says the man, looking at the three of us and plumping for me. I guess I should be flattered.

`Duncan Wright. I've been keeping an eye out since you phoned but I haven't seen any movement on Freedom 2 .'

`And where's the boat?'

`Berth C31,' he says, pointing. `Over there.'

Cobb's Quay must be top end because every boat we pass is either new or in pristine condition. Polished wood, colour-coordinated sails, gleaming chrome catching the winter sun. And right at the far end, tilting gently on the water, Freedom 2 . It looks like something out of a Sunday supplement. I'd wondered about that name the first time I heard it, thinking it was just a rather adolescent lifestyle statement `“ Philip's way of thumbing his nose at the choices his brother made. `Freedom to' do what the hell he liked, freedom to get out from under the weight of family expectations. But knowing what I do now about the life those two boys led, the home they had, I'm not so sure. Like everything else in this case, what's on the surface may not be as superficial as it seems.

There may have been no sign of life on the boat all morning, but there is now. By the time we get to the boat he's on the prow, waiting for us. Navy hoodie, padded gilet, Ray-Bans.

Philip Esmond.

`Inspector,' he says, taking off his glasses. `I had no idea you were coming `“'

`Neither did we, Mr Esmond.'

He glances at Gislingham and Quinn and then back at me. `What's happened? Has there been a development?'

`You could say that,' says Quinn sardonically.

`Could you move away from the boat, Mr Esmond.'

`But `“'

`Please.'

`All right,' he says heavily, holding up his hands. `If you insist.'

He steps down on to the pontoon, and Gis moves past me and on to the boat, ducking down into the cabin.

`When you first came to St Aldate's you told my officer that you'd only just got back to the UK. That you had come straight to Oxford as soon as you arrived.'

He frowns. `So? What's that got to do `“'

`In fact, you'd docked here three full days before that. On January 7th.'

His face hardens a little. `I don't see what difference it makes. I had stuff to do, that's all.'

`Really?' I say. `The sort of `њstuff`ќ that includes driving to Calshot Spit to collect your brother and bringing him back here?'

`That's ridiculous `“ like I said, I'd forgotten all about that poxy place.'

`I doubt it, Mr Esmond. Judging from the photo albums we found at Southey Road, you went there at least a dozen times when you were a child. You wouldn't be likely to forget that. Not, of course, unless you had a very good reason.'

`You can't prove any of this `“ it's just speculation.'

`On the contrary, Hants Police have already found the car your brother stole, abandoned less than a mile from the beach hut. As for you, I have officers trawling ANPR data as we speak. It's only a matter of time before we find out exactly where you've been. So what was the plan? Lie low till the funeral was over then head off back to Croatia where you'd claim the money from the will and set your brother up in a new life?'

Gis appears at the hatch and shakes his head. `He's not here, sir.'

I take a step closer to Esmond. `Don't make this harder than it needs to be. I can arrest you here and now, if I need to. We know Michael is alive and we know you've been trying to protect him. I have a brother `“ I get it. But it's over now. And it will be better for everyone if you just tell us the truth. There have already been far too many lies. Far too many and for far too long.'