No Way Out

04/01/2018 00.55 a.m.

Helmet camera footage, Firefighter Fletcher, Oxfordshire Fire and Rescue Service

Incident at Felix House, 23 Southey Road, Oxford Footage starts as two fire engines pull up in suburban street. The houses are large. It's dark. Sirens, flashing lights.

DISPATCH FIRE CONTROL TO APPLIANCES:

This incident is persons reported. 999 call said four people potentially in the dwelling. Two adults, two children.

INCIDENT COMMANDER:

All received. Now in attendance. Ground floor well alight.

Camera swings right towards a house with black smoke billowing out of right-hand upper windows and fire visible on floors below. Half a dozen passers-by and neighbours in the street. Sound of shouting voices, more sirens. Police car draws up. Firefighters are pulling down ladders, pulling off the hose reel, strapping on breathing apparatus.

INCIDENT COMMANDER TO CREWS:

None of the neighbours have seen the family so I need two BA to go up and search the first floor.

BREATHING APPARATUS ENTRY CONTROL OFFICER:

All received. Alpha Team 1 are just getting ready to enter.

Flames now clearly visible through glass-panelled front door. Breathing Apparatus Alpha Team 1 led by Firefighter Fletcher proceed up the drive to the house. A ladder goes up on left-hand side. Fletcher ascends with a hose reel. Sounds of muffled voices and radio interference. Heavy breathing in the BA mask. Camera tracks over the windowsill into the room. Thick smoke. Helmet torch beam swinging left to right, picking out shelving, a chest of drawers, a chair. No visible flames but carpet is smouldering. Camera swings back round towards window, shot of Firefighter Evans ascending ladder.

BA ENTRY CONTROL OFFICER:

Alpha Team 1, any sign of casualties?

FLETCHER [breathing heavily]:

Negative.

Fletcher moves towards door and exits on to landing. Camera jerks from side to side, light beam picks up three further doors and stairs leading to an upper storey. Lower stairwell shows flickering light from flames on the ground floor, sparks in the air, smoke funnelling up the stairs and along the ceiling. More crackling on the comms system, sound of water from hoses as firefighters outside attempt to extinguish the fire. Fletcher moves to adjacent door, partially open. Football posters and single bed just visible through the smoke. Covers thrown back but no occupant. He searches the room and checks under the bed.

BA ENTRY CONTROL OFFICER:

Alpha Team 1, for information, neighbours say there's a boy, ten or eleven, and a toddler.

Fletcher moves back out to landing and along to next door. It's open. Smoke is much thicker here. Fire is well established `“ rug, curtains and cot bedding all alight. Fletcher rushes to the bed. There's a child, not moving. He returns quickly to first room and hands over child to Firefighter Evans on ladder at window. Gust of air into the room. Areas of carpet catch light.

FLETCHER:

Alpha Team 1 to BAECO. One casualty found and being brought out via ladder. Child. Unresponsive.

INCIDENT COMMANDER:

All received, Alpha 1. Paramedics on scene.

Fletcher returns to landing followed by Firefighter Waites. Moves to top of staircase. Firefighters Evans and Jones have also entered the building to search for casualties, and approach from other side.

FLETCHER:

You found anyone?

Evans gestures negative. Jones has hand-held Thermal Imaging Camera. Tracks around and starts gesturing urgently down the stairs.

JONES:

There's someone down there `“ near the bottom.

FLETCHER:

Alpha 1 to BAECO. Casualty identified at base of stairs. Could be the other kid. Going down.

Alpha Team 1 descend. Hall flooring is on fire and blaze is far advanced in all directions. They lift the casualty and retrace their steps up to the first floor where they pass him to Alpha Team 2, who carry him to the ladder. Sudden sounds of explosion and structural collapse as fire breaks through to upper storey. Shouts and alarm on radio. Flames now visible at bedroom door.

WAITES:

Shit `“ backdraught `“ backdraught!

INCIDENT COMMANDER:

Evacuate, repeat, evacuate.

FLETCHER [gasping]:

There must be other people in here `“ I'm going back in.

INCIDENT COMMANDER:

Negative, I repeat, negative. Severe risk to life. Get the hell out of there. I repeat: Get the hell out of there. Team Alpha 1 acknowledge `“

Sounds of further explosion. Radio goes dead.

I bloody hate Christmas. I suppose I must have liked it once, when I was a kid, but I don't remember. As soon as I was old enough I'd walk `“ anything to get out of the house. I never had anywhere to go, but even walking the streets in circles was better than sitting around the living room staring at each other, or the exquisite torture of yet another Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special. And the older I've got the more I loathe this time of year. Cheery festive tat from the end of October to long after New Year. You'll change your mind, people said, when you have kids; you'll see `“ Christmas with a child of your own is a magical time. And it was. When we had Jake, it was. I remember him making the most amazing paper decorations, all on his own `“ reindeer and snowmen and polar bears in cut-outs and careful, intricate silhouettes. And we had holly, and oranges in the toes of knitted stockings, and little white lights strung across the garden. I remember it actually snowed one year, and he sat there, at his bedroom window, completely entranced as huge flakes swirled softly down, barely heavy enough to fall. So yes, it was magical. But what happens when you've lost the child who made it so `“ what then? People never talk to you about that. They don't tell you how to cope with the Christmas that comes After. Or the next, or the one after that.

There's work, of course. At least, there is for me. Though Christmas is a crap time to be a police officer. Just about every crime you can think of goes up. Theft, domestic violence, public disorder. Mostly low-level stuff, but the amount of bloody admin it creates is still the same. People have too much to drink, too much time on their hands, and so much twenty-four-hour proximity to people they're supposed to love they find out that, actually, they don't. And what with that and everyone wanting to take leave, we're always short-staffed. Which is a very long way of explaining why I'm standing in a freezing cold kitchen at 5.35 a.m. in the dead zone at the fag-end of the holidays, staring out at the dark, listening to the Radio 4 news while I wait for the kettle to boil. There are dirty plates in the sink because I can't be bothered to empty the dishwasher, the bins are overflowing because I missed the change to the collection day and the food caddy has been upended all over the side path, possibly by next-door's cat, but more likely by the fox I've spotted in the garden once or twice lately, in the early hours. And if you're wondering what I've been doing up at such a godforsaken time, well, you won't have to wonder very long.

The radio switches to Prayer for the Day and I switch it off. I don't do God. And definitely not at this time in the morning. I pick up my mobile, hesitate a moment then make the call. And yes, I know it's stupid o'clock, but I don't think I'll wake her. She turns her phone off at night. Like a normal human being.

I hear the predictable four rings, the click, and the not-quite-human female voice telling me the person I am calling is not available. Then the tone.

`Alex `“ it's me. Nothing heavy. Just wanted to check you're OK. That it's helping. I mean, having time to think. Like you said.'

What is it about talking to machines that makes supposedly intelligent people blither like morons? There's a sticky brown stain on the work surface I can't remember being there yesterday. I start scraping at it with my thumbnail.

`Tell your sister I said hello.' Then a pause. `That's it, really. Look, just call me, OK?' I listen to the silence. I know it's impossible but half of me is hoping she's listening too. That she'll pick up. `I miss you.'

I love you.

Which I should have said, but didn't. I'm trying not to remember exactly how long it is since she actually spoke to me. A week? More. I think it was the day after Boxing Day. I kept hoping New Year would make a difference. That we could put the whole thing behind us then, as if a completely arbitrary change in the numbering of the days could make the slightest difference to how she feels. How I feel.

The kettle boils and I poke about in the cupboard for coffee. All that's left is the jar of cheap instant Alex keeps for plumbers and decorators. Those poncey pod things ran out days ago. It was Alex who really wanted that machine. The cheap instant has some balls, though, and I've just poured a second when the phone rings.

˜`Alex?'

`No, boss. It's me. Gislingham.'

I can feel my cheeks redden. Did I sound as desperate to him as I did to me? `What is it, Gis?'

`Sorry to call so early, boss. I'm at Southey Road. There's been a fire overnight. They're still struggling to get it under control.'

`Casualties?'

But I know the answer before I ask. Gis wouldn't be calling me at 5.45 otherwise.

I hear him draw breath. `Only one so far, boss. A little kiddie. There's an older boy too, but they managed to get to him in time. He's alive `“ just. They've taken him to the John Rad.'

`No sign of the parents?'

`Not yet.'

`Shit.'

`I know. We're trying to keep that from the press but it's only a matter of time. Sorry to drag you out of bed and all that, but I think you should be here `“'

`I was already awake. And I'm on my way.'

At Southey Road, Gislingham puts his phone back in his pocket. He'd been in two minds whether to call at all. Though he'd never say so out loud and feels guilty even thinking it, Fawley has definitely been off his game recently. Not just short-tempered, though he's been that too. Distracted. Preoccupied. He didn't go to the station Christmas party, but since he always says how much he hates Christmas that doesn't necessarily mean anything. On the other hand, there's a rumour doing the rounds his wife has left him, and judging by the state of his ironing that's a distinct possibility. Gislingham's own shirt doesn't look much cop either, but they never do given he does them himself. He still hasn't worked out how to do collars.

He turns and walks back down the drive towards the house. The flames have died back but firefighters in breathing apparatus are still sending jets of water arcing into the windows, pushing huge gusts of dense smoke into the dark sky. The air is thick with soot and the smell of burning plastic.

The Incident Commander comes towards him, his boots crunching on the gravel. `Off the record, almost certainly arson, but it'll be a while before the investigation team can go in. Looks like it must have started in the sitting room, but the roof above has completely caved in so don't quote me on that.'

`So we might be looking at more bodies?'

`Could be. But there's three floors of rubble come down on that side. God knows how long it'll take to sift through it all.' He takes his helmet off and wipes his forehead on the back of his hand. `Have you heard anything about the boy?'

`Not yet. One of my colleagues went in the ambulance. I'll let you know if I hear.'

The firefighter makes a face. He knows the odds; he's been doing this a long time. He takes a swig of water. `Where's Quinn `“ on holiday?'

Gislingham shakes his head. `This one's mine. I'm acting DS.'

The officer raises an eyebrow. `I heard Quinn had got himself in the shit. Though I didn't know it was that bad.'

Gislingham shrugs. `Not for me to say.'

The firefighter eyes him for a moment in the throbbing blue glare. `Takes some getting used to, doesn't it?' he says eventually. `Being in charge.' Then he chucks the water bottle away and starts up towards the fire engine, tapping Gislingham's arm as he passes. `You go for it, mate. Gotta take your chances in this life. No other bugger's gonna do it for you.'

Which is broadly what Gislingham's wife said when he told her. That and the fact that Quinn got himself in this mess, and they could do with the extra money now Billy's getting older, and what did he owe Quinn anyway? A question he'd (wisely) decided to assume was merely rhetorical.

He looks around for a moment, then heads towards the uniform standing behind the police tape. There are onlookers in the road, but given the time and the cold, it's only a straggle. Though Gislingham recognizes a journalist from the Oxford Mail who's been trying `“ and failing `“ to get his attention for the last ten minutes.

He turns to the constable. `Have they started the house-to-house yet?'

`Just underway now, Sarge. We managed to rustle up three people. It's not much, but `“'

`Yeah, I know. Everyone's on holiday.'

A car pulls up on the street and someone gets out. Briskly, officially, flashing a warrant card. And that's not the only thing that's flash. Gislingham takes a deep breath. It's Quinn's car.

Oxford Mail online

Thursday 4 January 2018 Last updated at 08:18

Fatality in Oxford house fire

A boy of three has died after a fire ripped through a seven-bedroom Edwardian home in Southey Road in the early hours of this morning. The cause of the fire is as yet unknown, but Oxfordshire Fire and Rescue Service are working closely with a police forensics team to determine exactly how it began. A second victim, identified by neighbours as the toddler's older brother, was taken by ambulance to the John Radcliffe hospital, believed to be suffering from smoke inhalation.

The emergency services were called to the house shortly after 12.40 a.m., when a neighbour saw flames issuing from a ground-floor window. Patrick Moreton, station manager at the Rewley Road fire station, said that the fire was far advanced by the time his crew arrived at the scene, and it took over four hours for the flames to be brought under control. He said it was far too early to tell whether combustible Christmas decorations could have contributed to the blaze, but added, `This is a timely reminder of the importance of taking proper safety precautions when using decorations like candles and flammable materials such as tinsel, and testing your smoke alarms at least once a week.'

Thames Valley Police have declined to comment on whether the two children were in the house alone.

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65 comments

Janeelliottcornwallis

Am I missing something or were neither of the parents actually in the house? They left those two kids alone `“ at that age? Words fail me, they really do

111chris_the_bliss

Probably out getting pissed somewhere. That type `“ it's all gin and Jag `“ all me

ernest_payne_gardener22

I went past that house an hour ago `“ one side of it has completely collapsed. There could easily be more bodies in there. Give the police time to do their job, can't you

Josephyosef88188

I wish more people would take note about the fire risks posed by Christmas decorations. I was a fireman for 30 years and I've seen some truly horrific incidents.

It's only when I'm signalling left on the Banbury Road that I remember exactly where Southey Road is. Three turnings north of Frampton Road. Frampton Road as in William Harper and what we found locked in his cellar. The papers called him the `Oxford Fritzl'. At least, at the beginning. It was eight months ago now, but I was still in court in December, and the file is still sitting on my desk, waiting to get shunted to archives. None of us are going to forget that one in a hurry. Least of all Quinn. Detective Sergeant Quinn as was, Detective Constable Quinn as now. Speaking of whom, his new black Audi is the first thing I see as I draw up in the street and turn off the engine. But then he's always been a bit of a swanky git when it comes to wheels. I couldn't tell you what Gislingham drives and I must have seen that damn car a thousand times. As for the scene, the fire may be under control but the place is a circus all the same. Two fire engines and three police cars. Nosy parkers. People taking pictures on their phones. Thank Christ they parked the undertaker's van out of sight.

Quinn and Gislingham are up by the house and they turn to face me as I walk towards them. Quinn is stamping his feet in the cold, but aside from that the body language is awkward, to say the least. He took to DS like a dog to water `“ zero hesitation, maximum splash `“ but he's having a lot more trouble going back down to DC. Well, you know what they say, trading up is easy, trading down is a different matter altogether. He's trying to balls it out, needless to say, but it's that part of his anatomy that got him into this mess in the first place. I can see he's itching to get stuck in, but Gislingham deserves a chance to prove he's up to this. I turn to him, perhaps a little too pointedly.

`Anything new, Sergeant?'

Gislingham stiffens a little and whips out his notebook, though I can't believe he actually needs it. His hands are trembling, ever so slightly. I suspect Quinn has spotted that as well.

`The house belongs to a family called Esmond, sir. Michael Esmond, forty, is an academic. The wife is Samantha, thirty-three, and there are the two kids, Matty, ten, and Zachary, three.'

`How is he `“ the older boy?'

`Touch and go. He's pretty poorly.'

`And still no sign of the parents?'

Gislingham makes a face. `Master bedroom's over there,' he says, pointing to the left-hand side of the house. `It's still pretty much intact, but there's no sign of anyone. Fire boys say the bed wasn't even slept in. So I googled the family and this came up.'

He hands me his phone. It's a page from the King's College London website, advertising a conference on social anthropology taking place right now in London. One of the speakers is Michael Esmond: `Death by Fire and Water: Sacrificial Ritual Practices in Latin American Vodou'. Someone said, didn't they, that coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous. Well, if that's the case, all I can say is he has pretty poor taste sometimes.

I give Gis his phone back. `Call them and confirm he definitely showed. At the very least that means we have one less body to look for.'

`Hold the barbecue sauce, eh?' says Quinn.

I shoot him a look that wipes the smirk off his face, and turn again to Gislingham.

`What's the plan?'

He blinks a couple of times. `Locate Michael and Samantha Esmond and establish their whereabouts at the time of the incident. Carry out an initial house-to-house in case one of the neighbours saw something. Talk to Boddie about the PM. Identify and inform other next of kin. Liaise with the fire forensic boys.' He points across the drive. `And track down the car, of course.'

Quinn turns to look at him. `What car?'

Gislingham raises his eyebrows. `There are wheel marks on the gravel. Plain as day. The Esmonds definitely have a car. So where is it? No one in their right mind would drive into London from here so I reckon if we find that car we'll also find the wife.'

No prizes for guessing whose stock just went up a notch.

I nod. `Good work, Sergeant. Keep me in the loop.'

I turn back to Quinn. Who's moved a yard or so closer to the house, presumably on the grounds that if you can't beat 'em, walk away. The house isn't really my taste, but if you like that sort of thing, I guess it's a desirable property. Or was. Right now, filthy water is streaming down the facade and all the ground-floor windows have gone. It's detached and double-fronted but the right-hand side is little more than a shell. The gable is still standing but only barely, and there's nothing behind it but blackened walls and a heap of bricks and roof timbers and shattered glass. What's left of the rest is pebble-dashed and overlaid with Tudorish wooden bits which must have been white before but are charred and soot-stained now. You can just about make out `1909' above one of the windows. As well as an Arsenal sticker still clinging to the broken pane.

`What are you thinking?' I ask Quinn.

He starts slightly. `Oh, just the obvious, boss. How an academic gets to afford something that big round here. How much d'you think `“ five mill?'

More, if you ask me. Round here, houses are divided into large, small, large-small and small-large. Safe to say this is large. Large-large.

`Could be family money,' I say. `Worth checking, though.'

`Why don't you do that, Quinn,' says Gislingham.

Quinn shrugs. `OK.'

And as I walk away I hear Gislingham say, under his breath, `OK, Sarge.'

At 7.05, DC Erica Somer is standing looking at her wardrobe, trying to work out what to wear. She's only been in CID three months and Choosing the Right Clothes is a question that's getting more vexed by the day. She never liked her uniform, but it had its advantages. Uniformity being, of course, one of the most obvious. But now she's in `plain clothes' and the best way to achieve that is anything but plain. How, she wonders for the umpteenth time, staring at the rack of hangers, do you manage to look serious but not frumpy? Professional but still approachable? It's a nightmare. She sighs. In this as in so much else, the blokes have it easy. An MS suit and three ties will pretty much do you `“ Baxter being the living proof. Verity Everett's found her own way forward with a white-shirt-dark-skirt look that scarcely varies. Navy one day, black the next, grey the third and back to navy again. Flat shoes, and a cardi in winter. But on that basis you might as well go back to uniform and have done with it. And what about hair `“ is a ponytail too frivolous? A bun too school-ma'am?

She's just pulled out the black trouser suit (third time in five days `“ that'll be a uniform too if she's not careful) when the mobile rings. It's Gislingham. She likes Gislingham. Not brash (like Quinn) or gifted (like Fawley) but effective all the same. Methodical. Hard-working. And decent. Above all, decent. She really hopes he makes a fist of the sergeantship; he deserves it.

`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?'

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.'

He turns back to the board and taps the pictures of the two parents. `Still no sign of either Michael or Samantha. Michael is currently assumed to be in London at a conference `“'

`Can't believe he hasn't seen the news by now,' says one of the DCs. `It's all over the bloody place.'

`I can't either,' agrees Gis. `But until we find him, we're just guessing. Same goes for Samantha.'

But the DC isn't finished. `You really think they'd have left kids that young all by themselves?'

Gislingham shrugs. `Well, I wouldn't, that's for sure. But right now we have no idea what might have gone on in that house last night. Something could have happened to that family we don't know anything about. Which is one reason why we need to track down their next of kin. Any progress on that, Baxter?' He flushes slightly at this first, very public, assumption of authority, but Baxter takes it in his stride. As he does with most things.

`Not yet, Sarge,' he says. `Samantha was an only child so no brothers or sisters. The parents live in Cumbria but we haven't been able to speak to them yet. Michael's mother is in a home in Wantage. Alzheimer's, according to the manager. So, yes, we should deffo go and see her but I doubt we'll get very much.'

`Right,' says Gislingham, turning to Somer. `And the PM on the little boy `“ Zachary?'

Somer looks up. `Only one thing stood out. Boddie was surprised how little soot he found in his lungs. But apparently a child that young could have suffocated much more quickly than an adult. Especially if he had asthma or even something as minor as a cold. Boddie's running blood tests to be sure.'

There's a silence. Half of us are hanging on to the fact that it must have been over very fast; the other half know pain like that can't be calibrated in seconds. And cruel though it sounds, I do want them thinking about that `“ because I want them committed, angry, relentless. I want all their energy focused on getting to the truth. On finding out how something this appalling could possibly have happened.

`OK,' says Gislingham, looking around the room, `I'm going to hand over to Paul now, and then we'll divvy up the jobs for the next couple of days.'

He steps to one side and Paul Rigby stands up and moves briskly to the whiteboard. He's a practised presenter, no question of that. He moves swiftly and succinctly through what they know, what they assume and what they can deduce.

`In conclusion,' he says, `and as I said to the sergeant earlier, we're working on the basis that the fire was started deliberately.'

I see Quinn's head twitch at `sergeant', which he covers by quickly turning it into a cough. But Gislingham saw it too.

`There's no chance it was just an accident?' says Everett, though less in hope than in despair. `A dropped cigarette, a Christmas candle `“ something like that?'

Rigby nods. `Freak accidents do happen, and I've seen some weird ones in my time, I can tell you. There was a case a couple of years back only a mile or two from this one `“ young boy took an unignited Molotov cocktail into the house. Apparently he said he `њliked fireworks`ќ. It was in all the papers `“ you might even remember it.'

Of course we remember it. It was Leo Mason, Daisy Mason's brother.

`It was our case,' I say, quietly.

`Right,' says Rigby. `Well, you'll know what I mean then. But this is different. This isn't just an accident. Or bad luck. The amount of damage, the speed of spread `“I'd stake my mortgage we'll find some sort of accelerant under all that debris. And significant quantities of accelerant at that.'

I get up and walk to the front, then turn to face them.

`I probably don't need to say this, but I'm going to anyway. What we have here is two crimes, not one. One we know for a fact, and one we're going to have to assume, unless and until we can eliminate it. The first is arson: we have to find out who set fire to that house, and why. The second is murder. Did the arsonist know there were people in that house, and if he did `“ or she did `“ what the hell could have driven them to burn down a building with two kids asleep inside?'

I turn to the whiteboard and pick up the pen.

ARSON

MURDER

And under those two words, I write one more.

WHY?

`One thing I still don't understand,' says Everett after a pause, `is where you found him. The older boy, I mean.'

`That's a good point,' replies Rigby.

The DC sitting next to Everett nudges her, `You're on fire today, Ev,' at which she blushes and swipes him one, and then suddenly he looks sheepish because he's realized quite how insensitive that comment must have sounded.

`I was coming to that,' continues Rigby, stony-faced. He must have heard every bad-taste fire pun a hundred times over. `As far as we can ascertain, the fire must have started sometime soon after midnight `“ the 999 call was logged at 12.47. At that time of the night you'd expect the children to be in bed, but the older boy was found near the bottom of the stairs.'

`So what do we think?' says Somer. `He woke up and wanted a drink of water or something?'

`Er, hello,' says Quinn, getting up and tapping at the photo of the boy's room. And irritated though I am with the performance, I have to acknowledge he's right: the room is snowed with soot and flakes of ash but you can still see the jug of water and beaker on the bedside table. Quinn rolls his eyes in Somer's direction and one of the DCs titters.

Somer's now gone red in the face and she's not looking at Quinn. She doesn't tend to, when she can avoid it. They're both keeping up the illusion that nothing ever happened between them, but the whole station knows it did.

`All I know,' she says, quietly but firmly, `is there had to be a reason.'

`So given he's in a coma, how do you suggest we find out? Find a bloody psychic?' There's no mistaking Quinn's tone now. I see people shifting slightly.

`He could have heard something,' says Rigby evenly, apparently unaware of the undercurrent. `Or perhaps `“'

`Where are the phones?' says Everett suddenly.

Rigby turns to the floorplan. `We found one mobile on charge here, in the kitchen, but it was completely burnt-out `“'

`We're trying to find out whose that is,' says Gislingham quickly.

``“ and according to BT, there was only one landline point.' Rigby indicates. `In the sitting room. Here.'

`Oh my God,' whispers Everett. `That's what the boy was doing on the stairs. He must have woken up and realized what was happening and tried to call for help. But it was too late. He couldn't get out.'

Poor little sod didn't stand a chance. I can't be the only one thinking that.

I turn to the photos again. In the nursery there's still one patch of wallpaper that's almost untouched. Just a few scorch marks here and there among the Tiggers and the Eeyores and the Piglets. The burns look oddly like handprints. I can hear the room going silent behind me. I look across at Rigby.

`How long before you can officially confirm it's arson?'

He shrugs. `A few days. Perhaps a week. There's half a house to work through. It's going to take time.'

`So what's the priority, sir?' It's Gislingham.

I turn and face him. `Finding the parents. I want as many people as possible on that, including uniforms if we can get them. I want that car found, for a start. Where are we on the ANPR? And have we spoken to the Met about Esmond?'

Gislingham nods. `They checked arrests and hospital admissions but came up empty. Other than that, there's not much they can do without any sort of address.'

`OK. But if we haven't tracked him down by tomorrow morning I want someone waiting for him at that conference when he turns up.'

Gis glances across the room. `DC Asante is going to pick up on that, sir.'

Someone in the back row looks up and our eyes meet. I remember now who Tony Asante is. Not long out of graduate fast-track entry, and newly hired from the Met himself. The Super says he's good, which is code for `we didn't hire him just to up the BME numbers'.

Asante holds my gaze with a degree of confidence I hadn't expected. I'm the one, in the end, who looks away.

`And remember, it's not just about where these people are, it's who they are. I want everything we can dig up about this family. Social media, emails, phone records, the lot. Have we found anything useful at the house? Computers? Tablets?'

Gislingham shakes his head. `Not yet. Esmond must have had an office or study or something but the fire boys haven't found it yet. If you ask me, it's under half a ton of rubble. But they'll let us know if they find anything.'

I look around the room. `So in the meantime, let's talk to anyone who knew the family, lived near them or worked with them. How did they spend their time? And their money? Where did they come from and is there anything at all in their lives that could have provoked this?'

People are making notes, conferring quietly.

`Right. Everyone know what they're doing? Good. And DC Quinn? A word, please. In my office.'

`It's got to stop, Quinn. And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.'

He glances at me, and then down.

`DC Somer is a good officer, doing a good job. In fact, the only mistake I'm aware she's made is having a relationship with you, however brief. But she seems to have moved on from that `“ what I don't understand is why you can't.'

He rakes a hand through his hair. He looks awful. I'm sure that's yesterday's shirt. It's certainly yesterday's tie. But who am I to talk. It takes one to know one.

`Sit down. Let's talk about this.'

He seems in two minds, but then pulls out a chair.

`I know being demoted must have been complete crap, but you really only have yourself to blame. That whole episode `“ sleeping with a suspect `“'

`I never slept with her `“ how many more times!'

But he knows that's going too far. Shouting at me isn't going to help. And in any case, that was a classic Bill Clinton. And we both know it.

`Sorry, sir,' he says.

`You were offered the transfer and you decided not to take it.'

But I did sympathize with him on that one. Starting over somewhere else isn't that easy. He has a flat, a mortgage, a life. But if you stay, you have to suck it up, however sour.

`Look, Quinn, the only thing you can do now is deal with it. Focus on the bloody job. And don't take it out on Somer. It was nothing to do with her. You'd be really pissed off if the boot was on the other foot. She's being a model of restraint by comparison.'

He makes a face. `I know. It's just that this time last year I was a DS and she was still in uniform. And now `“'

Now they're both on the same level. And her trajectory is definitely up. As for his, well, I'm not putting any money on it.

`And the whole bloody station is still talking about it,' he finishes, biting his lip. I think he may actually be close to tears.

I lean forward. `I'm going to sound like your dad now, but the only reason everyone's still talking about it is because you keep reminding them. You took your punishment `“ you don't have to keep on taking it. So drop it `“ move on. And start by leaving Somer alone. OK?'

He's not looking at me. I drop my head, forcing his gaze. `OK, Quinn?'

He breathes in, holds his breath a minute, then looks up. `Yes, boss.'

He smiles. It's not much of a smile, but it's a start.

Andrew Baxter goes back to his desk and logs on to his PC. He checks his watch `“ he can get at least a couple of hours in before the end of the day. Right then, he thinks, let's start with the obvious. He logs on to Facebook and searches for Michael Esmond, grateful that `“ for once `“ he's looking for a relatively unusual name. The last search like this was for someone called David Williams; there were bloody hundreds of them. Esmond, on the other hand, throws up only a handful, and in less than five minutes he has his man. Not that it tells him very much. It's more like LinkedIn than Facebook `“ a self-congratulatory CV, a couple of stiff photos, some dull predictable Likes. There's also a Philip Esmond listed as a friend, though `“ as the name suggests `“ he turns out to be a brother rather than a mate. A year or so older and, judging by his Facebook presence, about as chalk to his brother's cheese as it's possible to imagine. He has the same colouring but there's an energy, a twinkle, that's entirely missing from his brother's face. He also has five times the friends and, on the face of it, at least three times the fun. Including sailing his boat single-handed to Croatia. It's a Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 45 called Freedom 2. There are shots of it just before departure, with people on the quayside waving Philip off (though, as Baxter notes, his brother isn't one of them), then some selfies taken on board and some shots of Atlantic winter sunsets that suggest he's no mean hand with a camera either. The last was posted a few days before, saying he might be out of reach of mobile phone comms but to leave a message if it's urgent. Safe to say the current situation probably meets the test.

Baxter writes down the details of Michael Esmond's dozen or so other FB friends, noting as he does so all he's posted in the last six months are a couple of updates on the book he was writing and four or five on the conference at King's. He obviously thought that was a pretty big deal. Samantha Esmond's page is much more animated, at least at first sight. A big photo album of pictures: in the garden, on the beach, feeding ducks on what looks like the Oxford canal, standing with another woman in a shop Baxter's pretty sure is in Summertown; then a whole series of school sports days and fetes, including a picture of a slightly lopsided cake tagged `My effort' with a rueful emoji face. But looking more closely, most of the pictures were loaded more than four years ago. After that there are a few selfies of her heavily pregnant, her face blurred or half in shadow, and one of a newborn in a hospital crib, tagged `At last'. No name, no weight, no sex. And after that, hardly anything. One or two brief updates talking about the baby, but hardly any photos after his first birthday, and in the last three months, nothing at all. Which, judging by Baxter's (admittedly limited) experience of the social media habits of proud new parents, strikes him as decidedly odd. Janet Gislingham's timeline bristles with Billy `“ no change is too minute to go unchronicled, no development too trivial to show the world. Quinn once observed sardonically that she might as well post his puke and have done with it, but he didn't get the laugh he was expecting. Too many people remembered how close Janet came to not having a son to photograph at all.

Baxter sits back and exhales a long slow breath. Then he sits forward and goes back through the photo album a second time. It starts when Matty was about three, and Baxter scrolls through watching him grow from a chubby contented toddler to a skinny kid with glasses too big for him. The little Matty beams up at the camera, holding out shells, pebbles, an ice cream, a snail; his older self seems to do his best to evade it, caught off-centre or looking away. In one he's hiding behind his father's legs, or at least you have to assume it's his father, since the man is cut off at the chest. Baxter frowns, and scrolls through again, registering for the first time how few shots Michael Esmond is actually in. A couple of the holiday snaps early on `“ playing cricket on the sand, on a fairground ride with Matty on his lap `“ but not much else. In one of the more recent ones Matty's in the garden with a dark-haired man in the background who's presumably Esmond, but he's mowing the lawn with his back to the camera and he's a long way away. Baxter scrolls back to the school shots `“ dads don't get to duck that sort of thing these days `“ but he can't see Michael. It's only now he realizes that the school in question is Bishop Christopher's, and as he looks more closely he sees faces he recognizes from the Daisy Mason case. The head, one or two of the teachers, some of the children they interviewed, and finally, with a jolt, Daisy herself, coming second in the egg-and-spoon, her small face a model of furious determination. It's 2016 `“ the last summer term before she disappeared `“ and from what Baxter can see here, Matty Esmond was in the same class. It can't be connected `“ it can't even be relevant `“ but it brings something to the forefront of his mind which is always in the background for any police officer: after the case is solved, and the culprits apprehended, and the world goes back to `normal', what then? Can anything really be `normal' after a case like that? A child disappears and never comes back, and when her classmates start the new school year she isn't there. Everyone always says how resilient kids are, but is that just another lie adults keep repeating to make themselves feel better? This lad, Matty Esmond `“ he doesn't look `resilient'. He looks fragile, vulnerable. How did he feel after Daisy went missing? How did he react when he heard what had really happened to her? However much parents might try to shield their kids, that sort of thing, it always gets out.

Baxter sighs, thinking `“ not for the first time `“ that he's glad he doesn't have children, then makes a few notes to add to the case file. Then he opens up his email and sends a message to Fawley, listing the information they're going to need which he'll have to OK. Financials, for starters. Phone and email records, medical files, internet histories. He's just closing down the machine when Everett arrives in a gust of cold air. She's been out to Wantage to see Michael Esmond's mother.

`How was it?' he says, glancing up. But one look at her face says it all.

`Doesn't matter how often I go to them or how good the staff are, those places always give me the willies.' She sits down heavily and starts to unwind her scarf. `I mean, the manager couldn't have been nicer, and they obviously really care about the residents, but all those chairs pushed back against the wall, and the smell of piss, and the telly on sixteen hours a day. It's my idea of the second circle of hell.'

Though spending the last two weekends before Christmas trailing round every care home in a ten-mile radius probably didn't help. She'd been trying to find somewhere suitable for Dad `“ not that he knows that yet. Though it's been coming for a while. The forgetfulness, the sudden petulance, the defensiveness. And the loss of any sense of time. As soon as it gets light he's awake, and that means he has the TV on. He's been doing it the whole time he's been staying with her. Shuffling into the sitting room apparently unaware that she's still trying to sleep. Though she, at least, can keep hold of the volume control; his neighbours at home aren't so lucky. Two or three times a week they go round to complain, and with a four-month-old baby, Everett can't exactly blame them; they must be half hallucinating for lack of REM sleep. But her father refuses to answer the door when they ring, which means a thirty-mile round trip for Everett to sort it out. Something has to give. She's been telling herself for weeks that she'd have it out with him over Christmas, when they'd be alone and she'd have more time, but he's about to go home and she still hasn't done it. Like any good copper she can spot a coward when she sees one, and this time she doesn't need to look any further than her own mirror.

She looks up to see Baxter giving her a quizzical look. As well he might; she hasn't told anyone at work about all this. Though she'll probably need to say something soon. To Fawley, at least, if no one else.

`I did get to see Mrs Esmond,' she says, `and I told her about the fire, as tactfully as I could, but I don't think she really took any of it in. Just smiled at me and said, `њHow nice, dear`ќ.'

`So she's not likely to be much help tracking Esmond down then.'

Ev shakes her head. `I did tell her he was missing but she didn't seem very concerned. Just waved her hand about and said he'd `њhave gone off to that hut again`ќ.'

Baxter frowns. `Scout hut? Nissen hut?'

Ev sighs. `Could be bloody Pizza Hut for all I know. The staff were none the wiser. But they did warn me she probably wouldn't be much help.'

`Pity.'

Something about his tone makes her do a double-take. `What `“ did you find something?'

Baxter makes a face. `To be honest, it's more what I didn't find.'

Telephone interview with Philip Esmond, 4 January 2018, 5.46 p.m.

On the call, DC E. Somer

ES:DC Somer speaking. PE:Hello `“ can you hear me? I think there's a delay on the line. ES:I can hear you `“ is that Mr Esmond? PE:Philip Esmond, yes. I got a message from the coastguard that someone at Thames Valley wanted to speak to me. It was something about Mike? Sorry about the line `“ I'm calling from a satellite phone in the middle of the Bay of Biscay. ES:I'm really sorry to have to tell you like this, but there's been a fire at your brother's house. PE:A fire? What do you mean, a fire? ES:It broke out in the small hours of this morning. PE:Jesus `“ not the kids `“ ES:I'm so very sorry. Zachary, I'm afraid he didn't make it. PE:And Matty? ES:He's in intensive care. They're doing everything they possibly can `“ PE:Fucking hell. I'll need to get back `“

[pause]

Hang on a minute, why didn't Mike call? He's not dead too, is he? Jesus `“

ES:No, sir. At least, not as far as we know. PE:`As far as you know'? What the hell does that mean? ES:[pause]

I'm afraid both your brother and sister-in-law are missing.

PE:What do you mean `“ missing? ES:Your brother is supposed to be at a conference in London but we haven't been able to track him down and he's not answering his phone. We were hoping he'd been in contact with you. PE:Last time I spoke to him was Christmas Day. ES:How did he seem to you then? PE:Fine. A bit hassled, but that's nothing new. I think he just had a lot on his plate. ES:When did you last see him? PE:Last summer. I stayed a few days. Mike had started smoking again and he was drinking a bit more than usual, but nothing, you know, heavy. And the kids were `“

[pause]

He didn't, you know, suffer, did he? Zachary?

ES:We hope not. That's all I can really say. PE:[pause]

Shit.

ES:[muffled noises at the police end]

Actually, Mr Esmond, there was one other thing we wanted to ask you. When we spoke to your mother she mentioned something about a hut. It was when we said Michael was missing. She said she thought he would have `gone there again'. Does that mean anything to you?

PE:No. Sorry. ES:She couldn't have been referring to your house, by any chance? We couldn't find a current address for you. PE:I've been house-sitting for a mate the last six months. I move around a lot. ES:Could Mr or Mrs Esmond be there? PE:I don't see how `“ they don't have keys or anything. Like I said, it's not mine. ES:They don't have a second home, do they? Country cottage, something like that? PE:[laughs drily]

No, Constable, they don't. That house in Southey Road was more than enough, believe me.

Everett knows something is wrong the minute she opens the flat door. Something about that dry fizzing smell. She drops everything and races through to the kitchen. The gas is on full and the saucepan is empty. She snatches a tea towel and clatters the pan into the sink.

`Dad!' she calls, running cold water as the pan hisses in an angry spurt of steam. `Dad!'

There's no answer, and for a moment anger gives way to anxiety `“ she can't hear the TV `“ has he gone off wandering? Even though she told him to stay indoors? But then there's the sound of the toilet flushing and he comes bustling into the kitchen, still adjusting his trousers. There's a small wet stain near his fly that she wills herself not to notice.

`Dad, what the hell were you doing? You can't leave an empty pan on the gas `“'

He frowns at her tetchily. `It's not empty, Verity `“'

`Oh yes, it is `“ I only just got to it in time `“'

`I can assure you it wasn't. I was just going to boil myself an egg. Given there's absolutely no sign of any other kind of sustenance round here.'

`I had to work late. I told you `“'

`That bloody cat gets fed better than I do.'

She feels her jaw tighten. `You know that's not true. And if the pan really was full how come it had boiled completely dry? That didn't happen in five minutes. Where on earth were you?'

He looks away and starts hurrumphing about being cooped up all day and everyone being entitled to a little fresh air.

She takes a step towards him. `This is serious, Dad. You could have burned the whole place down.'

He snaps a look at her at that. `All this silly hoo-ha over a boiled egg. Your mother's right, Verity `“ you really do have a deplorable tendency to over-dramatize things; always have had, ever since you were a child. She was saying so only the other day.'

Ev turns away. There are tears in her eyes now. Not just at the unfairness of it but because her mother's been dead for more than two years. There's a voice in her head saying You can't ignore this any more. Speak to him. Sit him down and speak to him. Right now. She takes a deep breath and turns to face him.

`What would you like for tea, Dad?'

At 9.15 the following morning Gislingham and Quinn pull up on to the drive in front of the Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology on the Banbury Road. A converted Victorian townhouse `“ as so many smaller Oxford departments are `“ rising four storeys above a lower ground. Dirty `Oxford yellow' brick with ornamental woodwork in dark red paint. A bike rack, gravel greened with weeds, two industrial-sized recycling bins and a sign saying NO PARKING.

`Bloody hell,' says Quinn, pushing the car door shut and looking up. `You wouldn't catch me working in there. It's like something out of Hammer House of Horror.'

Gislingham shoots him a look; it's on the tip of his tongue to observe that Quinn's just a tad underqualified for a university teaching post, but that's the sort of banter they'd have had in the old days. As Janet reminds him every morning, he has to act like Quinn's boss now.

They go up the steps to the door and ring the bell, hearing it echo somewhere inside. But that's all they can hear. They ring again, and wait again, then Quinn goes back down a step and squints into the venetian blinds on the upper ground floor.

`Can't see anything,' he says, finally. `And there aren't any bikes out here either. Do you reckon anyone bothers to come in during the holidays?'

The answer, apparently, is yes, because suddenly the door opens and a woman appears. She has wispy grey hair in a French pleat, a tartan skirt and a coarse woollen jumper.

`I don't know who you are, but you can't park there.'

Quinn opens his mouth to speak but Gislingham gets there first. `We're the police, madam,' he says, flashing his warrant card. `I'm Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham and this is Detective Constable Quinn. May we come in?'

The woman takes the card and stares at it, then looks at Quinn. `I suppose so,' she says eventually.

And as they follow her into the hallway Quinn mutters, in a voice calculated to be just about audible, `Acting Detective Sergeant.'

There's a room at the back overlooking the garden which clearly combines the woman's office, a reception area and a place for the coffee machine. She gestures towards two plastic chairs and asks them to wait while she finds Professor Jordan. `I have seen her today but she was on the phone to China. We have a collaboration with a university in Hangzhou.'

`No worries, we can wait, Miss `“'

`Mrs Beeton,' she says, tartly. `And spare me the cookery jokes because I've heard them all before.'

She turns on her heel and marches back down the hallway to the stairs, with Quinn grinning after her.

`She's a game old buzzard,' he says. `Reminds me of my nan. She didn't take no shit from no one, even in her nineties.'

Must be where you get it from, thinks Gislingham. He has too much nervous energy to sit down, so he wanders over to the rack of magazines and journals. American Ethnologist, Visual Anthropology Review, Comparative Studies in Society and History, Anthropological Journal of European Cultures. He picks one up and scans down the list of articles. Even the titles are completely impenetrable: what the hell is `performativity' anyway?

Quinn, meanwhile, is looking at the board on the wall with the names and pictures of the departmental staff. A good number of them are from overseas, if the names are anything to go by. There are one or two arty black-and-white photos, but most are standard colleague-with-a-digital-camera shots. Apart from Esmond's, which is definitely staged, and definitely professional.

`What do you think?' asks Quinn, staring at the picture. `Bit up himself? Baxter seemed to think so, judging from his Facebook page.'

Gislingham considers. `Strikes me as a bit insecure, to be honest. Over-compensating.'

Quinn makes a face. `Not sure how much `њcompensating`ќ you need to do when you've got a house like that. Must be rolling in it.'

`Speaking of which, did you check about the house?' Like I asked you to, hangs in the air.

`I did, actually,' says Quinn, with just the tiniest edge of sarcasm. `Still waiting to hear. But my money's still on family dough. No way he could afford that place on what he earns. And where else would cash like that come from? Embezzlement's a no-no for starters.' He gestures round at the slightly shabby room, the ancient radiator, the MDF shelves. `I mean, look at this place.'

`You're right, officer. Academic misdemeanours are rarely, if ever, pecuniary in nature.'

The voice is coming from the door. A tall thin woman with strong features and an arrangement of long dark clothes in layers. Wide trousers, tunic, overshirt. She has a chunky pewter necklace of geometrical shapes hanging low against her waist.

`I'm Annabel Jordan. Would you like to come up? Mary will bring us coffee. I, for one, could do with it.'

Her office is on the floor above, overlooking the street. What must once have been a family drawing room, complete with cornicing and a fireplace with a cast-iron surround. The walls are lined with untidy bookshelves, and she has two battered leather armchairs facing her desk. And on the wall a framed poster for an exhibition of Palaeolithic art at the Ashmolean museum `“ a carving of a woman, the hips and breasts bulbous, the head disproportionately small and without features.

`Do please sit down. I'm guessing you've come to talk to me about Michael. What a truly terrible thing to happen.'

`You heard about it?' asks Gislingham with a frown. They haven't released the family's name to the press.

She takes her own seat. `I saw the news, Sergeant. I recognized the house. Michael had a drinks party soon after he moved in `“ the department, the post-grads `“ there must have been a hundred people there. It made my semi in Summertown look positively disadvantaged.'

Gislingham nods; no doubt that was part of the point.

`And your colleague is right,' she says with a gesture to Quinn. `It was `“ is `“ family money.' She turns again to Gislingham, her face concerned. `Is there any news on Matty?'

Gislingham shakes his head. `Not that I've heard.'

`And that other poor child. Zachary. What a waste. What an awful, pointless, deplorable waste.'

`We believe Mr Esmond is currently attending a conference in London?'

She sits back, folds her hands. `Yes, that's right.'

`You don't know where he might be staying in London? A friend's? A hotel he usually used?'

She shakes her head. `No, I'm afraid I couldn't tell you. In fact, I haven't seen him for some time.'

She makes to get up but Gislingham hasn't finished. `So what can you tell us about him, Professor Jordan?'

She sits back again, the ghost of a frown crossing her face. `Diligent. Hard-working.' There's a pause. `Perhaps a bit humourless. I don't think he makes friends easily.'

`He doesn't have any on the staff here?'

She starts playing with the necklace absent-mindedly, `Not `њfriends`ќ as such, no. I don't think so. There were some people he worked with more closely than others, but I suspect `њcolleagues`ќ is the better word.'

`And what exactly does he work on?'

She hesitates. `I'm not sure how much you know about anthropology, officer `“'

Quinn smiles. `Treat us like novices.'

She raises an eyebrow. `That's rather more relevant than you realize. Michael specializes in the sacrificial and initiation practices of primitive and indigenous societies. Puberty rites, shamanic ordeals and so on. The various social, cultural, ritualistic and magico-religious factors that come into play `“'

Quinn's eyes are already glazing over.

``“ he wrote a very impressive doctoral thesis and got a post at Liverpool almost immediately afterwards. For a while his career looked unstoppable.'

`But?' says Gislingham.

Her eyes flicker. `I'm sorry?'

`I've been doing this a lot of years,' he says drily.

She smiles, a trifle uneasily. `Let's just say that he hasn't progressed quite as far `“ or as fast `“ as one might have expected. His research has stalled rather, and I happen to know he's applied for several other jobs in the last few months, both here and at other universities, but hasn't been shortlisted. That's confidential, of course,' she adds quickly. `I was his referee, so I would have known.'

`And how did he feel about that?'

`I'm sure he was frustrated. Who wouldn't be?'

Something else Gislingham knows when he hears it is a professional evasion. He changes tack.

`How has he been lately?'

`I'm not sure what you mean.'

And there's another one. OK, he thinks, if that's how you want to play it.

`What's his mood been like? Any recent change in his habits or behaviour?'

She glances at him, then away. `Michael is always very careful `“ very considered.'

`But?'

`But lately he's become, well, I suppose the only word is `њloud`ќ. Outspoken, voicing quite controversial opinions. That sort of thing.'

`How long has this been going on?'

`I don't know, three or four months, perhaps?'

`Is there anyone in particular he's pissed off?'

`No. Not that I'm aware of. Nothing significant, anyway.'

The door opens and Mrs Beeton comes in with three mugs, a cafetière and a carton of semi-skimmed milk. She edges the tray on to the desk and leaves, though not without a meaningful look in Jordan's direction. Gislingham suspects she's been listening outside for a while. No kettle takes that long to boil.

`So what about the rest?'

`I'm sorry?'

Gislingham holds her gaze. `You said `њnothing significant`ќ. There's something else, isn't there? Something you'd rather not tell us. But believe me, Professor, it's all going to come out in the end. Far better you tell us now than we have to find out for ourselves.'

It's a line he'd heard Fawley say once, and filed away for future use.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then she says, `I need to consult the university's legal team before I say anything more. It's a sensitive matter, and given what's now happened `“'

She looks from one to the other and back again. She can see they're not buying it.

She sighs. `Very well. In the very strictest confidence, we had a complaint from a student.'

`About Michael Esmond?'

She nods.

Jesus, thinks Gislingham, this is like drawing teeth.

`Getting a bit on the side, is he?' asks Quinn, who seems to have decided that there are advantages to his demotion, not the least of which is the freedom to be a bit of a tosser with complete impunity.

Jordan glares at him. `I have no evidence for that whatsoever. Nor does the young woman in question allege anything of the kind.'

`So what was it?' says Gislingham. `Sexting? Dodgy emails?'

Jordan hesitates. `There seems to have been an unfortunate incident at the departmental Christmas party.'

`Just how `њunfortunate`ќ are we talking?'

She flushes. `Some inappropriate comments and apparently some physical contact. All of which Michael vehemently denies. Unfortunately there were no witnesses.'

`So he said, she said, eh?' says Quinn.

`Quite. It was clear we were going to have to involve the legal department.'

`Were?'

`Sorry?'

`You said `њwere going to involve`ќ. Past tense.'

Another flush. `Yes, well, the latest turn of events has put a rather different complexion on the matter.'

Right, thinks Gislingham. He suddenly has the absolute conviction that the call Jordan made earlier wasn't to China at all.

`You didn't see fit to inform the police?' he says.

`As I said, we haven't yet decided on the best course of action.'

Gislingham flips open his notebook again and writes a few words.

`When did you have this conversation with him `“ the one when he denied all knowledge?'

`I told him about the allegations at the end of last term and we met again on Tuesday.'

Gislingham can't disguise his reaction. `Tuesday as in January 2nd? Tuesday as in less than three days ago? You just said you'd had no contact with him `“' he flips back a couple of pages `“ ``њfor some time`ќ. I wouldn't call three days some time.'

She looks embarrassed now `“ embarrassed and outmanoeuvred. `When I saw him before Christmas he was clearly rather overwrought, so I suggested he think it all over during the vac and we'd talk again in early January. He came here first thing on Tuesday on his way to London. I was hoping we'd be able to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion.'

Gislingham starts to nod. `I get it `“ you were hoping he'd resign, right? Give him the pearl-handled revolver and hope he'd do the decent thing?'

She bridles. `Not at all. You're quite wrong about that, officer. Quite wrong.'

But the look on her face is saying something very different.

`So how did it go?'

She hesitates. `Let's just leave it that we had a frank exchange of views.'

More like a slanging match, he thinks, to judge from her face. And that old bag Beeton must have heard every word.

`How were things left?'

`I said that, in the circumstances, I would now be consulting the University authorities and it would be up to them to determine the best course of action.'

`But he could lose his job, couldn't he.' It's Quinn. And it's a statement, not a question. `I mean, sexual harassment of a student, in the current climate? `њMe too`ќ and all that. They'd hang him out by the balls.'

Jordan gives him a look of undisguised loathing. `In theory, it could lead to dismissal, yes. But we're a long way from that. At least at this stage.'

But that's not how Michael Esmond might have seen it. Quinn and Gislingham exchange a glance.

`Can we talk to the girl?' asks Gislingham.

Jordan frowns. `She has not made a police complaint.'

`I'm aware of that, Professor. But you can appreciate why we'd like to talk to her.'

`Yes, I'm sure you would. But there are procedures `“ consents I have to obtain. I will speak to the lawyers, and then to the young woman, and I will come back to you as soon as I reasonably can.'

In Summertown, meanwhile, Everett has only just got back from dropping her father off at his house just outside Bicester. Anything involving him always takes five times longer than she allows for, and this morning was no different. And she hasn't spoken to him about the care home yet either. But she's looked up the number for his local Social Services and she's going to force herself to call them by the end of the day. Though right now she has a job to do. She pops back up to the flat to check on the cat (who's clearly as relieved as she is that normal service has been resumed) and then returns to the pavement, where she takes out the picture Baxter found on Samantha Esmond's Facebook page. He was pretty sure it was taken in one of the shops on the Summertown parade, and she'd agreed with him. She hasn't lived here for two years for nothing.

Five minutes later, she's pushing through the door. Candles, china, bathrobes, towels. If it's not white, it's glass. And it's all so delicate and refined and sweet-smelling she feels twice her normal size just standing there. Thankfully she doesn't have to do it for long; the girl behind the counter looks up with a smile. `Is there anything in particular you were looking for? We have some of our discontinued items in the sale.'

Everett edges nervously round a display of ornate champagne glasses and pulls her warrant card from her jacket. `DC Everett, Thames Valley. Could I speak to the manager?'

The girl looks alarmed. `Is there something wrong?'

Everett's turn to smile. `No, not at all. I just need to speak to the lady in this photo.'

The girl takes the picture and nods. `Oh yes, that's Mel. She's on her break. I'll just get her.'

She disappears out the back, leaving Ev standing there staring at the champagne flutes. The ones she has at home were a gift from her mum when she first left home. They look like something out of a Babycham ad.

`Hello? I'm sorry, Jenna couldn't remember your name.'

She turns. It's definitely the woman in the photo. Mid height, strong, handsome features and well-cut dark auburn hair. Under the unforgiving lights the red is purplish.

`DC Everett,' she says, holding out her hand. `Verity.'

`Mel Kennedy. What's this about?'

`The woman in this picture with you `“'

`Sam? This is about Sam?'

Everett takes a deep breath. `Did you see the news `“ the fire?'

The woman goes pale. `Oh no `“ not those children `“ please don't say `“'

`I'm very sorry.' She watches as Kennedy reaches half blindly for a chair and sits down heavily. She has her hand to her mouth. Her shock seems completely genuine.

`Take your time. Would you like a glass of water?'

Kennedy shakes her head. `I just can't believe it.'

`When did you last see Mrs Esmond?'

Kennedy looks at her for a moment. `You know, I can't honestly remember. Perhaps last summer?'

`This picture is a couple of years old, I think?'

Kennedy glances at it. `At least three. She only worked here a short time. But we got on, you know? We really got on.'

Everett moves a little closer. `We still haven't been able to track Mrs Esmond down. Do you have any idea where she might be?'

Kennedy shakes her head again. `She's a very private person. She never talked much about her personal life.'

`No particular friends? No one she might be visiting?'

She shrugs, helpless.

Everett takes a deep breath; there's no easy way to broach this. `Knowing Mrs Esmond `“ Sam `“ do you think she'd be likely to leave her children alone in the house?'

But Kennedy is already interrupting her. `Sam would never have done that,' she says fiercely. `Never.'

`Why did she stop working here?'

Kennedy gets out a tissue and blows her nose. `It was when she got pregnant with Zachary. Her husband thought it would all be too much for her. What with Matty as well. But between you and me, I don't think he wanted her working here in the first place. Used to make snarky comments `“ `њWhat the hell is shabby chic anyway?`ќ That sort of thing. He's a bit snooty, I reckon. A bit of a snob.'

`You saw a lot of him?'

She shakes her head. `No. He didn't come in much. Like I said, I don't think he approved of a wife of his doing shop work.'

`But they're happy, as far as you know? No problems at home?'

`Oh no. Nothing like that. He doted on her. She was always saying so.'

21 February 2017, 7.45 a.m.

317 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

It's the clatter of crockery that wakes her. She'd slept unusually deeply, and surfaces from half-remembered menace like someone pulled from drowning. The other side of the bed is cold; Michael isn't there. That's unusual too `“ he never normally gets up first. And then she remembers. It's her birthday. That's what the noise downstairs is about. The boys are preparing her breakfast in bed. It's the same surprise every year, but she always manages to pretend she wasn't expecting it. She hauls herself to sitting position, and reaches to plump the pillows behind her. The air in the room is icy, despite the central heating. She sighs: the only way to insulate these houses properly is to take the plaster off the walls and start again. That's what the people in the house opposite did before they moved in. But they were renting somewhere at the time: they didn't have to live there while the builders were doing it. She got an estimate from the firm but when she broached it with Michael all he kept going on about was the mess.

There's the sound of their footsteps on the stairs now, and she can hear Zachary shouting and Matty saying `Ssh, ssh!' A few moments later the door pushes open and Zachary rushes in yelling `HAPPY BIRTHDAY!' at the top of his voice. He clambers on the bed, hurling himself at her, and his father says, `Easy, Tigger.' Like he always does.

Michael perches on the edge of the bed and hands her the tray. Tea in one of the Wedgwood cups they were given by his mother, a boiled egg (Matty's contribution), three slices of toast laden with strawberry jam (Zachary's) and a rose in a little vase. Michael turns to his eldest son, who's hanging back, his face a little closed. `Come on, Matty, stop skulking about over there.'

Matty pushes his glasses up his nose `“ Samantha knew they were too big for him, but the optician insisted. Her son sidles forward. He's holding two parcels.

`You wrapped yours yourself, didn't you, Matty?' says Michael, encouraging him closer.

`Come and sit with me, sweetheart,' she says quickly.

Matty puts the parcels on the bed and then climbs carefully across to his mother. She reaches out and pulls him to her, kissing him on the side of the head. Zachary starts to fidget, sending the tea slopping into the saucer.

`Mummy eat toast!'

`I will, sweet pea,' she says, catching the flicker of a frown on her husband's face. `Let me just have this tea before it goes everywhere.'

The egg is almost hard-boiled and the toast is cold, but she eats it all, then breathes a silent sigh of relief as she hands the tray to Michael.

`Right,' he says, smiling. `Presents!'

The boys have given her the same perfume they give her every year, and she kisses them both, then carefully folds the paper and detaches the gift tag Matty has written and puts it in her bedside drawer, making sure he sees. Things like that matter to him.

Michael's gift is in a small box. Silver earrings in the shape of tassels. She'd seen an actress wearing some like it a few weeks before and said how much she liked them. And he'd remembered. Remembered and spent God knows how long looking for them. She looks up and sees him smiling at her. There's hardly a strand of grey in his dark hair, and he's as slim as he was when they first met. That party in Hackney. She can't even remember now whose house it was. She was only a couple of months past graduation and he was already halfway through his PhD. There are times, even now, when she can't believe he really did choose her.

`They're beautiful,' she says softly.

He reaches forward and takes her hand. `Just like you. I thought you could wear them tonight at Gee's. With that blue dress I got you.'

`Yes,' she says, smiling. `Of course.'

`OK, boys,' he says, turning to his sons. `Let's leave Mummy alone for a while now, shall we? She needs to rest.'

At 12.30, Professor Jordan goes up the steps to the University Offices. A building which, in a city of architectural wonders, promises much, but is actually a 1970s concrete slab that could just as easily be an inner-city comprehensive, a council office or the Ministry of Defence. Up on the second floor, there are three people in the meeting room already. The head of Esmond's college, and Nicholas Grant from the Proctors' Office. The third is introduced to Jordan as Emily McPherson, the director of the press relations department, a smartly dressed young woman in a black suit and a heavy set of pearls. Annabel has never had occasion to meet her before; it's not a good omen.

`Ah, Annabel,' says Grant. `Thank you for coming in at such short notice, but in the circumstances, we do need to make sure we're all singing from the same hymn sheet.'

Jordan ticks off her mental bullshit bingo card. First sentence, and he's already got one in `“ that's good going, even for Grant. It'll be low-hanging fruit next.

Jordan swings her hessian bag down heavily on to the table and takes her seat opposite Grant.

`So,' he says, `for Emily's benefit, perhaps you could summarize what we discussed on the phone?'

`Of course, Nicholas.' She turns to McPherson. `At the end of last term, Ned Tate from Magdalen came to me to report an incident of alleged sexual harassment involving Michael Esmond and Lauren Kaminsky, one of our postgrads. Lauren is his girlfriend. It supposedly took place at the departmental Christmas party. Lauren and Michael both happened to be taking a cigarette break at the same time. He started flirting with her and it quickly escalated into something more serious. At least, that's her side of the story. She said Michael was very drunk at the time.'

`And has that been corroborated?' asks McPherson. `The intoxication?'

Jordan sighs. `I'm afraid so. I saw him that night myself.'

`But there were no witnesses to the alleged incident?'

`No. Lauren claims he started to touch her breasts and she pushed him away.'

`That's as far as it went?' says Grant.

`That's more than far enough, wouldn't you say?' she replies tersely.

`What did he say when you spoke to him?' asks McPherson. She has a soft Scottish accent. A very listenable voice.

`He denied it all. Vehemently. He swore a lot. Said she'd been drinking too, which is also true, incidentally. He was clearly in a highly emotional state `“ not just angry but paranoid. Rather alarmingly so. So I suggested he take some time to think about it all and we'd meet again after the vac.'

`It would have been better all round if he'd just bloody well resigned and had done with it,' says Grant.

Jordan flashes him a look. `Better for you, maybe. But academic jobs don't grow on trees, you know. The man has a young family. And he may be telling the truth. It's not impossible.'

`What did the legal department say?' asks McPherson.

`I haven't talked to them about it yet. I was on the point of doing so when we heard the news about the fire.'

`It's still worth doing,' says McPherson with a sympathetic smile. `If the press gets hold of this we'll need to know where we stand.'

`Is the girl likely to say anything?' asks Grant.

Jordan restrains herself from pointing out the many and various crimes against political correctness `girl' represents. `Not at present. I will need to speak to her when she gets back from the US.'

`And I believe the police have been to see you?' asks the head of Esmond's college.

`Yes, two CID officers. I told them about the allegations, and if you are in agreement I will give them Lauren's name. In the circumstances, we can hardly refuse.'

He nods.

`So what's the game plan?' asks Grant. Jordan crosses off another weary bingo box.

`I don't think we can decide on an appropriate course of action,' says McPherson, `until a) we know what's happened to Dr Esmond, and b) we know whether it was definitely arson. If it is indeed determined that the fire was started deliberately `“'

`Which brings us,' replies Grant, `to why we're here. I assume,' he says, turning to Jordan, `that this other matter is not something you elected to share with the police?'

`Of course not,' she snaps. `What do you take me for?'

`And have you spoken to him?'

`He called me in a panic as soon as he saw the news. I advised him that it would be preferable to pre-empt the inevitable enquiry by making a voluntary statement.'

`And is he going to take that advice?' asks McPherson.

`He says he will. And hopefully that will be the end of it.'

`You're sure?' says Grant. `What about `“ the rest?'

`He swears he's removed all trace.'

Grant looks her straight in the eye. `Well, I just hope you're right,' he says meaningfully.

Just after three, DC Asante emerges from Embankment tube station into sullen skies and a bitter wind off the water. Even the trees look huddled against the cold. He pulls on his gloves and heads north towards King's College. It's the first time he's been back to London since he joined Thames Valley three months before, and all the way in on the train he's been wondering how it would feel to be back. Not that this was ever his patch. Brixton police station may only be a couple of miles as the crow flies but it's a lot further by every other form of human measurement. And as for where he was brought up `“ that's another five miles west but it might as well be in a parallel universe. Not that his new colleagues in St Aldate's know about that. They just heard `Brixton' and let assumptions do the rest. But he's not about to let a bit of casual racism like that bother him. Because, yes, his last station was indeed in South London but his school was Harrow, and his Ghanaian father is a former diplomat and his English mother the CEO of a pharmaceutical company, with a stucco-fronted town house in a Holland Park square. And they call him Anthony. With an `h'. They're still rather bemused at his choice of career, but Anthony only ever saw the uniform phase as a means to an end. Everything's going to be different now `“ now he's in Oxford. He's clever and he's ambitious, and those are qualities he reckons that town will appreciate. Along with agility, both intellectual and social. But he's bright enough to know what to keep quiet, and how fast to push. For the time being, it's about watch and learn. And in his book, DI Adam Fawley is exactly the man to help him do it.

I'm checking my phone for what must be the hundredth time today when Gis knocks on the door.

`That mobile in the house,' he begins. `The one that was charging in the kitchen.'

I'm still looking at my phone. Nothing from Alex. Again.

`Turns out it's hers,' he says, slightly louder. `The wife's.'

He has my attention now. All of it. `So it's possible `“'

He nods. `I reckon she could still be in there.'

I toss my own phone on to the desk. `Jesus.'

He takes a step forward and puts a printout down in front of me. `And we've been going through Esmond's mobile records. He's made no calls since 1.15 Tuesday lunchtime when he called his bank. He was already in London by that point. The phone is then off, until it goes back on again at 10.35 p.m. on Wednesday.'

`Wednesday? The night of the fire?'

`You got it. He was somewhere in the Tottenham Court Road area.'

He doesn't need to draw me a diagram: Esmond was fifty miles away when his home and family were wiped out. And whoever did it could well have known that.

`The phone was only on for about an hour though,' Gis says. `He turned it off again at 11.45. And he didn't make or receive any calls in the meantime either.'

`And that's it?'

He nods. `It's been off ever since.'

`Anything odd in the last few months?'

`Baxter's been through the call log and there are no obvious patterns.' He's flicking through a sheaf of printouts. `He used to phone home a lot during the day, but that's hardly unusual. Otherwise it was mostly mundane stuff like British Gas and his mother's care home.'

`Mostly?'

`Ah, that's the only vaguely interesting bit. He's been calling a pay-as-you-go mobile a fair amount lately, but we may struggle to find out who it belongs to.'

`When did the calls start?'

Gis leafs back. `June last year. There's one or two that month, and then they become more frequent. At least two or three a week. The last one was on the morning of the 27th December.'

`Nothing the day of the fire?'

He shakes his head. `Nope.' He shifts to another printout. `Though there've been a few calls to that number from the Esmonds' landline as well. The last of those was before Christmas. None from the wife's mobile, though. For the record.'

`I assume you've tried calling it `“ this mystery number?'

`Afraid it just rings out.'

`Do we know where that mobile was when Esmond was calling it?'

`It was in London on one occasion, but the rest of the time always in Oxford. Mostly in and around the Botley Road area. But without a name it'll be like looking for a black cat in the dark.'

Always assuming, of course, the damn cat is there in the first place.

I must have sighed because Gis hurries on. `I've got the Tech unit monitoring Esmond's mobile in case he switches it back on again. But right now, wherever he is, he's not talking.'

I glance at him and then at my watch. In precisely twenty-five minutes Michael Esmond should be talking all right: he should be getting to his feet in front of a hall full of people.

`I know,' says Gis, reading my mind. `Asante rang half an hour ago but there's been no sign of Esmond yet. But that doesn't mean he's not coming. He may just be one of those blokes who does everything at the last minute.'

But I can see from his face that he doesn't really believe that. And, frankly, nor do I.

At Southey Road, it's got so dark the fire investigators have had to turn on the arc-lights. It started to snow about an hour ago and, despite the makeshift tarpaulin, huge white flakes are drifting in, catching golden in the lamp beams and dropping softly on to the heaps of blackened debris.

Paul Rigby is outside on the phone when he hears the shout behind him. He turns to see one of the investigators beckoning urgently.

`Have you found something?'

The man nods and Rigby starts towards him, clambering up the rubble, roof tiles and shards of glass slipping and breaking under his boots. Three of the team are staring down at something at their feet. Rigby's seen that look too many times before to mistake it. Under the twisted window frame and the metal pipes and the sheet of scorched plasterboard, there's something else.

A human hand.

This time when Gis comes to my door, I only need to take one look at him to know there's something.

`What is it `“ did Esmond turn up?'

He makes a face. `Nope. He was a no-show. Asante spoke to the organizers and they haven't heard a thing from him. No phone message, no email, nothing.'

I sigh heavily. And then realize that my overwhelming feeling right now is that I'm not surprised. At some level I must have been expecting this. Does that mean I suspect him? I didn't think I did `“ not consciously, anyway. But my gut instinct is clearly telling me otherwise.

Gis takes a step into the room. `Though even if we haven't found him, we may have found her. That's what I came to tell you. Rigby called. There's another body at the site. Just like we thought.'

`Female?'

He nods.

`And they're sure it's her?'

`As sure as they can be. She was wearing some sort of nightdress. Looks like she must have been in one of the other bedrooms on the top floor. I hope for her sake she just went to sleep and didn't know anything about it.'

Unlike her son, who woke in terror and found himself alone.

I glance up at Gislingham and I can see he's thinking the same. `No more news on Matty yet, boss,' he says. `But we can always hope, eh?'

9 April 2017, 2.13 p.m.

270 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

`Oh bloody hell!'

Michael Esmond drops the spade and it hits the grass with a metallic clang. The shrub he's trying to shift has wrenched the handle clean off. He stands there, staring down at the unyielding stump, breathing heavily. He really does have better things to do than this.

`Everything OK?' It's Sam, joining him. She hands him a mug of tea. It has `Happy Birthday Daddy' on the side.

`Fine,' says Michael, a little tetchily: it was his wife's idea to replant this bloody border. `Broken the sodding spade, but otherwise absolutely hunky-dory.'

Samantha looks down the garden to where her sons are playing. Matty is trying to interest Zachary in a game of football but the toddler is just running about after the ball, screaming with delight.

`You're supposed to be the goalie,' Matty is saying wearily. `I'm the striker.'

`Perhaps we should get someone in,' she ventures, `for the garden.'

He turns to her. `Gardeners round here cost a bloody fortune, you know that.'

`Not one of the firms,' she says quickly. `Perhaps ask around at the faculty? There must be students who'd like to earn a bit of extra beer money.'

He's still staring at the wrecked shovel. `It's all Dad's fault,' he says eventually. `Why did he have to plant stuff like this?'

`I think he wanted to keep the weeds down,' she says, willing herself not to look across at the other borders, already spiked with the first signs of nettles. She doesn't want her husband to think he's being criticized, but a garden this size needs someone on it at least twice a week.

Michael drains his mug and turns to his wife, looking at her properly for the first time. `How are you feeling?'

`OK,' she says at once.

`You do look a bit brighter. Better than yesterday, anyway.'

`I'm sorry, I was just so exhausted `“ I didn't mean to dump all that on you `“'

`It's fine,' he says. `That's what I'm here for. To look after you. You and the boys.'

She hesitates. `You don't think I could `“'

`No,' he says firmly. `That's not a good idea. We can't go through all that again. You can't `“ I can't.'

`But I hate the way I feel `“ it's like living in fog `“ please, Michael `“'

But whatever her husband was going to reply is drowned out by their youngest son, who suddenly careers into his father, waving the handle of the spade, shouting, `Daddy, Daddy, you broke the spade! You broke it, Daddy!'

`Ah, Fawley, there you are. Take a seat.'

I was at the coffee machine when Superintendent Harrison's PA tracked me down and suggested I `pop along' and give the superintendent an update. And like my inspector told me when I was just a DC, `it's only a suggestion but let's not forget who's making it'.

`I thought we ought to give this Esmond case the once-over before the weekend,' he says. He must have something planned he doesn't want disturbing. `And I've had a few calls `“ you know what I mean.'

Calls from the University is what he means. Probably not Annabel Jordan if I had to guess. More like one of the suits at Wellington Square, worried about their `public image'.

`So, where are we, Adam?'

It doesn't take long. How could it `“ we have precisely sod all.

Harrison considers. He's thinking about the suits again. `Anything on the car?'

`Nothing on traffic cams. Or ANPR.'

`Credit cards?'

`Still waiting on the bank. They're short-staffed because of the holidays.'

Just like we are.

He sits back in his chair and puts his fingertips together. `So what now?'

But I'm prepared for this. `There is one thing we could do, sir.'

Oxford Mail online

Friday 5 January 2018 Last updated at 18:11

BREAKING: Second fatality possible in Oxford fire; Police appeal for father to come forward

Residents of Southey Road earlier reported seeing an undertaker's van at the site of yesterday's fatal fire, in the wake of unconfirmed reports that the body of Mrs Samantha Esmond has been found at the house. Mrs Esmond, 33, has not been seen since before the fire broke out in the early hours of Thursday morning. Zachary Esmond, 3, died in the blaze, and his older brother, Matty, 10, remains in a critical condition in the John Radcliffe hospital. Both Mrs Esmond and her husband, Michael, 40, were initially thought to be missing, but it appears the police have called off their search for Mrs Esmond, adding weight to suspicions that the body is indeed hers.

Speaking to us this afternoon, Detective Inspector Adam Fawley made an appeal to Michael Esmond to come forward. `We do not know where Dr Esmond is, and we are increasingly concerned about him and urge him to contact us as soon as possible. If a member of the public remembers seeing Dr Esmond at any time since 2 January, when he registered at a conference in central London, we would very much like to hear from them.' DI Fawley declined to comment on whether Dr Esmond is considered a suspect in the arson, or to speculate on the identity of the second victim. `We will make a statement at the appropriate time,' he said.

Esmond, 40, is a member of the University's Anthropology department. The University offices in Wellington Square have issued a statement offering condolences to the Esmonds' family and friends.

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213 comments

Tenant ofWildfell77

Where's the bloody father, that's what I want to know. He hasn't phoned `“ hasn't seen the TV `“ in all that time? Sorry, I'm not buying that.

nick_trelawney_40

Even if the mother was there after all it still looks off to me. Houses like that don't burn to the ground in five minutes

EchinasterGal556

My heart goes out to that poor kid. How's he going to feel when he wakes up and finds his Mum and his little brother are both dead?

VivendiVerve

Friends of ours house burned down because their down-lighters hadn't been fitted properly. People don't realise that they can overheat and set the whole place on fire. We checked ours afterwards and found ours were about to burn through too. It was a miracle we got to them in time. Get them checked `“ that's my advice!

Sent:Fri 05/01/2018, 19.35Importance: High From:Colin.Boddie@ouh.nhs.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk, CID@ThamesValley.police.uk, AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road

I have just completed the post-mortem of the female found at the house. Provisional cause of death is asphyxiation as a result of smoke inhalation, but I will need to run bloodwork and toxicology before I can formally confirm this. Only issue to note at this stage is a minor but recent bruise on the right side of her neck. I would estimate it as having occurred sometime in the preceding 48 hours.

If I clean her up a bit it should be possible to obtain a formal identification from the next of kin.

At 8.30 on Saturday morning, Gislingham is sitting on the floor in his front room. It looks like an asteroid hit on a car boot sale. Cartons of decorations trailing tinsel, cards heaped for recycling, fairy lights in tangled handfuls. And in among it all, Billy. Hiding under the cardboard, picking ornaments off the half-empty tree, pushing himself along on his prized new plastic car. It doesn't matter how carefully Gislingham packs the boxes, as soon as he turns his back Billy starts emptying them again. He clearly thinks it's all the most amazing game, organized solely for his benefit. In fact, it's the best fun he's had since he made almost the same amount of mess opening the tsunami of presents with his name on.

Janet Gislingham comes into the room, wiping her hands on a tea towel. `Make sure he doesn't hurt himself, Chris.'

Billy looks up from where he's sitting on the floor. He's wearing a miniature Chelsea football shirt with `Champs 2017' on the back. Gislingham glances over. `He's having a great time. Aren't you, Billy?'

Janet looks a bit closer. `Is that chocolate he's got on his face?'

`I found a couple of uneaten Santas on the back of the tree.'

Billy grins and starts banging his hands on his car. Janet smiles. `OK, I give in. I'll leave the boys to their toys. It would be good to get the decorations down at some stage, though. Perhaps in time for next Christmas? And no more chocolate.'

She gives Gislingham a meaningful look, then turns and goes back to the kitchen. Gislingham winks at his son, digs into his pocket and holds out another Santa wrapped in red and gold foil. `Just don't tell your mum,' he says in a theatrical whisper, as Billy yelps with delight.

`I heard that,' calls his wife.

She can't ever remember being so happy.

Oxford Mail online

Saturday 6 January 2018 Last updated at 10.23 a.m.

Oxford house fire: No progress on identifying cause

Fire scene investigators have yet to confirm the cause of the house fire in Southey Road that has now killed two people. Three-year-old Zachary Esmond died in the fire, and his mother, Samantha, is believed to be the other victim found on the premises. Her older son, Matty, remains in intensive care at the John Radcliffe hospital.

Detective Inspector Adam Fawley has confirmed that fire officers are still at the scene but declined to speculate on the possibility of arson. He was, however, able to confirm that there was no cladding present on the building, and this was not, therefore, a factor in the speed of spread of the fire, which some commentators have raised as a concern.

The Oxford Mail understands that Michael Esmond, 40, has still not been located.

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87 comments

nick_trelawney_40

`Still not been located'???? I told you `“ there's a lot more to this than meets the eye

MedoraMelborne

I thought they could get forensic results on this sort of thing within hours these days.

Strictervictor_8_9

You've been watching too much crime TV. It can take weeks to deal with a fire scene that size.

7788PlatinumPat

I met Samantha Esmond `“ Matty is at Bishop Christopher's same as my two. She seemed such a nice woman.

When Gis rings I've just got back from Tesco. More frozen pizza and meals for one. It's the third time I've been in the last week. I keep telling myself Alex will be back in a few days, that I don't want to end up with a freezer full of this crap that will never get eaten. And yes, this is probably about the time some joker chips in that `denial' is not a river in Egypt`¦

`I finally heard back from Professor Jordan,' says Gis. `The woman Esmond was supposedly harassing is called Lauren Kaminsky. She's a graduate student at Wolfson College.'

`That's only just round the corner from Southey Road.'

`I gave them a call and she's been away for Christmas. Went home to New York. But apparently she should be back this weekend. They'll call me as soon as she's back and we'll go up there. Better to do that sort of thing face to face.'

`What about the appeal?'

I hear him sigh. `I think we're up to thirty-five calls already. Everywhere from Southampton to South Shields and I doubt a single one of 'em is reliable. But the minute you ask the great British public `“ Well, you know how it is.'

I do. Indeed I do.

`And I'm afraid that's not the only thing, boss.' I can hear the diffidence in his voice now. Bad news, clearly. `I was trying not to drag you in at the weekend but it's the parents `“ Samantha's parents.'

`We tracked them down?'

`Not exactly. They're here. Now. In the building. They got our message but they'd already seen the news on their holiday. They came straight from the airport.'

I dump the carrier bags, stand up, reset my brain. A shit job just got ten times shittier. `OK, see them into whichever interview room looks marginally less crap than the others and organize some coffee, would you? I'll be there in twenty minutes.'

Interview with Gregory and Laura Gifford, conducted at St Aldate's police station, Oxford

6 January 2018, 11.05 a.m.

In attendance, DI A. Fawley, DC V. Everett

AF:Can I start by saying how very sorry we are, Mr and Mrs Gifford. You may already be aware, but the fire investigators have found another body. I'm afraid we think it's your daughter. GG:[reaching for his wife's hand. Mrs Gifford begins to weep]

We feared as much. Whatever they said on the TV, we knew Samantha would never have left the children alone. It was only a matter of time. We knew they'd find her in that house.

AF:I also want to apologize that we weren't able to inform you about the fire before you saw it on the news. GG:Well, we were on holiday, weren't we. And that's how it is, these days. Wall-to-wall bloody news. AF:All the same, I am sorry. I also need to tell you that these rooms are fitted with recording devices. With your permission, we'd like to keep a record of everything you say. I can't overstate how important this could be to our enquiries. And the last thing we want to do is have to drag you in here again later to answer more questions. LG:[still weeping]

But I don't understand what we can possibly tell you. It was just an accident, wasn't it?

VE:We can't be 100 per cent sure of that yet, Mrs Gifford. The Fire Service are still at the house, carrying out their investigations. LG:Are you saying that someone set the fire deliberately? With Samantha and those darling little children asleep inside? Who would want to do such a terrible thing? GG:[comforting his wife]

Is that really what you're saying, Inspector?

AF:I know how frustrating this must be but at the moment it's impossible to be sure either way. That's why we wanted to talk to you. You must know far more about the family than anyone else. GG:[exchanging a glance with his wife]

Well, I'm not sure what we can tell you. We haven't seen Samantha that much recently.

VE:Was that normal? LG:No, not really. We used to see them quite a lot `“ we live in the Lakes so they'd come up for holidays. Matty used to go out with Greg in the rowing boat `“

[she breaks down again, crying into her handkerchief, her voice muffled]

He's such a sweet, sweet boy.

AF:When did you last see your daughter, Mr Gifford? GG:It must have been late June. My wife's birthday. They stayed overnight. AF:That's quite a long time ago. GG:It's a long way, Cumbria. At least, that's what Michael's always saying. AF:So you obviously didn't see them at Christmas? GG:We did that Skype thing `“ so we could see Matty and Zachary open our presents. AF:And how did the rest of the family seem? GG:Michael wasn't on the screen very much. He was just in and out in the background. LG:They were in the nursery. Samantha had it decorated so beautifully. She had such a good eye for things like that. AF:And how were they when you saw them in June? GG:OK, I suppose. Samantha was a bit quiet, but she said Zachary had been keeping her awake with a tummy upset, so she hadn't been getting much sleep. AF:And Michael? GG:Much like normal. AF:[pause]

Do you get on with your son-in-law, Mr Gifford?

GG:I've always found him a bit of a pompous shit, if you really want to know `“ LG:Greg `“ the man is missing `“ GG:I know that, Laura. And our grandson is dead, and if he had anything to do with it `“ anything at all `“ AF:What makes you say that, Mr Gifford? GG:Oh, I don't know `“ he could have annoyed someone `“ LG:Greg `“ please `“ AF:Did you have someone particular in mind? GG:[pause]

No.

AF:So he has no enemies, that you were aware of? GG:That's not the sort of thing I'd know about. All I can say is that I can see him getting up someone's nose. AF:Do you know if the family keeps any money or valuables in the house? LG:You think it was a burglary? GG:Surely there'd be some evidence if someone had broken in? Damage to the door or something? AF:The degree of fire damage in this case means it's going to be some time before we get any definitive answers on that. So in the meantime, as I said `“ GG:You don't know either way. Right. AF:There's no mortgage on the house, I believe. Is it a family property? GG:They had a jewellery business `“ or did have. Sold it about twenty years ago, and made a packet. At least, that's what Michael said. AF:So there might have been some expensive jewellery in the house? LG:Michael has a gold pocket watch that must have been worth quite a bit. It was his great-grandfather's, I think. Had something on it in Polish. `Blood is thicker than water' `“ something like that. Family was a really big thing with them. AF:I'll check whether we've found a pocket watch at the scene. Was there anything else? GG:I never saw anything. He never gave anything like that to Samantha, that I do know. They got her engagement ring at H. Samuel. LG:They were just students, Greg `“ GG:Don't you think I know that? They should never have got married so quickly. Samantha was far too young. And as for having a baby `“ VE:I'm not sure what you mean? Did she have problems with the pregnancy? LG:It wasn't so much that. It was a lot to adjust to, that's all. Most new mums take a while to get used to it. She doted on Matty.

[starts to sob again]

AF:I think we'll leave it there for now. DC Everett will arrange for an officer to take you to the hospital to see your grandson. She'll also be your Family Liaison Officer, so if there's anything you need, or any questions you want to ask, she's the person to speak to.***

Out in the corridor I wait for Everett to shepherd them along to reception.

`I said I'd go with them to the John Rad,' she says when she comes back. `Probably best if it's me `“ those units can be pretty intimidating if you're not used to them.'

I remember, as I always do in these circumstances, that Ev was training to be a nurse before she switched to the police.

`If they're up to it, I'll take them to ID Samantha afterwards.'

`So, what do you think?' I ask. She's good at picking up undercurrents, Ev. It's one reason I wanted her there.

She takes a deep breath. `No love lost with the father-in-law, eh?'

I nod. `The more I find out about Michael Esmond the less I think I'd like him.'

`Me too, boss. But even if he did have a talent for hacking people off, it's a long way from that to someone setting fire to his bloody house.'

In fact, you'd have to be some sort of sociopath. And there's no one even remotely like that in the frame. Or at least as far as we know.

Page 6 of 17

Phone log

6 January 2018

Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road (Michael Esmond)

Contact name:Imogen Humphreys Date and time of sighting:4 January 2018, 11.30 pm (approx.) Call summary:Caller reports sighting of man answering to the description of Michael Esmond in the Covent Garden area of London. Said he appeared to be disorientated and possibly drunk, with a bleeding nose. Follow-up required?Sgt Woods to liaise with Met re. hospital admissions/homeless shelters Contact name:Tom Wesley Date and time of sighting:4 January 2018, 8.45 am Call summary:Possible sighting near Hythe. Caller saw man on beach when walking his dog. Looked as if he had been sleeping rough. Follow-up required?PC Linbury to check with Hants Police Contact name:Alan Wilcox Date and time of sighting:5 January 2018, 3.25 pm Call summary:Possible sighting of Michael Esmond in Grantham, Lincs. Shopping in Asda. Caller very definite that it was him. Follow-up required?Sgt Woods to speak to Lincs Police Contact name:Harriet Morgan Date and time of sighting:4 January 2018, 4 pm Call summary:Sighting of Michael Esmond in Northampton, waiting to use public phone box. Follow-up required?PC Linbury to check call records from phone box in question for any links to Esmond Contact name:Nick Brice Date and time of sighting:5 January 2018, 4.30 pm Call summary:Esmond sighted at King's Cross station, near Starbucks coffee shop. Follow-up required?PC Linbury to access CCTV from Network Rail Contact name:Sara Ellison Date and time of sighting:5 January 2018, 2 pm (approx.) Call summary:Possible sighting of Esmond in Hyde Park, accompanied by dog. Caller was some distance away. Follow-up required?No Contact name:Rhian Collins Date and time of sighting:6 January 2018, 9.20 am Call summary:Possible sighting near Beachy Head. Follow-up required?Sgt Woods to liaise with Sussex Police***

At the John Rad, sharp winter sun is streaming through the windows of the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit. As they reach the door, the Giffords pause, daunted by the sheer weight of technology around each bed. The brightly coloured bedspreads and animal murals only seem to make it worse. The nurses move briskly but quietly between the patients, checking monitors, administering medication, conferring together in low voices. Laura Gifford puts her handkerchief to her mouth and Ev touches her kindly on the arm. `I know it's a lot to take in but it's usually nothing like as bad as it looks,' she says quietly. `The team here really are fantastic. Matty couldn't be in better hands.'

One of the nurses notices them and comes over.

`Mr and Mrs Gifford? We were told you were coming. Please come with me.'

Matty is in a bed by the window. His eyes are shut and he isn't moving. He has an oxygen tube taped to his face, and a clutch of wires attached to his chest. His whole body is swaddled in padding and bandages. They can see marks around his eyes where his glasses burned into his flesh.

`How is he?' whispers Laura Gifford.

The nurse looks up. `He's sedated right now. We've done a bronchoscopy and X-rays and we've made him as comfortable as we can. But I'm afraid he is very poorly. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be critical.'

Mrs Gifford starts to weep silently, and her husband puts an arm round her. `They know what they're doing, love. This is one of the best hospitals in the country.'

`He looks so little, lying there.'

`It's these beds,' says the nurse kindly. `They're so big, the poor children look lost and found.'

`Can we sit with him for a while?' asks Laura Gifford.

The nurse smiles. `Of course. I'll arrange for a couple of chairs.'

As she disappears down towards the corridor Gifford puts a hand on his wife's shoulder. `You stay here with the nurse, and me and the constable will go and find us all a cup of tea.'

Everett's about to offer to do the job herself, but one look at Gifford's face and she knows he just wants to get her alone.

As soon as they're out of earshot, he turns to her. His face is grey.

`You'll be needing an identification, won't you. For Samantha, I mean.'

Everett nods. `I'm afraid so.'

`Is she here?' he says, his voice catching. `In this hospital? Because I don't want Laura seeing that. It's bad enough as it is. I don't want her remembering her daughter that way.'

`I think you're very wise, sir.'

`So can we do it now `“ while she's with Matty? Can you get that sorted?'

Everett gets out her phone. `I'll go down and see the pathologist now.'

Back at his desk, Gislingham is in a quandary. In theory he could go home `“ it is the weekend after all `“ but the rest of the team are in, and he's the DS. He doesn't want it to look like he's slacking. So when he opens up Google and types `Michael Esmond' for a second time it's more to have something to do than because he actually thinks he's going to find anything.

Which appears to be borne out by the fact that ten minutes later, all he's found is what Baxter already got from Facebook. Routine references to Esmond's qualifications, links to conference speeches and publications. At the bottom of the sixth page Google tells him `we have omitted some entries very similar to the 72 already displayed'. Anyone else would give up `“ Quinn certainly would `“ but stubborn is Gislingham's middle name, so he scrolls back up and clicks on a few of the less-promising links. And that's when he finds it.

`You mean I don't have to actually go in there?'

Gregory Gifford is sitting in a small waiting room adjacent to the mortuary. There are no windows and thin institutional grey carpet on the floor. In front of him there is a table with a computer. The hospital's logo pings back and forth lazily across the screen. At least it's better than digitized fish.

Everett smiles at Gifford kindly. `It's not like you see on the telly, thankfully. Much less dramatic. When you're ready, the attendant will bring up a photo on the screen here, and they'll ask you if it's your daughter. That's it `“ there's no need to do anything else.'

He swallows. `OK. I see.' He drums his fingers on the table for a few moments. `Right. Better get on with it. Laura will be wondering where we are.'

Everett nods to the attendant, who taps a couple of computer keys. An image appears on the screen. It's taken from above. The woman's face is visible, but the sheet is pulled up over her body. Not like it was when Everett first came down here. She's said it before and she'll say it again: whatever sort of death they died, there's always one thing about the dead that lodges in your mind and won't budge; some trivial little thing that captures an echo of who they once were. With Samantha Esmond it's the nail polish. Despite the damage and the dirt, Everett can see how much care this woman took of her hands. Clear varnish, neat cuticles. She's prepared to bet she kept a pot of hand cream by the side of her bed.

She hears Gifford draw breath beside her and turns to him. `Is that your daughter, sir?'

He swallows again. `Yes. That's Samantha.'

`Thank you. I know that can't have been easy.'

The image disappears. Gifford swivels round in his chair to face Everett.

`What about Zachary? Doesn't someone have to identify him too?'

Everett and the attendant exchange a glance.

`There are other methods that can be used which we think are more appropriate in his case,' says the attendant.

But Gifford's no fool. `You don't want me to see him, do you? Because he's in such a terrible state, is that it?'

Everett starts to shake her head but she knows she's being disingenuous. She's seen the photos.

`There's no need to upset yourself,' she says. `Really.'

Gifford sits back in his chair, and for one awful moment she thinks he's about to insist, but then his shoulders sag a little. `OK,' he says. `You know best.'

She makes a rueful face. `I think I do. Sadly.'

`DI Fawley? There's someone down here to see you, sir.'

It's Anderson, the duty officer, sounding more than usually suspicious of the occupational hazard which is the General Public. `Just came into reception. German bloke. Hasn't got an appointment. I can tell him you're not here `“ I mean, it is the weekend `“ you're probably wanting to get off back home `“'

`No, it's OK, send him up.' Because let's face it, I don't have anywhere else I need to be.

Five minutes later the sergeant ushers the man into my room. He's tall `“ very tall, actually, probably six four `“ and that's the first clue. And when he introduces himself the accent clinches it. He's not German at all. He's Dutch. The last time I saw my brother he had a Dutch girlfriend. Her accent was exactly the same. And she was six foot two. Julian joked that he'd taken up mountaineering. Though obviously not in front of her.

`How can I help you?'

He sits down. Neatly, for someone of his height. `It concerns the fire. The most unfortunate fire in Southey Road. If I am not mistaken, this is the house of my colleague, Michael Esmond.'

I'm intrigued. Not least by his evident anxiety.

He pushes his wire-framed glasses back up his nose. `I believe you are what is called the Senior Investigating Officer?'

`I am, yes,' I say. He must have looked that up.

`As soon as I saw the news on TV, I knew at once that you would wish to speak to me. So I have pre-empted this request and come in myself.'

`Intrigued' bumps up a notch. What the hell is this all about?

Gislingham sits back. If what he's found is true, they're going to have to reassess the whole bloody case. Go through everything again. And not least the fact that Annabel Jordan lied to them. This isn't just pissing someone off; this is holing their career below the waterline. Gislingham leans forward, pulls up Google and keys in `Jurjen Kuiper' again. Age, place of birth, qualifications and current position. A Facebook page, which mostly looks pretty anodyne (though a lot of it's in Dutch, and the automated translation may well be missing the nuance). There's also a Twitter feed, but that's all suitably academic too. No sign, in fact, that there is anything in the slightest amiss. Gislingham makes a face. Does that ring true? Is it really believable that a professional disaster of these proportions would leave no external trace at all? He sits thinking a moment. Then he shifts forward quickly and starts typing.

Ox-eGen

Your online source for University news, views, gossip and chit-chat

Posted by Tittle-Tattler 21 November 2017 11.56

Tribal warfare?

Latest rumblings on the departmental jungle drums suggest it's harpoons at dawn at a certain faculty building on the Banbury Road, after one of its inmates was stabbed in the front by a frankly blistering TLS review of his magnum opus. The culprit? None other than a member of his own tribe. Rather too close to home? One might well think so. After all, constructive criticism is one thing, live human sacrifice is quite another. Our sources tell us the atmosphere in the department is positively glacial, which doesn't, for once, reflect the primitive condition of the central heating system. Interested observers are now agog to see whether a rumoured TV contract will be the next casualty. Suffice to say that should such a catastrophe transpire, our amiable Dutchman's career will be less `flying' than crashing and burning. One might well forgive him for fantasizing about the latter by way of revenge`¦

`So you understand, Inspector, why I had to come.'

I nod slowly. `You're worried that we might think you had something to do with the fire.'

`Yes, yes,' he says, his cheeks slightly flushed. `Even though that is ridiculous `“ unthinkable. Even if I had borne such a resentment of Dr Esmond `“'

`It strikes me, Dr Kuiper, that you had a very good reason to feel aggrieved.'

He blinks. `Yes, of course. Naturally. He had cast a slur upon my research. My professional integrity. I am sure you yourself would have felt no small annoyance should such a thing have happened to you.'

It has, by the way, and it went way beyond `no small annoyance'. I was absolutely bloody incandescent. Which is, of course, a very unfortunate metaphor. In the circumstances.

Half an hour later, Gislingham is feeling decidedly smug. He's never been that good at lateral thinking but, this time, he really has surpassed himself. Though he did have to drag Baxter back in to help him with the techy stuff. Which turned out to be a good call, given what they've unearthed now. It's a Twitter feed with the ID @Ogou_badagri. That particular choice of identity may not mean much to them but the owner's name certainly does. `Jurjen Kuiper' in Dutch is George Cooper in English, and it's a George Cooper who set up this account. And unlike Kuiper's official one, this Twitter feed is anything but academic.

`I do sympathize with you, Dr Kuiper.'

He inclines his head. `Thank you. It is greatly distressing to have one's work impugned in such a way.'

`Impugned'. How many Brits would say that. Or even know what it means. But Kuiper does.

`All the same,' I continue evenly, `we will, of course, have to eliminate you from our enquiries.'

A pale doubt flickers across his face.

`I'm sure it will be just a formality, in your case. But there are procedures we have to adhere to. I'm sure you appreciate that.' I pull my notebook towards me. `If you could start by telling me where you were around midnight on Wednesday?'

He pushes his glasses up his nose again. `I was hoping `“'

He stops. Flushes.

`Yes?'

`It's a little delicate.'

I sit back. We're a long way past `intrigued' now. This man has something to hide.

`Kuiper isn't just pissed off, sir `“ it's a lot more than that.'

It's Gislingham. Baxter's got the Twitter feed up on a projector in the incident room and Gis is scrolling down. Quinn has joined us too; he always thinks of himself as a bit of an expert when it comes to social media (`He bloody well should be,' as Ev said, `the amount of time he spends on Tinder') but he's clearly worried Gis has got one over on him on this occasion.

`I googled that name as well,' says Gis, handing out printouts. `Ogou Badagri is a Haitian voodoo spirit.'

I glance at the sheet and then back at Gis.

`Not only that,' he continues, `but he just so happens to be the god of fire.' He gives me a meaningful look. `And apparently you can also ask him to help you out if you need to take revenge on someone who's pissed you off.'

Quinn starts laughing. `Oh, come off it `“ no one seriously believes in that crap, do they? In this day and age?'

`That's not the point,' I say quietly. `It's not about believing in it. It's about using it. Using it to send a message. Michael Esmond is an expert in Latin American voodoo, he'd have known exactly what this meant. And who was behind it.'

Gis nods. `Looks like Kuiper was trolling Esmond for a while,' he says. `As you can see, it's pretty full-on stuff too. He's also written some fairly savage blog posts, using yet another false name.' He picks up another printout. `In one of them he says Esmond's research is `њshallow, derivative, poorly footnoted and insufficiently recognisant of its indebtedness to antecedent sources`ќ.'

No one else could have written that: the vocabulary alone gives him away. But even if he chose a voodoo fire demon for a Twitter account, it doesn't mean he actually burned Esmond's house down. It was just a way to fantasize about doing it. In public. Without any apparent consequences. And that's the whole point, of course. Social media is a forcing ground for our darker selves. I sometimes think we're turning into that race on The Forbidden Planet `“ a supposedly advanced civilization who've created a machine to turn our thoughts into reality, only to find we've released the demon in our own minds. I don't have a Twitter account. As if you had to ask.

`So Kuiper wasn't above doing some heavy-duty impugning of his own,' I say, half to myself. Then I catch Gislingham giving me a quizzical look.

`Private joke. Sorry.' I turn to Baxter. `And when did you say he deleted all this material?'

`Thursday morning, boss. Right around the time the news broke about the fire.' He shrugs. `In theory, a deleted Twitter account is gone for good, but if you know what you're doing, you can usually dig them back up again.' And he does. Know what he's doing.

`Did Kuiper say anything about all this when he saw you, boss?' asks Ev.

I shake my head. `He talked about the review but that's as far as it went. He was trying very hard to convince me he just wanted to be helpful. Though I suspected what he really wanted to do was stop a bunch of clod-hopping coppers turning up at his college and embarrassing him. Or, at least, that's what I assumed at the outset.'

`And later?'

`It was when we got to the alibi that he really got rattled. He said he was at home in bed but he didn't want us calling his wife to confirm it because she's pregnant. When I told him there was no way round that, he changed his story. Now he says he went for a drive. His wife woke him up tossing and turning and he couldn't get back to sleep so he went out.'

I pause and look at them, gauging how that went down.

`What, in that weather?' says Quinn, openly sceptical. `It was cold enough to freeze your balls off Wednesday night. Even the joyriders on Blackbird Leys were tucked up with Horlicks.'

`His wife is pregnant though,' says Gislingham. `I saw a pic of her on Facebook. And she's pretty big too. I buy that bit about her waking him up.' Quinn smirks at him and he blushes a little. `Just saying. I know what it's like, that's all.'

`OK,' I say. `Let's start by checking Kuiper's alibi, just like we would if this was any other case. With a particular focus on the speed cameras and ANPR within a mile or so of Southey Road. We need to establish if we can place Kuiper anywhere near the house that night `“ either in the car or on foot. And get him back in here to give us his fingerprints. That should show him we mean business.'

Gislingham nods to Quinn, but I'd put money on Quinn handing that one off to Baxter. Baxter always gets lumbered with the hard yards.

I pull my jacket off the back of the chair. `I'm going home,' I say. `But before I do that I'm going to make a house call on Annabel Jordan.'

The house is one of the Edwardian semis off the Banbury Road, just north of Summertown. It's not unlike Southey Road, albeit on a much smaller scale. The same bow windows, the same gabled roof, the same white woodwork over pebbledash. Quite a lot of academics live up here `“ those who were lucky enough to buy these houses when they could still afford them. These days it's Kidlington and beyond, and the huge Victorian piles originally built for academics are reserved for investment bankers. Or the Chinese.

When she opens the door, she clearly has no idea who I am. `Yes? Can I help you?'

I flip open my warrant card. `Detective Inspector Adam Fawley, Professor Jordan. May I come in?'

A frown creases briefly across her brows. She hesitates, and glances back down the passage. There's the sound of voices, children squealing, crockery. Lunch. That thing I forgot to do. Again.

`We have guests,' she says. `My wife's family `“'

`It won't take long.'

She hesitates. Then, `Very well.'

The party is clearly in the back kitchen, and she shows me quickly into the front room. Artistic academic chaos. Over-stacked bookshelves, mismatched furniture, a scattering of colour supplements. A large chocolate Labrador looks up momentarily from his basket by the fire, then settles down again.

She closes the door behind her.

`How can I help you, Inspector? If this is about Michael Esmond, I've already spoken to your subordinates.'

`That's the point, Professor. You have already spoken to them and yet you completely failed to mention Jurjen Kuiper.'

Her gaze lights on me for a moment and then slides away. She walks over to the sofa and sits down.

`My officers specifically asked you if Michael Esmond was having problems with any of his colleagues, and you replied, `њNot that I'm aware of`ќ. Are you really telling me you didn't know about this review Esmond wrote? Because if you are, I have to tell you, I find that very hard to believe.'

She sighs. `Of course I knew. The entire thing was a complete nightmare.' She looks up at me. `I blamed myself, if you must know. When the TLS asked me if I could recommend someone to review Jurjen's monograph I suggested Michael. I had no idea he'd do such a `“ such a `“'

`Hatchet job?'

Her face is grim. `I see you've had occasion to read it.' She folds her hands on her lap. `In that case you will already know that Michael accused Jurjen of manipulating data to support his conclusions. In this admittedly rather small and self-obsessed discipline that counts as a high crime rather than a minor misdemeanour.'

`And did he? Falsify the facts?'

`The jury is still out. It would surprise me, knowing what I do of Jurjen. But on the other hand, the Michael I thought I knew would never dream of making such an accusation unless he had solid evidence.'

`And the TV series?'

She raises an eyebrow. `You are well-informed. Yes, Jurjen had been approached to present a series for National Geographic. Not quite on the scale of Blue Planet, but prestigious, nonetheless, and a good deal better paid than academic publishing. Only it all fell through after that review appeared. They must have decided it wasn't worth the risk. But if you're suggesting for one moment that Jurjen could have had anything at all to do with that terrible fire `“'

`I'm not `њsuggesting`ќ anything. Merely attempting to establish the facts. I need hardly tell someone as intelligent as you that `њfacts`ќ are even more important in my profession than they are in yours. And we've had to speak to you twice to get them.'

She flushes, flustered now. `It's no secret that academic life can be very competitive, especially these days, but this isn't an episode of Inspector Morse, you know. People in this university don't go around killing each other for the sake of one bad review or a lost TV series, however lucrative. And as for torching a house full of people, including two innocent children `“ well, Jurjen simply isn't capable of that.'

I let the pause lengthen. `What is he capable of?'

She looks up at me. `What do you mean?'

`Would he be capable, for example, of making threats?' I'm watching her face carefully. `Or orchestrating a concerted campaign of online trolling?'

Now she won't meet my gaze. `I have no idea what you're talking about.'

But she does. I can see, now, that she knows full well. I extract the printouts from my jacket pocket and hand them to her. She glances at them and sets them to one side. Her mouth is set in a hard, irritated little line: she thought the material had been deleted. And she didn't think we'd be smart enough to find it. And that really pisses me off.

`Well?'

She takes a deep breath. `He was merely letting off steam. Venting his frustration. In a controlled environment `“ relatively speaking. If you talk to him again, I'm sure he'll tell you that he realizes now how stupid that was, but that's all it was.'

I file away that `again'. She knows Kuiper's been to see us. She may even have been the one who told him to do it.

`Unfortunately for you, Professor Jordan, Dr Kuiper is unable to prove that's `њall it was`ќ. He began by telling us he was at home with his wife at the time of the fire, but when I told him she would have to corroborate that he rapidly changed his tune. He now says he was out for a drive. In the middle of the night. In the middle of winter.'

Doubt slips across her face and I know that this `“ for the first time in our conversation `“ is news to her.

`But presumably you can check `“ CCTV and so on?'

I nod. `That is exactly what we are attempting to do. But it may not be possible to prove he is telling the truth. Indeed, we may well find that this, too, is not a `њfact`ќ but a lie. And if so `“'

`If so?'

`You might want to dig out that crisis management manual your press office probably has gathering dust somewhere. I'm afraid real life is a great deal messier than Inspector Morse.'

BBC Midlands Today

Sunday 7 January 2018 | Last updated at 10:53

`A terrible tragedy': Boy, 10, dies from injuries sustained in Oxford house fire

A spokeswoman from the John Radcliffe hospital has confirmed that Matty Esmond died in its paediatric Intensive Care Unit earlier this morning. Matty's mother, Samantha, and his younger brother, Zachary, 3, were also the victims of the fatal fire at the family's house last Thursday. The spokeswoman described the death as `a terrible tragedy', and said that staff were providing support to members of the boy's family, who were with him when he died.

Neither Thames Valley Police nor Oxfordshire Fire and Rescue have yet issued a statement about the cause of the fire. Matty's father, Michael Esmond, 40, has still not been located despite a public appeal and what Thames Valley Police describe as `concerted efforts' to find him.

More news on this as we get it.

The atmosphere in the incident room is grim. It doesn't get any shittier than the death of a child. Everett tells us the Giffords are distraught.

`I was there with them when he suddenly took a turn for the worse. You know what that's like `“ alarms going off, nurses all over the place, crash trolleys. It was bloody awful.'

I glance across at Gislingham `“ Billy had to be resuscitated twice when he was in the premature baby unit. They nearly lost him. His face is grey with the memory.

`They had to take the bandages off to give him CPR,' says Everett, `so those poor bloody people saw the state he was in underneath. And now they won't be able to get that out of their minds.' She shakes her head. This job can be a bastard sometimes.

Gislingham forces himself back to the task in hand. `OK,' he says, `this is where we are. We still need to cover off the CCTV in the area round Southey Road to see if we can ID Kuiper in the area. And we need to speak to Lauren Kaminsky, who has `“ as of 10.30 last night `“ returned to Oxford. And just to get everyone up to speed, she's definitely not a suspect in any potential arson, as we've confirmed she was indeed on a flight to JFK on December 21st. Right,' he says, looking around the room. `I'm about to go to see Kaminsky with DC Somer, and Quinn's on the CCTV.'

A couple of half-hearted sarcastic whoops at that. Quinn mouths Yeah, yeah and gives the other DCs the finger when he thinks I'm not looking.

`Have we managed to track down any of Esmond's friends yet?' I ask.

`We've left messages with a few,' begins Gislingham.

`There's the neighbours next door,' interjects Everett. `They weren't at home last time I tried but I can have another go if you like.'

`Yes, do that. They may have seen something. OK, that's it for now. Everyone else gets the weekend to themselves. What's left of it.'

Gislingham goes back to collect his coat, and when he looks up he sees Somer has stopped to talk to Fawley. They're standing close together. She's saying something in a low voice and he's smiling. Gislingham realizes with a start that he can't remember the last time he saw the boss smile.

Interview with Ronald and Marion Young, conducted at 25 Southey Road, Oxford

7 January 2018, 1.16 p.m.

In attendance, DC V. Everett

VE:Thank you for making time to see me, Mr Young. RY:I was going to call you first thing tomorrow anyway. We saw the card you put through the door as soon as we got back. I had no idea there'd been a fire. We're bloody lucky it didn't spread this far. VE:You were away for Christmas? RY:With our daughter, yes. In Barcelona. We left on the 22nd. VE:Did you see the Esmonds before you left? MY:I did. I popped over, just to say we'd be away and would they keep an eye on the house. VE:Did you see both Mr and Mrs Esmond, Mrs Young? MY:Just Samantha. VE:How did she seem? MY:A bit distracted. The little boy was crying, I remember that. She looked tired. But so do most new mums. VE:Zachary was three, wasn't he? She was hardly a new mum. MY:Well, it doesn't get any easier. Not when they're that age. Our Rachel `“ RY:The constable doesn't want to know about all that, Marion. VE:Were you aware if the Esmonds had anyone staying with them over the holidays? Any friends? Relatives? MY:I wasn't aware of anyone. I'm here most of the time so I'd probably have noticed if someone had arrived before we left. VE:No one unusual hanging around in the last few weeks? RY:What do you mean `unusual'? VE:Someone you didn't recognize. MY:No, no one I can think of. VE:Did you get on with the Esmonds `“ as neighbours? RY:She was all right. Bit anaemic. But he's a nasty piece of work. VE:Really? What makes you say that? MY:He was always very pleasant to me `“ RY:[to his wife] Pleasant? He killed our bloody dog! MY:You don't know that. Not for certain. RY:[to Everett] Back in September we agreed to let them look after the dog while we were away. It was just for one night. The lad `“ Matty `“ he was always wanting to come round and play with her `“ take her for walks `“ MY:Mollie was a lovely dog. RY:We usually put her in kennels, but we thought, it was just the one night, what can possibly happen? And then when we got back the poor bloody dog was dead. MY:She was fourteen, Ron. RY:But she wasn't ill, was she? Hadn't been to the vet in years. Then all of a sudden she dies on the one night the Esmonds are looking after her? I'm sorry `“ I don't believe in coincidences. VE:Neither does my DI. RY:There you are, Marion, the constable agrees with me. VE:I didn't mean by that `“ MY:We couldn't prove anything, Ron. You know we couldn't. VE:What did Mr Esmond say had happened? RY:He didn't. MY:Ron `“ RY:Not really. He said the dog must have had a heart attack or something. He said he'd gone down to feed her in the morning and she was just lying there, dead. Load of bloody rubbish. VE:You didn't have a post-mortem done? RY:Do you know how much that would've cost? MY:I thought it was best to assume it was an accident. Having poor Mollie cut up wasn't going to bring her back, and I didn't want to make things difficult with the Esmonds. They're our neighbours, after all. We still had to live next door to them. VE:I completely understand that, Mrs Young. MY:And Michael did give us some money. He said he was very sorry and gave us £100. RY:[contemptuous] A hundred measly quid. MY:The saddest thing about it is that we hardly ever saw Matty after that. He was distraught about Mollie. Poor little boy, I can't get it out of my mind, him dying in such a horrible way. I remember the day they moved in like it was yesterday `“ he was so excited about the garden. I don't think they'd ever had one before. VE:Have you lived here long, Mrs Young? RY:Ten years now. No, twelve. VE:So you knew Mr Esmond's parents? RY:I never got on with Richard but Alice Esmond was a very nice woman. MY:She was completely under his thumb, Ron, and you know it. What do they call it these days? Controlling `“ that's it. He was very controlling. VE:So he could have been like that as a father too? When the boys were growing up? MY:It wouldn't surprise me. Michael was very quiet, certainly. But from what I've seen of him, Philip is quite the opposite. Very lively. Outgoing. I remember seeing him in the garden with Matty last summer. They had the paddling pool out and Philip was trying to teach him to body surf or whatever it's called. There was water everywhere. Even Samantha was laughing. That's how I want to remember them. Laughing in the sunshine. Just a normal happy family.***

It was supposed to be Quinn looking for Kuiper on the CCTV, but it's no surprise to find it's Baxter doing the heavy lifting. There are several cameras on the Banbury Road and outside some of the shops on the Summertown parade, but nothing on the side streets, and if Kuiper had any sense he'd have gone that way. Their only chance is the route he must have taken to get there from where he lives in Littlemore. Whether he went round the ring road or through the centre of town, they should still be able to pick him up. Always assuming, of course, that he used his own car.

Baxter loads up the first set of footage and glances across at Quinn, who's fiddling about with his mobile.

`Can you do me a favour and check the taxi firms? Kuiper might have got a minicab.'

Quinn makes a face. `Really? So he gets in the back seat saying `њDon't mind the petrol can, mate, I'll pay extra if I soil the seats`ќ?'

Baxter's turn to make a face. `OK, OK, but you know what I mean.' He turns back to his screen. `And it'll give you something useful to do,' he mutters.

Lauren Kaminsky has a room in one of Wolfson's modern blocks overlooking the Cherwell and the Rainbow Bridge. That's modern as in 1970s; in this town a college founded in 1379 is still called `New'. There's frost clinging to the trees and two swans are gliding silently with the current. A whirl of seagulls circle above the water, screeching like witches. The room itself is small but comfortable. No clutter, very little sign of personal preferences. A kitchenette, a tiny bathroom glimpsed through a half-open door. As for Lauren, she's as self-contained as her surroundings. Petite, with short brown hair in a pixie cut. She catches Somer glancing around and smiles, a little wearily.

`I'm not here much. My boyfriend is a don at Magdalen. I spend most of my time there. I mean, this place is fine and all that, but it's hardly `њOxford`ќ, is it?'

She gestures them to take a seat. The sofa is only just big enough for two and Somer is uncomfortably aware that she is thigh to thigh with Gislingham.

`I'm guessing you want to talk to me about Michael Esmond? It's truly terrible, what happened.'

Everyone has said that. Sometimes in exactly the same words.

`It was your boyfriend who reported the sexual harassment, I believe?' says Gislingham.

She nods. `I wasn't going to make a big thing of it, but Ned was furious. He wanted me to go to the police, file an official complaint `“ the whole nine yards.'

`I gather Dr Esmond denies anything happened.'

She takes a seat, but sits on the edge, as if poised for escape. `Well, he would, wouldn't he?'

`You haven't spoken to him about it yourself?' asks Somer.

She shakes her head. `No, not since that night. It was way too embarrassing. I decided it was better to let the department handle it. That's what they're paid for.'

`And how had he been with you before that?' asks Gislingham. `Did he ever `“'

She smiles at his discomfiture. `Come on to me? No. He was always really `“ what is it you Brits say? `“ stand-offish. Buttoned-up. Until that night. I think it must have been the drink talking.'

`That's no excuse,' says Somer, frowning.

`No, of course not. He behaved like a sexist shit. But, hey, I liked the guy. The whole thing was totally out of character. Like I said, I'd have left it at that but Ned wasn't having any of it.'

`So there was absolutely no flirtation before that `“ nothing to suggest he was interested in you in that way?'

`Uh-uh,' she says, stifling a yawn. `Sorry, jet lag kicking in.'

`Is there anything else?' asks Somer. `Anything that struck you about Dr Esmond in the last few months? Other people seem to think he was under a lot of strain. Did he appear that way to you?'

She considers. `I didn't see him a whole lot. But I guess he did seem a bit off. That whole Kuiper review thing can't have helped, but you can't say he didn't bring that on himself. You do know about that, right?'

Somer nods. `Is there anything you can tell us about it? Something we might not already know?'

Kaminsky yawns again. `I doubt it. Look, can we take a rain check? I'm totally wiped out. If I think of anything I'll give you a call.'

Somer glances at Gislingham: they're not going to get much more here. They get up to go.

`Thank you, Miss Kaminsky,' Gislingham says at the door. `And do phone us, won't you? Even if it's something that doesn't seem significant.'

They go down the stairs and out into the cold air. Somer pulls on a beanie and Gislingham smiles at her. `You look just like my kid sister.'

She glances across. `I didn't know you had one.'

`Yeah, she's seven years younger than me, so she was always the baby of the family. You?'

`Older sister.' But something about the look on her face means he doesn't ask any more.

`So, what do you think?' asks Somer, as they reach the porter's lodge and Gislingham pulls open the heavy glass door.

`I can't see why Kaminsky would lie. And we know she wasn't in the country when the fire started.'

`And only fifteen per cent of arsons are committed by women,' says Somer thoughtfully.

`Right, so this is just ticking a box, isn't it? Or am I missing something?'

Somer is silent for a moment. `What about the boyfriend?'

`The bloke at Magdalen? Ned whatsit? What about him?'

`He was obviously seriously pissed off at Esmond. Wouldn't you be `“ if it was Janet?'

`Yeah, course I would. But I wouldn't set his bloody house on fire. Trust me. This is a dead end.'

Up at her window, Lauren Kaminsky watches the police officers down the path and out of sight. Then she picks up her mobile.

`Ned `“ call me back, will you? The police have been here.'

She ends the call but remains standing at the window. Her face is troubled.

Back at St Aldate's, Everett has taken one for the team and volunteered to go through the calls they've been taking on the tip line, which has to be in the dictionary under `thankless task'. After an hour of it she realizes her foot has gone numb and stands up to get herself a coffee, limping down the corridor to the machine as the pins and needles kick in.

`You all right?' asks Quinn, who's contemplating the selection. He has his pen behind his ear. Like he does.

`Fine,' she says. `Trying to stop the rest of me falling asleep as well as my foot.'

`That good, eh?'

`What about you?'

He kicks the machine. `Nada. No sign of Kuiper anywhere that night. Doesn't look like he took a cab either, though we haven't covered all of them yet. How many bloody taxi firms are there in this city?'

`There's never one at the station when it's raining, though,' says Everett with a sigh.

Back in the office she sits down next to Somer. `Anything useful?' she says, looking across at what's on the desk in front of her.

`Just seeing if I can find out anything about Lauren Kaminsky's boyfriend.'

Everett raises her eyebrows. `You think he could be a suspect?'

Somer gives a wry smile. `No, not really. But I'd just like to put a big fat tick in the box marked `њCast-Iron Alibi`ќ.'

`Somer?' calls Baxter from the other side of the room. `Call for you, line three.'

Telephone interview with Philip Esmond, 7 January 2018, 4.55 p.m.

On the call, DC E. Somer

PE:DC Somer? It's Philip Esmond again. I saw the news. About Matty. ES:I'm so sorry. PE:I just wish I could have got back in time. ES:His grandparents were with him. If that helps. PE:That's something, I suppose. They must be devastated. First Zachary, then Sam, and now this.

[sighs]

Well, at least all those shits online will stop abusing her for being a bad mother now.

ES:I know it's hard but you just have to ignore all that stuff. They don't know you. They're just venting in a vacuum. PE:Yeah, I know. Easier said than done, though, if it's happening to you. Look, the main reason I phoned was because I remembered something. Last time you mentioned a hut? Something Mum said? ES:That's right. She seemed to think your brother might be there. PE:Well, if you ask me, that is highly unlikely, but I think I know what she might have meant. When we were kids we went to the south coast on holiday once. Dad hired us a beach hut on Calshot Spit. ES:A beach hut? PE:Right. But what with the Alzheimer's, she does get pretty confused. She's probably forgotten Michael is forty, not fourteen. I know he did love that place. But it probably fell to bits years ago. If you ask me, there's sod-all chance he's there, but I thought you ought to know. ES:Can you text me exactly where it is `“ the hut? PE:Sure. ES:And obviously if you hear from your brother `“ PE:Of course. And as soon as I dock at Poole I'll come straight to Oxford. Should be no more than a couple of days, with a fair wind.***

The house is dark when I get back. It's what I expected, but my heart is still heavy as I turn the engine off and walk up the drive. I can barely get the door open for the junk mail. Estate agents' flyers, something from the Liberal Democrats which is going straight to recycling, offers of gardening services, pizza takeaway menus. Though I can't really complain about the latter; I've been living on the bloody things. I turn the lights on, stick a frozen meal in the oven and switch on the laptop on the kitchen island. I make a cursory effort to clear away last night's debris, but the dishwasher is already full so there's nowhere for it to go. I open a bottle of wine. I thought there was one in the fridge but I must have finished it last night. That seems to be happening a lot these days.

The doorbell rings. I decide not to answer it. Alex has a key, and I'm not in the mood for Jehovah's Witnesses. Or ex-cons selling from suitcases `“ the one thing I don't need right now is more dishcloths. The bell rings again. And then again.

I throw the door open, but it's not a Nottingham Knocker. It's Somer.

`I'm sorry to bother you at home, sir. I tried your mobile but it's just ringing out.'

Bugger. I must have forgotten to charge it.

`I just wanted to run something past you,' she says, tentative.

`Oh yes?'

`It's something Philip Esmond said. He called this afternoon.'

It occurs to me I'm still holding my glass of wine. And that sharing the bottle with someone else is probably the only way I'm going to avoid finishing the whole lot on my own.

I stand back. `Do you want to come in?'

She hesitates and glances down the passage behind me. `What about your wife, sir `“'

`She's visiting her sister.'

She smiles. `Well, if you're sure. Why not.'

I follow her down to the kitchen, watching as she takes in the decor, the furnishings, the ornaments. She's making judgements `“ of course she is. That's what we're trained to do. Pick up nuances, intercept signals, interpret appearances. But you don't need police training to draw some pretty obvious conclusions from the state of this place. The mess, the empties lined up by the back door, the fact that I haven't bothered to shower since I got home. I should care that she's seeing all this, but somehow I don't.

`Glass of wine?' I say, gesturing to a stool.

`Just a half,' she says. `I'm driving.'

I reach for the bottle and a clean glass. `So what's this about Philip Esmond?'

`When DC Everett told Esmond's mother he was missing, she said something about a hut. Turns out it's a beach hut on Southampton Water.'

`So?'

`I know it sounds far-fetched, but don't you think we should check it out? Just to be sure?'

`Why on earth would he go there, of all places?'

`I know, it makes absolutely no sense. But I just keep remembering that one of those sightings on the tip line was at Hythe. That's not far from Southampton.'

And on that, she has a point.

`OK,' I say. `I'll get on to Hants Police first thing `“ won't do any harm to rule it out.'

Upstairs, the landline starts ringing.

`Excuse me a minute.'

I want it to be Alex. I'm telling myself it's Alex `“ that she's ringing the landline because she wants to make sure I'm at home, on my own, so we can talk `“

But when I lift the receiver I hear the irritatingly cheery tones of the bank's automated credit card security system. I have a moment's ironic amusement that their algorithm has already detected an unprecedented preponderance of fast-food outlets in my recent spending habits, but reconfirming my last four transactions takes longer than I want it to, and by the time I get back downstairs, Somer is stacking the dishwasher. The clean stuff sits in neat piles on the counter.

She blushes. `I didn't want to start opening your cupboards. I hate it when people do that.' She sees my face and bites her lip. `Sorry `“ I didn't mean to intrude. Just trying to make myself useful`¦' Her voice trails off. `Sorry,' she says again, her cheeks bright red now.

I make a face. `I hate that too, actually. But thank God you tackled that bloody dishwasher; I've been putting it off for the best part of a week.'

She smiles, clearly relieved. `I'll trade you clearing the stuff in the sitting room for another glass of wine.'

`I thought you were driving?'

`I can get a cab. Pick the car up on my way in tomorrow.'

My turn to smile. `Well, if you put it like that.'

2 May 2017, 12.27 p.m.

247 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Sam is sitting on the bed in the top-floor spare room, staring out of the window. She's taken to coming up here on the bad days. As if she can box them up and keep them closed in this echoey half-empty room no one's used for years. As if by doing that she can stop them leaking into the rest of the house `“ the rest of her life. Though the room is chilly, outside the sun is shining and there are flowers in the garden despite the weeds. A flurry of tulips all down one border. Blowsy scarlet petals with black spikes in their hearts. But inside, in this room, there is a weight of grey cloud somewhere just above her peripheral vision. A tell-tale tenderness at the base of her skull. But Michael said he might pop back to check on her at lunchtime. She doesn't want him to find her up here. He would only worry, and he has enough to deal with already.

She hauls herself to her feet, reaching for her cardigan. That's when she hears it. Downstairs. The soft thud that could be a door swinging to or something falling or a step on an old board, muffled by carpet. Not the children because they're not here. Not a draught. She stands there, listening fiercely. It's happened before but never indoors, never inside the house. Once, it was on the side path. The last time, outside the kitchen. A flicker just beyond her eye. A movement that wasn't the wind or a bird or a squirrel running along the fence. She tastes metal in her mouth and realizes she's bitten her lip so hard it's bleeding. But she is not going mad `“ she is not going mad `“

She forces herself to move quickly, reaching the door and throwing it open. She goes down the stairs, clinging to the banister like an old woman, then works her way through every room on the floor beneath, throwing open every cupboard and wardrobe until she is breathless with the effort.

Then she hears the front door bang and her husband calling for her.

`Sam? You upstairs?'

`I'll be down in a minute,' she replies, her voice half strangled. `I'm just sorting the washing.'

When he looks up a few moments later she is coming down the stairs smiling at him with the laundry basket under one arm.

`Hello, darling, how was your morning?'

On Monday morning I spend half an hour on the phone tracking down the right person at Hampshire Constabulary, and explaining what we need to do. I can hear the man's irritation levels rising. `We're not complete turnip tops down here, Inspector.' Well, he didn't actually say that, but he might as well have done.

As I put the phone down there's a flurry of wind against the window. Outside, the sky is yellowish; we may even get snow. But probably only enough to cause havoc, not enough to justify it. There's no town in England that looks more beautiful under really heavy snow: Christ Church Meadow, the Magdalen deer park, Radcliffe Square. But in this job, all you tend to think about is the body count going up. Rough sleepers die in snow, and they do it here just as much as anywhere else.

Telephone conversation with DI Giles Saumarez, Hampshire Police, 8 January 2018, 11.26 a.m.

On the call, DI A. Fawley

GS:DI Fawley? We've checked out that beach hut for you and there's definitely someone there. Male, apparently arrived a few days ago, but we don't know exactly when. Couple of locals noticed a bonfire on the beach and called it in. We showed them your man's picture and they're sure it's the same guy. AF:Your officers haven't attempted to speak to him? GS:Nope. There haven't been any signs of life this morning but we'll just babysit him till your guys get here. Makes the paperwork a hell of a sight easier for a start. AF:OK `“ we'll get there as fast as we can. And thank you. GS:No worries. We've got two officers parked up on the road in case he makes a run for it. Though it's not as if he can get out any other way. Not without a boat, anyway. I'll send a link to the dashboard cam so you can see for yourself. AF:What's the area like? GS:Calshot? It's a bit of a nothing place to be honest. The Spit is busy in the summer, but this time of year, it's as dead as a dodo. Four times last week I had the next beach down completely to myself. AF:Walking? GS:Swimming. AF:Christ, in this weather? GS:[laughs]

No better way to clear your head. I go most mornings `“ it's only about five miles away from where I live. Ironic, really.

AF:Ironic? GS:Where I live `“ it's called Fawley.***

I go back to the incident room to tell them it looks like we've finally found Esmond and there's a moment of silence followed by a surge of questions.

`Calshot? What the hell is he doing there?'

`So the bastard killed his entire bloody family and ran away to the sodding seaside?'

`He must have known we'd track him down eventually `“'

`Trust me `“ the man's lost it `“ it'll be a white-coats job, just you wait `“'

But under the anger there's also a palpable ripple of relief. And I don't blame them. We were beginning to wonder if we were chasing a ghost. A couple of the DCs pat Somer on the back and she flushes and tries to play it down. Which she shouldn't, of course, but getting the right balance between being a pushover and a push-aside is fiendishly difficult in this job. Especially for women. Needless to say, I tell her she should be the one to go to Calshot with Gislingham, and after they've gone I go back to my office and sit for a moment staring at the dashboard cam link Saumarez sent over.

A flat expanse of scrubby bushes and wind-flattened grass on one side, and on the other, a line of huts in bright primary colours. A litter bin. A carrier bag caught in a tree. Other than that, no movement, no cars, no people, nothing. It's only the swooping seagulls and the billowing plastic that prove it really is a live feed.

At 2.30, Gislingham pulls up on the main road leading towards Calshot Spit. Fast grey clouds, salt in the air and a slicing wind coming off the water. There's an unmarked police car parked a few yards away and a rather beaten-up black Land Rover just behind it. The driver's door swings open. The man who gets out is in plain clothes. Probably mid-forties but he looks a lot younger. Slim, athletic-looking, and with the year-round tan of someone who lives by the sea. Gislingham catches the look on Somer's face, and when he gets out of his own car he's uncomfortably aware that he's holding his stomach in.

`DI Saumarez,' the man says, coming up and shaking their hands. `I spoke to Adam Fawley earlier.'

`DS Gislingham, DC Somer. Any news on Esmond?'

`Haven't seen any movement since I got here. Though the lads tell me they could hear someone inside earlier so presumably he's still in there.'

Saumarez turns and points. `It's that red one halfway down. There are no windows this side so I doubt he knows we're here.'

Gislingham starts towards the hut then realizes Saumarez isn't moving.

`You not coming?'

The DI shrugs. `Your collar, as the Americans say.'

Gislingham eyes him narrowly; he's starting to wonder if he's taking the piss. That physique of his certainly is. Gislingham squares his shoulders and moves slowly down the side to the front of the hut. The door is shut, but it's definitely been broken into. The wood is badly splintered and the handle is hanging off.

Gislingham knocks, then stands there, his head against the door, straining to hear above the wind. He knocks again. And now there's definitely movement inside. The sound of scraping, and then the door opens a couple of inches.

`Who is it?'

`Mr Esmond?'

`No, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong address. I am a different person entirely.'

The man laughs `“ it's a slightly manic laugh, and he's slurring. Gislingham can smell the alcohol.

He takes out his warrant card and pushes it against the gap in the door. `Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham, Thames Valley Police. Can we come in?'

`Fuck off `“ I told you `“ I'm not whatever his bloody name is `“'

The door starts to close and Gislingham wedges his foot against it. `We know it's you, Mr Esmond `“ people have identified you.'

Somer glances round; despite what he said, Saumarez has followed them. And behind him there's a uniformed officer. With a battering ram in one hand.

Gislingham can feel the strain against the door. `Mr Esmond, I really don't want to have to force this open.' He knocks again. Silence now. He turns and gestures to Somer `“ why doesn't she have a go. She steps up to the door, absurdly self-conscious that Saumarez is watching all this.

`Mr Esmond, my name is DC Erica Somer. Can you open the door for a moment? I'm sure we can sort all this out.'

There's a moment when everyone seems to be holding their breath. And then the door suddenly swings wide open.

A table and two ancient folding chairs; the man is slumped in one of them. He's wearing a cord jacket and chinos but they're creased and dirty. There's a candle wedged in a Coke bottle, a scatter of crisp packets and sandwich wrappers, and an empty bottle of whisky upended on the floor. The tiny room reeks of sweat and piss and drink.

The man is eyeing them, struggling to keep his gaze steady.

`I told you, fuck off.'

Somer takes a step forward. Now her eyes have adjusted to the gloom she can see him properly. He's the right age, the right height, the right colouring. But he's not Michael Esmond. They've come all this way for nothing, and it's all down to her. She bites her lip, trying to come up with the least-worst way to say that to Gislingham, when the man lurches suddenly forward, his body doubled up.

`Oh fucking hell,' says Somer, as he vomits all down her.

12 May 2017, 11.49 a.m.

237 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Michael Esmond kicks the front door open and dumps two carrier bags in the hall, then goes back to the car, lets Matty out of the back, and goes round to the other side to unstrap Zachary from the car seat. The little boy has been crying all the way back from the supermarket.

`Matty `“ can you come back and carry one of these bags?' Michael calls, lifting his youngest son out of the car. His skin feels hot to the touch.

Matty comes back out of the house, dragging his feet.

`Is your mum up?' asks Michael.

Matty shakes his head.

`OK, just take one of these bags, will you `“ the green one isn't very heavy.'

Five minutes later he has the shopping stacked on the kitchen floor and Zachary balanced on one arm while he sticks macaroni cheese in the oven for lunch.

Matty comes in from the hall. He's still wearing his outdoor clothes.

`Can I take Mollie for a walk, Dad?'

`You know you can't take her on your own, Matty. She's too big. She might pull you into the road.'

`You come with me then.'

`I can't,' says Michael, exasperated. `I've got to unpack this lot, then sort the lunch out, and this afternoon I absolutely have to do some work.'

`Ple-ee-ease, Dad!'

`I said NO, Matty,' Michael snaps. He's just realized one of the yogurt pots has broken in the carrier bag. There's white goo seeping on to the floor. He stifles an expletive; he never swears. And certainly not in front of the kids.

`You're always saying that,' wails Matty. `I never get to do anything.'

`You know that's not true `“'

`Yes it is. You said we were going to the zoo and then we didn't because Zachary was sick and then you said you'd play football with me and you didn't. It's not fair, you only care about Zachary. No one cares about me.'

Michael flushes. `Look,' he says, gentler now. `We talked about this, didn't we? I told you that Mummy hasn't been very well and you and me need to do our bit to look after her and keep things going until she gets better. That means being a Big Boy and helping me with things like tidying your room and not making too much noise when she's trying to sleep.'

Zachary is crying now in a dull weary drone as if he hasn't the energy to scream. Michael hitches him a little higher. `Look, why don't you go and play on your Xbox for a bit while I get Zachary settled? And if he's feeling better later perhaps we can take the dog out. The two of us.'

`Promise?' says Matty, sceptical.

`Promise.'

Michael carries Zachary up the stairs to the nursery, where he pulls off his clothes and tries to find his Winnie the Pooh pyjamas. There's a rash across the little boy's stomach that he doesn't like the look of. Zachary curls up under the duvet and Michael sits a moment, stroking his hair, before getting up and going along the landing to look in on his wife. She's in her dressing gown, lying on top of the covers, her eyes closed. Her hair looks lank and he wonders if she's even bothered to shower today. He's turning to go when she stops him.

`Are the boys OK?' Her voice is heavy, as if she's half asleep.

`They're fine. Do you want some lunch?'

She turns over slowly, her back to him. `Not hungry,' she murmurs.

Michael pulls the door to, and is about to go back down the stairs when he hears something that stops him. It's coming from the nursery. Michael frowns, then starts back along the landing. He can hear exactly what it is now. Matty, talking to his brother, his tone irritated and impatient over the little boy's cries.

`You've got to have some because if you don't I can't take Mollie for a walk.'

Michael rounds the corner into the room. Matty is sitting on the bed. He has one arm round his brother, and with the other hand, he's pushing a spoon at his mouth. Something pink and sticky. There are huge gouts of it smeared all over Zachary's face, and he's squealing and twisting away, his body rigid.

`Jesus Christ!' yells Michael. `What the fuck are you doing?'

He yanks Matty aside and grabs Zachary.

`How much did you give him?'

Matty shrinks back against the wall. `Not much.'

Michael looks at him; his heart is pounding with ambulances, 999 calls, stomach pumps `“ `How much is `њnot much`ќ?'

Matty shrugs.

Michael lurches forward and grabs Matty by both shoulders. `How much? This is important `“ can't you understand that?'

Matty is squirming. `You're hurting me.'

`I'll hurt you even more if you don't tell me the truth,' shouts Michael, shaking his son. `How much did you give him?'

`Just one spoon,' mutters Matty, sullen now.

`You're absolutely sure?'

The boy nods. He's not looking at his father.

Michael slowly releases his hold. He hadn't realized his grip was so tight.

He goes back to Zachary and takes him on his lap. The little boy is grizzling and grinding his eyes with his fists. There's a smell of pee.

`What's all the noise?'

Michael swings round. Sam is standing in the doorway, steadying herself against the door frame.

`Nothing,' Michael says quickly. `I just spilled some Calpol, that's all.'

She looks at Matty, then at her husband, and frowns a little. `You sure?'

`Absolutely,' says Michael, smiling reassuringly. `There's nothing to worry about. We're all fine, aren't we, Matty?'

Matty is clearly very far from fine, but his mother doesn't seem to have the strength to argue.

`OK,' she says, and trails off back to her room.

Michael puts Zachary back into bed and turns to his oldest son.

`I didn't mean to shout at you, but you have to understand, Calpol is not like juice `“ it's medicine. You can't give it to him `“ not ever. Only Mummy and I can do that. Is that clear?'

Matty flickers a glance at his father, then nods briefly. His face is tight and closed.

It's only much later, when he finally gets to his desk and manages to start on the draft that he should have submitted to his publisher three months ago, that Michael realizes. In all the chaos and the panic, Matty never apologized. Not once.

He never said sorry for what he had done.

There's a small crowd gathered by the beach now. The police cars have their lights flashing. Two officers are trying to load the man from the hut into the back of one of the cars, and Somer is leaning against the litter bin doing her best to get the sick off her clothes. Though that, as Gislingham puts it, with his characteristic eloquence, is a bit like pissing on a blast furnace.

Saumarez comes across the road from the police car.

`I'm not sure how much good that tissue is doing,' he says, eyeing her.

She makes a face. `Yeah, well, that'll teach me.'

Gislingham finishes talking to one of the officers and comes back towards them. `Looks like our man is a well-known local rough sleeper. Goes by the name of Tristram, apparently.'

Saumarez smiles. `Yeah, well, we have a better class of tramp round here.'

Gislingham ignores him. `You coming?' he asks Somer, perhaps a little pointedly.

`Tell you what,' says Saumarez, turning to Somer, `why don't you come with me and we can stop off at my house `“ you'll go past the door anyway so it's not out of your way. It'd mean you could clean up a bit.'

Somer glances at Gislingham. `Is that OK with you, Sarge? To be honest, I doubt you want to sit in a car with me all the way back to Oxford smelling like this.'

`OK,' says Gislingham reluctantly, though even he can't argue with that. He's nearly gagging three feet away. `I'll follow you. Just as long as it doesn't take too long. We've wasted enough bloody time today already.'

Unlike the outside, the inside of Saumarez's Land Rover is impeccably clean. Which, in Somer's experience, has to be a first. Not just for male police officers but men in general. Even Fawley has crap in his car. Ten minutes after leaving the beach they're slowing down and turning on to what looks like nothing more than a farm track. Low trees, a ploughed field, wire fencing. There's no sign of habitation at all.

`This is why I have this car,' says Saumarez, as they jolt into a rut. `You need a four-by-four to get up and down here in winter.'

It's a steep unmade drive for the first hundred yards and suddenly the trees open out and Somer can see an area of gravel and a line of white single-storey houses. A wooded slope down to the water on one side; on the other, and far closer, the power station: vast unforgiving blocks of concrete and a chimney towering above. And beyond all that, in the distance, the oil refinery, as large as a small town. Metal chimneys bristling with lights and gantries. Low white gas canisters dotted like a gigantic draughts board. Plumes of smoke against the indigo sky.

Saumarez gets out and comes to join her. `What do you think?'

`I can't decide if it's beautiful or obscene.'

He laughs. `Me neither. It's one reason why I live here. Stops me getting complacent. And, of course, it's cheap. Most people don't consider that to be much of a view.'

When he opens the front door, ducking to get inside, she realizes that what had looked like three or four cottages is actually one. Someone `“ Saumarez? `“ has knocked them all together into one huge open-plan space. Stone fireplaces, piled logs, stripped floors, tongue-and-groove walls. White and shades of grey. Pale stripes. Mirrors with driftwood frames.

`I like it,' she says, suddenly aware how filthy she is.

Saumarez is busy turning on the lights. `The bathroom's through at the back,' he says, gesturing. `If you want a shower there are towels, and I can find you something to wear.'

It's all a bit clichГ©d `“ how many romcoms has she seen with a scene just like this? `“ but ten minutes later she opens the bathroom door gingerly to find a T-shirt on the floor outside. Not one of his, that's for sure. She does what she can with her hair and ventures back out. Through one of the windows she can see Gislingham standing by his car, talking on the phone. Probably telling Fawley what a fuck-up she made sending them on a 2oo-mile round-trip for nothing.

`All done?' asks Saumarez, from the other side of the room.

`Thanks for the shirt.'

`Not mine, as you've probably guessed.'

`Thank your girlfriend then.'

He smiles. `My daughter. My eldest daughter, to be precise. Olivia is only ten. But Claudia's nearly as tall as you. Or she was last time I saw her.'

`Pretty names.'

He gives a sardonic smile. `My wife's choice. She said I'd have called them Girl A and Girl B given half a chance.'

`Do they live a long way away?' she asks, wondering about that `last time'.

`Vancouver far enough for you?'

There's something in his face now and she bites her lip. `Sorry `“ I didn't mean `“'

`It's not a problem. Not for me anyway. I miss them, but it's a fabulous opportunity. I grew up on an island twelve miles long. I want wider horizons for my girls.'

He sees her eyes stray towards the window and laughs. `Everyone does that `“ assumes I must mean the Isle of Wight `“ but it was actually Guernsey. A lot smaller and a lot further away.'

`How often do you get to see your daughters?'

He shrugs. `We Skype every week and I get to be Hero Dad once a year when they come over. It works. OK, it's not quite what I had in mind when they were born, but it works.'

There's a knock on the door then and Saumarez opens it to Gislingham, who makes a great show of looking at his watch.

`Can we go now?'

He's staring at her T-shirt. It says BeyoncГ© in pink and blue sequins. She blushes. `The DI was kind enough to lend me this.'

`One of my daughter's,' says Saumarez genially. Which makes Gislingham suspicious, straight away. Because as he clocked over an hour ago, the DI's not wearing a ring.

There's a pause that threatens to become embarrassing, then Saumarez clears his throat. `If there's anything else I can help with, you know where to find me.'

`Talk about up himself,' says Gislingham as they walk towards his car.

Somer flushes a little. `Oh, I don't know. Seems OK to me.'

It's on the tip of Gislingham's tongue to ask what Fawley would think of her making nice with another DI but he stops himself just in time. After all, he doesn't actually know there's anything going on between her and the boss. And what she does in her private life is her business. Obviously. But all the same, there's no getting away from the fact that he's pissed off, and pissed off that he's pissed off, and doubly pissed off that she knows he's pissed off and she probably thinks it's all because she sent them on this bloody wild goose chase.

The journey back is all but silent.

Telephone interview with Stacey Gunn, 9 January 2018, 9.11 a.m.

On the call, DC E. Somer

SG:Hello? Who's that? ES:My name is Detective Constable Erica Somer. The switchboard put you through to me `“ I'm part of the team investigating the fire in Southey Road. SG:Right. Good. I saw the appeal you put out. On the local news. That's why I'm calling. ES:Did you know the Esmonds, Ms Gunn? SG:Just her. Samantha. We did Pilates together. I never knew where she lived so I didn't realize it was her house in that awful fire. But I saw him once `“ her husband. He picked her up after a session. That's why I recognized him on the TV. ES:When did you last see Mrs Esmond? SG:She hasn't come much recently. To the class, I mean. She stopped when she got pregnant and she hasn't really been back since. ES:So you haven't seen her for over three years? SG:Sorry, I'm not making myself very clear. I saw her at the doctor's `“ the one off the Woodstock Road. Must have been about two months ago. She had both the kids with her. But to be honest, I almost didn't recognize her. She looked awful. Hair all rats' tails, no make-up. She'd always been so beautifully turned out before. Even for a Pilates class. I think her husband liked it that way. ES:What makes you say that? SG:That day he turned up `“ he helped her put on her coat, and then he stepped back and looked at her, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was a bit creepy, to be honest. ES:Did she ever talk to you about her husband? SG:Not really. Nothing more than general stuff. But looking back at it now it was as if she was being really careful what she said about him. Making sure she didn't say anything out of place. ES:I see. You said you saw Mrs Esmond at the doctor's. Did she say what she was there for? SG:Well, I know it wasn't for the kids. When she went in it was her name they called. But if you ask me, it was pretty obvious. ES:Yes? SG:Post-natal depression. A cousin of mine had it. She looked exactly the same. Like the light had gone out in her eyes.***