No Way Out

Somer puts down the phone and sits there for a moment. Then she gets up quickly and leaves the room. Five minutes later Everett pushes open the door to the Ladies and finds her motionless, staring into the mirror.

`You OK?'

Somer sighs. `Was it that obvious?'

Everett smiles drily. `Probably not to most of the blokes. But if you're still worrying about the Calshot thing, then seriously, don't. It was a good call. Imagine what would have happened if he'd actually been there and we didn't bother checking it out `“'

`It's not that,' says Somer quickly. `I was just talking to one of Samantha Esmond's friends. Or what I suspect was the nearest thing she had to a `њfriend`ќ.'

Everett comes over to join her, leaning against the basin. `You're right. I hadn't thought about it before, but no one else who knew her has come forward, have they?'

`I get the impression her husband doesn't `њapprove`ќ of friends very much.'

`So what did this woman say?'

Somer turns to face her. `She saw her at the doctor's. Samantha didn't say why she was there but her friend thinks it might have been post-natal depression. She recognized the signs `“ she knew someone who'd had it.'

The two women are silent for a moment. Somer has turned away again but Everett is still watching her. Suddenly, several stray observations she's made about Somer since they became friends fall into place.

`You do, too. Don't you. Know someone, I mean.'

Somer glances up. `My sister. She's three years older than me.'

`What happened?' asks Everett softly.

Somer sighs. `It was bloody awful. Kath was always one of those people you struggle to keep up with. Completely gorgeous to look at, for a start `“'

Which might explain something about Somer, too, thinks Everett. For someone so attractive, Somer's never seemed at all fixated by her looks. But if she has a stunner for a sister, perhaps that explains it.

`Kath was always top stream at school `“ she got a great degree, a job in a major law firm, married a guy who adored her. Then she hit thirty and decided that if she was going to have a baby she'd better get on with it. She had all these plans `“ she'd hire a live-in au pair, go back to work, have it all. And the baby was beautiful `“ the most gorgeous little girl you've ever seen. And Kath could hardly bear to look at her.'

Everett reaches out and touches Somer lightly on the shoulder. She knows how much she isn't saying; how hard this must have been. `How old is the baby now?'

`Eighteen months. And it's taken Kath most of that time to crawl back to who she used to be. But she's still not back at work. They had to sign her off on long-term sick leave. Most people have no idea how long PND can last.'

Everett makes a face. `It must have been really tough. Especially on her husband.'

`Stuart? He's a bloody hero. I dread to think how she'd have coped without a partner like him.'

They're both silent now, but they're both thinking the same thing: what kind of partner did Samantha Esmond have?

The door opens again and one of the uniform PCs comes in. She and Somer exchange a nod.

`OK,' says Everett more briskly as the cubicle door closes. `What now?'

`First thing tomorrow I'm going to talk to her GP,' says Somer. `See what they can tell us.'

`It's a bit odd, isn't it, that Samantha's parents never said anything?'

Somer shakes her head. `It was months before Stu told my parents. Sometimes a problem shared just makes things twice as bad `“ especially if people live a long way away and can't do anything practical to help.'

There's a hinterland of pain here that Everett knows better than to trespass on.

At least not now.

I'm in the car when the phone rings. Queuing to get past the ring road. It doesn't matter which way you try to get into this city in the morning rush hour (and believe me, I've tried them all), you always end up waiting in line. I'm not in the best of moods, and in two minds whether to answer the damn phone. Until I see who it is.

`Alex? It's fantastic to hear from you. How are you? How's your sister?'

Too much, Fawley, too much.

There's a pause. This isn't good.

`Alex?'

`Who is she, Adam?'

I'm not sure what freezes my heart more: the question or the tone she asks it in.

`Who's who? Sorry, you've lost me.'

`Oh, don't give me that. You're an awful liar, you always have been.'

`Seriously, I haven't a clue what you're talking about.'

I hear her draw breath. Ragged, angry breath. `I came by the house this morning to pick up my post `“'

`You should have said `“ I'd have waited. Why didn't you say?'

``“ and as I was leaving I saw Mrs Barrett.'

Who lives opposite us and is a right old busybody with far too much time on her hands. This isn't good either.

`She said she saw you `“ with her.'

`Who? Look, Alex, I'm not bullshitting you `“ I don't know what you're talking about. Seriously. And why you'd believe that Barrett woman rather than me `“'

`Because she has no reason to lie!'

My turn to draw breath. We need to slow this down. Take some of the emotion out of it.

`Alex, I swear. I. Do. Not. Know. And as for seeing another woman `“ you think I even have time?'

But I know even before the words are out that was the wrong thing to say.

`Please `“ don't hang up. We haven't talked in weeks and now this? I swear to you I have not been seeing anyone else. I love you; I want you to come home. How many more ways can I say that? What can I do to make you believe me?'

Silence.

`Look, I know we have some problems. I know you want to adopt and I wish with all my heart that I felt the same way about it as you do, but I don't. And I can't let us build a family on a fault line like that. It's not fair to you, and it's not fair `“ above all `“ to any child we might take on.'

I don't need to say that. I've said it, and she's heard it, time out of mind. Back in November, she made me listen to a radio series about finding adoptive parents for a brother and sister of two and three. The foster carer, the diligent, careful social worker, the new parents who were at one and the same time overjoyed to give a home to these tiny children they'd never met and fearful they might not even like them, and the final episode, recorded months later, when the four of them had made themselves into a family, with all the same love and muddle and working-it-out-as-you-go-along every family has. I knew why Alex wanted me to hear it; of course I did. She wanted to prove to me that not everyone feels the same way as I do about being adopted. That it's possible to find love and belonging and acceptance. The proof was there, in that episode: all the people who wrote in because they were touched and moved, and those who'd felt vindicated in their own decision to adopt themselves, whatever the challenges. But then, at the end, there was a woman in her fifties who described adoption as a life sentence, who described the guilt at feeling always different `like some ghastly kind of cuckoo', the sense of disconnection, and the pain which only gets worse, not easier, the older you become. Alex stood there, frozen to the spot. I couldn't bear to look at her so I walked to the window and stared down at the garden it was too dark to see. Three days later, she told me she was leaving.

And now there's silence at the end of the line.

`Alex `“'

`It was Sunday.' Her voice is icy. `Mrs Barrett was putting out the bins and she saw a woman leaving the house. She said you two seemed very `њpally`ќ.' There's bitterness now. `Blonde. Late twenties. Very attractive,' she adds. `Apparently.'

And now I know. Both who that was and why it's causing Alex so much pain. She thinks I'm trying to replace her. With someone young enough to give me a child.

`That was Somer. Erica Somer. She's on the team. You know that.'

But Alex has never met her. She wasn't at my birthday drinks.

`Mrs Barrett didn't say anything about a uniform.'

`That's because Somer's CID now. I told you.'

`So what was she doing there? At our house? On a Sunday? At ten o'clock at night?' But there's a hesitancy now. She wants to believe me. Or at least I want to think so.

`She wanted to check something with me. And the place was a state, so she offered to help clear up a bit. That's all it was. Really.'

Silence again.

`It did look tidier than I expected,' she says eventually. `This morning.'

`I can't take the credit for that. I was going to, of course, but you've rumbled me now. And like you say, I'm a terrible liar.'

I try to put a laugh into my voice. To draw her in.

In front of me, the traffic is suddenly moving and the car behind is sounding its horn.

`Look, why don't you come over later `“ I can get a takeaway. Bottle of wine. We can talk properly.'

She sighs. `I don't know, Adam.'

`But you believe me `“ about Somer?'

Her voice is dull, unhappy. `Yes. I believe you. But I'm not ready to come home. Not yet. I'm sorry.'

And the line goes dead.

The waiting room is packed. And hacking. Testy coughs, leaky sniffs. January germs. The surgery is a converted house off the Woodstock Road. One of those Victorian semis that look quite narrow from the street, but go back a long way. The waiting room is at the rear, looking over a garden that's probably quite nice in the summer, but is ankle deep in dead and rotting leaves. The large tree at the bottom is encircled two inches thick by dingy rust-coloured needles. What's the point in a conifer, thinks Somer, if you still have to sweep up all the crap?

Even though she arrives before surgery starts she still has to wait half an hour for Dr Miller to be free. The woman is clearly frazzled. She has slate grey hair in a severe bob and a pair of glasses perched on the top of her head. Somer is prepared to bet she forgets where she's put them at least twice a day.

`Sorry, officer,' she says, moving things about on the desk distractedly. `The week after the holidays is always a bit like this. What can I do for you?'

`It's about Samantha Esmond.'

The fidgeting stops.

`Ah, yes. That was truly appalling.' The distress in her pale green eyes is genuine.

`We've now spoken to one of Samantha's friends, who thinks she might have been suffering from post-natal depression. Is that true?'

The doctor starts to tap her biro on the desk. `That is, of course, confidential medical information. I assume you have obtained the appropriate authorization?'

`I can assure you the paperwork is entirely in order. I have a copy, if you want to see it.'

She doesn't expect the doctor to take her up on it, but the woman holds out her hand. Somer reaches into her bag for the sheet. Miller pulls down her glasses, snagging her hair as she does so. She reads the page once, and then again, then puts it down on the desk and removes her glasses.

`Yes,' she says with a sigh. `Samantha did have PND. And it wasn't the first time. She'd had the same problems after Matty was born, though from what I could tell from her notes, it was much worse with Zachary. And went on much longer.'

`How did it manifest itself?'

`The usual symptoms. Listlessness, feeling inadequate, crying for no reason, problems sleeping.'

`Was she on medication?'

`Yes. I recently started her on temazepam to help her sleep and she was also taking sertraline to help with the anxiety.'

`So you considered it severe enough to need antidepressants?'

Dr Miller eyes her. `Yes, I'm afraid it was. We tried various alternatives before deciding that was the most appropriate one for her.'

Somer hesitates, but it has to be asked. `Did you ever think she might harm herself? Or the baby?'

Dr Miller sits back. `To be completely honest, we were beginning to be concerned about Zachary, but not for that reason, I hasten to add. He was having rather too many stomach upsets. We were trying to get to the bottom of it.'

`I see `“'

`But there was no suggestion he was being abused, if that's what you're thinking. As for Samantha, she was just `“ well, overwhelmed. She had Matty to deal with as well, remember. It was all too much for her.'

`She had her husband to help, didn't she?'

`Michael? He was exemplary. He couldn't do enough for her. Shopping, washing, cleaning, taking Matty to school. He did the lot. He was extraordinarily supportive.'

Or extraordinarily controlling, thinks Somer.

`I don't know how he managed to do it all and still hold down such a responsible job,' says the doctor, a little tersely. Perhaps she has sensed Somer's scepticism. `It would have defeated most people. Me included.'

`Did he show signs of being under stress?'

Dr Miller's eyes narrow. `Dr Esmond was not taking medication for stress, depression or any other similar condition. As for Matty, he was a rather nervous child, but clearly loved and well cared for. What more do you want me to say?'

This is new. `You say Matty was nervous `“ how did that manifest itself?'

Miller starts tapping her biro again. `He was a bit fretful. Took things a bit too much to heart. Impressionable and, I imagine, easily intimidated.'

`Intimidated? You mean, he was being bullied?'

She shakes her head. `No. I'm fairly sure that wasn't the case. The school nurse did get in touch with me last year, and I'm sure she would have mentioned that if it had been any sort of issue.'

`So if it wasn't that, why did she want to talk to you?'

Miller sighs again. `Matty was worried about his mother. He told his teacher she was seeing ghosts.'

Gislingham is on his way in to the station when his phone rings. One glance at the screen and he knows he has to take the call. He pulls over and picks up the handset.

`DS Gislingham.'

`Chris? It's Paul Rigby. I'm at Southey Road. Where are you?'

`In the car. But I can be there in twenty minutes.'

`Good. Because I think you'll want to see this as soon as possible.'

13 June 2017, 2.13 p.m.

205 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

When Sam gets back from the park with the boys, Michael is in the garden. After a grey start the sun has come out, and it's now so hot that she's had to bring the children home early. She gives them a juice each in the kitchen and it's only when she goes to the sink to rinse the glasses that she realizes her husband is not alone. There's a young man with him she's never seen before. He's tall and good-looking, in cargo shorts and a pair of loafers. Even at this distance he looks at ease with himself. Intrigued, she encourages the boys outside, and follows them down the lawn.

`I'm Harry,' he says as she approaches, holding out his hand. She's seen that smile many times in this town. The sort of smile that springs from a lot of attitude `“ from deep-set assumptions about your own worth and your place in the world, and the reception you think you're going to get.

`Harry replied to the ad,' says her husband. `The one I put up in the newsagent's about getting some help in the garden.'

`You never told me you actually did that,' says Sam, openly incredulous. Her husband has never put a card on a shop noticeboard in his life. He's always saying you never know what you might be letting yourself in for.

`Mr Esmond was hoping I could get the grass cut before you got home,' interjects Harry. `As a surprise. But the mower ran out of petrol.'

`I told you we should keep a spare can,' says Sam, keeping her tone light. She doesn't want Michael to think she's nagging. Especially in front of someone else.

`So you're a student, are you, Harry?' she says, turning to him.

He nods. `Only an undergrad, hence needing the money,' he says with a rueful face.

Matty has by now sidled up to the adults. He has his ball under his arm and starts dragging at his father's sleeve. `Da-ad.'

Michael turns to him. `I'm busy, Matty. We're talking.'

`You like football, Matt?' says Harry, and Sam sees her husband stifle a wince. No one calls their son Matt. They've worked really hard to make sure of that.

Harry reaches forward and takes the ball, walks away a few paces and starts doing tricks. Bouncing it on his knee, catching it on his shoulder blades. Matty is beside himself.

`Can you teach me to do that?' he says, almost gasping.

Harry gathers up the ball. `Sure,' he said. `How about now?'

Sam sees her husband open his mouth to say no but Matty is already jumping up and down, pawing at him, squealing, `Can I, Dad? Can I?'

Zachary hurtles towards them and starts shouting, `Me too! Me too!'

Sam turns to Harry. `Are you sure you're up for this?'

That smile again. `Sure. No problem. I didn't have anything else planned. And I always wanted a brother when I was growing up.'

An hour later the boys are exhausted and Michael's retreated to his study. In the kitchen, Sam pours Harry a beer.

`Nice place,' he says, wandering through to the sitting room and looking round at the furniture, the grandfather clock, the piano with its framed photographs.

`It's Michael's family's house,' she says, wondering why she feels the need to apologize. `Nothing much has been changed in here since his grandmother died.'

Harry lifts the lid of the piano and plays a few notes, then makes a face. `Needs tuning.'

She sighs. `I know. We keep meaning to get it organized but you know how it is. Matty wants to learn, though.'

Harry looks up. `Really? You should encourage him. It's a great age to start.'

He closes the lid and picks up a picture of her son playing in a sandpit with his uncle. Matty must have been about four, grinning from ear to ear. Sam realizes with a sudden lump in her throat that he hardly ever smiles like that any more. Until this afternoon, that is.

`So you'll definitely come back?' she says quickly. `For the garden?'

Bishop Christopher's Church of England Primary still has a tired post-Christmas look to it. The bins bulging with recycled decorations aren't helping, and there are bits of tinsel still sellotaped to some of the windows. Somer and Everett get out of the car; Somer has never been here, but Everett has. It's why Somer asked her to come.

`Has it changed much?'

Everett shakes her head. `No. I suppose some of the kids will be different by now, but the place is just the same.'

Just the same as when Daisy Mason went missing and Everett and Gislingham came here to question her teachers and classmates. And now the school has lost another child and the questioning will start all over again.

Everett leads the way inside: it's a warren of corridors but she knows exactly where she's going. And they are `“ clearly `“ expected. Alison Stevens is waiting restlessly in the reception area outside the head teacher's office.

`DC Everett,' she says, coming towards them with an outstretched hand. `How nice to see you again, despite the tragic circumstances.'

`This is my colleague, DC Somer.'

Somer shakes the woman's hand, noting how cool her skin is and how anxious her smile.

`Do please come in. I've asked Matty's teacher to join us as well.'

Everett doesn't recognize the woman waiting inside. She has large round glasses, a splashy floral-print dress and heavy cardigan, with unflattering flat shoes, in sharp contrast to the elegant and understated Stevens.

`This is Emily West,' says Stevens. `She joined us last year.'

So she never knew Daisy Mason. Stevens doesn't say it, but she doesn't have to. Then she turns to the desk and starts occupying her nervous energy by pouring tea. There's a picture of her daughter by the computer, her hair in elaborate crochet braids. She must be about the same age as Matty Esmond.

Everett and Somer take a seat. Emily West seems a good deal less anxious than the head.

`You wanted to know about Matty?' she asks.

`I saw his doctor this morning,' says Somer. `She says you were concerned about him. Concerned enough for the school nurse to call her.'

Somer has deliberately left out the bit about the ghost. She's intrigued to see how `“ and if `“ they raise it.

West smiles. `I know you're probably assuming it was something to do with bullying,' she begins and Everett sees anxiety flicker across Stevens's face, though she says nothing. `But honestly, it was nothing like that. He was concerned about his mother. He said she wasn't very well. That it felt like someone had `њput her under a spell`ќ. But what was really worrying him was that she'd told him she thought there was a ghost in the house.'

`Did he say why she thought that?'

West nods. `Apparently she'd heard noises.'

`That was all?'

West shakes her head. `No. She'd seen it too.'

Everett sits forward. `Where, precisely?'

`Once in the garden, I think. And she thought she heard him indoors.'

Somer and Everett exchange a glance.

`So it was definitely a `њhe`ќ?'

West shakes her head again. `No, not necessarily. Apparently she didn't get a good look. I gathered it was more like catching a glimpse out of the corner of your eye.'

`Was she the only person who'd seen it?'

West pauses. `That's a good question. It's possible Matty had `“ or thought he had. It's hard to remember the exact words he used, but I got the sense he thought he'd seen something.'

But then again, thinks Somer, this is a boy described as `impressionable'. If his mother told him there was a ghost, it's quite possible his imagination did the rest.

`Did you speak to either of his parents about this?' asks Everett.

West nods. `I spoke to Dr Esmond one morning.' She glances at Stevens. `We wanted both Matty's parents to come in for a proper meeting but he said he was very busy and Samantha was unwell. He said she was on medication and sometimes it made her a bit spaced out, but it was all under control and there was nothing for us to worry about. But he did promise to talk to Matty. He was a bit short with me, to be honest, but he is a scientist after all. I suppose stories of ghosts and ghoulies are a bit beneath him.'

Not for an anthropologist, surely, thinks Somer. He would have understood what `stories' like that can signify.

`He hadn't seen anything odd himself?'

West is quick to reply. `No, absolutely not. The whole thing was clearly news to him. In fact, I think that was one reason he was annoyed `“ that we knew something about his family that he didn't.'

Everett takes out her notebook. `And when was this, that you spoke to him?'

`Last summer term, I think it was. Yes, definitely around then.'

`And how was Matty when he returned to school in the autumn?'

`Actually,' interrupts the head, `he seemed much happier. He'd struggled to make friends before but he seemed much more confident.'

`Was there any particular reason for that?' asks Somer, looking from one woman to the other.

`No,' says West. `But it can happen that way. Especially with boys. They can grow up in fits and starts.'

`Or not at all, if some of our colleagues are anything to go by,' mutters Everett, which elicits a wry smile from Stevens.

Somer takes a deep breath; in for a penny and all that. `And Matty got on OK with his father?' She keeps her voice light `“ she doesn't want to influence the answer.

West smiles. `Dr Esmond was obviously quite strict, but Matty clearly idolized him. He was always talking about him. How clever he was and what an important job he had. Last year he was the only child in the class with an academic for a father.'

`My dad's job's bigger than your dad's,' says Everett.

West grins. `Something like that. You know how competitive kids can be.'

Something isn't adding up here, thinks Somer. But I'm damned if I know what it is.

`So you weren't aware of anything that was troubling him at the end of Christmas term?' she continues calmly. `No problems at home?'

West looks blank. `No, nothing. He was just excited about the holidays. Like all the kids were. I'm sorry. I don't know what else I can say.'

Everett and Somer get to their feet. No one has touched the tea.

Rigby is waiting at the end of the drive at Southey Road when Gislingham draws up. He's wearing a black jumpsuit and a hard hat, and has a face mask slung round his neck.

`We didn't find it until an hour ago,' he says as they walk up towards the house, past the team of three on their hands and knees picking over the slag heap of rubble. `But to be honest, we had other priorities.'

They come to a halt in front of the garage. It's several yards from the house, so apart from the soot marks and the blistering to the paintwork it's almost untouched. There's a padlock hanging off the door handle, but as Gis sees at once, it's not been closed properly.

`And before you ask,' says Rigby as he pushes open the door, `it was already in that state when I got here. And I've been wearing gloves. If there are prints, they'll be intact.'

He reaches for the light switch inside and the neon strip stutters and plinks on. It may have been built as a garage but it's being used as a shed. Wheelie bins, a couple of ancient shovels, boxes of assorted household detritus, a wheelbarrow, bicycles, a garden table and chairs, and a parasol, furred with spiders' webs.

`Looks like it's true what they say,' says Gislingham, looking around, `junk really does expand to fill the available space.'

But even as he says it he knows that's not why they're here: pushed against one corner is a lawnmower. A motor mower.

`Judging by the stains on the floor,' says Rigby quietly, `I reckon there was a spare can of petrol for that mower in here. A spare can that definitely isn't here any more.'

Gislingham's face is grim. `But I bet I know where we're going to find it.'

Rigby nods. `And it's not just that. There's something else.' He starts to pick his way across the junk and gestures Gislingham to follow. There's a door in the back wall. A door that opens into a completely different kind of space. Pale walls studded with children's drawings, brightly coloured kelims on a tiled floor, and glass doors opening on to the garden.

`We didn't even realize it was here,' says Rigby. `They have roller shutters on those doors so as far as we could see it was just the back of the garage.' He looks round. `Pretty nice man-cave, eh?'

Gislingham is staring. At the desk, the filing cabinets, the shelves of textbooks.

It's not a man-cave. It's Michael Esmond's study.

When Gis calls me from Southey Road I can tell from the echo that he's indoors.

`We've found his desktop PC and the charger for a laptop, though I assume he has the machine with him. And there's a stack of paperwork. And I do mean a stack.'

I take a deep breath. `OK, bring the computer back here and we'll have a look at it. And I'm afraid we're going to have to go through all those bloody papers as well.'

`Right, boss. I'll get it organized.'

I wonder, in passing, who he'll dump with that one. If I were a betting man, my money'd be on Quinn.

`There was something else too, boss. We've finally picked up Jurjen Kuiper's car on the ANPR cameras that night. He was at the Littlemore exit of the ring road at 12.10 a.m. That must have been just after the fire started, so I really don't see how he could have done it. It'd take fifteen minutes from there to Southey Road, even at that time of night, and the car definitely wasn't speeding.'

I still find it hard to comprehend why Kuiper was out driving so late in such treacherous conditions, but that's looking like another story we'll never know the end of.

Everett and Somer are only just in time for the team meeting at 4.30. Somer leaves Everett to park the car and makes her way across to the police station. It's started to rain again and Everett struggles to find a space; when she turns the engine off and looks up she can see Somer talking to someone in the doorway. In the gloom and the downpour it's another few seconds before she realizes who it is.

Fawley.

Everett's not nosy by nature. She's not interested in tittle-tattle, and she tries to live and let live. But she can't stop herself watching. He and Somer are standing close together, but it's impossible to tell if that's just to keep out of the rain. The light above their heads casts deep sharp shadows and Fawley's bending his head now, talking to Somer in an urgent, intimate way she can't ever remember seeing before. He usually holds back `“ keeps his distance, in every sense. But not this time.

She opens the door and gets slowly out of the car. Then reaches into the back seat for her umbrella, which she opens as extravagantly as she can manage. She wants to give them as much chance as possible to see her coming. Which they evidently do, because by the time she reaches the door, Somer is alone.

`Who was that?' asks Everett casually, shaking out the brolly.

`Oh, just one of the uniforms. He wanted to know how the case was going.'

Everett's heart sinks. As any halfway decent police officer knows, people don't bother lying if they've nothing to hide.

Sent:Weds 10/01/2018, 15.45Importance: High From:Colin.Boddie@ouh.nhs.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk, CID@ThamesValley.police.uk, AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Bloodwork and toxicology: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road

I have just had the toxicology results on the three victims. To summarize: there were no untoward findings in relation to Matthew Esmond. Zachary's bloods showed a relatively high level of acetaminophen (paracetamol) but one which would still be consistent with a therapeutic dose of a paediatric medicine such as Calpol.

Bloodwork from Samantha Esmond detected the presence of desmethylsertraline (i.e. the antidepressant sertraline) at a concentration consistent with ongoing therapeutic use. However, there were also very significant levels of both alcohol (a BAC of 0.10%) and benzodiazepine (i.e. temazepam). For the avoidance of doubt, the latter was not inconsistent with a therapeutic dose, but in combination with the alcohol would have quickly rendered a woman of her height and weight drowsy. There's one final test outstanding on Samantha, which I will forward to you as soon as I get it.

I've also had results from Zachary Esmond's bloods. The level of carbon monoxide detected is significantly lower than I would have expected. I cannot, therefore, rule out the possibility that Zachary was already dead before the fire took full hold. There being no other obvious signs of injury, the most likely cause of death in that case would have been suffocation.

It's fair to say I'm probably not on top form at the team meeting. Alex's call is still distracting me. I tried to phone her back three times today and got nothing but voicemail. And then I stopped because I knew it would just make me look desperate. Even though I am. Even though part of me wants her to know I am.

So if I lose the thread of the discussion a couple of times, that's why. It's not an excuse. But it is an explanation. And I only manage to wing it because there's so little to discuss. Despite the appeal, the tweets, the thankless door-knocking, despite the hundreds of calls that have come in and a running total of man hours I don't even want to think about, we still have no bloody idea where Esmond is. And I say as much. I notice Everett eyeing me once or twice. Especially when Somer is reporting back on the meetings with the school and the family doctor.

`So,' she says, summing up, `we now know that Samantha Esmond was suffering from post-natal depression. But the doctor insists she wasn't a risk to herself or her children.'

She's not saying so explicitly, but we all know what she means: if anyone was thinking of putting Samantha forward as a possible suspect, as far as Somer is concerned you can forget it. It wasn't her who set that fire.

`Are you sure about that?' says Baxter, googling on his phone. `It says here that severe cases can lead to paranoia and hallucinations, and if it goes untreated up to four per cent of mothers will commit infanticide.'

There's a flicker of unease round the room at that. They're remembering what Boddie said: Zachary could have been dead before the fire even started. And suffocation is one of the commonest ways women kill their children.

`You're talking about post-partum psychosis,' says Somer, slightly abruptly. `Not post-natal depression. Samantha was never diagnosed with PPP.'

`All the same `“' begins Baxter, but she doesn't let him finish.

`Post-partum psychosis almost always starts within two weeks of having the baby. Zachary was three. The number of cases where PPP comes on without warning that long after birth is vanishingly small.'

Baxter looks from me to Somer. `Could her post-natal depression have turned into this PPP? Is that possible?'

She shakes her head. `No. They're entirely different. And the one doesn't lead to the other.'

`So if Samantha really was seeing things, it wasn't down to that?'

`Not that, no. I guess the medication she was on may have been a factor. But even if that were true, there's a huge leap from seeing ghosts to deliberately killing the entire family.'

There's something in her face `“ the way she says it `“ that stifles further disagreement. I just wish I had her certainty.

25 June 2017, 4.30 p.m.

193 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Sam can tell at once something's up.

`I brought you a beer,' she says carefully, easing the bottle on to the edge of the desk. The study is a beautiful space at this time of year, the glass doors open to the garden and the light and the scent of cut grass. A red admiral butterfly has landed on the printer and is opening and closing its wings in the warmth. But her husband is frowning.

`What is it?'

He makes a face. `Just Philip. He emailed to say he'll be here on the 13th July.'

`How long is he staying?'

`He says two days, but you know him. It could just as easily be two weeks.'

`Well, we can hardly say no `“ what with `“'

`I know, I know,' Michael says tetchily.

Sam bites her lip. She knows better than to offer any defence for Philip. Last time she tried she found herself on the wrong end of a twenty-minute tirade about what a waster he is, bumming about the world from one tropical beach to the next and never being around to do any of the heavy lifting. Like Dad's funeral. Like getting Mum into a home. The first time Michael ever really opened up to her had been about Philip. They'd only been together about six weeks and up till then his whole persona had been so carefully crafted she was beginning to think he was too good to be true. Always courteous, always patient, always considerate. And then she got to his flat early one night to find him on the phone to his father. He'd rung home to tell him he was about to get his first article published in an academic journal, but by the time he finished the call he was almost in tears.

`What do I have to do?' he'd said. `Philip's the one who flunked even getting in to Oxford. Philip's the one who's never bothered doing a proper day's work in his life because he's been living off money my grandfather left him. Philip should be the disappointment. And yet to listen to my father you'd think I was sleeping rough under Charing Cross station.'

She'd remonstrated, sitting close, her arm round him.

`He's so proud of you. You know he doesn't mean it.'

He'd looked up at her, angry through the tears. `Oh yes he does. It's always Philip this and Philip that. All the time I was growing up Dad called him Pip. He'd tousle his hair and say he had `њgreat expectations`ќ. It was years before I knew what he was getting at `“ and all that time I thought it meant that he had higher hopes of Philip than he did of me. I don't think he had the first bloody idea the impact something like that can have.'

Her heart had broken, then, for the sad little boy he had been and the furiously ambitious man he'd turned that into. And she'd felt, as she never had with Michael before, that she was the strong one `“ she was the one with something to give, the one to protect, not be protected. It was the first time she'd ever felt that. And it would be the last.

Somer stops by her desk to collect the bag of shopping she left there at lunchtime. Some of the fruit has rolled out under her chair, and she has to get down on her hands and knees to retrieve it. When she finally straightens up she's surprised to find Quinn standing there. She's flustered a moment, conscious that she's red in the face and her hair has come loose.

`Can I help you?'

He looks diffident. A word she's never associated with him before.

`I just wanted to check you were OK.'

She stares at him, not sure she heard him right. `Why wouldn't I be?'

He shrugs. `It was just, well, what you were saying back there. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere `“ you know `“ personal.'

She hesitates, not sure she wants to open up on this. At least to him. But there's something in his face.

`My sister had it `“ has it,' she says eventually. `Post-natal depression, I mean. It's been tough. On all of us.'

He nods.

`And there's such a terrible stigma attached to it, even now. Far too many women don't come forward and get help because they're worried about what people will say. They're frightened they'll be labelled as bad mothers or `њhysterical`ќ or one of those other words men only use about women and never about other men.' She stops, aware she's even redder in the face now.

`I know,' he says quietly. `About PND. My mother had it.'

Now that really does floor her. She opens her mouth, then closes it again.

`You never mentioned it. When we `“'

He shrugs. `Like you said. There's still a lot of prejudice. And ignorance.'

And it must have been even worse a generation ago.

`They ended up sectioning her,' he says, reading her thoughts. `My dad had to cope for six months with a newborn baby and an eight-year-old. He didn't know what'd hit him.'

He looks up, meeting her eyes properly for the first time.

`You were only eight?'

He smiles weakly. `Dad kept telling me I had to be a big boy. That he had enough to worry about without me acting up. No one in the family ever spoke about it. It was as if she'd done something shameful. Or criminal. It was years before I found out what had really happened.'

She nods, struggling to find the right thing to say. But it explains a lot about Quinn. His strident self-sufficiency, his intolerance of weakness, his inability to admit any vulnerability.

`Anyway,' he says, straightening his shoulders a little. `I just wanted to check.'

He starts to go, but she calls him back. `Quinn?'

He turns. `Yeah?'

`Thank you. For telling me. That can't have been easy.'

He shrugs. `No worries.'

And then he's gone.

11 July 2017, 10.23 a.m.

177 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

`Hi,' says Philip, when she opens the door. `I got back to Poole a bit earlier than I expected.'

She's only seen him once or twice since the wedding, where he'd been, rather to her surprise given Michael's loud and frequent reservations, an exemplary best man.

He's thinner than when she last saw him, but it suits him. Sun-bleached hair, a deep tan, shirt open just a bit too far. There's a heap of dusty rucksacks and duffel bags at his feet. A black cab is just turning out of the street on to the Banbury Road.

He sees her face and looks sheepish. `Sorry. I know I'm a couple of days early. But if it's a problem I can leave all this crap here and lose myself for an hour or two.'

She smiles. `No, it's fine. You just took me by surprise, that's all.'

`I did try Mike's mobile but he's not answering.'

She makes a face. `He does that. Turns it off to save the battery and then forgets and wonders why no one's calling him.'

Philip grins. `Always was a bit of a throwback. In a nice way, of course,' he adds quickly.

One of the neighbours has stopped on the other side of the street. She's pretending to fiddle with her shoe but Sam can see her clocking Philip and doing the mental maths that puts two and two together and makes extra-marital affair.

She stands back. `Come in,' she says quickly. `Do you need a hand with all that `“?'

`Absolutely not,' he says firmly. `Dad always used to say, only travel with the bags you're prepared to carry yourself.'

By the time Michael gets home they're sitting in the garden with the bottle of Chablis Philip brought with him. Zachary is sitting at their feet, playing with his toy fire engine. Harry must have been too, because the lawn has been mowed and the cuttings stacked in a bag by the wheelie bin. Michael frowns, then goes to the fridge for a beer before heading outside. Whether deliberately or not, Philip has positioned his chair so he can see the house. He gets to his feet at once.

`Mike! Sorry to turn up unannounced like this,' he says, reaching to give his brother a hug.

`No problem,' says Michael, a little stiff in the embrace.

Samantha looks up, alert to the acerbity. But there's a colour in her cheeks Michael hasn't seen for weeks.

`We brought you out a chair,' she says, gesturing. Smiling.

He puts his beer down on the table. `Where's Matty?'

Philip makes a face. `On his Xbox. I did try to tempt him out but he seemed completely engrossed.'

`Yeah, well,' says Michael. `That won't be the first time.' He turns to his wife. `What are we going to do about dinner?'

`All sorted,' says Philip quickly. `Getting a Deliveroo from Brown's. Least I can do.'

Two hours later the sun is going down and the chairs have been shunted to one side so that Philip can play football with Matty.

Michael stands at the sink, rinsing the plates before they go into the dishwasher.

`They haven't had so much fun for ages,' says Sam, coming in with a tray of glasses and a sleepy Zachary wedged on one hip. `Apparently Philip is Ronaldo and Matty is Messi.'

There's a shout from the garden; Philip has just scored a goal and is running round the lawn with his T-shirt over his face.

`Prat,' says Michael. But not out loud.

`He's going to take us punting tomorrow,' says Sam casually.

Michael glances at her. `Really? Are you sure he knows how? Must be years since he did it last.'

She shrugs. `He says he does.' Then, `I thought you'd be pleased. It'll give you some peace and quiet to get some work done.'

And, of course, it will.

`Do you need me to do some shopping?' he says, making more of an effort. `I can get some picnic stuff from MS in the morning `“'

`Don't worry, Phil said he'd do it. Just you focus on the book.'

She touches him lightly on the arm, then goes back outside. The sounds of laughter blossom in the air.

At Southey Road, Quinn pushes open the door to Esmond's office and stands there looking around. Judging from what's left of the rest of the house, he was expecting a pompous roll-top desk, an antique leather chair and one of those reading lamps with green shades. But he couldn't have been more wrong. Everything in here is light, modern and well designed, right down to the sleek Dyson heater, the Bose CD player and the gleaming Nespresso machine. Complete with supplies. He slings his jacket over the back of the chair and turns the heater on full. Maybe this won't be such a crap job after all.

Sent:Weds 10/01/2018, 18.45Importance: High From:Colin.Boddie@ouh.nhs.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk, CID@ThamesValley.police.uk, AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Bloodwork and toxicology: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road

I've had that final test back on Samantha Esmond. Her bloods showed slightly raised levels of human chorionic gonadotropin (hCG). This can be produced by cancerous tumours, but in the absence of any such abnormalities I see no reason to deviate from the simplest clinical explanation: Samantha Esmond was pregnant.

Given the level detected, and the fact that nothing was discovered in the uterus, I would estimate a gestation of no more than four weeks. At that stage the foetus would be little more than a cluster of cells.

`So, do you think she knew? About the baby?'

It's Gislingham, in the incident room. And whether he realizes it or not, he's looking at Ev and Somer.

Everett shrugs. `I'm not the one to ask. I've never been pregnant.'

Somer flushes slightly and I wonder suddenly if she has, at some point in her past.

`Impossible to say, sir,' she says. `Though I think the doctor would have told me, if she'd done a proper test.'

But that doesn't mean anything. Alex only got to that stage once, in all the years we tried. All those days of hope, month after month. Days when she'd buy one of those kits and lock herself away. Days when I'd hear her sobbing. Days `“ the worst days `“ when she'd emerge, dry-faced and silent, her hands cold and her body rigid in my arms. And then there was the blue line that was Jake and a new more desperate hope and a ferocious caution and pacts with a God I don't believe in. I've often wondered, since, if that's where I went wrong. I only begged to have Jake; I never begged to keep him.

`Might give her a reason though,' says Baxter, breaking into my thoughts. He's looking at Somer. `I mean, I know you said she couldn't have set that fire, but that was before we found out she was in the club again. If she'd had such a bad time with the previous two, she might not have been able to face having a third.'

Somer looks at him icily. `That's not a reason to kill herself. And it's definitely not a reason to kill those children.'

Baxter puts up both hands. `OK, OK, I was just saying.'

Somer opens her mouth to reply but Everett cuts in. Peacemaker mode. `There's no point in us arguing about it. The simple fact is we have no way of knowing if she even knew about the pregnancy.'

`Can we do a DNA test?' asks Asante.

I shake my head. `Good try, but no. Way too early.'

`So we don't know Esmond was definitely the father,' he continues. `I mean `“ if it was someone else and her husband found out `“'

`He was in London, though, wasn't he?' says Gis quietly.

`And we haven't come across any other men in her life, either,' I say. `And as far as I can see she was barely up to leaving the house, never mind carrying on a secret affair.'

Asante backs off. He clearly knows when to stop digging. But he's right about one thing. That pregnancy is a wild card we hadn't allowed for. And it's nagging at me like a stone in my shoe.

The door opens and the duty officer looks in, scanning the room.

`DC Somer? Someone in reception for you. A Mr Philip Esmond.'

12 July 2017, 4.43 p.m.

176 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Philip and Matty are on their third chorus of `What shall we do with the drunken sailor?' when Michael finally gives up trying to work and goes back up to the house. In the kitchen, Philip has Zachary on his shoulders and Sam is at the sink scraping food into the caddy. The debris from the picnic is scattered all over the kitchen.

`Way! Hey! and up she rises, Way! Hey! and up she rises, Way! Hey! and up she rises, Ear-ly in the morning,' bellows Philip, before turning and seeing his brother at the door.

`'Gain! 'Gain!' shouts Zachary, banging his hands on Philip's head. `Want it 'gain!'

Philip swings him down on to the table and grins at Michael. `Sorry `“ did we disturb you? Just got rather into the nautical spirit, if you see what I mean.'

Sam looks up from the sink and smiles. `It was fabulous `“ I can't think why we don't do it more often. It's only ten minutes' walk.'

Michael eyes his brother. His T-shirt is dripping wet.

`Did you fall in?'

Philip makes a rueful face. `Well, you know what they say `“ you're not doing punting right unless you get soaked.'

`Uncle Philip was really good,' says Matty. `We went faster than anyone. And there was a big fat man who fell in and made the most huge splash, and someone else got his pole stuck in the water.'

Michael nods. `Sounds like you all `“'

But Matty hasn't finished. `And then there was the fox. That was awesome.'

Michael frowns. `There must be a better word than that, Matty.'

`Actually,' says Philip, `it was pretty awesome. In the literal sense, I mean. We'd just turned round up past the Vicky Arms and were on the way back and suddenly there was this drowned fox in the water. It must have literally run into the river only a minute or two before.'

`It was wicked,' breathes Matty, his eyes wide and round. `It was like a wizard had turned it into stone.'

Sam turns, wiping her hands on a tea towel. `I've never seen anything like it. It was actually quite spooky, the way it was hanging there. Like the river had turned to ice.'

Michael frowns. `As far as I was aware, foxes can swim.'

Philip shrugs, then swings the squealing Zachary back on to his shoulders. `Well, all I know,' he says, `is that this one definitely couldn't.'

In the weeks that follow, Michael thinks a lot about that fox. Did it really just plunge straight into the water? Was it running after something or away from something? He even dreams about it once. He was in the punt with Philip; it was cold, the trees hanging close, and wisps of mist coming off the water. Everything wishy-washy in black and grey. Except the fox. That was burning with colour. And so close to the boat he could reach out and touch it. He could see the whiskers, the coarseness of the fur, the air bubbles caught about its mouth, and the eyes. Wide open and staring into death.

There are four people in the reception area and Somer doesn't need telling which one is Philip Esmond. An old man with a greyhound, a young black guy in a hoodie playing a game on his phone, his leg jiggling up and down, a female journalist she recognizes from the Oxford Mail, and a man in his forties, pacing. At a distance, the resemblance to Giles Saumarez is striking. The same stature, the same tan, the same physical confidence. But Philip Esmond's face is lined with anxiety. When he turns and sees her, he comes forward at once.

`DC Somer? I'm Philip Esmond. I came straight here.'

Somer glances around. `Look, shall we go for a coffee or something? It might be easier.'

`What about Michael? Have you found him?'

She shakes her head. `No. I'm afraid we haven't.' She can see the journalist eyeing them with interest, and she drops her voice. `Seriously, I think it would be better to talk about this somewhere else.'

He stares at her a moment, nonplussed, then, `Sure. OK. If you think that's best.'

The cafe is only a few yards away up towards Carfax and it's all but empty. They're on the point of closing. Somer buys the coffees, waving away Esmond's offer to pay, and they take a table in the window, looking up towards Christ Church cathedral, floodlit against the sallow grey sky. There's rain in the air.

`So,' says Esmond, sitting forward in his chair, his face anxious. `What can you tell me?'

She sighs. `Very little, I'm afraid. We've made every possible effort to find your brother but we're getting absolutely nowhere. Is there anything you can think of `“ anything that's occurred to you since we last spoke `“ anything at all that could help us?'

He shakes his head. `I've been racking my brains, but really, there's nothing. We weren't exactly close `“ I mean, I loved him `“ he was my kid brother `“ but there's been a lot of water under the bridge one way or another.'

The cafe door opens and a mother struggles in with a baby in a pushchair and a little boy holding tight to her coat, one finger in his mouth. The children are younger than Michael Esmond's, but not by much. Philip shuts his eyes briefly then turns back to face Somer.

`What can I do? I must be able to do something.'

`Perhaps you could talk to your mother? We've tried but I'm sure it would be better coming from someone she knows.'

Philip nods. `Yes. I'm sure you're right. First thing tomorrow, I'll go down there.' He picks up his spoon and starts fiddling with it. `I need to go anyway. Not just to see her. I have to talk to her about the funerals. Though I doubt she'll be in any state to come.'

Somer nods. That's pretty much what Ev said.

`I suppose I'll have to see the Giffords as well.'

`You don't get on?'

He lets the spoon fall with a clatter. `Oh, that's not really it. I hardly know them, to be honest. But Mike always found them a bit overbearing. Well, him, anyway. I think he got on OK with Laura.' He glances up and sees her face. `Don't worry. I'm not about to make things any worse than they already are. For them or for me.'

When I get home, the house seems doubly empty. It shouldn't make a difference, but it does: knowing Alex has been here so recently, but isn't here now. I can even smell her perfume. Or perhaps that's just my mind playing tricks on me. Wishful thinking.

There's half a pizza in the freezer and half a bottle of red in the fridge, so that's my evening taken care of. I stick the pizza in the microwave and go round closing the curtains. I'm uncomfortably aware that I'm turning into my own father. He drove us mad in the winter `“ every morning, like clockwork, going from room to room with a cloth, wiping the windows for condensation. Though I tell myself I'm not quite that programmed. Not yet.

In the sitting room, I stop for a moment, aware that something's out of place. I haven't been in this room for a few days `“ not since Somer was here. And that must be what it is. When she was clearing up she must have moved things about. Not much, but enough for me to notice. And now it's obvious: the photographs on the mantelpiece are in a different order. I have a sudden mental image of her standing where I am now, looking at the pictures, seeing the private part of my life for the first time. Our wedding: Alex in a long tight-fitting ivory satin gown that literally took my breath away when I turned to see her at the end of the aisle. Our honeymoon in Sicily: tanned, happy, sharing a bottle of champagne against the sunset at Agrigento. And Jake. Of course, Jake. As a baby; on his first day at school; on the beach, with a sandcastle it took him all day to build. He'd be twelve now. At senior school. He wouldn't be building sandcastles any more. He'd be starting to fret about girls.

We have one of those software programs at CID `“ the ones they use to age photos of missing children. Alex asked me, once, to put a picture of Jake through it, but I said I couldn't `“ that they log each use and in any case it wouldn't be ethical. What I didn't tell her was that I'd already done it. One night, after everyone else had gone home. It was the picture I took two weeks before he died. So close up you can see the fine down on his upper lip. A moment before he'd been frowning and the camera has captured the ghost of it: the shadow of a furrow between his brows, his dark eyes still thoughtful. I've wondered, since, if he was already planning it `“ if he knew by then what he was going to do. The doctors told us it was unlikely `“ that children who take their own lives so young, rarely think about it so far in advance. Even so, the picture still gives me pain. Perhaps that's why I chose that one to put through the software. And it was eerie, sitting there, in the darkened empty room, watching that precious face lengthening, the soft contours hardening. I saw him at fifteen, twenty, thirty-five. I saw how he would have looked when he became a man, when he made me a grandfather. I saw him at the age I am now. The real boy may be frozen in time, but in my mind he and I are growing old together, hand in hand.

The following morning's meeting takes no more than ten minutes. The case is turning ground-hog now. Round and round and round we go. Dead ends, false starts, blind alleys. Paperwork, legwork, phonework. Though we do have one new angle: the Esmond financials have finally come through. And as Gislingham always says, if it's not love, it's money `“ though unfortunately for Baxter, money's a lot less interesting to investigate. When I look into the incident room later he has his chin resting on one hand, staring at his computer screen. And beside him there's a coffee and one of those chocolate bars his wife doesn't know he's still eating. But I won't tell if you don't.

At 9.45 a.m. Quinn kicks open the door to Esmond's study and dumps his bag on the floor. This time he's fully prepared. Not just more pods for the coffee machine, but an almond croissant from the French patisserie in Summertown and a sandwich in case he gets peckish. As he stands making the espresso, he can hear the clatter of rubble as the investigators tip debris into wheelbarrows and cart it away. The sky is bright and there's even some doomed blossom on the trees, but he's bloody glad he's in here in the warm and not outside freezing his balls off and up to his knees in crap. The only thing he's going to have to contend with is boredom: Esmond was obviously one of those people who file every bit of paper they're ever handed. There are till receipts and card statements in bulldog clips, organized by month, and utilities bills and council tax arranged by year. There's even a box file with family photo albums and some of Esmond's old essays and school reports from the Griffin. According to his fourth-form history teacher he was already `driven and uncompromising' when he was fourteen, and by the time he was doing A levels the woman who taught him geography was referring to him as `pushing himself, if anything, a little too hard'. Which chimes pretty well with the man Annabel Jordan described.

Quinn digs a little deeper into the box and finds a ring binder from what must have been Esmond's first year at the school. The first sheet is headed up `My Family'. Intrigued, Quinn takes it out, leans back in his chair and starts to read.

My Family

I think family is very important. It's important to know where you come from. I am very proud of my family. It goes back to Victorian times. My great-grandfather came to England from Poland. His name was ZACHARJASZ ELSZTEJN. He came here because he wanted to be a success. He had a dream that he would have his own company and make a lot of money. He started a jewelry jewellery shop in the East End of London. It was called Zachary Esmond and Son. He had to change his name because no one in England knew how to spell the other one. He bought two more shops to start with and then he bought another one in Nightsbridge Knightsbridge. It was near Harrods. It was very small but it was in a good place. After that he was very successful. My father has a gold watch that belonged to my great-grandfather. It is a big watch with a chain. You don't wear it on your wrist like now. It has a motto on it in Polish. It says `Blizsza koszula ciału'. In English that is `the body is closest to the shirt'. My Dad says it means that the things that are closest to us are the most important, and family is the most important of all.

My family have lived in Oxford since 1909. My great-grandfather came on a visit to the city and thought it was very beautiful. There were houses being built in Southey Road then and he bought one. He was the one who gave it its name. It is called Felix House which means `lucky' in Latin. It's because he felt lucky to live here. We are the only family who have ever lived in it. I don't think there are any other houses like that round here. My grandfather also worked in the company and my father does now. I think my older brother Philip will do it too. When I grow up I would like to go to Oxford University. That is MY dream.

Before HM Coroner Oriana Pound

Oxford Coroner's Court

County Hall, New Road, Oxford.

Inquests conducted: Wednesday 10th January 2018 11 a.m. `“ Samantha Esmond, aged 33, and Zachary Esmond, aged 3, died 04/01/2018 in Oxford; and Matthew Esmond, aged 10, died 07/01/2018 in Oxford.

Following representations from the Crown Prosecution Service, the inquest was adjourned pending further enquiries by the police. Given the possibility of criminal charges, Mrs Pound ordered a second post-mortem on the three deceased, so that the bodies can be released to the family for burial.

Telephone interview with Jason Morrell, Walton Manor Motors, Knatchbull Road, Oxford

11 January 2018, 11.50 a.m.

On the call, DC A. Asante

AA:This is DC Asante. The switchboard said you have some information for us `“ something relating to the Southey Road fire? JM:Yeah, it's about the car. If you're looking for it, it's here. At the garage. We did the MOT last week and it's been on the forecourt ever since. Had to change one of the tyres but otherwise it passed OK. It's parked out the front ready to go. AA:I see. When did Mr Esmond bring the car in? JM:Must have been Tuesday sometime. Mick booked it in `“ hold on `“

[muffled noises]

Yep `“ definitely Tuesday 2nd. About 9.15 in the morning.

AA:Did any of you speak to him after that? JM:I left a couple of messages about the tyre back end of last week. Just to say it had to be done to get the car through so to call me if there was a problem, otherwise I'd just go ahead. He didn't call back. AA:Your colleague `“ Mick `“ does he remember anything unusual about Mr Esmond that morning? Anything that struck him? JM:Blimey, now you're asking. Hold on.

[more muffled noises]

Just said he was in a hurry. A bit offhand. But they're all like that round here, mate. Par for the course.

15 July 2017, 3.12 p.m.

173 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Michael leans back in his deckchair and closes his eyes, the sun warm on his skin. After the barbecue and that couple of beers he doesn't feel much like working. He hadn't been relishing the prospect of Philip's visit but it's actually been a good few days. Sam was looking better than she has for weeks, and Matty's spent more time outside and less time on that bloody Xbox.

He can hear the summer hum of the lawnmower further down the garden and, closer, the shrieks and splashes of excitement from the paddling pool. Philip is teaching Matty to body surf. With pretty limited success as far as Michael can see. He opens his eyes briefly, sees Philip at the tap filling the pool again, then leans back. He must have dozed off because when he comes to he can hear his wife and Philip talking a few yards away. They're speaking low, so they must think he's asleep. He was going to open his eyes but something makes him change his mind. At first the talk is just trivial stuff. Where Philip's planning to take the boat in the autumn. How Mum is doing. Then, suddenly, the mood changes.

`Look,' he says, tentative, `you can tell me to sod off and mind my own business if you like, but is everything OK?' There's a creak in the deckchair; he must be leaning towards her.

`What makes you say that?' she says, wary.

`I don't know `“ I just get the impression you have something on your mind. You seem unhappy. To me, anyway.'

There's a silence. Sam must have gestured towards her husband because Philip says, `Don't worry, he can't hear you. All that Stella `“ he's been out for the count for the last half hour.'

Michael's grip tightens on the side of his chair, but he doesn't move. All his other senses are sharpened. The bee veering close. The dog barking in the garden next door. The smell of cut grass.

`How long's that been going on, by the way?' continues Philip. `The drinking, I mean.'

`It's not drinking as such `“'

`It is, compared to what he used to do. He barely drank at all in the old days.'

`He has a lot on his plate `“ you know that `“' She takes a deep breath. `He told you, didn't he, about the problems I've had?'

`The depression?' he says, his voice softer. `Yes, he told me. But I thought `“ well `“ after all this time `“'

`That's why I never tell anyone,' she says sadly. `They'd just assume I should have got over it by now. `њPulled myself together.`ќ That Zachary's over two and it must have gone away. But it hasn't.' There are tears in her voice now. `I'm starting to wonder if it ever will.'

`What does the doc say?'

`She has me on medication, but I hate it, Philip `“ I hate it. It's like I'm living in fog `“ I can't think straight, can't do anything. And then Michael has to look after the kids as well as doing his job and his research, and it's not fair. It's too much `“ the cooking, the school run, the house `“'

`Yeah, right,' says Philip heavily, `the bloody house.'

`So I came off them `“'

`You came off the meds `“ without telling your doctor?'

Michael stops breathing. This is the first he's heard about his wife not taking her medication.

`I was desperate `“ only not taking them was even worse.'

`I'm not surprised `“'

`No,' she says miserably, `you don't understand. That's when it started. The `“ other stuff.'

The chair creaks again. She's crying; he must have put an arm round her.

`You can tell me,' he whispers.

`I kept losing things. Putting them down and finding them later somewhere else where I'd looked already.'

`That could be anything `“ I do that `“'

`It's not just that. I started hearing things too. In the house. Like there was someone there. And last week I suddenly smelt burning but nothing was on fire `“'

`Someone's barby? It's that time of year.'

`No, like I said, it was inside the house.'

He starts saying something about the possible side effects of coming off the meds but she's crying hard now.

`Have you spoken to Mike about this?' he says gently. `Or the doctor?'

`I'm too scared.'

`Scared? Scared of what?'

`I went on Google,' she says, her voice breaking, `and there were all these websites saying that hallucinations can be a symptom of post-partum psychosis, and I was frightened they'd take Zachary away if they knew. That they'd think I might harm him and he wouldn't be safe with me, and you know that's not true, don't you, I would never harm my children `“'

She breaks down now, and Michael can hear Philip soothing her, telling her it's OK.

And then the sound of the football bouncing on the dry earth. Close. Closer still.

`Why's Mummy crying?' says Matty.

`She's just a bit upset,' says Philip. `Nothing to worry about, Matt.'

`Can we play Ronaldo and Messi again?'

`In a minute. I just need to talk to Mummy first. Why don't you go and get a juice from the fridge and bring one for Zachary too.'

Matty whines a bit at that, but Michael eventually hears his footsteps retreating towards the house.

`Sorry about that,' says Sam. `It all just got on top of me.'

`No need to apologize to me. Seriously. But I think you really do need to go back on the meds.'

`I did. I went to the doctor. I didn't tell her `“ you know `“ what had happened. Just said the pills weren't agreeing with me. She put me on something different.'

`And are they better?'

A pause. She must have nodded.

`And there hasn't been anything since `“ none of that weird stuff?'

Another pause.

`Well, that has to be a good sign, doesn't it `“ if it only happened when you weren't on the medication?'

`I suppose so.'

`But I really do think you should talk to your doctor about it `“ all of it. Just to be on the safe side. You don't need to worry. Nothing bad's going to happen.'

`Do you promise?' she whispers.

Michael's heard enough; he shifts a little in his chair, feigning waking. And when he opens his eyes he sees his brother holding his wife's hand.

`I promise,' Philip says.

At the John Rad, Alan Challow's assistant, Nina Mukerjee, is pulling on a clean set of scrubs. Ray Goodwin, the appointed pathologist, has just arrived to conduct the second autopsies and she's been asked to sit in and observe, in case something new comes up. No one's expecting anything `“ it's just standard procedure in case there's a trial. But right now, any sort of trial seems a very long way off and Nina's steeling herself for a gruesome afternoon that gets them precisely nowhere.

The door swings open. `Miss Mukerjee?'

He's younger than she expected `“ a lot younger. And definitely not the usual tweedy type. More rogue than brogues, by the look of him, with his hipster beard and earring. In fact, she's pretty sure she can see a tattoo.

`You ready?'

She nods.

`Then let's get this party started.'

By five, Baxter is rather pleased with himself. He's no accountant but he's done a few courses and he's got quite savvy with numbers, over the years. Enough to get by, anyway. If it's a really big one, like fraud or money laundering, then they call in the experts, but usually it's just about getting a clear picture of the cash. The haves, the have-nots, and the desperately wanna-haves. And with this bloke Esmond it only took him an afternoon to get a pretty good idea, even if `pretty' is hardly the word, in the circumstances. He picks up the phone and calls Fawley, and a couple of minutes later the DI pushes open the door and comes towards him. He looks frazzled, which seems to be par for the course these days. Baxter's heard the same rumours the rest of the station has, and even if he tends to be sceptical about office gossip it's hard not to see Fawley's frayed nerves as evidence that something's gone badly wrong on the home front.

Gis stands up from his desk and comes over to join them.

`OK,' says Fawley, `what have we got?'

Baxter gestures at his computer. `The last time Esmond's credit card was used is late afternoon on the 31st December. The Tesco in Summertown. No unusual transactions recently as far as I can see, though he was close to his credit limit, and only paying off the minimum most months.' He changes the page. `And this is Esmond's current account. As you can see, only a couple of hundred quid in it.' He scrolls down. `Nothing untoward in terms of incomings or outgoings until about two months ago, when there's a transfer in from the savings account of £2,000, which goes straight back out again three days later. In cash.'

`Who needs that sort of cash these days?' wonders Gislingham.

`And this,' says Baxter, switching to another page, `is the savings account. After that last withdrawal, all that's left in it is,' he leans forward to read, `three hundred and seventy-six pounds fifty-four pence. Eighteen months ago there was over fifteen thousand in there, but by last October it was all but gone, apart from that final two grand.'

`So what was he spending it on?' asks Fawley.

`I've looked at the individual transactions and most of it has been going on care home fees. That place in Wantage where his mother is? That's one of the most expensive ones round here.' Which is probably, thinks Baxter, why Everett hasn't bothered checking that one out. She still hasn't said anything to him about her dad but he's seen the brochures in her desk drawer and he knows the old man's been struggling.

Fawley, meanwhile, has been studying the numbers. `So if the cash ran out in October, how's he been paying the fees since?'

Fawley's sharp, no question. Even when he is distracted.

Baxter sits back and places his fingertips together. `Short answer? He hasn't. I spoke to the home's accountant and there's two months' bills outstanding. They asked Esmond to come in and see them in December and he said he was `њmaking arrangements`ќ but no actual dosh has yet been forthcoming.'

`I thought the family were supposed to be wealthy?' says Gislingham.

Baxter glances up at him. `You and me both. So I did a bit more digging. I couldn't get full financials on the family business because it was a private sale but judging by how little Esmond's father sold it for it must have been in big trouble. And he lived on the proceeds for the rest of his life `“ by the time he died the cash must have pretty much dried out.' He makes a face. `You know that saying `“ first generation makes it, second generation spends it and third generation blows it. Looks like Esmond's father blew it big time.'

`So why not sell the house?' says Gislingham. `I mean, I know it's the family silver and all that, but if his mum needed care `“'

`He can't.'

It's Quinn, at the door, still in his coat. He holds up a sheaf of papers.

`I found this at the house.'

He walks over and hands the papers to Fawley, who reads the top sheet slowly, then looks up at Quinn. `Good work,' he says. `Bloody good work.'

Last Will and Testament

This is the last will and testament of Horace Zachary Esmond, of Felix House, 23 Southey Road, Oxford.

1 I appoint as the Executors and Trustees of this my Will (`the Trustees') the partners in the firm of Rotherham Fleming Co of 67 Cornwallis Mews, Oxford.

2 In this Will, where the context admits:

i. Beneficiaries' shall mean my son Richard Zachary Esmond, his children, and their subsequent issue;

ii. `Property Beneficiary' shall mean my son Richard, and upon his death, his oldest surviving son (or if none, daughter), and so on for each succeeding generation;

iii. `Property' shall mean Felix House, 23 Southey Road, Oxford;

iv. `Residual Property' shall mean all of my property and assets, personal and commercial, with the exception of the Property.

3 The Trustees must hold the Property on trust for the Property Beneficiary for the term of his life, and allow him to occupy the Property rent-free so long as he (i) pays all outgoings on the Property; (ii) keeps the Property in good repair; and (iii) keeps the Property insured in the Trustees' name and to their satisfaction.

4 Subject to clause 5 below, the Trustees must not sell the Property.

5 In circumstances where (i) the Property Beneficiary dies without any surviving issue, or (ii) the Property is required to be demolished (whether due to fire, flood, subsidence, act of God, or a compulsory purchase order of a Local Authority or other public body in accordance with statute or otherwise), the Trustees shall sell the Property and distribute the proceeds to each of the Beneficiaries in equal parts.

6 The Trustees shall, after paying all debts, funeral and testamentary expenses and Inheritance Tax on all property that vests in them, distribute the Residual Property to my son Richard Zachary Esmond.

Testimonium and Attestation

Dated this 14th day of April, 1965.

Signed by the above named Horace Zachary Esmond as and for his last Will in our presence and by us in his.

В

В В Peter ClarenceNorman Dennis Partner, Rotherham Fleming CoPartner, Rotherham Fleming Co First Codicil

I, Horace Zachary Esmond, of Felix House, 23 Southey Road, Oxford, DECLARE this to be a first Codicil to my last Will, dated the 14th day of April 1965 (`my Will').

MY WILL shall be construed and take effect as if it contained the following clause: I give free of Inheritance tax to: Philip Zachary Esmond, my grandson, born 11th October 1975, the sum of One Hundred Thousand pounds (£100,000).

IN ALL other respects I confirm my Will dated 14th April 1965. IN WITNESS whereof I have hereunto set my hand on this 27th day of November 1975:

В

And for a first Codicil to his Will in our presence, and by us jointly attested and subscribed in his presence:

В В Norman DennisBenjamin Turner Partner, Rotherham Fleming CoPartner, Rotherham Fleming Co***

Long after most of the team have gone home I'm still at my desk, looking at the will and wondering about the man who drafted it. What sort of mind must you have to draw up something like this `“ to go to such lengths to ensure generations you'll never even see will conform to your own conception of the family, to your idea of its legacy and its position. And yes, clearly there was plenty of money in the sixties `“ a hundred grand would have been a fortune back then `“ and Horace Esmond probably couldn't even imagine a time when his descendants might actually need to sell that house, but that's no excuse. I sit back in my chair, feeling, for the first time, genuinely sorry for Michael Esmond. Then I reach forward and pick up the phone. Because suddenly I have an excuse to call. A reason to speak to my wife that's not about her or me or some impossible possible child, but about what she does. Because at times like this, in cases like this, I always talk to my wife. Not only for her lawyer's training, but because she has one of the most acute minds I've ever known. A quite staggering ability to home in on the key facts `“ both those we have, and those we don't. And if I'm hesitating to call her now, it's because I'm not sure I can face listening to her applying that relentless intellect to argue herself out of what remains of our marriage.

`Alex, it's me. Can you give me a call back? It's not about `“ it's about a case. I just need someone to tell me that a document means what I think it means. And yes, I know I could ask the legal people here, but I'd rather ask you. I'd always rather ask you.'

At the John Rad, the second autopsies are over. Zachary's was especially grim, but it was always going to be. Yet in the face of such horror, Ray Goodwin had an unexpectedly calming way with him. And for once it wasn't down to CDs of string quartets or amplified whale song. Just a quiet, measured manner that managed to be both gentle and professional at the same time. Nina had to admit, she was impressed.

Afterwards, as they're stripping off their scrubs, he asks how long she's been a forensics officer, and it turns out they have acquaintances in common, and somehow or other they end up having a drink in town. Nina doesn't notice, but Gislingham and Everett are on the far side of the same bar. He with a lager and she a glass of Chardonnay. But the drinks have been sitting there for over an hour. And unlike Nina, their day has not gone unexpectedly well.

`So what do you think is up?' says Gislingham.

Ev glances at him. `What do you mean `њup`ќ?'

`You know. With the boss. Don't tell me you haven't noticed.'

Everett sighs. `Of course I have. It just seems a bit shitty talking about it behind his back.'

`People are just concerned, Ev.'

`I know. And so am I. But we're not going to solve it, are we? Whatever it is.'

Gislingham picks up his glass. `Baxter thinks his wife has left him. Says he overheard Fawley leaving a message for her.'

`That doesn't necessarily mean anything. Whenever I've seen them together I've never thought they were having problems. Though, to be fair, I haven't seen her for a while.'

She thinks back. It must have been at Fawley's birthday drinks. Last October, a couple of dozen of them crammed under the low ceilings of the Turf Tavern, the air thick with the smoke from the braziers outside. Fawley's wife arrived half an hour before the end, saying she'd been held up at work. She'd looked amazing, as always. High heels, scarlet suit, long dark hair in one of those swept-up-and-falling-down things that Everett couldn't manage even if she had the hair for it. Or the time. Alex Fawley had drunk half a glass of warm Prosecco and teased Gislingham about his promotion and smiled at her husband when they did a toast and he'd looked at her in a way no one has ever looked at Everett, her whole life. And then they were gone. No one seeing the Fawleys together would have said there was anything wrong. But then again, anyone can keep up a facade if they only have to do it for half an hour.

`Look, it may still be nothing,' says Everett. But the look on her face says the opposite. The sound system is now playing `Saving All My Love For You'. She's always hated that song, and right now, the lyrics have become horribly apposite.

Gislingham makes a face. `Well, I never had Fawley pegged for a cheater. And after that car crash with Quinn, I'd have thought Somer would have had enough of shitting on her own doorstep.' He glances at Everett. `You two are mates `“ has she said anything to you?'

Everett shakes her head. `Not a squeak. But I wouldn't either, if I was shagging the boss.'

They're silent for a moment. Everett makes circles on the table with her glass.

`Look,' says Gislingham eventually, `I'm going to have to go. I told Janet I wouldn't be late.' He gets up and drags his coat off the back of the chair. `And, Ev? Not a word, right? There's enough bloody gossip at the station already.'

She gives him a `what sort of a person do you think I am' look, and drains her glass.

`I'll come with you.'

Sent:Thurs 11/01/2018, 21.35Importance: High From:Alexandra.Fawley@HHHlaw.co.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Your email

I've had a look at it. It's not the sort of arrangement we would ever recommend these days `“ it's far too restrictive. But basically your assumptions are right:

A life interest in the house passes to the oldest son of each generation, and failing that, the oldest daughter.

He (or she) is entitled to live in the house, but cannot sell it (it being the property of the Trust).

However, according to clause 5, if the house has to be demolished due to circumstances beyond the Trustees' control (such as a catastrophic flood), the house and plot are to be sold and the proceeds distributed among all the direct heirs living at the time.

If this is the Southey Road house we're talking about, in my opinion the conditions of clause 5 have more than adequately been met.

Hope that helps,

A

Alexandra Fawley | Partner | Oxford office | Harlowe Hickman Howe LLP

Not even an `x' at the bottom. Something she'd do without thinking even for friends, but must have stopped herself doing for me.

I don't think I've ever felt more wretched.

20 July 2017, 11.45 a.m.

168 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

The man on the doorstep is in overalls, with a stepladder and a toolbox.

`Mrs Esmond?'

`Yes,' she says warily. There's a van parked by the kerb with `DS Security' painted on the side.

`Your husband booked us in,' he says, seeing the look on her face. He reaches into his pocket for a sheet of paper. `Side gate, alarm system, new deadlocks to windows and exterior doors throughout.'

`He never said anything about it to me.'

At least, she can't remember him doing so.

He looks up and smiles. `Feel free to check with him. You can't be too careful, that's what I always say.'

`If you don't mind, I will.'

She closes the door and goes into the sitting room. She can see the man through the front window. But, as usual, her husband's mobile is off.

`Michael `“ can you call me back? There's a man here to do something to the locks. You never mentioned he was coming.'

She puts the phone down and goes back to the door.

`All OK, then?' says the man, cheerily.

`I couldn't reach him. Do you mind `“ could I see that piece of paper?'

`Office said he came in earlier this week,' he says, handing it to her. `Tuesday, I think it was.'

The day after Philip left. Two days after she'd confided in him that she thought there'd been someone in the house. Only Michael didn't know about that. Did he?

`See?' says the man. `That's his signature right there.'

She stares at the paper. And he's right. It is Michael's signature.

`What did you say you were doing again?'

`New side gate, state-of-the-art alarm system and new door and window locks.' He glances to the side of the house. `I mean, anyone can just walk right in as it stands, can't they? And this time of year, you could be upstairs, with your back door open, and any Tom, Dick or axe murderer could walk straight in. A house this big, you might not even realize. In fact, didn't your husband say you'd had a burglary?'

She flushes. `Not a burglary, no `“ not as such `“'

`All the same, like I said, Mrs Esmond, you can't be too careful. Not these days. Some of those weirdos aren't interested in nicking stuff. They just want the kick of knowing they're somewhere they're not supposed to be.'

`So why the fuck didn't he tell us?'

No prizes for guessing who that is: Quinn, at peak bolshie.

`Seriously,' he continues, looking round at the rest of the team, `Philip Esmond has known all about this will right from the start and yet he hasn't even mentioned it. Not a bloody word.'

`But how is it relevant?' says Ev. `Philip couldn't possibly have set fire to the house because he was in the middle of the sodding Atlantic.'

`Do we actually know that?' Quinn again.

Ev flushes. `Well, no `“'

`Well then,' he says.

I turn to Somer. `What day did you first speak to Philip?'

`On the Thursday afternoon, sir. A few hours after the fire.'

`Right. Could you double-check the exact co-ordinates of that satellite phone call, please? Just to be sure.'

Meanwhile Ev's got a second wind. `In any case, why would Philip want to trash the place? There's no suggestion he was in need of the money.'

`Even a hundred grand at compound interest will run out sometime,' says Asante. `Especially at his rate of burn.'

He's not wrong `“ it's not just the shiny new boat, it's the go-as-you-please lifestyle, and all without any visible means of support.

`That's as may be,' says Baxter grimly, `but it sure as hell gives Michael a motive, though, doesn't it?' And he's right too: setting fire to that house would have solved his financial problems for good and all. But would he really go so far as to burn it down? A building so intimately bound up with his sense of self and his place `“ quite literally `“ in the world? If you're asking me, that's one hell of a stretch. Even if his family hadn't been inside. Even if I didn't know he was fifty miles away at the time.

`Why don't I ask him about it,' says Somer eventually. `Philip, I mean. I can give him a call.'

`No,' I say. `Go and speak to him in person. I want to know how he reacts. And before you go, put in a call to Rotherham Fleming Co. I want to know everything they're prepared to tell us about the Esmonds.'

She looks doubtful. `They'll probably say it's confidential `“'

`I know. But there's nothing to stop us asking.' I look around the room. `Anyone else have anything new and/or useful?'

`Challow called,' says Gislingham. `About the fingerprints they took off the garage door. Most were Michael's and match a lot in the study, but the rest were just partials. And for the record, none were remotely like Jurjen Kuiper's.'

`I've had a call from that Oxford friend of Michael's we were trying to talk to,' says Everett. `He could have seen me later today, but luckily he's also around tomorrow morning.'

She doesn't bother saying why this afternoon is out because we all know. I'm going to have to dig around in my desk drawer and find my black tie.

`Can I help you `“ have you come to see a resident?'

The attendant at the care home reception smiles a neat professional smile that doesn't quite reach the rest of her face.

Somer takes out her warrant card. `DC Erica Somer, Thames Valley Police. I believe Mr Esmond is here at the moment, with his mother?'

The woman nods. `They're in the side lounge.'

She heads down the corridor, her plastic shoes squeaking on the wooden floor. The whole place has the feel of a faintly rundown country hotel. The sweep of gravel drive, the slightly over-large wooden staircase, the brocade curtains with their tasselled tie-backs and the heavy furniture that wouldn't have been out of place in the Southey Road house. Somer wonders for a moment whether that was the point `“ whether Michael Esmond wanted his mother to spend her last days in a place as much like her old home as possible. The only difference is that all the chairs here have plastic seat protectors and the heavy scent of artificial air freshener is masking something worse.

The Esmonds are sitting in a bow window overlooking the garden. On the terrace outside, there are pots of crocuses placed close to the window so the residents can see them, and in front of them there's a pot of tea and two cups. With saucers. Somer can tell, even though he has his back to her, that Philip is already wearing his funeral suit.

He's clearly pleased to see her. Despite the circumstances. He gets to his feet. `DC Somer `“ Erica `“ thank you for coming.'

She smiles. `It's no problem. I know you have a lot to deal with at the moment.'

`This is my mother, Alice.'

Mrs Esmond looks up at her. She must be one of the youngest residents here. No more than seventy, perhaps as little as sixty-five. But her eyes are those of an old woman.

`Hello, Mrs Esmond,' says Somer, holding out her hand.

`Is this your girlfriend?' Mrs Esmond asks, ignoring the hand and turning stiffly to her son.

`Bit of a looker, isn't she?'

`No, Mum,' he replies quickly, flushing and shooting Somer a glance. `This is a lady from the police.'

Mrs Esmond's mouth falls open and she appears about to say something but they're interrupted by the attendant, asking Somer if she'd like tea. `There should still be some in the pot.'

`OK, thank you. Why not.'

The attendant goes in search of extra crockery and Philip turns to face her. `What was it you wanted to talk to me about, DC Somer? Must have been something important.'

`We found a copy of your grandfather's will at the house.'

Philip's shoulders sag a little. `Oh, that.'

`You didn't tell us about it.' She keeps her tone light and her smile in place. `Was there any reason for that?'

He looks bewildered. `It didn't have any relevance. How could it?'

`Just so I'm clear, the terms of the will stipulate that the house has to pass to the eldest son. That means you, doesn't it? But you weren't living there.'

Philip sighs. `Well, like I said, I move around a lot. It would have been standing empty half the time. And Michael had more need of that place than I did. He's the one with the kids.'

He seems to realize suddenly what he's just said. `Jesus,' he says, dropping his head into his hands. `What a fucking nightmare. Sorry. I don't normally swear that much. I'm just struggling to process all this.'

`Don't mind me. I've heard a lot worse. I used to teach in a secondary school.'

He glances up with a sad, rueful smile. She hadn't realized before how blue his eyes are.

`So you agreed that your brother and his family could live in the house?'

`It wasn't official or anything. But yes. It made sense all round, what with him working in Oxford as well.'

`And the clause about the house being demolished?'

`I know it looks a bit odd, but that will was done in the sixties. Right around the time the government were planning the ring road. One of the routes they were considering would have gone straight through Southey Road `“ the house would have been compulsorily purchased. The lawyers told my grandfather he ought to have a provision for an eventuality like that `“ something outside anyone's control. Look, is that it, Constable, only I have a funeral to go to `“'

`Just one more question, sir. Presumably the fire means clause five does actually now apply. The house will have to be pulled down, won't it?'

`I suppose so. I really hadn't thought about it.'

But she's not letting up. `So that means it'll be sold. The land, I mean. That'll be worth a huge amount of money, in that part of Oxford `“ a building plot of that size.'

Philip shrugs. `Probably. But like I said, that's really not my top priority at the moment `“'

`You haven't spoken to your insurance company? It's going to be a huge claim. Surely they'll want to send an adjuster `“'

`Look, I just want to find my brother. Which, if you don't mind me saying, is what the police should be doing as well.'

`The police?' says Mrs Esmond suddenly. `Are you from the police?'

`I told you, Mum,' he says patiently.

`Is it Michael?'

Somer and Philip exchange a glance. `Yes, Mum,' he says quietly. `It's about Michael.'

`I thought your father had sorted it all out,' she says, gripping her son's arm.

`Sorry,' says Philip in an undertone. `This is what happens. She seems OK and then she starts getting the past confused with the present. Or she just starts getting confused, full stop.'

`He told me he'd spoken to the doctor,' Mrs Esmond continues, louder now. `That Mr Taverner. And then he spoke to the police and it was all sorted out.'

`Here you are then,' says the attendant cheerily, bending over to make space on the tray. `And I've brought some biscuits too. Only garibaldis but beggars can't be choosers, eh, Mrs E?'

`I told him, the doctor, Michael's never done anything like that before,' Mrs Esmond is saying. `He's always been such an honest little boy. Always owns up when he's been naughty. The very idea that he could do something like that and then just run away `“'

Somer frowns. This isn't confusion `“ this is something specific. She turns to Philip. `Do you know what she's referring to?'

`Seriously `“ I've no idea.'

`It could be important.'

The attendant looks at Philip and then at Somer. `Well, if it helps, I think I know what she means. Alice told me that story a while ago.' She straightens up. `It was when your brother was still at school, wasn't it?'

There's an awkward silence. Philip Esmond looks away.

The attendant glances at him and then at Somer. `Just shows you what going private can do,' she says heavily, before turning and moving briskly away.

Philip isn't meeting Somer's eye.

`Mr Esmond, are you still asking me to believe you don't know anything about this?'

He shakes his head, then takes a deep breath. `No. But we can't talk about it here. Not where Mum can hear.'

With Fawley, Everett and Somer all due at the funeral, Baxter is having an unusually quiet afternoon. He has a cup of tea (proper tea, brought up from the canteen), and a half-eaten snack bar. It's one of those protein things, and in his book that counts as health food not chocolate, which means it doesn't have to be confessed to his wife and written down in that bloody Weight Watchers log she's running for him. He's been doing the diet for two months now, and he can tell his wife is disappointed the pounds aren't rolling off. She asks him, some days, if he's sure he's remembered everything he ate at the office, and he always looks her straight in the eye. All those years questioning professional liars have finally come in useful.

He finishes the tea, and turns again to trying to crack the password on the PC they found in Michael Esmond's office.

`OK, so talk to me.'

Outside in the garden it's bright but cold. Here and there, smudges of snow linger in shaded corners of the borders. There are snowdrops and the succulent first tips of hyacinths.

Philip shoves his hands in his pockets. It's too cold to sit so they keep walking. Somer can see his mother staring at them from inside. It occurs to her that she probably still thinks she's her son's girlfriend.

`When I said I didn't know anything about it, I wasn't exactly lying.'

`Not exactly? What does that mean?'

`It means I was in Australia at the time. Having a gap year. Only it turned out to be just a `њyear`ќ, since I never ended up going to uni at all.'

`So what happened?'

`Mum and Dad were always really cagey about the whole thing, but Mike told me about it in the end. Not all at once `“ it came out in dribs and drabs.' He takes a deep breath. `Basically, my dad caught him with another boy.'

`Another boy?' Whatever she thought she was expecting, it wasn't this.

`They were in the summerhouse. The one at the bottom of the garden. I don't think it was actual `“ you know `“ sex. Look, he was seventeen, they were probably just experimenting. But Dad went off the deep end. Threw the other kid out, started shouting and bawling and telling Mike he didn't bring him up to be a pervert `“ that he was a disgrace to the family name `“ shit like that. I'm sure you can fill in the blanks.'

And she can. Just as she can imagine how close to home words like that would have gone.

`So what happened?'

`Mike ran back to the house, grabbed the car keys and left. Five minutes later he knocked a little girl off her bike on the Banbury Road.'

`Oh Lord.'

`I know. Poor bastard.'

`And was she all right? The little girl?'

`Yes, she was fine. Just a few bruises. But she was knocked unconscious for a few minutes. Mike thought he'd killed her. He completely panicked. Just got back in the car and drove away. They didn't find him for three days. And when they did, he couldn't remember a thing about it.'

And suddenly it all clicks. `He was at Calshot Spit, right?'

Philip flushes, then nods.

`Why didn't you tell me all this when I asked you about the hut?'

He makes a rueful face. `I'm sorry. I should have been more open with you about that, I realize that now. But it was over twenty years ago `“ I couldn't see how digging it all up again was going to help anyone. Least of all Michael. It just didn't seem in the slightest bit relevant.'

`That's for us to decide, Mr Esmond. Not you.'

He stops walking and turns to face her. `I'm sorry. Really. I'm not a liar. That's not who I am. If you knew me better, you'd know that.'

She elects to ignore the covert message and moves on again. `And that doctor your mother mentioned?'

`My parents were panicking about the whole thing trashing Mike's chances of getting into Oxford so they paid for him to see someone in Harley Street. That way it stayed out of his NHS records. He said Mike was in a state of extreme emotional disturbance at the time of the accident and then went into some sort of traumatic amnesia afterwards `“ `њdissociative fugue`ќ, I think was the phrase. He wrote a letter to the police and they accepted it. And since the little girl was basically unharmed, my parents managed to make it all go away.'

He catches her eye. `And yes, I suspect the latter did involve a fairly hefty cheque.'

`And afterwards?'

`Mike saw the shrink for the rest of that summer and sat his entrance exams that autumn. The rest, you know.'

`And the other boy `“'

Philip gives an ironic laugh. `Totally redacted. I don't even know the poor little sod's name. And the way Mike went on afterwards, well, let's just say it was about as un-gay as you can get. He'd only had one girlfriend up till then. Janey `“ Jenny `“ something like that. But suddenly he was seeing them left, right and centre. Well `њseeing`ќ is perhaps an exaggeration. It was just sex, as far as I could tell.' He grins sheepishly. `I was pretty envious, if you must know.'

`So you were back from Australia by then.'

He nods.

`And how did your brother seem to you?'

`The same `“ and different. I'd never have guessed what had happened just from looking at him.'

`I don't follow.'

`Well, something like that `“ you'd expect it to knock you back, wouldn't you? But with Mike it was the opposite. It wasn't just the sleeping around. He was more confident, more assertive. You know, just louder.'

Just like the last six months, thinks Somer. Coincidence? Or has history been repeating itself?

However different our lives are, the way we leave them doesn't vary much. Not these days. Crematoria are like McDonald's. Identical in every town. Same layout, same chairs, same acrylic-looking curtains. And in most cases, the same embarrassing sense of one group of mourners being bundled out the back just as the next lot are coming in the front door. But not this time. The Esmonds' funeral is going to be all over the press this time tomorrow and the crematorium has clearly freed up the entire afternoon. I get there early, before Everett and Somer, but the vestibule is still packed, and I scan the crowd wondering who a lot of these people are. The smattering of smartly dressed women in their thirties is probably parents from Matty's school, but I reckon most of the rest are journos, sporting over-worn blacks and over-practised grief faces.

I'm doing my best to blend into the background, leaving Everett and Somer to manage the official presence. And they do it well, in their different ways. Somer is prompter to approach people, and I see her starting conversations, asking questions. I watch men underestimating her because she's attractive and in a uniform, and I watch her registering that fact and using it to her advantage. Everett, on the other hand, is more outwardly passive, as well as a good deal less comfortable in her uniform, which she keeps tugging at every few minutes. She does more listening than talking, making people feel they're the ones controlling the flow of information. But she's gathering it, all the same.

As the three hearses draw up outside, there's an unseemly jostling as the press photographers push forward to get the best angle. Samantha's coffin is covered in pink lilies and those tiny white flowers. Baby's breath. In the second car, Matty's is draped in an Arsenal flag, with a wreath of red roses I'm told was sent on behalf of the club. Apparently they're going to wear black armbands for the next game. That's social media for you. And finally Zachary's, the tiny coffin overwhelmed by his name picked out in cushions of daisies.

There's rain in the air, but the clouds part momentarily and a shaft of sunlight slants down across the grass and the shrivelled winter plants. There's a solitary blackbird at the edge of the gravel, darting at the municipal bark chips and digging out shreds of wood. I find myself staring at it as the bearers move forward, so I hear rather than see the swell of emotion as Gregory Gifford steps up to take his little grandson's coffin. It's Zachary who has the women in tears, but it's Matty I'm shrinking from. Any parent who's lost a child will tell you the same. Widows, orphans `“ there are names for people who've lost wives, lost husbands, lost parents. But there's no name for a parent who's lost a child. And so I avoid funerals when I can, and children's even more. It's bad enough at the time, when you're half dazed with the wreckage of your life, but reliving it in the rawness of someone else's grief is all but unbearable. I don't want to think about that day. I don't want to remember Alex's white tearless face, my parents clinging to each other, and the flowers, wreath upon wreath of them sent from all those people we'd asked not to come `“ people we'd asked not to send flowers. And yet they sent flowers all the same, because they had to do something. Because they felt as helpless as we did in the face of such unthinkable pain.

The procession forms now, the bearers adjust under the weight and the minister comes forward. I hang back, letting the last stragglers go before me, avoiding the eye of the one or two hacks I recognize. The music they're playing is classical. Bach, I'm guessing, but something richer, less austere than I usually find him. We had Handel for Jake. Handel and Oasis. The Handel was Alex's choice. `Lascia ch'io pianga', `Let me weep over my cruel fate'. I loved it once, but I can't listen to it any more. The Oasis was down to me. `Wonderwall'. Jake listened to it all the time. I always thought he played it so much because he was hanging on to the idea that we would save him. But we couldn't. I couldn't. I wasn't any sort of wall for my son. In the end, when he needed me, I wasn't there.

I slip into a seat in the back row. A seat with a view over the entrance and the grounds. Because that's the main reason I'm here. Michael Esmond's entire family is being cremated today, and we've done whatever we can to ensure that wherever he is, he'll know that. His wife, his two sons `“ it takes a special kind of coldness to turn your back on that: even hardened killers I've known couldn't do it. So I position myself where I can scan the long drive and the bleak flat parkland that quarantines this place of death and parting from the ordinary, busy, self-absorbed life going on outside. The words of the funeral service push into my brain `“ Devoted mother and wife`¦ Popular with all his classmates`¦ Taken so tragically soon `“ but all I can see is the blackbird. With its intent beady eye and its brutal stabbing beak.

Oxford Mail online

Friday 12 January 2018 Last updated at 17:08

Funerals held in Oxford house fire

The funerals of Samantha Esmond and her two sons, Matty, 10, and Zachary, 3, were held at the Oxford crematorium this afternoon. Residents stood in silence in the streets as the cortège passed, and the large crowd of mourners included family, friends and colleagues, as well as representatives from Bishop Christopher's School, where Matty was a pupil. There was also a significant, if discreet, police presence. However, if officers were hoping Michael Esmond might make an appearance, they were disappointed.

Despite police appeals for him to come forward, the Oxford University academic has not been seen since the evening of 3 January, at an academic conference in London. Earlier that week he is thought to have attended a meeting with his head of department. Sources close to the faculty have suggested that Dr Esmond had been accused of sexual harassment by a female student, and could have faced a serious reprimand, if not dismissal.

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Traders in the historic market are concerned for its future after several high-profile closures`¦ /more

Football: Oxford Mail Youth League, full reports and scores`¦ /more

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A 45-year-old teacher has been arrested after one of his pupils made an allegation of rape. The girl, who cannot be named for legal reasons`¦ /more

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92 comments

CallydonianGal0099

It breaks your heart, it really does. Those poor children

MedoraMelborne

The father killed them. Killed them and then killed himself. Just you wait `“ I know I'm right

5656AcesHigh

I'm with you. I reckon the vicious SOB murdered the lot of them.

HillBilly_889

The more you hear about this the worse it gets. Now that bloke's a sex pest? You couldn't make it up.

I wait by the car, catching a smoke. Everett and Somer are seeing off the last of the mourners and the car park is nearly empty. The wind is getting up and I see Somer holding on to her cap as they round the side of the building and come towards me.

`Did you get anything, sir?' says Everett as they reach me. `Because I don't think we did.' She pulls at her jacket again, shunting it back down.

I shake my head. `Nothing concrete. And you, Somer?'

`Not really, sir.'

`Did you speak to the lawyers?'

She nods. `Nothing doing, I'm afraid. They said they're unable to divulge anything about their clients' affairs. Even if they wanted to.'

I'm not surprised, though it was worth a try.

`But I did have a very interesting conversation with Philip Esmond. Not here,' she adds quickly. `This morning, at the care home.'

Which may explain an idle observation I made more than once during the last hour and a half. The way Esmond was looking at her, and the way she wasn't looking at him.

It doesn't take long to give me the gist of it. The incident with the boy, the accident on the Banbury Road and the panic flight to Calshot, the one place where Michael Esmond felt safe. And by the end of it she's not the only one who's starting to see a pattern.

`I know he didn't actually go to Calshot this time,' she finishes, flushing slightly at the memory, `but the rest of it `“ do you think he saw the news about the fire and went into another fugue state? It must be a possibility, surely. Though I suppose we'd have to talk to a psychiatrist to be sure `“'

`I can call Bryan Gow. Remind me `“ when did Annabel Jordan say she noticed a change in Esmond?'

`Last summer, boss,' says Ev with a meaningful look. `Which was exactly the same time the teachers at Bishop Christopher's noticed a change in Matty.'

Michael, Matty `“ there's something there, I'm sure of it `“ only just out of reach `“

`OK, let's do a bit more digging. Something happened in that family last summer and I want to know what it was.'

Interview with James Beresford, conducted at 12 Feverel Close, Wolvercote, Oxford

13 January 2018, 11.16 a.m.

In attendance, DC V. Everett

VE:Thank you for making time to see me on a Saturday, Mr Beresford. JB:No problem. Happy to help. Though I'm not sure what use I can be. I don't see Michael much. I mean, we were at school together, but that's a long time ago now. We were never exactly `friends'. VE:When did you last see him? JB:I've been thinking about that, ever since I saw the news. It was about three months ago. He emailed me out of the blue. It must have been four or five years since I'd heard from him before that. VE:So was there a particular reason why he got in contact this time? JB:It didn't seem like that to start with. We met up in one of those bars on South Parade. We had to sit outside because he wanted to smoke. I thought he'd given up years ago, but anyway, we must have been there at least an hour talking about nothing, and then he finally comes out with it. Says he wants to pick my brains. Professionally, I mean. VE:He wanted your advice? JB:Yeah, well, he didn't put it like that, of course. Michael would never want you to think you knew better than he did. VE:But he did want your help? JB:I was gobsmacked, if you really want to know. He'd never made a secret of the fact that he thought what I do is a load of crap. Not a `proper' academic discipline. Not like his. VE:What is it you do? JB:I'm a psychotherapist. VE:I see. So he wanted `“ what? A recommendation of someone he could see? JB:Basically, yes. Though he kept saying it was for someone in the family, not for him. But he would say that, wouldn't he? VE:In fact, we have now ascertained that his wife was suffering from post-natal depression. Do you think it might have been her he had in mind? JB:Right, I didn't know that. In that case, yes, he could well have been thinking of her. VE:Can you give me the name? The person you recommended? JB:I gave him a list actually `“ six or seven people locally. I can get you that. VE:Do you know if he ever contacted any of them? JB:They wouldn't tell me, even if he had. Confidentiality. And like I said, I haven't heard from him since. VE:And how did he seem, in general, that night on South Parade? JB:He looked bloody awful, actually. Hadn't shaved, sweat under his armpits. That sort of thing. VE:And that was unlike him? JB:[makes a face] I should say. It was always all about appearances with Michael. He had to be the one with the best exam results, the best job, the most beautiful home, the most beautiful wife. You get the picture. Actually `“ VE:Yes? JB:The first thing I thought when I heard the news was that he'd done it himself. You know, taken the ultimate way out. To be honest, if I didn't know he was in London at the time, I'd still think that. He always did have the cork in too tight.***

28 July 2017, 10.45 a.m.

160 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Michael Esmond opens the study doors and stands for a moment, staring down the garden. It's one of the hottest days of the year but he had to have the doors closed while the grass was being cut because it was too noisy. But he can let some air into the room now that Harry is on his hands and knees doing the borders. And he's doing a good job, no question: the garden looks better than it has for years. It would almost be worth having another party for the department. Almost, but not quite. He knows from experience that events like that are always far more work than you've bargained for, and Sam probably still isn't up to it. Not to mention the cost. He turns and goes back to his desk, and for an hour all he can hear is the snip of the secateurs, the birdsong and an occasional bark from the dog next door. He's so engrossed he doesn't notice the sounds of gardening have stopped; he doesn't even look up until a shadow falls across the page in front of him. He glances up.

`Present from Sam.'

Harry is standing in front of him, holding out a can of lager. And a glass. He has a can of his own in his other hand.

`Thanks,' says Michael, sitting back. `You're doing well `“ with the garden, I mean.'

Harry smiles. `Most of the heavy lifting's done now, but you have to keep on top of it at this time of year.' He wipes the cold can across his forehead like he's a model in a soft drink ad. And modelling might well be a viable option if he put his mind to it. He has the looks, the height, the six-pack. The tan. There's a line of sweat along his upper lip and he wipes his hand across his mouth. Michael looks away quickly, realizing he was staring. He feels himself redden.

`I didn't realize you had tatts,' he says, desperate for something to fill the silence.

Harry looks down at where his shirt is open. There's a small tattoo just visible on his left pectoral. `Just the one,' he says, touching it. `It's for the woman in my life.' He winks.

Later, when his wife brings him out a sandwich, Michael asks her if Harry has a girlfriend.

`Not that I know of,' she says, looking down the garden to where he's bagging up the grass cuttings. He's taken his shirt off now. `Why?'

`Oh, no reason. It was just something he said. About that tattoo of his. He said it was for the woman in his life.'

`Oh, that,' she says, smiling. `He told me about that. It's for his mother. It's a reference to her name. She brought him up on her own so they're very close. A bit classier than `њI love my Mum`ќ in big letters, don't you think?'

Harry is coming up the garden now, the bag over his shoulder. The tattoo is clearly visible. A tiny sprig of berries on sharp dark shoots.

`Don't worry,' says Samantha, seeing her husband's face. `I won't let Matty get one.'

`No,' he says, without turning to look at her. `I should hope not.'

Telephone interview with Belinda Bolton,

14 January 2018, 2.55 p.m.

On the call, DC V. Everett

VE:Hello? DC Everett speaking. BB:Oh, hello, it's Belinda Bolton. I spoke to you at the funeral on Friday. You gave me your card, do you remember? My son Jack is in Matty's class. VE:Oh yes, I remember. You said they were good friends. BB:Only in the last term, really, but yes, we did see Matty quite a few times. VE:So how can I help you? BB:You said, at the funeral, that it was possible Jack might remember something. That he might have heard or seen something but not realize how important it was. VE:That often happens, with children. It can sometimes be better not to push it `“ to let them come out with it in their own good time. BB:Yes, well, that's just it. I just dropped him off at one of his friend's, and just as he was getting out of the car he said something really odd. I was a bit distracted because I was parked on a yellow line and I wanted him to get a move on. VE:What did he say? BB:I think he'd been talking about one of his video games. To be honest, I pretty much switch off when he starts on about that stuff, and then he was halfway out of the car `“ VE:Mrs Bolton `“ what did he say? BB:It sounds mad, saying it now, but I'm sure he said something about Matty wanting to kill Zachary.***

`It was just a game. It's not real.'

The four of them are sitting on a bench in the Bishop Christopher's school playground. Everett, Somer, Alison Stevens and Jack Bolton, Matty Esmond's friend. They can hear voices from the classrooms and, somewhere, piano music and children singing. There was a hard frost overnight and the rather scrappy perimeter hedge has turned into a glittering fortification worthy of a fairy castle. A weak sun has just emerged from the clouds, but it's still cold. The boy is swaddled in a blue puffa jacket, scuffing his trainers against the tarmac.

`You like playing games online, don't you, Jack?' says Everett.

`Sometimes,' he says warily.

`Which do you like best?'

A little more energy now. `Fortnite. But Minecraft is cool too.'

Everett and Somer exchange a glance.

`That was Matty's favourite, wasn't it? His dad said something about that.'

Jack is still scuffing the tarmac. `Matty was ace at it.'

`You said something to your mum yesterday `“ something about killing Zachary,' says Everett. She says it lightly, as if it's not that important.

Jack looks up briefly. `Attack Zack.'

`What's that then?'

`Matty made it for Minecraft. It was awesome.'

`You played it with him?'

Jack shrugs. `A few times.'

`Did he tell you why he called it after his brother?' asks Everett.

Jack glances up; he's obviously perplexed by the question. `It was just a name. It didn't mean anything.'

He's closing up now and the presence of the head teacher probably isn't helping. Everett elects to try a different tack. `Mrs Stevens said you have a little brother, too, Jack. Is that right?' asks Everett.

He nods. He's avoiding her eye.

`I'm sure you love him, don't you?'

A pause. `Babies are stupid. They're really boring.'

`But you still love him, don't you?'

A shrug. `He just lies there. And he cries. All the time. It's really boring.'

Somer rubs her hands together against the cold. Her gloves don't seem to be helping much. One of her old boyfriends said she needed mittens. He was into adventure sports and said mittens are better because they allow your fingers to touch. Conserves your body heat, apparently. But how the hell does a grown woman get away with wearing mittens? Never mind a bloody police officer. She wonders in passing, surprised she's even having the thought, if Giles Saumarez has an opinion about mittens.

`Did Matty talk to you about his brother?' Everett asks.

Jack nods. `Not much. Sometimes.'

`What did he say?'

Another shrug. `He said his mum cared more about Zachary than she did about him.'

`But Zachary was very little,' says Somer. `He needed someone to look after him. Just like Matty had, when he was little.'

No reply at all this time. Jack is still scuffing the ground. Alison Stevens is clearly itching to ask him to stop.

`I told you,' he says eventually. `It isn't real. Nobody dies.'

Fifteen minutes later the three women are walking back towards the head's office. Everett stops a moment and looks back at where Jack is now playing football with four or five classmates. They look just like all the other kids who've kicked a ball about on this playground over the years. But are they really? Has there ever been a generation so inured to violence, so habituated to casual brutality? All those specialists she reads about in the Sunday papers, with their dire warnings about the impact of playing video games and the erosion of empathy `“ judging by what she's just seen, they don't know the half of it.

5 September 2017, 7.15 p.m.

121 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

The kitchen is full of overenthusiastic dog. The elderly golden retriever is capering like a puppy as Matty throws treats into the air for her to catch. Zachary is laughing and squealing, and Samantha is at the sink, turning occasionally and smiling.

Michael puts his laptop case down on the table and joins his wife. `I gather the Youngs said yes.'

`They said we can do it again if it works out OK this time.'

`Can we, Dad?' says Matty at once. `Can we?'

`Let's see how it goes tonight first.'

Matty drops to his knees and wraps his arms round the dog's neck, resting his cheek against the gentle face.

`You remember the rules, don't you, Matty?' says Michael.

The boy nods.

`Tell me.'

`Mollie can't go on the furniture and I have to take responsibility for feeding her.'

`That's right. And she has to sleep down here, in the basket, not in your room.'

Matty seems about to say something to that, but clearly thinks better of it. `OK, Dad.'

Two hours later, Michael goes upstairs to check on his son to find Mollie curled up on the end of the bed. She opens one eye, then settles down with a doggy sigh.

`Don't wake him,' whispers Sam, appearing at her husband's elbow. `He looks so happy.'

`That duvet cover will be taking a beating.'

`It's fine,' she says softly. `There are more important things in life than a bit of dog hair.'

`That lad wasn't just playing games online,' says Baxter. `He was seriously into it.'

I'm standing behind him, looking down at his computer. Everett and Somer are on the other side.

`He used his own name for his profile, too,' continues Baxter, `which is why he was so easy to find.'

I glance at him with a frown. `But don't you need a credit card to play online? A subscription or something?'

`Not with Minecraft. Once you buy the game you can play online for free, no problem,' says Baxter, still staring at the screen. `Most parents think it's pretty innocuous. And it is, at least compared to something like Call of Duty or Mortal Kombat. It can actually be quite educational `“ people have built 3D versions of places like the Louvre, specially for Minecraft. And there's a really cool Escher thing, too.'

He pulls up a screen and there it is: one of my favourite optical illusions recreated in tiny Lego-like bricks. Impossible staircases, irresolvable walls. I had no idea you could do something like that in a video game and I think sadly how much I'd have loved Jake to see it. I did try to get into it `“ the whole idea left me cold but Alex said that I had to make an effort, that it was something Jake and I could do together. But it never really worked. Alex says the problem is I can't suspend my disbelief. Perhaps that's one reason I'm a good copper: I refuse to lose touch with reality. I can't let it go, not completely. Even when I was a kid I couldn't unsee the strings on Thunderbirds. But looking at Baxter's screen now, at something I've always loved and didn't know existed, I wonder whether Jake and I could have shared this after all, just as Alex wanted. But then it occurs to me that perhaps Jake knew about it all along. He just didn't tell me. He didn't think I'd be interested.

`Impressive, eh?' Baxter is saying, typically oblivious. `As is this. In rather a different way.'

He changes the screen. The avatar I'm now staring at looks exactly like Matty. It's still made of bricks, but it's clearly him. In fact I'm impressed how cleverly he's resolved his face into square blocks of colour. A rather endearing caricature. The glasses, the hair, the nose. The likeness is slightly unnerving.

`Is it easy to do something like that?' asks Everett.

`It's fiddly,' Baxter concedes. `But he clearly had quite a talent. Though probably not one his father had much time for. Strikes me he was a three Rs kinda guy.'

`So what about this `њAttack Zack`ќ thing,' I ask. `Where does that come in?'

He swivels his chair round to face me. `How much do you know about the way Minecraft works?'

`I'm guessing it's a bit like The Lord of the Rings on acid?'

Somer suppresses a smile.

`Right,' says Baxter. `Weird creatures all over the place. Some of them are dangerous, like spiders and zombies. And Creepers. They're the worst kind of Mob `“'

`Mob?'

`Sorry `“ it's short for Mobile. Basically, anything that's supposed to be a living creature. Like farmyard animals, which you can kill and eat, or use to make weapons and stuff.'

My new-found enthusiasm for gaming is already diminishing. `So?'

He turns back to the computer again, then sits back and points. `Look.'

The creature on the screen is labelled `baby pig'.

And it has Matty's brother's face.

6 September 2017, 8.11 a.m.

120 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

He should have realized something was wrong from the silence. He checks his watch `“ gone eight. The kids are always awake by now, and what with having the dog in the house, he's surprised it isn't a riot downstairs by now. He sighs, rolls over and hauls himself out of bed. At his side Samantha stirs but doesn't wake, dulled to the world. It's starting to get cold in the mornings and he pulls on his dressing gown, tying it as he makes his way across the landing. There are sounds from the nursery. Zachary baby-talking to himself. He hesitates at the top of the stairs, wondering whether to make tea for Sam first, but something prompts him to change his mind and go along to the nursery door. His son is sitting on the floor surrounded by scraps of silver foil. His face is smeared with chocolate, and the dog is lying at his side. At first glance Michael assumes it's asleep, until he notices the dregs of vomit around its mouth and the congealing half-glazed eye.

`Wake her up, Daddy!' cries Zachary, raising his arms towards his father. `Wake the doggy up!'

Michael is on his knees at once, feeling the dog's body for a pulse, but there's nothing. He turns to Zachary. `Did you give the doggy some of your chocolate?'

Zachary nods, his eyes wide. `She liked it. She had lots.'

`And when was that, do you remember?'

Zachary puts his finger in his mouth. His face starts to pucker.

`Don't worry,' says Michael quickly, getting to his feet, his heart pounding. There's only one thing that matters now and that's getting the bloody dog out of here. Before everyone else wakes up. Before Matty sees this and realizes what's happened.

He lifts Zachary back on to his bed, then bends to pick up the dog. Its body is already stiffening and starting to go cold. He staggers a little, under the weight, then turns towards the door.

It's Matty. In his Arsenal pyjamas. His face pale and closed, and his knuckles clenched so hard the skin is white. Michael has no idea how long he's been standing there.

I'm still looking at the screen. I'm not sure I want to know the answer to the next question, but I'm going to have to ask it.

`Baxter `“ these animals on Minecraft `“ you said people kill them? And that's part of the game `“ you're supposed to do that?'

`Yeah,' he says, looking slightly uncomfortable now. `You get pork chops if you kill a pig.'

Pork chops. Just like in real life. Only this is much worse, somehow.

`So if I wanted to kill that baby pig `“ the one on that screen `“ how would I go about doing it?'

`Well, you could stab it or drown it or blow it up.' He takes a deep breath. `And there's another way, too.'

It's as if I'm having to drag it out of him, word by word. `Like what, Baxter?'

He looks embarrassed. `You could set it on fire.'

`Set it on fire?'

He flushes. `That way you get your pork chops ready cooked.' He glances back at me. `You want me to show you `њAttack Zack`ќ?'

`No,' I say, swallowing. It feels like I have grit in my throat. `Round up the rest of the team first. We all need to see this.'

Milo's Minecraft Mobs

Posted 11 Dec 17

В

So we all know that Creepers are just about the scariest Mob out there, right? But how much do you really know about this icon of Minecraft? Don't worry `“ right here is all you need to know`¦

Creepers may be mega-fear-provoking, but they actually came about by accident (cool, eh?). Apparently Notch, Minecraft's creator, was really trying to create a pig В , only `“ holy crap `“ something went wrong and it came out tall and thin instead of long and fat. And GREEN! Just has to be the luckiest accident ever.

Creepers are worse than just about any other hostile Mob because unlike zombies and skeletons В they can operate in daylight (they spawn at night, tho'). Even worse than that, they're pretty much silent too, so they can get real close before you even know they're there, and if they get close enough they BLOW UP! That's right `“ they don't attack you, they just В explode В . The only warning you get is this creepy hissy noise, then they start to flash and swell up and BANG!

Amazingly enough, Creepers can actually climb ladders and stairs and get across lava pools, though they can't go through doors and they're scared of cats (Tip: Get yourself a cat В ).

The best way to kill a Creeper? Light a В fire В and lure it in`¦

В

Next post: Zapping Zombies

It takes Baxter ten minutes to connect his computer to the Incident Room projector. Ten minutes while I prowl up and down like one of those bloody Creeper things. First rule of technology: if it can blow up in your face, it will try its darnedest. And then finally Baxter's desktop appears on the screen and he starts to pull up the images. Matty's avatar, which has people glancing at each other and smiling sadly. And then the mutant piglet with Zachary's face, Zachary's mop of curly hair. And now there are no smiles at all.

`And he made that pig thing himself? On his own?' says Gislingham, who's struggling to get to grips with all this.

`Customization,' says Asante. `All those games do it.'

`Bit more than that in this case,' says Baxter. `It's relatively easy to change your own avatar, but to do that piglet he had to make his own Mod.'

Mobs? Mods? I'm losing the plot now. `Mod? What the hell is that?'

`Stands for modification. Basically Minecraft stuff made by players themselves, which they allow other people to use.'

He navigates to an internet page and scrolls down a whole list of customized add-ons. Everything from deluxe battleaxes to new and especially nasty hybrid creatures. Right down the bottom of the page Baxter stops. It's the link `Attack Zack'.

You could hear a pin drop in this room right now.

Baxter glances at me then clicks on the link and pulls up a video. It's a farmyard of some sort. Barns and outhouses and animal pens. In the foreground, the Zachary piglet is staring straight out of the screen, moving its head, flicking its little tail. And then the game begins. In the background, a nasty high-pitched voice is singing the nursery rhyme.

This little piggy went to market

This little piggy stayed at home

This little piggy had roast beef

This little piggy had none

We watch as the piglet is chased through the maze of farmyard buildings until it's cornered, unable to escape. It's an animation, nothing more than bright pink pixelated bricks, but the screams, the panic, are horrifyingly realistic. And just as we're getting to the point when we can't watch it any more, the player throws something at the piglet and it's consumed in flames. Flames that even I believe in.

The tinny voice is cackling now.

This little piggy went BOOM!

`Jesus Christ,' says Gislingham, turning away. `Christ knows how parents keep their kids safe, with all the shit there is out there.' He sighs. `I suppose all you can do is love them. Love them and hope they'll talk to you. You know, before they do anything really stupid `“'

He stops, frozen, realizing what he's said.

`Shit, I'm sorry, boss. I didn't mean `“'

I swallow hard and wave it away. `Don't worry, I know you didn't.'

No one ever does. But they do it all the same.

Everett is still staring at the screen. `I know children can resent new babies, but this? This `“ this `“ it's horrific.'

`But it could make sense, couldn't it?' says Somer, glancing around. `As a motive, I mean. Boddie said it was possible Zachary was suffocated before the fire even started, didn't he? What if that was Matty?'

Silence, then `I buy it,' says Baxter sturdily. `He's angry, he's resentful. Wouldn't take much to set him off. And when he realizes what he's done he panics and starts the fire to cover it up.'

`He wouldn't be the first person to do that,' continues Somer. `And it wouldn't have been that difficult either. He'd have known where the petrol was. And once the Christmas tree caught `“'

`Would a kid like him really be capable of that?' asks Gislingham. He doesn't want to believe Matty did this, but he's a good copper. He'll go with the evidence, even if that takes us somewhere very dark indeed.

`And what about that therapist?' says Baxter. `Esmond said it was for someone in the family and we all assumed it was the wife. But what if it was the son?'

`You mean he knew?' says Ev, her eyes widening. `Esmond actually knew about all this Attack Zack stuff?'

`Hang on,' says Gislingham suddenly. `Wasn't Matty on the wrong side of the flames? If it started in the sitting room like the fire boys said, what was he doing coming down the stairs? That doesn't make any sense `“'

But Asante has an answer. `Maybe he underestimated how quickly the fire would spread? Perhaps he thought he had time to go upstairs and wake his mother or get his Xbox or whatever. But all at once it's a conflagration.'

Baxter, meanwhile, has been flicking through videos on YouTube. He opens one into full screen: a Minecraft player moving around a huge virtual mansion shooting fire in all directions `“ floors, walls, ceilings `“ effortlessly moving upstairs, downstairs, inside, out. The blaze looks surprisingly realistic, but there's no heat, and no harm.

`Perhaps he thought escaping a real fire would be that easy too,' says Gislingham grimly.

`But it's still a huge leap,' says Everett. `And if we're going to build this whole case on the theory that a ten-year-old boy set that fire we're going to need a hell of a lot more than wild assumptions backed up by no evidence whatsoever.'

I get up and start walking again. Behind me, the silence extends. I need to think. We all do. Because even if that child had nothing to do with the fire, something was very wrong in that house. Something was very wrong indeed.

`OK,' I say eventually. `Get Challow to double-check the forensics. If Matty really did set that fire there should be some sort of evidence. A boy that age `“ he'll have got petrol all down himself.'

Like Jake used to do. Milkshake, juice, cola. You name it, he wore it.

There's the ping of a text on Gislingham's phone. He reads it then looks up to me, his face suddenly alert. `It's the Tech unit, boss. Esmond's phone just went back on.'

25 September 2017, 5.49 p.m.

101 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

When Michael gets home his wife is in the kitchen making a spaghetti bolognese.

`You're early,' she says. `I wasn't expecting you for an hour at least.'

The nights are starting to draw in but it's still light enough for Matty to be in the garden. He's playing football with Harry. Michael watches them for a moment then turns to his wife. `How much time is he spending here?'

She glances up, a little confused. `Harry? He comes twice a week. Like we agreed.'

`No, I meant how much extra time is he spending here? I mean, he must have finished the garden hours ago.'

She flushes. `Well, he's been doing some of those other jobs you've been struggling to get round to. The tap upstairs, the DIY `“'

`I wasn't talking about the DIY.'

`And once or twice he's played football with Matty.'

There's a shout from the garden and the sound of Matty yelling, `Goal! Goal!'

Michael leans back against the kitchen counter and folds his arms. `Sounds like it's been a lot more than `њonce or twice`ќ to me.'

She frowns. `I'm not with you.'

`When I dropped Matty off at school this morning his teacher came bowling up to me to say how pleased they are with him at the moment. How he's getting better marks and making new friends and getting invited to things after school.'

`That's good, isn't it?'

`Of course it is. It was just that she appeared to be putting this spectacular transformation down to all the activities I've been doing with him at home. The science experiments I've shown him and the magic tricks I've taught him and the educational games I've created for the two of us to play.'

Her flush has deepened. `Oh. I see.'

`So it was Harry? All that stuff was Harry?'

She nods. `He said he'd really like to do it and there didn't seem any harm in it `“ and of course Matty was over the moon.' She bites her lip. `I'm sorry, I should have said.'

`So the marvellous scale model of the solar system with a bag of apples, a melon and a ball of string was Harry? The one they replicated in class because it was so `њinventive and imaginative`ќ?'

She nods.

`And the trick with the candle making water boil inside a balloon, that was Harry too?'

She says nothing.

Michael takes a deep breath. `I'm his father, not Harry.'

`I know, but you're so busy and you have so much on your plate and Harry genuinely seemed to enjoy doing it and like I said I couldn't see the harm.' It all comes out in a rush. And then she stops. `And in any case, you and Harry are so close. I assumed he'd told you. I thought it might even have been your idea.'

`What do you mean, `њwe're so close`ќ?'

She turns to the pan and adds salt to the sauce. `Well, you are, aren't you? I've seen you.'

`Seen me what?'

She's still staring at the pan. `You know, talking. Laughing.'

`Sam, you're not making any sense. He's the gardener, not my bloody BFF.'

She picks up a spoon. `But that's exactly what I mean. You don't really have any friends, do you? Not really. So I thought, you and he `“ that it might be like `“'

`Like what exactly?'

`That boy you knew. At school.'

His face has turned to stone. `Who told you about that?'

`Philip. When he was here. He said it was a shame you'd never had any close mates and I asked if it had always been like that and he said yes, apart from the friend you had at school. Look, I didn't mean `“'

`And what else did he say?' His voice is perilously low.

Her cheeks are burning now. `Nothing. That was it. He didn't even remember the boy's name.' She turns away, pretending to do something to the pasta. `And in any case,' she says, fake-casual, `what difference does it make?'

Her husband is silent so long that by the time she turns to face him Matty has already come bounding through into the kitchen yelling, `I won! I won!'

`Is everything OK?' says Harry, in the doorway.

`Absolutely,' says Michael quietly, not looking at him. `Everything is fine.'

Gislingham picks up his phone and looks at me. `OK?'

`Just get on with it,' mutters Quinn.

We're all standing round Gislingham's desk; he's dialling Michael Esmond's mobile number.

`The Tech unit say it's still in London,' he says, covering the mouthpiece and glancing up at me. `Somewhere near Regent Street.'

`Oh, hello,' he says suddenly. We start looking at each other `“ after all this time, Esmond actually answered?

`Is that Dr Esmond?' There's a pause then Gis frowns. `This is DS Chris Gislingham of Thames Valley Police. We're trying to track down Dr Esmond. That's right, he's the owner of this phone.' A pause, then, `Yes, it is the same man on the news.'

He picks up a pen and makes a few quick notes. `Do you have his number? Great, thanks. I'll be in touch.'

He puts the phone down and looks around. `You are never going to guess who that was.'

`Oh for fuck's sake,' begins Quinn, until he catches my eye and shuts up.

`His name is Andy Weltch,' says Gislingham. `Or rather PC Andy Weltch. He works the desk. At West End Central police station.'

25 September 2017, 8.48 p.m.

101 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

`No, you can't stay up to watch the end.'

`But, Dad `“'

`Stop whining, Matty. We agreed you could see the first half, but now you have to go to bed. It's a school night. You know the rules.'

Michael Esmond is loading the dishwasher. His son is standing in the kitchen door. He's in his Arsenal pyjamas: the team are playing West Bromwich Albion tonight.

`But we're winning!'

Michael straightens up. `That's not the point, Matty. We had an agreement and now you're trying to change it. Life isn't like that. You can't have everything your own way all the time.'

`But yesterday you told Zachary he couldn't play in the sandpit and then you changed your mind.'

Michael takes a deep breath; kids always manage to checkmate you one way or another. `That was different.'

`How? How was it different?'

`Because I originally said no because I thought it was going to rain and then it didn't. So the circumstances changed.' He flushes a little; the real reason was because Zachary was screaming the place down, but he's not about to admit that to Matty. `And in any case, Zachary is too little to understand. Not like you.'

`That's what you always say,' wails Matty, his face red. `You always say that I have to be a big boy but he's too little and he gets away with everything. It's not fair, it's not fair!'

He stares at his father. Michael is waiting for him to mention the dog. He never has, not once, all these weeks. Not once since that horrible morning when he stood dry-eyed to listen to his father lie.

They stare at each other a long moment, then Matty turns and runs back down the hall without a word.

`Apparently a taxi driver handed the phone in a couple of hours ago,' says Gislingham. `Weltch turned it on to see if anyone rang it `“ in case they could track down the owner that way.'

`Well, that worked a treat, didn't it,' says Quinn sardonically.

`How long had the cabbie had it?' I ask, ignoring Quinn.

`Ah,' says Gis, `that's the point. He found it on the evening of January 3rd.' He watches us piece it together. January 3rd `“ the night of the fire. The night there was a signal from Esmond's phone in the vicinity of Tottenham Court Road and we assumed that's where he was.

`So it wasn't Esmond who turned the phone on that night `“ it was this cabbie?'

`In one, boss. He must have tried the same thing as Weltch, only he didn't have any luck either.'

`So `“ what `“ he just drives around with it for ten days?'

Gis shrugs. `He's been away for a week in Las Vegas and he didn't manage to hand it in before he went. And to be fair, he had no idea it was important `“ he was already in the States by the time we made the appeal. Apparently the phone had slipped down the side of one of the back seats `“ he didn't have a clue how long it had been there.'

I nod. That's what bedevils most investigations. Not the out-and-out lies and the deliberate evasions, just the inadvertent sloppiness of the day-to-day.

`But I've got the taxi driver's mobile,' continues Gislingham. `I'll give him a call and text him a picture of Esmond. If we're lucky, he'll remember the fare.'

It's something. Possibly more than something.

`And the Met are sending the phone up here overnight,' Gis adds, clearly trying to be as positive as possible. `That might give us more to go on. Remember that pay-as-you-go number Esmond was calling? If he stored it with a name we may be able to track them down. Always assuming Baxter can get into the bloody thing, of course.'

Baxter makes a gesture of false modesty and there's a ripple of subdued laughter. But I'm not listening. I walk up to the whiteboard and look at our timeline, doubt clutching my gut for the first time. Is it possible we've got this all wrong? That we've had it back to front, right from the start?

I turn back to Ev. `That witness who saw Esmond in the pub on the night of the fire `“ the organizer woman? It was you who spoke to her, wasn't it?'

Ev frowns. `Yes, boss. What about her?'

`She was absolutely sure it was him?'

Ev has gone a little pale. `She seemed to be. But I can speak to her again if you want.'

`Yes. I do want. And as soon as possible please.'

Telephone interview with Tony Farlow, 15 January 2018, 6.55 p.m.

On the call, Acting DS C. Gislingham

CG:Mr Farlow? I'm calling from Thames Valley Police. It's about the phone you handed in at the Savile Row police station. TF:Thames Valley? Bit out of your range, isn't it? CG:This is important. I'm going to send you a photo. This is the man who owns that phone. Can you look at the picture and tell me when you think you picked him up? TF:Seems a lot of fuss over a poxy phone, but it's your funeral.

[pause `“ sound of text arriving]

Oh yeah, I remember this bloke. Picked him up on Great Queen Street. Figured he was staying at one of those hotels round there.

CG:When was this? TF:Now you're asking. Definitely a couple of weeks now, what with the holiday and that. CG:Tuesday 2nd? Wednesday 3rd? TF:Must have been the Wednesday. I remember now. I had a doctor's appointment first thing so I started later than usual. He was one of my first fares. CG:So you picked him up when? TF:Lunchtime. Around 12. CG:And do you remember where you dropped him? TF:Victoria station. Rail, not bus. CG:Did he say where he was heading? TF:Nope. Didn't talk to me at all. He was looking at something on the phone most of the time. That must have been when he dropped it. CG:Did he have luggage with him? TF:Nah. Just one of those poncey laptop bags. I reckoned that wherever he was going, he wasn't planning to stay.***

`Once we knew where to look, we found him almost immediately.'

It's Baxter, in the morning meeting. He's projected an image on to the screen: CCTV footage at Victoria station on the afternoon of 3 January. It's the usual grainy quality but there's no doubt: it's Esmond.

`That's him getting on to the 14.30 to Brighton.' He flips up another image. `And this is him at Brighton station at 15.24, after getting off that train. He stays two hours, then he's back at the station at 17.40 for the London train at 17.46.'

`Brighton?' says Quinn. `What the fuck was he doing in Brighton?'

`Search me,' says Baxter. `We haven't turned up any sort of Brighton connection so far. Nothing on Facebook, that's for sure.'

`And we're sure he came back to London? He didn't get off somewhere on the way?'

`Like bloody Gatwick, for instance,' mutters Quinn. Who knows darn well we've checked all ports and airports and yet says it all the same.

`Well, we haven't spotted him at Victoria that night yet,' says Baxter. `There was a derailment just outside Haywards Heath. They had to get lights and lifting gear and God knows what. Everything was at a standstill for two hours. The train didn't get back to London till gone nine and by then the whole place was chaos. We're still going through the footage.'

`OK,' I say, `keep at it. We need to know exactly where Michael Esmond went that night. Even if it was only back to that pub.'

I turn to look at Ev, and she's gone slightly red about the cheeks.

`I just spoke to the organizer again, boss. I'm afraid she's gone flaky on us. She still thinks it was Esmond, but he had his back to her and she can't be absolutely certain. Apparently it was the jacket she recognized more than anything `“ she never actually saw his face.'

`Oh, for fuck's sake,' says Quinn. `Who bothers looking at a sodding jacket?'

Somer shoots him a look that says That's rich, coming from you, but no one says anything.

`One thing we do know,' I continue, `is that Michael Esmond made this mystery trip to Brighton only a few hours before his whole house went up in flames. I'm not about to put that down to coincidence until we prove it really was one.'

A ripple of nods and wry exchanges of looks; they know how I feel about coincidences.

`We need to liaise with Sussex police on checking cabs and buses `“ see if we can establish where Esmond went after he left the station. Why don't you do that, Quinn `“ nothing like sea air to blow the crap away.' A couple of smirks at that, but he deserves it, he's been a pain in the arse all morning. `Even better `“ you get to drive that flash new car of yours.'

Sent:Tues 16/01/2018, 10.54Importance: High From:TimothyBrownTechUnit@ThamesValley.police.uk To:DCEricaSomer@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road `“ satellite phone tracking

Hi Erica,

We've managed to trace the call you were asking about. The phone in question was definitely offshore when the call took place. I won't bother you with the techy stuff, but Freedom 2 was twenty miles off the Portuguese coast at the time.

Let me know if you need anything else `“ always happy to help.

Cheers,

Tim

Having heated seats in your car has its downsides. It makes for a more comfortable ride, but you sure as hell notice it when you get out. And with the temperature below freezing and the wind off the sea, Brighton is as chill as charity.

Quinn locks his car and walks up to the police station. Architecture-wise it could have been separated at birth from the Thames Valley HQ. Squat, square, functional. And it's much the same inside as well. Quinn signs in and kicks his heels for fifteen minutes; he's just about to go up to the desk again when a uniformed constable appears.

`DC Quinn? PC Alok Kumar. Your DS told us you were coming.'

It takes Quinn a moment to realize that he must mean Gislingham. Old assumptions die hard. As they walk through the office area, people glance up from their computers. Most do little more than register a stranger. A couple of the women gaze a little longer. One of them smiles. Quinn's day starts to look up a bit. Though he's still bloody freezing; the room is icy, everyone else is wearing jumpers.

`Sorry about the cold,' says Kumar genially, `the heating's on the blink again.' He pulls up a spare chair for Quinn, then sits down at his computer and navigates to the video player. `Here you are. The bus company sent over all the CCTV from their vehicles for that day.'

`Great, thanks.'

`And when you're ready we can go down to the station and talk to some of the cabbies.'

He smiles. He has amazingly good teeth.

`Coffee?'

Quinn looks up. `That'd be great `“'

`The machine's in the kitchen. Second door on the left.'

In Oxford, Gislingham's parked just off the far end of the Botley Road. He has coffee too `“ two coffees in fact: takeaways from a cafe in the shopping centre. He gets back to the car and hands Everett the cardboard tray. She seizes one of the cups and wraps her hands round it. Gislingham pulls the door shut and the car starts to steam up.

`Your nose has gone bright pink.'

She makes a face at him. `Hey, Eddie,' she says in a squeaky American accent. `How come you're such a big hit with the girls?'

`Showing your age, Ev,' he grins. `That ad must be thirty years old.'

`More like forty,' she says, grimacing. `Not that I'm that old, of course. And I'll forgive you your lack of gallantry, because of the coffee.' She takes a sip. `So, where next?'

Gislingham turns to his notebook. Esmond's mobile phone arrived by special delivery from the Met that morning, and for once, they had a bit of luck: the password was almost the first combination Baxter tried. 1978, the year Michael Esmond was born. As Baxter observed grimly, `Never underestimate the stupidity of supposedly intelligent people.'

The phone got them into Esmond's texts (nothing doing), his private email account (another password, not yet cracked), and last but not least, his contact list, which included the elusive pay-as-you-go mobile he'd been calling since the previous summer. It's logged in the phone as `Harry', a name which left them all looking at each other blankly when Baxter read it out. There's been no Harry anywhere `“ not in his list of colleagues, his current students or his Facebook contacts. And when Somer called Philip Esmond to ask him, he was none the wiser. And that in itself has piqued their interest. Sometimes absence is as telling as discovery. And so, for the last two hours, they've been checking the locations where `Harry' was when Michael Esmond called him, but so far they've come up completely empty: no one knows anything about a Harry. And now there's only one location left to check. Gis looks across at the houses opposite. `I think it must be one of those.'

`OK, just let me finish this.'

They sit there a moment, watching as a bunch of teenagers wander past, laughing, seemingly oblivious to the cold.

`Must be nice, being a student,' says Gislingham.

Ev peers through the glass. `They're not students. Well, not from here, anyway. They're from the youth hostel.' She nudges him and whispers, `The backpacks rather gave it away.'

Gislingham is all fake astonishment. `Hey, have you ever thought of a career as a detective? Because, you know, I think you might have a talent for it.'

She digs him in the ribs and they fall silent again. A few drops of rain start to spatter the windscreen.

Everett finishes her coffee. `OK `“ you set?'

By four o'clock Quinn has had enough. It's pissing down with rain and he's pretty sure he has a cold coming. He's spoken to seventeen taxi drivers and four station staff, and not one of them recognizes Michael Esmond or has the slightest idea where he went after the CCTV showed him leaving the station, hitching his bag over his shoulder and heading for the exit. By the time Quinn's walked back to police HQ for his car, his shoes are wet through and his mood has hit rock bottom. And the sight of a smiling (and very dry) PC Kumar coming towards him does nothing to improve it.

`DC Quinn `“ did you have any luck?'

Quinn glares at him. `No, I sodding well didn't.'

Kumar's smile falters. `Oh, sorry to hear that. You want to come in and dry off?'

`If it's all the same to you, I think I'll just get going.'

Kumar hesitates. `I did have one idea`¦'

`Oh yeah, what was that then?'

`I looked at that footage again. There are two cameras at the station `“ one outside and one inside. At 3.26 the inside camera shows him walking across towards the exit and disappearing out of view.'

`Yeah, and?'

Quinn's tone was a bit shorter than he intended and Kumar looks a little dashed. `It's just that he doesn't appear on the outside camera for another two minutes fifteen seconds. So I was trying to work out what he could have been doing during that time.'

`Went to the Gents?'

Kumar shakes his head. `The station toilets are in the other direction.'

`OK, so what's the answer?'

`I think he was looking at the map of the local area. It's by the doors, just out of camera range. I reckon he didn't know exactly where he was going. It was somewhere he hadn't been before.'

Quinn opens his mouth and closes it again. He's underestimated this guy. `OK, so let's say you're right. Where does it get us?'

Kumar brightens up. `Well, I reckon it rules out visiting a friend. And given we can't find a bus or taxi who picked him up, I think we need to assume he was on foot.' He pulls a map out of his jacket. There's a circle marked on it with red pen, with the railway station dead centre. `This is as far as he could have got at a reasonably fast pace in thirty minutes.'

Quinn takes the map. `On the basis that he walked around half an hour, spent an hour wherever it was, then walked back?'

Kumar nods. `Seems a fair enough place to start. And we can probably get CCTV for most of the obvious routes. At least for the first mile or so. Which is something.'

Quinn is still staring at the map. `And of course we do have one other thing on our side.'

Kumar frowns. `What do you mean?'

Quinn looks up and grins at him. `Half this circle is in the bloody sea.'

Sent:Tues 16/01/2018, 19.35Importance: High From:AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk, CID@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road `“ additional tests

I have carried out the additional tests you requested on Matthew Esmond's clothing. There were no traces of any kind of accelerant. Nor was anything discovered on his hands during the PM. It is, of course, possible that he was very careful and/or wore gloves, but with a boy that age, I suspect that degree of planning/foresight is very unlikely.

`The last address was a non-starter,' says Everett. `No one had ever heard of a `њHarry`ќ, never mind Michael Esmond. Though it was obvious the bloke we spoke to recognized the picture. But he said it must have been from the news.'

8.15 a.m. Gis is perched on the radiator in my office, trying to warm up. Outside, it's only just starting to get light. The stone is orange in the street lights.

`Did you believe him `“ this bloke?'

Gis considers. `Seemed straight up.'

`Anything else useful on Esmond's phone?'

He shakes his head. `Baxter's been through it. Nothing doing, I'm afraid. Last call was a voicemail from the wife on the 3rd. All she says is she's sorry she didn't call the night before, she was too tired, but she's at home and Zachary's been ill so could he call her. Which, of course, he never did.'

`Because he'd already lost the phone by then.'

`Right.'

`What about the Brighton angle?'

He gives me a heavy look. `You'll have to ask DC Quinn that. When and if he deigns to grace us with his presence.'

At Southey Road, Paul Rigby is organizing the tasks for the day ahead. After nearly two weeks on-site, the investigation team is finally hitting pay dirt. Though that's an unfortunate idiom in the circumstances. The rubble from the top two floors has been painstakingly sifted, documented and carried away, and they're getting to the sitting room now: the sitting room where the blaze must have started. The combination of the heat of the fire and the sheer weight that came down has left most of it little more than black and broken shards. But they know what they're looking for, and they'll know how to read it when they find it.

`OK,' says Rigby, running down the list on his clipboard one last time, `let's get this area sectioned off and get to work.'

Gareth Quinn is feeling a good deal better. Not just about his job, but life in general. Fawley was right `“ getting out of the office was a good idea. Gave him a fresh perspective. Not to mention the phone number of that female officer who was giving him the eye. And as for Alok Kumar, well, he's going to be very useful: more than happy to do the donkey-work and so far away he'll never know he isn't getting any credit for it. So there's a bit of the old swagger in Quinn's stride when he swings into the incident room at half past nine.

Gislingham glances up from his desk. He knows that look well.

`Nice of you to turn up,' he says.

Quinn tosses his car keys on to the table. `Got stuck in traffic.'

`Well, now you are here, do you want to brief me on what you got in Brighton?'

Quinn smiles. `Sure. Just let me get a coffee.'

Ten minutes later Quinn wanders into the meeting room, pulls out a chair and slides his tablet and his coffee on to the table. Then he opens a paper bag and starts eating a croissant. A chocolate croissant. Gislingham knows he's being wound up, but knowing it is one thing; rising above it is quite another.

`I thought you got stuck in traffic?' he says, eyeing the croissant. The smell is making his stomach rumble.

`Yeah, well,' says Quinn, his mouth full.

`So, go on then. What did you find?'

Quinn puts down the paper bag and fires up the tablet.

`No luck on cabbies or bus drivers,' he says, spraying crumbs, `so the inference has to be that Esmond walked from the station. And given he was only there two hours, that gives us a maximum range of about three miles.' He twists the tablet towards Gislingham and takes another bite. Shreds of almond drop on to the table.

Gislingham forces himself to stare at the map on the tablet screen. `What do the yellow marks mean?' he says after a moment.

`CCTV cameras,' replies Quinn, finishing the croissant and wiping his hands. `Shops mostly. Sussex are collecting the footage for the relevant times, but it might take a few days to get it all.'

`How much do you have so far?'

Quinn considers. `About half. Maybe a bit less. No sign of Esmond so far.'

Gislingham looks at the map again. Quinn's done a decent job of this, no doubt about that. It's good, solid police work.

`OK,' says Gislingham, getting to his feet and moving towards the door. `Keep me posted.'

As soon as he's out of sight Quinn smiles to himself, screws the paper bag into a ball and lobs it at the wastepaper bin.

`Yesss!' he says as it drops dead centre. `Still got it.'

I'm in the middle of a tedious update call with the Super when Baxter appears at my door, gesturing urgently.

I make my excuses to Harrison and get to my feet. `What is it?'

`Sir,' he says, half out of breath. `I think you should see this.'

I follow him to the incident room at the closest thing to a run I've ever seen Baxter manage. In fact, I've never seen him so animated. He beckons me to his screen and stands there, pointing. But it's just another still of a railway station. People in scarves and gloves, backpacks, duffel bags, suitcases. A scattering of cheap Christmas decorations `“

`Hang on `“ this isn't Brighton.'

Baxter's nodding. `No, boss, it's Oxford. On the night of January 3rd. And that man there,' he says, pointing, `is Michael Esmond. He didn't stay in London that night like we thought. For some reason we don't yet know about, he came home. And I reckon, whatever he was up to in Brighton, it's to do with that. Has to be.'

I look at the time code on the bottom of the screen.

23.15.

Less than an hour later, his house was on fire.

Sent:Weds 17/01/2018, 14.35Importance: High From:PRigby@Oxford.fire.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk, AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk, CID@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road

Just to say we have now located the main front door to the house. The four glass panels are broken, but there are no obvious signs of a break-in `“ none of the damage we would expect to the wood, and the door was fitted with high-quality deadlocks. The question, therefore, comes down to the glass panels and whether someone could have broken one of those and accessed the house that way. We'll do more tests, but the pattern of fragments suggests to me that the glass broke from the inside out (i.e., it blew as a result of the fire) rather than from the outside in. Add to that the security alarm and the height of the side gate, and I think it unlikely someone broke into the house. Whoever set that fire had their own means of getting inside.

Bryan Gow meets me at a coffee shop round the corner from the university psychology department. He tells me he's working on a seminar series on personality profiling and psychopathology, though I suspect the profile he's really interested in is actually his own. My private theory is that all the academic stuff he does is just a stepping stone. What he really yearns for is TV. A credit at the end of Line of Duty, one of those talking heads on Britain's Darkest Taboos. He's done a bit with novelists over the years, straightening out the misconceptions, toning down the implausibilities, but there's no real money in that. I remember him saying once how much it amused him that the bloodiest books were always written by the meekest authors. Mousey middle-aged women or well-heeled yummy mums up to their Boden-clad elbows in decomp fluid. I told him there was a seminar series in that too, but he just thought I was joking.

`I don't have long,' he says as we sit down. `I got bogged down in family stuff over Christmas and didn't get as much done as I planned.' He pulls the sugar bowl over. `How's Alex?'

He doesn't usually ask. In fact he's never even met her. He looks up, sensing the hesitation.

`Everything OK?'

`Yes, fine. I'm just a bit stressed out. This case, you know.'

`The fire? In Southey Road?'

In the street outside two students are walking up towards New College. Laughing, despite the cold, muffled up in coats and scarves and those bobble hats with ear flaps and pom-poms. They get to the street lamp and stop, as if by silent signal, and the boy bends his head and takes the girl's face in his hands, tilting her mouth up to meet his. The movement is as beautiful as ballet.

Gow follows my gaze and raises his eyebrows. `Personally, I can't think of anything worse than being twenty-one again. Anyway, that fire `“ was that what you wanted to talk to me about?'

I nod. `Something about it isn't adding up.' I fill him in on what we've found out so far `“ about Esmond, the family, the allegations, the money. Or lack of it.

`I thought he was sighted in London that night?'

`So did we. But when we spoke to the witness again she started to backtrack and now she can't be certain whether it was him after all.'

`I see. So all this time, you've been looking in entirely the wrong place.'

He says it neutrally enough but it still rubs me the wrong way. Not least because the Super said almost exactly the same thing not half an hour ago.

Gow is still considering. `It's definitely arson?'

`Still waiting for conclusive proof. But it's the working assumption.'

`And you're sure the family were all alive when the fire started?'

It might seem an odd question, but if I'm right, it's not the non sequitur it might appear.

`The mother and the older boy, definitely. The PM wasn't so conclusive on the younger child.'

Gow sits back in his chair. `I'd need to know a hell of a lot more about this man Esmond before I could be sure `“'

`But?'

`But the hypothesis I'd start with is Family Destroyer.'

Which is exactly what I was expecting him to say. It all adds up. It's been in my mind for days, but every time I ran up at it I couldn't get round the fact that Esmond was in London. The phone, the witness `“ the evidence seemed conclusive. Only now, we know better.

`He sounds `“ in theory `“ like a textbook candidate,' continues Gow. `Almost too perfect, in fact. Highly educated, successful, massively invested in how the world perceives him, suddenly facing bankruptcy or prosecution or some other cataclysmic loss of social or professional standing. Even the fact that he had just turned forty. You'd be surprised what an impact that can have. Especially for men whose self-esteem is predicated on status and success. They start asking themselves `“ is this really all I've achieved? Is this really all there is?'

Been there, done that, got the disenchantment.

`The actual act of familicide,' Gow continues, `is typically preceded by a noticeable change of behaviour in the preceding months: the man in question becomes impulsive, erratic, aggressive, sexually promiscuous, just like your man `“'

`Even though Esmond actually denied that allegation.'

`Precisely. Even though he denied it. From what you say, his whole world was about to fall in.'

`His world. Not his family's. Even if he wanted to end his own life he didn't have to take them with him.'

Gow shrugs. `Some of these men tell themselves that they're actually doing their family a favour `“ sparing them public shame or the loss of their comfortable lifestyle.'

`And the others?'

`There can be rather darker motives. Some appear to take the view that `њif I can't have them, no one will`ќ. That's why so many set light to the family home `“ it's as much a symbolic act of destruction as an actual one. A way of regaining command of a situation that's got completely beyond their control.'

`But how do they rationalize doing something like that?'

`They don't `“ not in the way you mean, anyway. Once they've decided on suicide the normal rules simply cease to apply. Even when it's a deep-seated taboo like killing their own children.'

`But Esmond didn't commit suicide. Not as far as we know.'

Gow raises an eyebrow. `Maybe you just haven't found the body yet.'

It's not impossible. There are woods round here where corpses can go unnoticed for months.

`But if he wanted to end it all,' I continue, `why go to such elaborate lengths to kill his family, and not take the same way out himself?'

Gow picks up his cup. `In fact, only about seventy per cent of Family Destroyers commit suicide themselves. Not a lot of people know that. Some try to, and either fail or lose their nerve at the last minute. Google Jean-Claude Romand `“ absolutely fascinating case `“ they're making it into a film `“'

`But if they don't die, what do they do?'

He stops and looks at me over his glasses. `They run away,' he says. `Usually. And if they're caught they claim diminished responsibility `“ some sort of psychotic break or sudden overwhelming moment of insanity.'

I don't need reminding that Esmond has already had one dissociative episode as a teenager. Was Somer right when she asked me if it could have happened again? When I tell Gow the story he nods. `I couldn't rule it out. Not without talking to him myself. Some sort of post-traumatic reaction might well have occurred. After the event, of course.'

`What about before `“ could he have had some sort of breakdown, a psychotic break like you just said?'

Gow makes a grim face. `To quote Jack Levin, one of the experts in this particular field, `њThese killings are executions. They are never spontaneous.`ќ' He finishes his coffee. `That's why I asked if the wife and children were definitely dead when the fire began. A Family Destroyer doesn't tend to take the risk of anyone surviving. Same applies to the fire. Some even barricade themselves in to make doubly sure there's no chance of firefighters getting to them in time. And there's usually huge quantities of accelerant. Classic overkill.'

And that rings true too: it's exactly what Paul Rigby is expecting to find.

Gow gets out his phone and scrolls through a few pages. `I'll send you a link. You probably remember the case, but it might be useful background.' He puts the phone down on the table. `Have you had the toxicology results?'

`The wife was on antidepressants and had been drinking. We have to hope she didn't know anything about it. She was also pregnant.'

Gow nods. `Another straw on the dromedary's back. Assuming Esmond knew, of course. And that showdown with Jordan about the harassment would have been the final trigger. After that, things would have moved very quickly.'

We sit in silence for a moment. The couple opposite have moved on. Their breath follows them down the street in a soft white cloud.

`The other thing to remember,' says Gow, pushing away his empty cup, `is that these killings are almost always meticulously planned, sometimes months in advance. Especially if the perpetrator is looking for a way out rather than a way to end it.' He starts to gather his things. `If I were you, I'd have a very close look at his financials `“ see if he's been moving money around. That'd be a big red flag: if he was planning a nice shiny new life, he may well have tried to salt some cash away before everything went tits up.' He glances at me. `That's a technical term, of course.'

`Baxter's been through them. Esmond took out two grand in cash a few weeks ago. But that wouldn't last long.'

Gow considers. `Long enough to regroup, organize a new identity? Don't ask me, I'm just a psychologist. You're the detective.'

TouchГ©.

`Is there anything else we should be looking for? Apart from him, of course?'

`There may have been a record of domestic abuse. Probably the sort you can't see, and his wife almost certainly never reported it. But she may have told someone she was close to. A friend, a sister?'

`Her parents haven't said anything. Her father clearly didn't have a lot of time for Esmond so I doubt he'd have held back if he suspected there'd been anything like that going on.'

`Ask the mother then. When the father isn't present.'

I should have thought of that myself. `I'll call Everett. She's doing the family liaison. Though to be honest, the Giffords don't seem to want us around very much.'

Gow gets to his feet. `I'll be on my mobile if you need me.'

When I get home I stick a frozen meal in the oven, switch on the laptop on the kitchen island and open up the link Gow gave me. It's an episode of Crimes That Shook Britain. I allow myself a smile: no surprises he's been boning up on shows like that. But he's right about the case: it's ten years ago but I do remember it. Christopher Foster, the millionaire who had a manor house in Shropshire, a garage full of fast cars, a suite of barns and stables, and a fine collection of shotguns. And that's what he used. First on his animals, then on his wife and daughter. There's chilling CCTV footage of him moving silently about his yard at three o'clock in the morning, killing the horses, carrying cans of petrol, starting up the horsebox so he can block the drive. A calm, determined figure, his face bleached white of all features by the poor quality of the film. A few minutes later the house and outbuildings are ablaze, and Foster is lying on his bed, still alive, waiting for the flames.

The oven alarm goes off and I go to get my anaemic-looking lasagne. Then I start the video again. It's the people who knew Foster I find most compelling. The personal assistant who calls him competitive and controlling, the brother who says he abused him as a child. And then there's a psychologist talking about whether it wasn't only the imminent financial ruin that pushed Foster to do it `“ whether there'd been another side to his personality that he'd never been able to reveal, and was suddenly threatened with public exposure `“

Then the doorbell rings and when I open the door I'm momentarily thrown. Fluorescent yellow waterproof, black leggings, bumbag, cycling helmet. He looks like one of those Deliveroo guys.

`Sorry, you must have the wrong house. I didn't order anything.'

`DI Fawley?' he says. `It's Paul Rigby. The Fire Investigation Officer?'

`Shit `“ sorry. I didn't recognize you.'

`I hope you don't mind me calling unannounced. I only live a mile or so from here so it was easier than phoning.'

`Of course,' I say, standing back to open the door. `Come in.'

He steps over the threshold and starts wiping his feet on the mat.

`I can't stay long,' he says. `My wife's out tonight so I need to be back for the kids. But we've had some results that I think you'll want to know.'

I gesture towards the kitchen and follow him down. He declines to join me in a glass of wine but accepts the solitary low-alcohol beer I find at the back of the fridge.

He glances at the laptop and the screen paused on an image of Foster's house after the fire; the roof collapsed, the whole building a smouldering shell, and a forensics tent over where the bodies were found.

`That's not Southey Road, is it.'

`It's the Christopher Foster house.'

Evidently I don't need to say any more. He nods. `It seems my team aren't the only people who think it was an inside job. You've got there too, have you?'

I pass him the bottle opener. `We've just found out Esmond came back to Oxford that night. In plenty of time to set the fire.'

`With his wife and kids inside.' But it's a statement, not a question. Rigby's been doing this job a long time.

I take a deep breath. `So what did you want to talk to me about?'

He reaches back and pulls his phone out of his bumbag, and flicks through the photo app.

`We found this.'

It's a cigarette lighter. Blackened, like everything else in that house, but underneath metallic. Golden.

`Made in 1954, according to the hallmark,' says Rigby.

I look up with a question and he nods. `Solid gold. Must be worth a bomb.'

`And you found this where?'

`In the sitting room. We haven't cleared the whole area yet, but I assumed you'd want to know about this straight away. We didn't realize what it was until we scraped the crap off it.'

`I assume it's too much to ask if there'll be any fingerprints?'

He shakes his head. `Fire will have done for that. But there is something else.'

He finds another picture and hands me the phone. One side of the lighter is engraved.

To Michael, On your 18th birthday, Love Mum Dad.

I look up at Rigby and he shrugs. `There is, of course, no way of knowing where it was before the ceiling came down. It could have been in one of the upper rooms, on a coffee table, anywhere.'

`But he'd have carried it about with him, wouldn't he `“ as a smoker?'

`Don't you?'

Of course I do. It's one of the things I check automatically, without even thinking: keys, phone, lighter.

`But if he set the fire he wouldn't have left the lighter behind, surely? He must have known we'd find it eventually.'

Rigby shakes his head. `I've seen this before. People completely underestimate how suddenly an accelerant can ignite. It's like recoil `“ the heat hits you so fast you'll more than likely drop anything you're holding. And if you do, there's no way you're going to get it back.' He makes a face. `Even if it is a bloody heirloom.'

`So he just burned down his life,' says Baxter, `and swanned off to start a new one somewhere else? Just like that?'

It's the morning meeting and I've just spent the last half an hour going through what Gow told me, and what Rigby found.

`Well, I'm not buying it,' says Quinn. `If Esmond wanted to start all over again he'd need money. Lots of money. And OK, he did take out that two grand in cash, but that wouldn't be anywhere near enough. No way. And why do it on a day when his car's in the garage?'

Everett shakes her head. `He wouldn't have used his own car anyway. Far too easy to trace.'

In the silence that follows Gislingham picks up the marker pen and goes over to the whiteboard to mark up the new evidence. The new hypothesis, the new questions we need to answer. As he writes the word `Escape' and adds a question mark, Somer speaks into the silence.

`He didn't need to murder his family, if all he wanted was to start again.'

I glance across at her. `No, he didn't. But the picture everyone is painting is of a man under acute strain. Remember, he's run away before.'

`That time it didn't involve burning his own kids to death,' mutters Everett, in an icy undertone.

`A lot of men who walk out on their lives are really walking out on their wives,' begins Somer.

`True,' says Gislingham. `Most blokes don't want to live on their own `“ they're crap at it.'

`Worked out how to use the washing machine yet, Sarge?' someone calls out at the back to general laughter.

Gislingham grins `“ a flash of the old Gis. `Hey, I even know what the `њDelicates`ќ setting is for. So there.'

I wait for the noise to subside. `We've found no suggestion Esmond had a girlfriend.'

`What about this `њHarry`ќ?' says Ev, giving me a meaningful look. `We've been assuming he must be the plumber or something `“'

`Unlikely,' says Baxter stolidly. `Esmond was calling him far too often for that.'

``“ but what if he's the lover? What if Esmond is gay?'

Quinn folds his arms, clearly sceptical. `All the while playing the happily married man in public?'

Ev shrugs. `Well, it's not absolutely impossible, is it?'

`There was that incident when he was still at school,' says Somer quietly. `His brother thought it was just teenage experimenting, but what if he's wrong? What if Esmond has had those feelings all his life? Only now, finally, he can't hide them any more.'

`Right,' says Ev. `And if he did have a gay lover he strikes me as the sort who wouldn't have wanted people to know.'

`Have we found any other communications between him and Harry?' I ask, looking around. `Social media? Emails?'

`I'm still waiting for access to his university account,' says Baxter. `But there isn't likely to be, is there. Not if what Ev says is true.'

`What about the private one?'

Baxter flushes a little. `Still haven't worked out the password for that, boss. Sorry `“ it didn't seem a priority `“'

`Well, it is now.'

He nods. `On it, sir.'

I turn to the rest of the room. `If Michael Esmond is still in Oxford `“ with or without this `њHarry`ќ character `“ then where is he? And if he isn't here, how did he travel? He hasn't used his credit cards so he must be paying his way in cash.'

`That two grand could be coming in useful after all,' says Ev, nodding heavily at Quinn.

`We'll start checking trains and buses,' says Gislingham. `Or rather, DC Quinn will.'

Quinn rolls his eyes, which I pretend not to notice.

`And Ev, talk to Mrs Gifford again, will you? See if Gow was on to anything when he said there might have been domestic abuse. If she confided in anyone, it could well have been her mother.'

I look around the room. `OK, that's it. But for the time being we keep the news about Esmond within these four walls, all right? I don't want it getting out until we're ready to announce it.' I look across at Everett. `And that includes the Giffords. At least for now.'

She nods. `OK, boss.'

The phone rings and Asante picks it up, then looks across at me. `Message for you, sir. You're wanted, you and the DS. At Southey Road.'

Telephone interview with Laura Gifford,

18 January 2018, 11.15 a.m.

On the call, DC V. Everett

VE:I'm very sorry to bother you again, Mrs Gifford. Things must be awful for you right now. LG:I don't know what I'd do without Greg. I can't get my head around it all. You never think you'll have to do it, do you? Sort out the death of your own child. Never mind your grandchildren. Was it Greg you wanted to talk to? VE:Actually, I was hoping to catch you on your own. I know these things can be difficult to talk about, but most girls confide in their mums. LG:I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean. VE:It was a happy marriage, was it? Some of the things you both said, I got the impression there may have been some difficulties. LG:No more than anyone else. Michael was a very loving husband, and a very good father. I know Greg was a bit harsh when we spoke before but you know what fathers can be like, especially about their little girls. VE:Samantha never said anything to you that might suggest Michael had been `“ I'm sorry there's no easy way to ask this `“ LG:Abusing her? Hitting her? Is that what you mean? Absolutely not `“ whatever gave you that idea? VE:I didn't mean to upset you, Mrs Gifford, truly. But violence isn't the only way problems in a relationship can show themselves. Would you say Michael was controlling? Did Samantha ever say he was trying to dictate how she behaved? LG:Of course she didn't. You people are all the same `“ going round poking your noses in looking for problems when there aren't any. VE:Mr Esmond is still missing, Mrs Gifford. We're just trying to eliminate him from our enquiries `“ I'm sure you can understand `“ LG:No, I don't understand. Why aren't you concentrating on finding out who did this? That's what I want to know. My daughter is dead `“ my grandsons are dead `“ and you people haven't the first clue who's responsible `“ VE:Mrs Gifford `“

[the line goes dead]

When Gis parks up in Southey Road there's hardly anyone around, just an elderly man shuffling along in a heavy tweed overcoat and a woman pushing a buggy with a little blond boy inside. He's wearing a baseball cap with `anti-hero' printed on the front. He must be about the same age as Zachary Esmond. It's drizzling now, and I turn up my collar as I trudge up the gravel after Gislingham. The house looks even worse than it did last time I was here, the windows running dark stains like weeping clown eyes. You can feel the wet soot in your throat.

Rigby comes towards us through the rubble, his boots crunching at each step.

`Sorry to drag you out here, but I think you'll be glad I did.'

He hands us both hard hats. `No one allowed on-site without one of these.' He waits until we fit them, then turns. `This way.'

The only access is through the back, and we pick our way across to the sitting room over a floor still strewn with ash and debris and broken plaster, with here and there a tarpaulin rigged up over the last few sections they haven't yet cleared. Rigby stops and crouches down, pointing at what's left of the blackened boards. `See that? It's spill pattern. Once you know what you're looking for you can see it all over in here. The place was doused in the stuff.'

`Petrol?' asks Gislingham, making notes.

Rigby nods. `Almost certainly. We've sent samples to the lab to see if we can match it to the lawnmower. We also found the can. I doubt there'll be prints, given the state it's in, but it's worth trying.' He straightens up again. `What the spill pattern tells us is that the arsonist stood in the middle of the room and started to back towards that door over there, throwing petrol to left and right.' He starts mimicking it, flinging his arms from side to side as he retreats. `But this,' he says, coming to a halt, `is where he stopped.'

Gis frowns. `How do you know?'

Rigby gestures at the tarpaulin at his feet, then bends to lift it. Underneath there's a heavy wooden beam, and what's left of an ornate Victorian mirror, the gilding still glinting through the soot. My reflection stares up at me brokenly from the splintered glass.