Кара Хантер: No Way Out

`I'm coming, Daddy!' he shouts. `I'm coming!'

The inflatable is empty, dipping and lifting in the quiet current. We come alongside and the crew pull it in and secure it to our bow. We must be a thousand yards from shore. Way too far for any normal person to swim. Even if there'd been time.

Ransome is still scanning the horizon, but we all know it's hopeless.

There's no one in the water.

Michael Esmond has gone.

One of the crew leans over and takes something out of the bottom of the dinghy. She looks at it briefly then hands it to Esmond. It's a pocket watch; a gold pocket watch on a red velvet pouch. Not left by mistake. Left to be found. And I remember now. That other Esmond family heirloom, handed down through the generations, just like that house. The pocket watch that has a motto engraved on it in Polish.

Blood is thicker than water.

Philip Esmond closes his eyes for a moment, then clenches his fist around the watch and, before I can stop him, flings it out and up through the soft and glittering air.

When I push open the door to the incident room at eleven the following morning I walk straight into a chorus of `For He's A Jolly Good Fellow'. It's not that they're being insensitive; this has been a brutal case and no one knows that better than they do. But it's also been Gislingham's first big investigation and he's got a result. A neat tick in the `solved' box, and Philip Esmond charged with perverting the course of justice. Harrison will be positively delirious. Even if our murder suspect is almost certainly dead. Even if we don't have a body. There was an email from Ransome on my phone first thing: `We're still looking but don't hold your breath,' he said. `The way the currents work round here it may be months. And if he meant to do it, he'd have weighed himself down. Cases like that `“ you don't find them again.'

And now I'm clearing my throat to say something but Quinn gets there first.

`I'd just like to say,' he begins, raising his voice over the din, `that the Sarge has done a cracking job this last couple of weeks. Well done, mate, played a blinder.'

He smiles as he says it, and he means it too. And the rest of them can see that, and they know as well as I do that even if it's true, saying it can't have been easy. There are some shouts of `hear, hear', which we all know are as much for Quinn as they are for Gis.

Gis grins at him. `Thanks, mate. Appreciate it.' He looks around the room, then checks his watch. `OK, guys, maybe a wee bit early for lunch but the drinks are on me.'

`Thought you'd never bloody ask,' says Quinn, to more laughter.

`Actually,' I say, `I think this is probably my shout.'

More cheers, and as the noise dies down and people start to collect their coats and make their way to the door I see Somer pat Quinn lightly on the back as she passes by.

When the call comes through at the end of the day, Somer is in two minds about answering it. She's been lumbered with clearing up the incident room and the rest of the team left over an hour ago. Everett has stayed behind to help out, but with the files boxed up and the whiteboard cleared, even she's getting a bit impatient now.

Somer stares at the phone. If it rings more than five times I'll pick it up, she tells herself. Just in case it's important.

`Come on, Erica,' says Everett. `A girl could die of thirst in here.'

Three rings, four, five.

Somer seizes the phone, trying not to notice Everett sighing and rolling her eyes.

`CID, DC Somer speaking.'

`I was hoping it would be you.'

She recognizes the voice, but can't place it. Not straight away. But in the half-second it takes her to give it a name her gut tells her it's a good voice `“ a voice she associates with good things. She will remember that, later, and hug the thought.

`It's Giles, Giles Saumarez.'

She blushes and turns quickly away, hoping Everett hasn't noticed (though, of course, she has). It's not business, this call, not if he's calling himself Giles.

`I'm going up to Banbury to see my stepfather next weekend and I wondered if you'd like to meet up. Lunch? A drink?'

Everett has come round to face her now, grinning and mouthing ` Who is it? '

`Yes,' says Somer, holding the phone a little tighter, `I'd love to. Actually, I need to ask your advice.'

`Oh yes?'

`I wonder if you have a view on mittens?'

His voice is still full of laughter five minutes later, when she puts down the phone.

I look around the sitting room one last time. The cleaners have been in and scrubbed the place to within an inch of its life, but I still want it to be perfect. I want her to see how much it matters to me that it is perfect. I glance at my watch, which shows precisely two minutes later than when I last looked. The nervous energy is getting the better of me and when I find myself squaring the corners of the magazine pile I know I'm in trouble.

The bell rings. I'm three-quarters to answering it before I realize it can't be her. She has a key. But after all this time, perhaps she doesn't feel able to use it. Perhaps she doesn't even think of this as her home. I feel slightly sick at that, and perhaps that's why I'm not smiling as much as I meant to when I open the door.

She's standing there. On the step, looking down the drive at the front garden. Where I spent three hours last week putting in new plants. She's wearing jeans, boots and a soft leather jacket I bought her in Rome because it was exactly the same colour as her hair. I haven't seen her wear it in ages. But she's wearing it now. She chose to wear it now. My heart contracts with the terror of hope.

She turns then and sees me. `Wow,' she says, gesturing to the garden. `Did you get someone in?'

I open my mouth to say something but she's already moved past me into the house. And I watch her, noticing the effort I've put in. Not just the cleaners. The flowers. The bottle of wine on the table.

She looks awkward now, and starts fussing with something in her handbag. I've done too much. I shouldn't have made it look so forced `“

`Sit down, Adam, please.'

She chooses the sofa and I hesitate a moment, wondering if I should take the chair. Wondering how we ever let it get so damn stupid that I'm worrying where to bloody sit `“

`I've been doing a lot of thinking, since I've been away. A lot of thinking.'

Two months, but it feels like years. Like decades.

`Being at my sister's gave me space to do that. Among other things.'

Other things `“ what other things?

`I'm seeing a lot more clearly now.'

I want to look at her. I want to look at everything I love about her that I haven't seen all these weeks, but I'm scared at what she'll see in my eyes.

She obviously wants me to say something and I try to make my voice work. `OK.'

Her face clouds a little, but I can't tell whether it's because of what she's about to say or because she can sense my unease.

`We broke each other's hearts about the adoption, Adam. I wanted it so much, and you couldn't bear to do it, even though you'd do anything for me.' Her voice is softer. `That's when I knew it would be wrong. You'd do anything for me, but not that one thing. You couldn't do it. That means I shouldn't ask you. I understand that now. And I won't. Never again.'

I swallow, stare at my hands. `And you're OK with that? With us not adopting?'

It's a point of no return. Because one of the answers to that question is Yes, because there is no `us'. It's over.

She's silent for so long I dare to look up at her. She's smiling. `Yes, I'm OK with that. Because I love you. Because I want to be with you .'