No Way Out

And it's not the only face I can see.

Oxford Mail online

Thursday 18 January 2018 Last updated at 13:11

BREAKING Oxford fire: Investigators discover a fourth victim

In a shocking turn of events, the fire investigation team at Southey Road are believed to have discovered a fourth victim in the burnt-out remains of the Edwardian house. Neighbours report seeing an undertaker's van, and a body bag being removed on a stretcher. The fire team have been on-site since the fire broke out in the early hours of the morning on 4 January, and have been painstakingly sifting through the collapsed ruins of one side of the house, looking for clues as to the fire's possible cause. Mrs Samantha Esmond, 33, and her younger son, Zachary, 3, perished in the blaze, and her older son, Matty, 10, later died of his injuries in the John Radcliffe hospital.

Speculation is mounting that the fourth victim is Michael Esmond, 40, an academic in the University's anthropology department, who has not been seen since before the fire, despite a nationwide police appeal asking for him to come forward. Those with knowledge of fire investigation procedures have suggested that the newly discovered body must have been in the sitting room on the ground floor, given the length of time it has taken to locate the remains. The fire is also thought to have started in that part of the house.

Thames Valley Police have so far declined to make a statement, nor was anyone at the University offices in Wellington Square available for comment.

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670 comments

WittenhamWendy66

Am I missing something completely obvious here or are they actually suggesting the father did it `“ set light to the house with his little children asleep upstairs? That's beyond belief `“ what sort of monster does something like that to his own kids?

Turner_Rolland

They're called `Family Annihilators'. If you watched as much trashy American crime TV as my wife you'd know all about them.

Metaxa88

There's a good article about it `“ based on some research done by a team at Birmingham uni. Apparently there are four types `“ `self-righteous' ones who are usually going through a divorce and blame the mother for breaking up the family and usually call her to taunt her with what they're about to do (nice), `disappointed' ones who think everyone has betrayed them, `paranoid' ones who think they're under some sort of threat, and `anomic' ones (no, I didn't know what it meant either) who see the family as a symbol of their own success, but then find themselves going bankrupt or something and everything crashing down around their ears. Here's the link http://www.wired.co.uk/article/family-killers

AndEveSpan1985

And they're all men. Now there's a surprise.

`I'd have sold tickets,' says Boddie, glancing up at the viewing gallery and then back down at me, `if I'd known you were bringing a posse.'

I would say something darkly ironic by way of retort, only right now I'm focusing on not gagging in front of my entire team. I should have copped out and stayed upstairs with the rest of them, but sometimes leadership really is thrust upon you.

The body on the table in front of me is charred blue-black, but here and there the skin has split open in long slicing gashes like ruptured fruit. You can see the pale grey bone of the skull, the yellowish coils of the intestine.

`As we can see,' says Boddie, his voice muffled by his mask, `the cadaver exhibits the classic pugilistic attitude typically observed in severe burns victims. Supine position, clenched fists, raised knees and so on.' He glances up and raises his voice. `And for the benefit of the ingГ©nues among you, he wasn't going one last round with the Grim Reaper. The extreme heat causes the proteins in the muscles to coagulate and contract, resulting in this rather quaintly combative appearance.'

He moves round towards the head of the table. `I can confirm that the body is male, but I will not be able to give an accurate estimate of weight or height, given the shrinkage consequent on the fire damage. Likewise, with this degree of charring, I doubt I will find any exterior distinguishing marks worthy the name. Apart, perhaps, from this.' He indicates one of the clawed hands. `As the more observant among you will already have spotted, there is a ring on the fifth finger of the left hand.' He looks up at the gallery. `What I imagine Detective Sergeant Gislingham would call his `њpinky`ќ.'

I can't hear the laughter but I can see it. Ev is nudging Gislingham, who's managing to grin.

`We must hope Alan Challow will uncover some useful identifying mark on it by way of inscription,' continues Boddie, leaning over the skull, `because our friend appears to have lost most of his jaw.'

`One of the joists came down on top of him,' I say, through gritted teeth.

`So I see,' says Boddie drily. `How very unfortunate. I'm afraid there's far too much damage here to attempt a reliable identification through dental records. I will, of course, conduct routine X-rays to see if there are any bones with healed breaks that might assist with identification, but our best bet is probably DNA. There's a brother living, I believe?'

I nod.

He bends again, inspecting the skull from different angles. `Interesting. I suspect we may have a significant fracture in the right temporal area.' He raises his voice again. `For those up in the cheap seats, bones often crack in intense heat, which can make it difficult to determine whether the injury to a burns victim was pre- or post-mortem. Many an otherwise competent officer has come a cropper on that one.'

`You're saying someone could have hit him?'

`I'm saying it's possible. Just as it's possible he hit his head when he was overcome by the fumes.' He picks up his scalpel. `So shall we take a look?'

As the blade pierces the blackened flesh I glance up to see that most of them have turned away or found a sudden urgent need to check their phones. With one exception. DC Asante. He's taking notes.

RESTRICTED WHEN COMPLETED

Draft extracts from full report

FRS Incident No. 87/1434 Date of Incident: 4 / 1 /20 18 Time of Call for incident: 00: 47 HRS Address: 23 Southey Road, Oxford OX2 Use of Premises Domestic / residential Name of Occupier: Michael Esmond Fire Investigation Officer

Name: Watch Manager Paul Rigby Service No: 667 FRS: Oxfordshire INCIDENT AND INVESTIGATION SUMMARY SHEET / OVERVIEW Date / Time FIO Mobilised 00: 52 Hours

4 / 1 /20 18 Date / Time of Arrival of FIO 01 : 15 Hours

4 / 1 /20 18 Cordon Established Y Yes Cordon Established by ✓ FRS No Police Scene Secured Y FRS Police Incident Log started at: Y Police FRS Incident Commander Station Manager G Lowe Police Incident Commander DS C Gislingham Reason for Investigation Fatality/possible arson Police Investigation Officer Name A Challow Workplace St Aldate's Appliances attending Oxford fire appliances

Slade fire appliances

Call signs and time in attendance 21P1 at 00:55

21P2 at 01:01

30P1 at 01:15

30P2 at 01:30

Primary Witness `“ Before Arrival of Fire and Rescue Service Name of person discovering the fire Mrs Beverley Draper Contact address 21 Southey Road, Oxford OX2 Contact phone No. 01865 003425 How was the fire discovered? Visible from window Was an alarm sounding? No Time discovered 00.45 Who called the FRS? Mrs Draper Were any actions taken before the arrival of the FRS? No Incident Description The 999 call from the adjacent house indicated that there could be four persons present in the property, including two children. The first appliance booked in attendance at 00:55, with a first impression message of smoke issuing from the right-hand first and second storey of the property, with flames visible at the lower level. SM Lowe instructed his crew to lay out a hose reel and Firefighters 354 Fletcher, 143 Evans, 176 Jones and 233 Waites to get ready in breathing apparatus sets. These firefighters immediately ascended to the first floor by ladder, making entry through a window. Zachary Esmond was located by 354 Fletcher in a room identifiable as a nursery and immediately removed and handed to the care of paramedics. Shortly afterwards, Matthew Esmond was discovered at ground level, on the staircase. Zachary Esmond was pronounced dead at the scene. Ambulance staff administered first aid to Matthew Esmond before transfer to John Radcliffe AE. During this time, additional firefighters wearing breathing apparatus were committed into the property to fight the fire at ground floor level. Access was only possible from the rear left-hand side (kitchen), due to severe fire in the hall and front entrance.

At 01.15 WM Rigby was appointed Fire Investigation Officer. At 02.45 SM Lowe reported back to Control as follows: `њSevere fire in right-hand rear ground floor, leading to significant structural collapse above. Fire and smoke damage to rest of property. One child fatality, and one casualty. One firefighter suffering slight smoke inhalation treated at scene. Eight breathing apparatus wearers, four hose-reels, one strike jet and PPV fan in use. Incident remains Offensive and to be left open `“ cause currently unknown `“ awaiting SOCO.`ќ

Casualty / Fatality Information Name Age Type of Injury / Treatment at Scene / Receiving Hospital Treatment or Check-up Zachary Esmond 3 Fatality Matthew Esmond 10 Casualty. Hospitalised at JR. Subsequently deceased CONSTRUCTION AND OCCUPANCY DETAILS Type of Premises Single-occupancy house Use of Premises Family home Construction `“ External walls Brick Construction `“ Roof Pitched tiled Internal walls Brick No. of Floors 3 Age of Construction 1909 Occupied at time of fire ✓ Yes By whom and by how many?

Two children discovered during course of fire, one deceased.

Remains of two adults discovered during excavation

Lifestyle of occupier Evidence of: Details: ✓ Smoking Time of Last Cigarette:

Not known

Non-Smoking ✓ Alcohol Consumption Drug use Address / Occupant(s) known to Police No В GROUND FLOOR В SITTING ROOM (not to scale) FIRE SCENE EXAMINATION `“ EXCAVATION Date and time started Date and time Complete In attendance (add names) ◾ FIO

Paul Rigby

◾ CSI/SOCO

M Paice, D Thatcher (FRS), C Conway (TVP)

Excavation description The excavation process began approx 32 hours after the site was pronounced safe. Two floors had collapsed on the right-hand side of the building, which required the careful removal of debris and construction materials, in order to preserve forensic evidence. The remains of Mrs Samantha Esmond were discovered at approx 16:30 on 5/1/2018. The position of the body suggested she had been asleep in one of the smaller bedrooms on the top (2nd) floor, immediately above the seat of the fire. On the morning of 18/1/2018, the remains of an adult male were discovered in the sitting room (see floor plan). The body was badly charred and visual identification at the scene was not possible. Further excavation and investigation in this room revealed evidence of accelerant and the presence of a cigarette lighter belonging to Mr Michael Esmond. The burn patterns detected on the flooring and what remained of the furniture in the room indicated that the accelerant had been deployed by a single individual, moving across the room towards the door to the hallway. It was not possible to determine why the individual found in this room had not been able to exit safely. When the main front door was located there were no signs of forced entry (as was also the case in the rest of the house). How the fire spread Ignition

The fire was started by the deliberate ignition of petrol accelerant on the floor, rug and adjacent furniture in the ground-floor sitting room.

Development

Due to the combustible rug materials on the floor and the dry and highly combustible Christmas decorations in the room, the fire development would have been swift and significant. The fire quickly spread through the ground floor and up the stairs, gaining in energy from the Christmas garlands used to decorate the wooden stair banisters.

No smoke detectors were fitted anywhere within the house.

Signed:Paul J RigbyDate:18/1/2018 Copies to:DSupt J Harrison (Thames Valley) DI A Fawley***

Baxter is the only one who wasn't at the post-mortem, but he did have a good excuse.

`Cracked that password, boss,' he says as soon as I get to the incident room. `The one for the email account. And the one for the home PC.'

A cheer goes up behind me and Baxter blushes, but he's chuffed all the same. `I leant on the Anthropology department IT guys and they eventually gave me the password he was using for his university emails. That turned out to be Xfile9781. The one for the private account is a variation of exactly the same letters and numbers.'

`So, what `“ he was some sort of sci-fi fan?' asks one of the DCs.

`More likely a Gillian Anderson fan,' says another with a nudge. `I mean, aren't we all.'

`Good try, lads,' smiles Baxter. `But it's actually an anagram. Xfile is an anagram of Felix. The name of the house.'

`And the number?' I ask.

`I'm guessing it refers to 1978,' says Baxter. `The year he was born. Just like with his phone.'

The house and him, locked together. Passwords can be so revealing.

`But the bad news,' continues Baxter, `is that there was sod all on the personal emails either. No evidence of a dodgy relationship, female or male.'

`No messages to Harry? None at all?'

He shakes his head. `Nowt. Esmond seemed to use it mainly for ordering stuff from Amazon and doing his Tesco order.'

God, this man is dull. Nothing about his life was as interesting as his leaving of it.

But Baxter's not done yet. `I went back and looked at his old passwords and turns out it's always the same `“ a different combination of Felix and 1978. Though he only put a password on the home PC for the first time in November. The last time he updated that was 2 January. Judging by the time, it must have been just before he left the house that morning.'

On his way to the meeting with Jordan, and the conference in London, and `“ as we know now `“ someone or something in Brighton. The timing can't be insignificant.

`So what's the password now?'

`Xlife9718. As in `њex-life`ќ. As in dead.'

It could just be a coincidence. But as I'm sure you know by now, I don't believe in coincidences.

29 October 2017, 2.48 p.m.

67 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

`Everything OK?'

It's Sam, standing in the door of the study. Behind her, the wind is whipping through the bare branches. One is creaking against the roof above like a rusty violin.

Michael looks up and frowns. `It's the bill from the care home.'

Sam comes further in and goes to stand at his shoulder, staring at the screen.

`It's the extras that are doing it,' he says. `Hairdressing, chiropodists, eye tests. Where does it end?'

`Perhaps we should think about somewhere cheaper?' she says, tentatively. `Philip said `“'

`Philip said what?'

She flushes. `Only that she'd probably be happy anywhere where they were kind and she was warm and well fed. It's not as if she really knows where she is.'

She expects him to blow up at that, but he just sits there, staring at the screen.

`I know she's settled there, but if it's becoming a problem `“'

Her husband sits back in his chair. There are dark circles under his eyes. She wonders, suddenly, how much sleep he's been getting.

`There's enough in the savings account for this month, but after that `“'

He looks up; she's biting her lip.

`I was going to tell you,' she says.

`You were going to tell me what?'

`I've taken some money out of the savings account. Sorry. I should have said.'

He's frowning again. `How much, exactly?'

She's gone very red. `£2,000.'

He stares at her. `But what could you possibly need that sort of money for?'

`It wasn't for me. It was just a loan. I'll be getting it back.'

`A loan? Who the hell for? Surely your parents `“'

`Not my parents. Harry. I lent the money to Harry.'

`Harry?'

`His mother's been ill and he's been sending her money.'

`Did you have to give him quite that much?'

`I'm so sorry, Michael `“ I didn't realize it was going to be a problem `“ I mean, you never said `“ I never see the statements `“'

`That's because I don't want you worrying.'

Her heart turns over. He's under so much pressure. Not just his mother but his job and the book she knows must be at least six months behind schedule.

She folds her arms about him, feeling the tension in his shoulders, the pulse in his neck. `Please don't worry. He said he'd definitely pay it back by the end of the month. We'll have it in time for Christmas. He promised.'

`Boss? There's something you should see.'

It's Baxter. I didn't even realize he was still here. I was about to leave myself but he clearly has something. Though it's giving him no pleasure to tell me so.

`What is it?'

`It's Esmond's PC.'

The incident room is deserted, and I avoid making any reference to the bag of crisps and Mars bar on Baxter's desk.

He sits down in front of the machine. It's not very new and has seen a good deal of use, if the scratches on the screen are anything to go by. There's a faded blue sticker saying `The Best Dad in the World', and another with the name of a PC-servicing company: `Honest practical help for all your IT problems'.

Baxter opens a YouTube page.

`It was buried in his browsing history,' he says quietly. `Press Play.'

The soundtrack is a heavy disco beat and the film isn't much more than a home video with primitive Comic Sans captions and jerky transitions from one frame to the next. But it gets its message over all the same.

5 Truly Awesome Tricks 2 Start A Fire!

Fire-starters made of matchbooks, time-delay devices using firework fuses, balloons filled with petrol strung up over candles. A pair of close-up hands like some sort of perverse Blue Peter show while a chirpy American voiceover proffers handy tips (`Careful, guys `“ too much fuel in the balloon and you can actually put the candle out!') then three smiley emoticons go up in flames and we're on to the next Truly Awesome Trick.

It's only then I realize that the pounding music is `Burn Baby Burn'.

`Jesus Christ.'

Baxter makes a face. `I know.'

`And Esmond definitely looked at this?'

Baxter nods. `Back in November. The 4th, to be precise.'

I push the keyboard away. The sticker is still there.

`The Best Dad in the World.'

`Took a while to clean it up, but it's not in bad nick, all things considered.'

Alan Challow hands me the plastic evidence bag and a magnifying glass. `Take a look.'

The ring is silver, or perhaps white gold, with a smooth dark-blue centre. It's dented and scratched, but the inscription on the enamel is clear: two initials, ornately engraved and overlaid on top of one another. An M and an E.

`I think that's pretty conclusive, don't you?'

I look up at him. `I'll show it to the brother. If this is Esmond's he must have seen it before.'

Challow nods. `Good idea. In fact, you can do that right now. He's outside, waiting to have a swab taken.'

After the best part of three days, Quinn is on the point of giving up on the whole Brighton angle. PC Kumar's been struggling to find the time to review the CCTV footage and Quinn's not about to volunteer. But when he gets back from lunch there's a Post-it stuck on his computer screen. Kumar's called: there's an email in his inbox. Quinn sits down and opens up his screen. The CCTV clip is only thirty-five seconds long and it's not exactly definitive. The quality is pretty poor and the man's face is partly concealed by an umbrella, but the laptop bag looks like the one Esmond was carrying when he left Brighton station. Quinn picks up the phone.

`Kumar? It's Quinn. You think that's our guy?'

`The timing is right. He'd have got about that far if he'd been walking at normal pace.'

`So where was he `“ where was he going `“ any ideas?'

He can hear Kumar exhale. `That's a bit trickier. This camera is on a corner shop in a residential neighbourhood north-west of town. As to where he was going, it could have been anywhere, to be honest. I've checked and there are no more cameras on that stretch of road for another couple of miles, and there's nothing on any of those.'

Quinn sighs. Loudly.

`Look, I'll do a bit of digging,' says Kumar. `But I think my luck may have run out.'

Not just yours, thinks Quinn.

`Where did you find that?'

Philip Esmond is looking at the signet ring lying in my palm. He's gone very pale.

`It was on that body, wasn't it? The one they were talking about on the news.'

`I'm afraid so.'

He swallows. `So he's dead then. My brother is dead.'

`Do you want a glass of water? This must be quite a shock.'

He shakes his head; there are tears in his eyes. `I mean, I was expecting it `“ especially after the news, but `“' His voice breaks and he looks away.

And I know what he means. Suspecting is one thing, knowing is another. You cling on to the faintest, most fragile hope, because hope is all you have.

`So he killed them. He really did kill them. And then he killed himself.'

I feel my own heart clutch at his pain. `I'm so very sorry. But yes, it's looking very much like that's what happened.'

And as the PM results have just confirmed, he was still alive when the fire started. But I'm not about to tell his brother that. He's got it tough enough.

`I'm sorry to bring this up now but we do still need you to give us a DNA sample. Just to be sure. Are you OK to do that now? It's only a mouth swab.'

He blinks the tears away. `Sure. No problem.'

He gets up from the chair. `I suppose I can at least give him a decent funeral now.'

`I'm sure the coroner will do everything she can to speed up the inquest. Though `“' I stop, not quite sure how to broach it. `You might want to think about where `“ for the funeral, I mean. I'm not sure how the Giffords would feel if `“'

``“ if I put Mike right next to the daughter and grandsons he killed? Don't worry, I'm not about to make things ten times worse.'

He reaches out a hand, half awkwardly. `Thank you. For everything you've done.'

`It's my job. And we'll make sure the ring is returned to you as soon as possible.'

He smiles wanly. `Thanks. I'd appreciate that.'

Ten minutes later I stand and watch him as he walks across the car park. He stops at the car and fumbles in his pocket for the keys. It's a rental, I'm guessing, because it takes him too long to find the one he needs and get the door open. Then he stands there, one hand leaning on the roof, his shoulders sunk. I just hope he has the sense to opt for a private funeral a long way away. Social media is tearing his brother apart.

4 November 2017, 7.14 p.m.

61 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Michael Esmond is late getting back, so he's not surprised to find the house in darkness: Sam said she was going to take the boys to see the new Lego movie. He stands in the hall a moment, dumping his keys. He can still smell the faint chemical odour of the new floor varnish. Varnish, and now, something else.

Burning.

From upstairs.

He's up the stairs without even thinking `“ running solely on reflex. It's coming from Matty's room. Jesus, he thinks `“ what the hell is he doing `“ we've told him a hundred times about playing with flames. And when he rounds the corner into the room, his son is sitting there, cross-legged on the floor.

His hands are on fire.

`What the fuck `“' he yells. Though he never swears. Not in front of the kids. Not ever.

And then he realizes Harry is in the room too. Harry, who is staring at him, calm as you like.

`Hi, Mike,' he says, smiling.

Matty starts dropping the pale blue flame from one palm to the other and Michael realizes the fire is coming from something the size of a ping-pong ball. And that his skin is completely unmarked.

`Isn't it ace?' breathes Matty. `It's like the fire chargers in Minecraft.'

`Cool, eh?' says Harry. `Something for the kids for Bonfire Night. We found it on the web, didn't we, Matt? If you soak a fabric ball in lighter fuel you can actually hold a fire in your hands.'

`I can smell the burning all the way up the stairs.'

`Yeah, sorry about that. We had a couple of false starts.'

`You could have burned the bloody house down.'

Harry smiles again, a little more coolly now. `The house is perfectly safe. I know what I'm doing.'

`You just said you found it on the sodding internet `“'

Harry reaches out and takes the fireball from Matty, then closes up his fist like a magician and the fire goes out.

`Go downstairs, Matty,' says Michael, not looking at him.

`But, Dad `“' he begins.

`Do as I say. And close the door. I want to speak to Harry.'

Matty gets up slowly and drags his feet towards the door. Harry glances across. `It's OK, Matt. I'll be down in a minute.'

The door closes behind him and they hear the boy moving slowly down the stairs.

`Don't you ever put my son in danger like that again.'

`Really?' says Harry, raising one eyebrow. `Sounded like it was just the house you were worried about.'

`You know precisely what I mean. What you were doing is reckless and completely irresponsible. What if he tries it on his own `“ what then?'

Harry uncrosses his legs and gets up. `He won't,' he says. `He's not stupid.'

`I know that. But he's still a kid. A ten-year-old kid.'

`I told him not to do it on his own. That he could only do it if I was with him so I could make sure we were doing it safely. With the right stuff.'

`Oh, well, that's all right then.'

`You worry too much,' Harry says, putting his hands in his pockets. `Just chill. It's all under control.'

`And what did you mean by `њwe`ќ?'

`Sorry `“ not with you.'

`You said `њwe found it on the internet`ќ.'

Harry is unfazed. `Oh, right. Yeah, it was me and Matt. We did it together.'

`On your phone?'

He frowns. `No, on the computer.'

`My computer. In my office.' Michael is visibly struggling to keep his temper.

`What's the big deal? Matt said you wouldn't mind.'

`That's not for Matty to say.'

Harry shrugs. `If it bothers you so much you should use a bloody password. Though it's not as if you have anything interesting on it as far as I could see.'

Michael takes a step closer to him. `You were looking through my files `“ my documents `“'

`Not looking through. I just happened to notice. Look, Mike `“'

They're inches apart now. Eye to eye. `I told you before. Don't call me Mike.'

`Fine by me,' says Harry evenly. `Do you have something else in mind?'

Quinn is in the coffee shop on St Aldate's, staring at his tablet. But it's not his Facebook page (even though he's started up rather a promising connection with one of the female DCs in Brighton). He's on something else. Maybe even on to something else.

He stares at the image, clicks the zoom to the maximum it will go, and stares again.

`I just need a bit more time, Adam. It's complicated `“ there's something `“ I need to be sure `“'

Of all the days she chooses to call, it's a crap day like today. And even though I know I'm doing it, I'm starting to lose my temper. `Sure about what, Alex? About me? About us? How the hell can you be sure about anything when you won't even talk to me?'

`Please,' her voice is pleading now. `I'm not doing this to hurt you `“'

`Really? You should try being on the receiving end for a change.'

And then I do something I never do. Not to anyone. And certainly not to Alex.

I cut the line.

Because suddenly I've had enough. Of this case, this place, this absurd situation with Alex. I get up and move towards the door, almost colliding with Quinn, who clearly wants to speak to me.

`Boss?'

`Not now. I'm going out.'

He stares at me. At the jacket I'm not wearing. `It's bloody freezing out there `“ just saying `“'

`I don't care.'

I stride out on to the pavement and stop, still breathing heavily, and uncomfortably aware quite what a stupid idea this is. Everyone else is in hats and scarves and gloves. Including the man standing on the other side of the road, staring at the building. He's young `“ probably not much more than twenty. A crew cut, thin hips, and his scarf is in one of those hip knots they apparently call `the Parisian' (I have Quinn to thank for that information, as if you couldn't guess). He looks at his phone and then at the police station again. I cross the road quickly, narrowly missing a bike, and make my way towards him. At least I don't have a uniform to scare him off. Though I wouldn't blame him if he thought I was some sort of nutter, outside in shirtsleeves in weather like this. Close up, he looks nervous. He's biting his lip as he looks at his phone. He's wearing black nail varnish.

`Can I help you?'

He looks up; his eyes widen.

`I work in there. The police station. Is there something you want to talk to us about?'

He flushes. `I don't want to waste your time. It may be nothing.'

`You're worried enough to stand out here freezing your balls off wondering what to do. That doesn't sound like nothing to me.'

He opens his mouth then closes it again.

`Come on. At least it's warm in there. And if it's nothing, well, it's nothing.' I try a smile. It seems to work.

`OK,' he says.

12 December 2017, 3.54 p.m.

23 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

`Hey, careful, don't want you falling off!'

Sam is standing on the stepladder, with Harry holding it steady beneath her. She's decorating the Christmas tree. When she answered the front door an hour ago Harry was standing there, with one of the biggest trees she'd ever seen. It must be eight foot tall.

`Well,' he'd said, after they'd dragged it inside. `All these high ceilings `“ might as well make the most of them.'

`It's wonderful, Harry. I can't thank you enough.'

`I'll take Matt out later to look for holly. We can make something for the hall. You think he'd like that?'

`He'd love it `“ of course he would.'

She'd stood and watched him then as he'd hauled the tree upright in the sitting room, biting her lip and remembering the Christmas before when she'd barely got out of bed for three days and Michael had had to roast a chicken from the freezer. But this year, she told herself, it would all be different. She'd get a turkey and mince pies and a cake. And a Yule log. Michael always said he preferred Yule log to Christmas cake, but if they got a cake as well she could ice it with the boys like her mother used to. She could buy some cake ornaments `“ let the boys decorate it like she did when she was little.

And now she's on the stepladder, surrounded by the decorations Harry brought down from the attic. She's never liked the way this house is furnished `“ she'd wanted to do a complete refurb when they moved in but Michael wouldn't hear of it. But, for once, his mania about keeping everything the way his grandparents had it has paid dividends. The decorations are exquisite. No tacky tinsel or shiny plastic but beautiful hand-painted china figurines of snowmen and Father Christmases, folded paper angels and snowflakes, tiny shoes embellished with lace and fake pearls, gold bells that ring. Some of them are so delicate she's afraid to touch them.

`They'll be fine,' Harry said. `Just put them higher up. Out of Zachary's reach.'

She hangs a little yellow feathered bird now, and leans back to see the effect. `These things are so beautiful, aren't they? We just had plastic tinsel tat when I was a child. That and a bag of Brazil nuts my dad always insisted on buying and no one ever ate.'

`At least you had a dad,' says Harry, passing up another feathered bird.

She flushes. `I'm sorry `“ I didn't mean `“'

He waves a hand, dismissive. `What you've never had, you don't miss. And my mum did her best to make up for it. Always did a ton of baking `“ traditional recipes and stuff she'd got from her grandmother. I was always the most popular kid in class.'

`Sounds lovely. I always feel inadequate, not making the boys' cakes myself. It just seems such hard work.'

He laughs. `Get them to help `“ they'd love it. I remember making these cute little doughnut things that we'd deep fry and dip in sugar. There was flour everywhere, but Mum never seemed to mind.'

It still sounds too much like hard work to Sam, but she doesn't want to say that.

`Thank you, by the way,' she says, trying to change the subject. `That pirate show you saw online? I gave them a call and they have tickets after Christmas. I'm going to make it a surprise for Matty's birthday. We can stay over `“ go to that Spaceport place he keeps on about. It'll be nice to go back to Liverpool `“ I haven't been back at all since we left.'

`Oh,' she says suddenly. `Michael `“ you're early! Isn't this fabulous?'

Her husband is standing in the doorway. She has no idea how long he has been there. Or why he has such a strange expression on his face.

I could leave the young man to the duty officer but something keeps me there, listening.

`So it's your boyfriend that's gone missing, is it?' says Woods, heavily.

The young man frowns. `Not my boyfriend. I told you, we'd only met three or four times. I just wanted to check if he's been reported missing. He doesn't have any family here so I thought `“'

`When did you last see him?'

`New Year's. He came over to my place. We arranged to meet the following weekend, but he never showed.'

`So that would have been the 6th?'

The young man nods. His name is Davy. Davy Jones. I asked him if his mum liked The Monkees and he looked at me as if I was deranged. I feel about 104.

`And he's not answering his phone?' continues Woods.

`No. Not for days.'

`You sure he doesn't just want to,' Woods looks flustered, `you know, break up with you?'

Davy flushes. `There wasn't anything to break up. I told you. It was just a hook-up.'

`Do you have a picture?' I say.

He turns to me in obvious relief and pulls one up on his phone. The young man on the screen is extraordinarily good-looking. Dark hair, light blue-violet eyes, a wide, confident smile.

I nod to Woods. `Have you got the MissPers list for the last couple of weeks?'

Missing Person Report

Date:2 January 2018 Name:Robert `Bobby' Bell

(Rough sleeper)

D.O.B.1956? Address:NFA Description:Approx 5' 5`ќ, thin, several teeth missing, scar under left eye Last seen wearing:Rough trousers and jacket, trainers, woollen hat Last seen by:Adrian Close, manager, Oxford Night Shelter Last seen date/location:23/12/17, Oxford Night Shelter, approx. 3 pm Mr Bell is a well-known rough sleeper, with both drink and drug issues. Mr Close is concerned because Mr Bell did not turn up as expected for the Night Shelter Christmas lunch. He has not been seen in any of the locations where he usually sleeps, and has not been in good health.

Logged by:   PC Sandy Wilson

Missing Person Report

Date:3 January 2018 Name:Jonathan Eldridge D.O.B.18/04/1976 Address:88 Moffat Way, Kidlington Description:Medium height and build, dark hair (balding), brown eyes Last seen wearing:Tracksuit, running shoes, bumbag Last seen by:Jenny Eldridge (wife) Last seen date/location:3/1/18, Moffat Way, Kidlington, 10.30 am Mr Eldridge is a husband and father with a steady job, and no pressing financial difficulties. His health is good. He is a keen runner and was last seen leaving his home on the morning of 3 January. After he did not return by noon, his wife became concerned. He had only a phone and house keys on him. His wallet, car keys and passport remain at the house. Local hospitals have been checked.

Logged by:    PC Anne Shields

Missing Person Report

Date:5 January 2018 Name:Ben Perrie D.O.B.02/10/1998 Address:St Peter's College Description:6' 2`ќ, athletic build, blond hair, blue/green eyes Last seen wearing:Dark denim jeans, light-coloured jacket, red scarf Last seen by:Maurice Jennings (porter, St Peter's) Last seen date/location:2/1/18, St Peter's lodge, approx. 1 pm Mr Perrie is a first-year student. He returned to college immediately after Christmas to study for upcoming exams. He had not been having any problems academically and his tutor says he showed no sign of anxiety. He had, however, recently broken up with his girlfriend. His parents have been informed, as have the police in Hartlepool (his home address).

Logged by:   PC Sandy Wilson

I skim-read the three sheets, then read them again just to be sure, but it's pretty obvious Davy's absent friend is not a MissPers. Not officially anyway. The student's the wrong colouring, and I don't give the homeless guy very good odds in this weather. It was minus five last night. The happily married man is more of an enigma. Looks like he just did a runner. Literally. But we'll probably never know. This job is like that. Like I said before, don't become a copper if you want to know What Happened In The End.

`So he's not there?' says Davy, reading my face.

`No. But a lot of people are still away. It could be a while yet before it becomes clear someone's not where they're supposed to be.'

And yes, I'm acutely aware that I've just described my own wife.

I hand the sheets back to Woods. `I think we should log this one, Sergeant. Can you take the full details from Mr Jones?'

Woods sighs. `If you say so, sir.'

The door swings open behind me and reception is suddenly thronged with people `“ half a busload of American tourists clamouring for directions. But I should thank them, because the extra time it takes me to get through the crowd means I'm still in earshot when Woods asks his next question.

`So what's this friend of yours called, Mr Jones?'

23 December 2017, 3.12 p.m.

12 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Downstairs, Sam can hear the sound of voices. Her sons, and Harry, who's having the usual skirmish getting them into coats and hats and mittens. They're going to the Christingle service at St Margaret's. She'd asked Michael if he wanted to come too but he said it would be hypocritical. He doesn't believe in God. `Not a God that behaves like this one, anyway.' He had an odd look in his eyes as he said it and she hadn't pushed him, though she has no idea what he meant. He's been like this for days. Not just pre-occupied but watchful. Watching. But now, at least, he can't. She's alone. She needs to be. For this. She doesn't want him getting even the slightest hint of it.

She locks the bathroom door and gets the packet out from where she hid it under the clean towels. Her cycle has been off the last few months and she doesn't really think there's any chance `“ after all, she and Michael have hardly even `“

She puts the plastic stick on the shelf and turns away, willing herself not to fixate on it. She washes her hands and applies hand cream, then checks her make-up in the mirror.

There's the sound of feet on the landing outside, and Zachary starts banging on the door. `Mummy! Mummy! Where are you?'

She reaches for the stick. `I'll be out in a second, sweet pea.'

When she comes down the stairs ten minutes later her face is so white Harry asks if she's seen a ghost. She gives a bitter little laugh. `The ghost of Christmas future, you mean?'

`You sure you're OK?' he says then, unsettled by her tone. `I can take them on my own if you don't feel up to it.'

She shakes her head. `No, I'm fine. Just something I need to sort out.'

Twenty minutes later I'm back upstairs in the incident room.

`So this bloke that Davy whatsisname was seeing is the same one Michael Esmond was calling at the back end of last year?' It's Gislingham, still processing what I've just told them.

`The one Esmond logged in his phone as `њHarry`ќ. That's right. His full name is Harry Brown.'

`And they're definitely one and the same person?'

`No question. It's the identical mobile number.'

`Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the phone, boss,' says Quinn quickly. `I've been looking at that footage again `“ the CCTV from Brighton station. I didn't notice it before but when Esmond comes back for the train just before six he's got something with him he didn't have when he arrived.'

`Which was?'

`A carrier bag. From Carphone Warehouse.'

He stops, waiting for the reaction he knows he's going to get.

`What,' says Baxter, `Esmond bought himself another phone? That afternoon?'

Quinn nods. `So then I had another look at Harry's phone records. He got a call the night of the fire from another pay-as-you-go mobile. It was just after nine o'clock. And while he was in Oxford, the caller was somewhere near Haywards Heath.'

He doesn't need to spell it out. It was Esmond, stuck on a train behind the derailment. Desperate, for reasons we still don't understand, to speak to Harry. So desperate, in fact, that he bought another phone rather than waiting to see if his was handed in. And whatever those reasons were, they're connected with that visit to Brighton. Because he could have bought another phone in London, when he realized he'd lost his, but he didn't. It was only after those two hours he spent in Brighton that the need to make that call became so urgent.

`Has Esmond used that phone since?'

Quinn shakes his head. `Nothing since that call.'

`This Davy character, boss `“ does he know where Harry was living?' asks Gislingham.

I shake my head. `They never went to his place. Davy says he got the impression there was someone else in his life, and that was probably the reason. A live-in lover, maybe even a husband.'

`Or someone else's,' says Ev darkly. `Samantha Esmond's, for instance.'

`There's something else too,' I continue. `Davy says he met Harry at the bar where he was working in Summertown. But later he told him he was also doing a bit of gardening on the side for extra cash.'

Realization dawns. Somer first, then the others.

`So that's the link,' says Ev. `Harry was doing the Esmonds' garden. The neighbours said there was someone. We just didn't make the connection.'

I nod. `Right. But we can easily confirm it one way or the other.' I go over to the board and pin up a picture of Harry Brown, then turn to Gis. `Speak to the Youngs again. Ask them if they recognize this man. Ev, can you pick up on the bar in Summertown `“ it's the Volterra on South Parade. See what the staff can tell us about him. And Quinn?'

`Boss?'

`That was excellent, lateral-thinking detective work. Keep it up.'

2 January 2018, 8.30 a.m.

Two days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

`You're going to miss that train at this rate,' calls Michael, checking his watch. He's standing at the bottom of the stairs, surrounded by holdalls and carrier bags. Matty has been waiting for at least ten minutes. They can hear Zachary whining upstairs.

`Mum said I shouldn't wear my Arsenal scarf,' he says sullenly.

`Well, it might not be a great idea, not in Liverpool. They're pretty proud of their own team up there.'

`Here we are,' says Sam, coming down the stairs with Zachary on her hip, still grizzling.

`Is everything OK? You were ages up there.'

He scans her face, wondering when she's going to tell him. If she's going to tell him. She'd wrapped the pregnancy test in a wodge of toilet paper and stuffed it in the bottom of the bin but he found it all the same. Because he can read her like a book and he knew there was something. Something she was keeping from him.

`There's enough stuff here for half a dozen kids,' he says, eyeing the baggage. `Just as well you only have two.' He keeps his voice light but she doesn't meet his gaze, doesn't take the bait.

`You know what it's like,' she says distractedly. `You always need three times more than you think. Right,' she says, turning to Matty, `are we all set for our pirate adventure?'

Michael loads the luggage into the car as she straps Zachary into the child seat.

`Remember, you'll have to get a cab on the way home. I doubt I'll be back before you, and in any case, the car will still be in the garage.'

`It's fine,' she says, closing the door and getting into the front. `We like black cabs, don't we, Matty?'

`They make a funny noise,' he replies. `Like a Dalek.'

Michael gets in and puts the key in the ignition.

`Have you got everything for your presentation?' she says brightly, eyeing her husband.

`Yes, it's all sorted.'

`And that meeting with Professor Jordan, when was that again?'

`Ten fifteen. But it's nothing. Just routine admin stuff.'

She turns to pull on her seat belt.

`I'm sure your talk will be brilliant. They always are. Give me a call to let me know how it goes.'

`Oh, I meant to mention `“ on that score, don't worry if you can't get me on the mobile. I'll probably be in the library quite a lot of the time.'

She frowns. `I thought you said the talk was all sorted?'

`It is,' he says, starting the engine. `This is something else. Something I need to check.'

All in all, Quinn tells himself as he walks down the corridor, that went as well as it was probably ever going to. And at least he's shown some initiative. Some smarts. Which is more than he can say of the rest of them, right now. Who knows, perhaps he might make it back to DS after all.

When his mobile rings ten minutes later he's in two minds whether to answer it at all. He stares at it for four rings, then heaves a heavy sigh and sits back in his chair.

`Quinn here.'

`DC Quinn? It's PC Kumar.'

`Yeah. I know that,' says Quinn, making a face at the phone.

`I had half an hour spare so I took another look at that area where we last spotted your suspect.'

Quinn starts doodling on his pad. `Thought you said it was just residential?'

`Ah, but that's just the point.'

`Sorry `“ not with you.'

`One of the buildings further along that street is a residential care home. Fair Lawns, it's called.'

`So you think `“'

Kumar's excitement is obvious now. `I don't think. I know.'

Sent:Fri 19/01/2018, 13.28Importance: High From:AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk, CID@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: DNA results: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road

Those DNA results you wanted a rush on: we've compared the sample from Philip Esmond to the DNA extracted from the male corpse at Southey Road. As you know, familial identification isn't as clear-cut as a simple yes or no, but in this case the results are entirely consistent with the two men being brothers.

Quinn's carefully crafted persona is way too suave to do urgent, so when he comes hurtling into my office without even knocking I know something's really up.

`I know where Esmond went,' he says, slightly out of breath. `In Brighton. It was an old people's home. Fair Lawns. His name isn't on the visitor log for that day, but when we emailed over a picture of him the staff recognized him at once. He was visiting an old lady by the name of Muriel Fraser. Claimed he was her nephew or something but we know for a fact he isn't.'

`So if she's not his aunt, what the hell was he doing there?'

`I haven't turned up any connection yet. But the staff at the home say she definitely knew him.'

I'm on my feet already. `Get Asante to phone through. Tell them we're on our way.'

2 January 2018, 10.45 a.m.

Two days before the fire

CrossCountry train service, just outside Birmingham

`Is there anything I can do to help?'

The woman in the tartan coat means well but, right now, the last thing Samantha wants is more attention. Zachary has been screaming at the top of his voice for twenty minutes and the carriage is crowded. The surreptitious looks have become openly hostile. Several people have taken to earphones. She can hear their voices in her head. Can't she control that brat? You shouldn't bring kids on trains unless they know how to behave.

`I'm sorry,' she says to the woman in tartan, raising her voice loud enough for the rest of them to hear. `He has a tummy ache and I can't remember which bag I put the Calpol in.' There's one holdall open at her feet and another squashed beside her, but just her luck, it's in neither. `It must be in the one on the rack.'

Matty is hunched in the window seat, staring out at the dull landscape. He looks wretchedly embarrassed, as only ten-year-olds can.

`Do you want some juice, Zachary?' says Sam. He's twisting and writhing, his face red and blotchy. He shakes his head vehemently, squeezing his eyes shut.

`I'm getting off at Birmingham,' says the woman, `but do you want me to take him for a minute while you get his medicine?'

`Oh, would you?' says Sam in a gush of relief. `I'll be really quick.'

She lifts the screeching Zachary and manages to get him on to the woman's lap, though she gets a kick in the neck in the process.

`Oh dear,' says the woman, struggling to keep hold of the little boy. `Are you all right?'

`It's nothing,' Sam says quickly. `Happens all the time.'

She reaches up to the bag and pulls it down on to the seat, then starts to dig about in it. The train lurches and judders as it starts to slow down, and suddenly the woman opposite lets out a strangled cry.

Zachary has been sick all over her.

Judging by what Somer told me, Fair Lawns is a world away from the home where Michael Esmond put his mother. You could get them under trade descriptions for the `lawns' for a start: there's asphalt on every flat surface. Tired 1970s architecture, and that nasty textured glass in the front door. It reminds me horribly of where my grandmother ended up. I used to dread being dragged there once a month as a child, sitting for the required hour and a half while my father said the same things he said the previous time, in a terrifying bright and happy voice. Even now, I can't bear the smell of disinfectant.

Quinn locks the car door and heads off to reception. He seems intent on proving to me just how efficient he can be and, hey, I'm not complaining.

The young woman on the desk has a heavy East European accent. Romanian, if I had to guess. She also has perfect skin and small, exquisite features that must have the old ladies yearning for their past youth, but Quinn seems determined to be Mr Professional. He doesn't even smile when he introduces himself.

`DC Quinn, DI Fawley, Thames Valley Police. To see Muriel Fraser?'

`Ah yes,' she says. `We spoke to your office. Please come this way.'

Mrs Fraser is having one of her good days, she tells us, as we follow her down the corridor, but all the same we shouldn't expect too much. `She is ninety-seven, after all.'

She leaves us with the care assistant in the `lounge', who's serving tea from the sort of trolley I haven't seen since I was a constable. She's much older than the receptionist `“ one of those competent motherly types we must all be thankful are prepared to work for minimum wage in places like this. Jeremy Kyle is on full volume in the corner and the newspapers are untouched on the coffee table. One old chap has a chessboard on a table in front of him and a book about the Spassky/Fischer world championship open in one hand. I don't want to think about the state of his inner life.

`Mrs Fraser's long-term memory is still pretty good,' says the assistant. `Though she struggles with more day-to-day things. But she really is a sweet lady.' She smiles. `One of the easy ones. Never complains.'

Muriel is in a chair by the window, hunched up against a cushion, her thin arms shrunk into a baggy sugar-pink cardigan.

`You made that cardi yourself, didn't you, Muriel?' says the assistant kindly, seeing me looking at it. `Though her knitting days are long gone now, I'm afraid.'

She reaches down to pat Muriel's clawed-up brown hands and the old lady smiles up at her.

`You have some visitors, Muriel. Two nice gentlemen from the police.'

The old lady's eyes widen and she stares first at Quinn and then at me.

`Nothing to worry about, lovey. They just want to check a few things with you.' Then she pats Muriel's hand again. `I'll see about getting you all some tea.'

We pull up the hard plastic visitor chairs and sit down.

`I think you had someone else come to see you recently, didn't you, Mrs Fraser?' asks Quinn.

She smiles at him. I think there's even the ghost of a wink. `I'm not completely gaga, you know. It was that Esmond boy.'

In the background, Jeremy Kyle is losing his patience. `It's a simple enough question. Did you sleep with her or didn't you?'

Quinn sits forward, clearly startled to have got so far so fast.

`That's right,' he says. `How do you know him?'

`He's Jenny's boyfriend.' She folds her hands then, disapproving. `Or was.'

Quinn and I exchange a glance. Jenny. The girlfriend Philip mentioned. The one Michael Esmond dumped when he went on his shag spree.

`And remind me, who is Jenny?' I ask, keeping my voice light.

`My granddaughter, of course. Ella's girl. Though why she took it into her head to marry that horrible man I'll never know.'

`Jenny?'

`No,' she says, clearly impatient with my stupidity. `Ella.'

`Jenny went to school in Oxford, didn't she?'

Her chin lifts. `That's right. She goes to the Griffin. It's supposed to be a very good school. Very expensive, that I do know.'

I've seen this before. With my grandmother, with other old people as frail as this. The past is blurring with the present: Jenny can't have been at that school for more than twenty years.

`They say it's a punishment,' she says suddenly. Loudly. The assistant looks up from the other side of the room. `They keep telling her that she deserves it. Even brought in a damn priest to tell her so.'

Quinn glances across at me, but I shrug; I've no more idea than he does.

`What did she do, Mrs Fraser? Why does she need to be punished?'

Muriel makes no attempt to conceal her disdain. `She didn't do anything. It isn't her fault, whatever they say.'

Quinn waves a finger at his ear and mouths, `Gaga.' Muriel doesn't see him do it, but the assistant does. He gathers his papers and makes to get up, but I catch his eye and stop him. There's something here, I'm sure of it.

`So whose fault was it, Mrs Fraser?'

`His, of course. That Esmond boy.' And all at once the pieces shift into place.

I can feel the sweat trickling down my back. I've got far too many layers on for this place. The heating is on full blast. On the TV, tempers are fraying. `I'm not the father of that kid `“ take any test you like `“ it ain't mine.'

Muriel sits back again, her lips pursed together. `Of course, he claims he didn't know anything about it. Well, he would say that, wouldn't he. The nasty little shit.'

Quinn smiles, despite himself.

I take one of her agitating hands and force her to look at me. `That's what Michael said, was it, when he came to see you? That he hadn't known about the pregnancy?'

`But I know for a fact she wrote and told him.'

Quinn is taking furious notes. `So she kept the baby `“ she's going to bring it up herself?'

`Not it. Him.' She smiles, immersed in memory. `Such a beautiful child. He has her eyes. I told her `“ he'll be a charmer when he grows up, just you wait and see.'

`How are you all doing?' says the care assistant, bustling up with cups of tea. `Do you think you'll be much longer, Inspector? Only I think Muriel's getting a bit tired now. We don't want to overdo it, do we?'

2 January 2018, 11.16 a.m.

Two days before the fire

Ladies' lavatories, Birmingham New Street station

`But I want to see the pirates! You promised! For my birthday!'

`Please be quiet, Matty. I'm trying to clean this poor lady up.' Sam pulls out another wet wipe and has another go at the sick stain on the tartan coat, but all she seems to be achieving is spreading it even further. The woman is fussing, `It's really all right, you mustn't go to all this trouble `“ you need to continue your journey.'

`We do, Mummy,' says Matty quickly. `If we don't get on the train we're going to miss the pirates!'

Sam glances at Zachary. He's sitting on the side of the sink, leaning against the tiles. He's silent now but he looks miserable. He's been sick twice since they got off the train.

She turns to Matty and bends to his level. `I'm afraid we can't go to the pirates, Matty. Zachary is too unwell. We need to take him home.'

Matty's face crumples into a wail. `But you promised!' he says.

`He can't help being ill, Matty `“' she begins but he's stamping his foot.

`You said it was my treat `“ for me. For my birthday. Not for Zachary `“ for me!'

`I think I'll be on my way now,' says the woman, edging towards the door. `You have your hands full without worrying about me.'

`I'm so sorry again,' begins Sam, taking a step towards her. `He really didn't mean it.'

`That's what you always say,' says Matty as the door bangs closed behind her. `You always say Zachary doesn't mean bad things to happen, but they always do. Like he didn't mean to kill Mollie but he still did.'

`Ssh,' she says quickly, wondering who might be overhearing. Overhearing and misconstruing. `We can play pirates when we get home. Just you and me. You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

`You said you'd take me to the real pirates. I'm never going to see them now. Never. It's not fair!'

Her heart breaks, he looks so forlorn. And he's right. It's not fair. It's his birthday treat and she'd wanted it to be special and now it's all spoiled. She knows how badly injustice burns. Because there's nothing you can do to mend it.

She reaches out again and tries to hug him but he pushes her violently away. `Leave me alone! I hate you! I hate Zachary and I hate you. I don't care that he's ill `“ I wish he was dead!'

Out in the car, I realize I have a text from Baxter.

Still can't find a Harry or Harold Brown. Doesn't help Brown is such a common name. But I'll keep looking.

Mother's name is Jennifer, if that helps.

I send the text and turn to Quinn. He's on the phone. To the Griffin School.

`Make it three years either side just in case,' he says. `You can send it now? Fabulous. Thanks.' He finishes the call. `They're emailing me their school roll for when Esmond was in the sixth form.' He shifts in his seat so he can look at me more easily. `So Michael got his girlfriend pregnant.'

I nod. `And Harry was the result. It fits. He's the right age, similar colouring.'

`So what's the theory? He turns up on the doorstep last summer, announces he's the long-lost son and Michael gives him a job doing the garden?'

He's right to be sceptical. I don't think that adds up either.

`No,' I say slowly, `I don't think Michael even knew he had another child. From what Muriel said, he must have known Jenny was pregnant, but he may well have thought she'd had an abortion. She may even have told him that.'

`And you don't think this Harry told him who he was either? Seriously?'

`What would you do if someone appeared out of the blue and claimed to be your child?'

With the sexual history Quinn has, this could be a lot more than hypothetical one day, which may account for the speed of his reply.

`Get a DNA test,' he says at once.

`Right. Only there's nothing remotely like that on Esmond's credit card or email records.'

He considers. `Those sites always claim to be 100 per cent discreet.'

`Yes, but you can't pay them with cash, can you? There'd be something on the credit card, even if it was under some sort of anonymous corporate name.'

He nods. `And if there was, Baxter would have found it. So `“ what? Harry was just checking him out? Sussing out the lie of the land before he did his big reveal?'

`Possibly. Only something must have happened `“ something that made Michael suspect who he really was. That's why he came down here. He knew that if Jenny really had gone through with the pregnancy, her grandmother would know.'

Quinn turns to look back at the building. `Wonder why he went for the doolally granny, though? Must be someone else in the family he could have asked.'

Quinn has a genius for getting up my nose. But he does have a point.

There's a ping on his tablet and he opens the email. `It's the list from the Griffin.'

He scrolls down, then back again. `No Jennifer. No Jenny. Bollocks.' He sits back in his seat. `We should go back in there and ask the old dear for the surname. She didn't look that bloody tired to me.'

I hold out my hand. `Can I see?'

He passes me the tablet, clearly irritated that I don't trust him to have checked properly. But there was something in what he just said `“ something Muriel mentioned `“ I may be wrong `“

But I'm not. That'll teach me to listen to what people actually say. Not just what I'm expecting to hear. I point at the screen. `This girl `“ here `“ I think it's her. Ginevra Marrone. It wasn't Jenny Michael was seeing, it was Ginny.'

Quinn takes the tablet. `Right,' he says after a moment. `And she's in the list for 1995, but disappears after that.'

Because she got pregnant. Because she had Michael Esmond's baby.

`So she's, what, Spanish?'

`Italian would be my guess. It's an Italian name.'

He nods. `So that explains why Michael came down here. Because the rest of the family `“'

``“ went back to Italy. Right. Presumably that's why Ginevra never returned to the school. And remember what Muriel said about a priest. I can well imagine how a traditional Italian family would have reacted to their unmarried teenage daughter getting pregnant. And this was twenty years ago, remember.'

`Not just teenage, boss,' says Quinn, looking at the list again. `Ginevra Marrone was in Year 11 in 1995. We won't know for sure until we track down Harry's birth certificate but I reckon she could have been as young as fifteen.'

So not just unmarried but underage.

Quinn sits back. `Jesus. First the harassment allegation and now this. No wonder Esmond was bricking it.' He turns to me. `Do you think that was what the two grand was for? This Harry bloke was blackmailing him? Threatening to go public if he didn't pay up? It would explain why he took out the money in cash.'

I'm not so sure. `The sequence is wrong, isn't it? He'd have spoken to Muriel before he handed over any money. And done a DNA test.'

But Quinn is right too: the money still doesn't fit.

`Though there's one thing all this does explain,' I say, getting out my phone again, `and that's why Baxter can't find anyone called Harold Brown. I don't think that's Harry's real name at all.' Because I've remembered now how Gislingham tracked down Jurjen Kuiper online. And didn't Alex once joke with me that Giuseppe Verdi would have sounded a lot less glamorous if he'd been plain English Joe Green?

It takes point nothing of a nanosecond on Google to prove I'm right. All those trips to Italy `“ I must have picked up something after all. I switch to the phone screen and dial the number. `Baxter? It's Fawley. The man you're searching for isn't called Brown. His mother's name is Marrone `“ it's the Italian word for Brown. He's using the English version of his Italian name, and I bet he's doing exactly the same thing with his first name too. If I'm right, the person you need to be looking for is called Araldo Marrone.'

Even though it's barely five minutes from her front door, Everett has never actually been inside the Volterra bar. She doesn't own any clothes she could possibly wear in there, for a start, and as far as she's concerned gin is just gin and gives her a headache, as does the idea of trying to choose between fifty-seven different artisan varieties.

At this time of day there's hardly anyone inside. According to the blackboard on the pavement, they serve coffee all day, but the indigo walls and ornate chandeliers have an after-dark feel to them compared to the wholesome coffee shops and brightly lit patisseries round the corner. She makes her way to the bar and glances through the back to where a young man with a large sandy beard and a black shirt and trousers is stacking glasses.

`Can I help you?' he calls.

`DC Everett, Thames Valley Police.'

The young man reaches for a tea towel and comes through to the front. `What's all this about then?'

She shows him her phone. `I think you've been employing this man?'

He squints at the picture then nods. `That's Harry. He's been working here about nine months.'

`When did you last see him?'

The young man frowns. `Why `“ what's going on?'

`Just answer the question, please.'

He considers. `New Year's, I think. Yup, that would've been it.'

`Was he due to be working since then?'

`Not sure. I don't do the rotas. But you could ask Josh. He's the manager.'

Everett takes down the mobile number. `What's he like, this Harry?' she asks, closing her notebook.

The young man shrugs. `He's a good barman. Knows his drinks, knows his punters.'

Ev's eyes narrow. `What do you mean by that?'

`Oh, you know. He can read people. The ones who want to be left alone. The ones who want a shoulder to cry on. The ones who want to flirt.'

`He does a lot of that, does he? Flirting?'

A dry grin. `Fuck yes. Women are all over him. Lucky git. I mean, looking like that, he has his pick.'

Ev frowns. `I thought he was gay?'

The young man gives a bark of laughter. `Gay? Harry's not gay. Where'd you get that from?'

`Sorry, must have got my wires crossed.'

He's still smiling. `Take it from me, he is not gay. I caught him once, in the back room, with a girl. One of the punters. And believe me, they weren't discussing the bloody weather.'

`Right,' says Everett, more than a little nonplussed but endeavouring not to show it. `And is there anyone special, do you know `“ an actual girlfriend?'

`Not that he talked about `“ at least, he never mentioned a name. Though I got the impression there could have been someone, the last month or so. But he was pretty cagey about it.'

`And this Josh, the manager. He'll have an address for him, will he?'

The young man shrugs. `An address, yes, but Harry's been moving round a bit so it may not be up to date. I know he was dossing with a mate for a while, and after that he was at that youth hostel on the Botley Road.'

Bugger, thinks Ev. Why didn't we think of that? We were parked virtually on top of the place.

The door opens and a couple of girls come in, laughing and looking at something on their phones. The young man glances across at them and then at Everett.

`Like I said,' he says quickly, `I'm pretty sure he's not there any more. Last time I saw him he said he was going to be moving.'

`You don't know where?'

`Nope,' he says, picking up some drinks menus from the counter, `but I think it was somewhere round here `“ somewhere decent too. I reckoned someone must have died.'

Ev stares at him. `Say that again.'

He flushes a little. `You know `“ he was getting some sort of legacy. He definitely said something about `њgetting what I'm due`ќ. I suppose that's why I wasn't surprised I haven't seen him. He probably doesn't need to bother with crappy bar work any more, the lucky bastard.'

2 January 2018, 3.09 p.m.

Two days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Samantha shunts the front door closed behind her and drops the bags where she's standing. She's suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted. She can hear Zachary careering about upstairs, shouting at the top of his voice. You wouldn't think there'd ever been anything wrong with him. He spent the last half hour of the journey back jumping up and down on her lap saying he wanted to play pirates. She knows he didn't mean to be tactless, but it was just about the last thing Matty needed to hear. He, by contrast, sat silent and pale the whole way, staring out of the window. Every time she tried to speak to him he just blanked her. She's seen him sulk before but this is different. He's never been this sullen, this locked in. And it's the first time he's ever spoken about what happened to the dog.

She goes into the kitchen to find him taking a juice from the fridge. He bangs the door shut and swerves past her, head down, not meeting her eye.

`Harry should be coming tomorrow,' she says quickly as he reaches the door, painfully conscious how desperate she sounds. `I asked him to pop in while we were away. He was going to fix that tap in the bathroom but, if you like, he can help you with your volcano project instead.'

Matty still has his back to her.

`You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

She stands there, willing him to turn round, willing him to say something.

Then Zachary comes racing in. He has a plastic sword in one hand and a black patch lopsided over one eye. `Nyah, nyah, nyah!' he screams, banging the sword against Sam's legs. `I'm the evil pirate, I'm the evil pirate!'

When she looks up, Matty is gone.

Sent:Fri 19/01/2018, 17.12Importance: High From:DCEricaSomer@ThamesValley.police.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk, CID@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road

Baxter says to tell you there's still no activity on Harry's mobile, and the address Ev got from the bar came up empty as well `“ they haven't seen him for a couple of weeks. We're seeing if we can find any other way of tracking him down.

And I've spoken to Rotherham Fleming again and they're still refusing to divulge anything about the Esmonds without a court order. However, they did confirm that there's nothing in the wording to preclude illegitimate children from inheriting under the will. If Harry can prove he is definitely Michael's son he will be entitled to his share of the proceeds of the sale of the property and any insurance money. But that's only because clause five has been fulfilled. If the house had remained standing, as the child of the younger son he wouldn't have been entitled to anything.

`Fuck,' says Quinn, when I read out the email to him. We've just joined the M25 and the traffic is nose to tail. Friday evening; we should have known.

`That gives him a shit-load of motive, doesn't it? I mean, not just to burn the house down but to get rid of Michael and his kids at the same time. With them out of the way there's a hell of a lot more cash for him.'

The traffic edges forward and comes to a halt again.

`So he arranges to meet Esmond at the house that night, knocks him out cold, then sets the house on fire. I mean, let's face it, if anyone knew where that bloody petrol was it was him. He'd been mowing the sodding lawn all summer.'

Someone behind us is sounding their horn.

`And he probably knew Esmond was under pressure. Wouldn't have been hard to pick up on that if he was there all the time. He'd have known it was odds on everyone would assume Esmond set the fire himself `“ that everything had just got too much. I mean, even we did, didn't we?'

He glances across at me, wondering why I'm saying nothing. But I'm trying to think. Because yes, what Quinn is saying works in theory, but my copper's instinct isn't there `“ not yet anyway. You'd have to be one hell of a callous bastard to even consider doing something like that, far less carry it out, but then again we don't know he's not. We don't know the first thing about him.

I take a deep breath. `It was Esmond who called Harry that night, not the other way round.'

Quinn shrugs. So what?

`And your theory only works if Harry knew about the will. He needed to have known he'd only be in line for the cash if the house had to be demolished. Otherwise the arson makes no sense.'

`Yeah,' says Quinn, signalling and moving out into the fast lane. Which is moving barely faster than we are, but patience never has been one of his key personal competencies. `Well, if you ask me, he did know. Like I said, he's been in and out of that house for months; he might even have had a key. He could easily have got into that office and found that will, just like I did.'

I get out my phone.

`Who are you calling?'

`Philip Esmond. If Michael knew who Harry really was, his brother is the one person he might have told.'

`And Philip didn't think to tell us?'

`Well, you know what it's like,' I say grimly. `Families. Families and secrets.'

Telephone interview with Philip Esmond, 19 January 2018, 5.45 p.m.

On the call, DI A. Fawley

AF:Mr Esmond? Sorry to bother you again. Do you have a minute? PE:Sure. What is it? AF:I'm afraid there's no easy way to raise this, but did you know your brother got a girl pregnant when he was still at the Griffin School? PE:No I didn't. Of course I didn't `“ I'd have told you. AF:Isn't it possible you were in Australia at the time? PE:I'd still have known. My parents would have hit the bloody roof for a start `“ there's no way they could have kept that quiet. AF:You said you remembered a girlfriend of his called Jenny. PE:Yes, I told you that. AF:It seems it was Ginny, not Jenny. Her father was Italian. PE:If you say so. I don't remember her having any sort of accent. But like you said, I was in Australia most of that year. So it was her, was it `“ she was the one he got pregnant? AF:We believe she went through with the pregnancy, though your brother may have thought she'd had a termination. He had another child. One he knew nothing about. PE:Fuck. AF:We believe this child came to Oxford last summer and met your brother. What we don't know is whether they told Michael who they really were. We thought he might have talked to you about it. If that had happened. PE:Absolutely not. Like I said `“ this is all news to me. Mike didn't say a word. I mean, he was a bit stressed but shit, I had no idea `“ AF:Do you think he would have done? If he was faced with a situation like that `“ if someone had turned up claiming to be his child `“ would he have talked to you about it? PE:[sighs]

I honestly don't know. I'd like to think so, but like I've said before, we weren't that close. Not since we were kids.

AF:Thank you, Mr Esmond. I think that's all for now. I expect you'll be wanting to speak to your solicitor. PE:My solicitor? AF:This long-lost child. They will have a claim on the estate, under the terms of the will. Assuming they can prove who they are. PE:[pause]

Fuck. Of course. I didn't think.

AF:As I said, I won't take up any more of your time `“ PE:Hang on a minute. This child `“ doesn't that mean he `“ she `“ has a motive? You know `“ for burning down the house? Christ, even `“ AF:For murder? Yes, we will certainly be looking into that. PE:[quickly]

But that means Mike may not have killed them after all, right? Sam and the kids? It may have been this `“ this person `“ instead. He might have killed them `“ he might have killed Mike `“

AF:As I said, we need to examine this new information and decide whether we can eliminate this person from our enquiries. We haven't been able to speak to them as yet, so it's all guesswork at the moment. But please don't get your hopes up. I know why you'd want to exonerate your brother but we have a long way to go yet. PE:Yes, yes, I know. But it is possible, isn't it? That is what you're saying? AF:[pause]

Yes. It is possible.

When the phone rings Gislingham and Baxter are the only ones still left in the incident room, and Gis is on his feet with one arm in his coat.

`CID,' he says, wedging the receiver under his ear.

`Is DC Somer there?'

Gis knows the voice, but he can't immediately place it.

`It's Giles Saumarez. Hants Police.'

Gis makes a face at the phone. What's this tosser up to now? `Sorry, she's gone home already.' He hesitates, then thinks, bugger it. `I think she had a hot date. Friday night and all that.'

But even Gis has to concede that Saumarez doesn't miss a beat.

`No worries. Can you leave her a message? That tramp she had a close encounter with `“ Tristram? We got him dried out and charged him with the damage to the hut, but he's swearing black is white it wasn't him. Says it was already like that when he got there.' A pause. `Just thought you guys would want to know.'

`Great,' says Gislingham, `I'm sure `њus guys`ќ are very grateful.'

Even though Saumarez is still talking he cuts short the call and heads for the door. `Don't work too hard,' he calls over his shoulder.

`Yeah, right,' mutters Baxter as the door swings to behind him.

`I agree. It could well have happened that way.'

I'm in Gow's office. He's moving around, collecting papers, putting them into his laptop bag, pulling files off the shelf.

`Sorry about this,' he says distractedly. `I'm off to Cardiff in the morning for a conference. Another bloody Marriott hotel. It would only be natural for this young man `“ Harry, Harold or whatever his name is `“ to have a deep antipathy to the man who abandoned his mother. Whatever version of the past he's been told over the years, Michael Esmond isn't likely to have come off very well. And you know as well as I do that childhood resentments go very deep, regardless of whether they have a basis in objective fact.'

That one goes painfully close to home. But Gow's not to know. It's not the sort of thing I talk about.

Gow puts another file in his bag. `And when he grows up and comes over here to track his father down he finds him sitting on what appears to be a mountain of money, none of which is being shared with him.'

`And if his own upbringing had been less than affluent `“'

`Right. You can easily see him deciding that it was high time the truth came out. High time he got his fair share.'

`But even granting all of that, to go from there to burning down a house where two children were sleeping `“ two children he knew `“ who were his own half-brothers?'

Gow shrugs. `One of the great advantages of arson is that you don't have to look your victims in the face,' he says drily.

He takes one last look around his office. `I think that's it. Give me a call if you need anything else. And let me know when you do finally track down Signor Marrone. I'd rather like to observe.'

3 January 2018, 5.59 p.m.

Six hours before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

`It's so boring. He's so boring. He spoils everything.'

Matty is sitting on the edge of his bed. Harry is next to him. Matty is close to tears.

Harry reaches out and puts a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. `Hey, give him a chance,' he says softly. `I know he can be a bit irritating, but he doesn't mean it. He's only little. He doesn't realize.'

`Everyone always says that. It's boring.'

`I know. But it's true. That's how it is. For all big brothers.'

`I hate him. I wish he was dead and it would be like it was before. Mum loved me then.'

Harry moves a little closer. `She still does,' he says kindly. `She really does.'

`She never talks to me any more. Not like before.'

`She's a bit sad, that's all. But she's trying really hard to get better.'

Matty looks up at him, blinking away the tears. `I wish I had a big brother. One like you.'

Harry ruffles his hair. `I'd like that too. But families are funny things. You never know who you might find one day.'

`What do you mean? I don't understand.'

Harry shakes his head gently. `Nothing. Forget I said it.'

Downstairs in the hall, the grandfather clock begins to strike the hour.

`So where's this volcano thing then? The one your mum told me about? Only I saw something on the internet where they made lava out of baking soda and vinegar. It looked really cool.'

Matty is staring at his feet, kicking them against the base of the bed.

`Matt?'

`It's downstairs,' he says in a small voice, `on the dining table. If Zachary hasn't ruined it.'

Harry gets to his feet. `Shall we go down then? See if your mum has any baking soda?'

Matty shrugs. There are tears now, spilling over and sliding down his cheeks.

Harry bends quickly and gathers the boy in his arms, hugging him tightly. `It's OK,' he whispers into his hair. `I'm not going anywhere. It's going to be OK. You'll see.'

`Can I have a quick word, sir?'

`Of course, Adam. Take a seat.'

Harrison is looking unusually chipper. No doubt relieved to have got the University suits off his back.

`It's the Southey Road case, sir. There's been a new development.'

It doesn't take long, and when I've finished he's looking a good deal less perky.

`So you want to issue a statement saying we've concluded that it was a murder-suicide, even though we haven't concluded anything of the kind?'

`We're struggling to find him `“'

`This `“ what was it `“ Araldo?'

`Araldo Marrone. That's definitely his surname, and Araldo is the Italian version of Harold so that's a reasonable working assumption. The problem is that we think the family went back to Italy so he was in all likelihood born there and we're struggling to get any birth records out of the Italian authorities.'

Harrison glances at his watch. `Gone seven on a Friday night? I should say you were.'

`I don't want to run the risk of leaving it till Monday. And frankly, even if we do, Baxter isn't convinced the records we need will necessarily be computerized. Not from twenty years ago, anyway.'

`No,' says Harrison heavily, `I wouldn't put any money on that either.'

I remember a holiday in Italy when people pushed my credit card away like I was trying to con them. And that was the nineties, for God's sake. `No plastica' became the running joke of the week.

Harrison, meanwhile, has sat back in his chair. `So you think if we announce the case is closed this man Marrone will come forward?'

`If he did set that fire it was all about the money `“ about getting his share of the Esmond cash. He can only do that if he makes himself known. But he won't take that risk until he thinks the coast is clear `“ and that means convincing him we believe Michael Esmond was the culprit.'

`And if he didn't set the fire at all `“ if Michael Esmond really did do it? I assume you still think that's a possibility?'

`Yes, sir. Unless and until we can rule Marrone out. And we can't do that until we can question him.'

He picks up his pen and starts toying with it. `I'm not keen on lying to the taxpayer, Adam. Public trust in policing and all that.' He sighs. `But I suppose there are cases where the end justifies the means.'

`Yes, sir. I think most reasonable people would want us to do everything possible to establish the truth. Especially if that means catching a particularly brutal killer.'

I watch him thinking for a moment, then, `All right, Adam. Go ahead and issue a statement. Let's just hope it works.'

BBC Midlands Today

Saturday 20 January 2018 | Last updated at 09:12

Police close case in Oxford house fire

Thames Valley Police confirmed last night that they are no longer seeking anyone else in connection with the fatal house fire in Southey Road on the morning of 4 January. Four members of the Esmond family died as a result of the fire, which is now believed to have been started by Michael Esmond himself, in a form of murder-suicide known to psychologists as `family annihilation'. Esmond, 40, was an academic at the University's anthropology department. The University has not commented on rumours that Esmond was facing a serious disciplinary procedure, relating to an incident of alleged sexual harassment.

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

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

My life is on hold. In limbo.

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

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

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

It's impossible to tell which comes first.

Five minutes later I'm in the car.

`DI Fawley? Sir?'

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

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

`Are you OK, sir?'

`Yes, I'm fine.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

People are starting to look at each other now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Or leave the bloody country,' says Quinn darkly.

`I don't think they've done that `“ not yet. Philip can't afford to leave before he's buried the body. Not if he wants us to believe it's Michael's. They won't want to arouse unnecessary suspicion.'

`We can contact Poole harbour,' says Gis. `Make sure the boat is still there.'

`Good, and while you're at it, tell them to expect us. And to stop that bloody boat leaving.'

`What do you want the rest of us to do, boss?' Baxter now.

`That ring is pretty distinctive. Let's get Davy Jones in ASAP to see if he can identify it.' I look round. `DC Asante `“ think you can handle that?'

He smiles. `Absolutely, sir.'

`Right `“ Baxter, can you contact car-rental firms in the Poole area. Philip was driving a hired red Nissan Juke when I last saw him `“ that shouldn't be too hard to find. And when you do, have a look at ANPR `“ see if we can track his movements since he got back to the UK.'

`On it, boss.'

`And Somer, can you speak to the Tech unit again about that phone call on the afternoon of January 4th, when Philip rang in and spoke to you.'

She's frowning. `But we already proved he was in the middle of the Atlantic then `“'

`I'm aware of that. What I want to know now is where he was the day before that call was made.'

3 January 2018, 9.04 p.m.

Three hours before the fire

Southern Rail train service, near Haywards Heath

The passengers in the carriage have reached the grin-and-bear-it (and in some cases the gin-and-bear-it) phase of the delay. Anger is pointless, they just have to stick it out. Conversations have started up, and one little girl is going round offering people her Liquorice Allsorts. Several people look up as the man in the tweed jacket walks through the carriage for the second time. His clothes are respectable enough but everything else looks like it's coming apart. His shirt is untucked and there are sweat stains visible under the arms. As he passes the elderly black woman at the far end, adjacent to the guard's area and bike racks, she hears him muttering to himself, `Is there nowhere on this entire fucking train you can make a private phone call?'

She shakes her head, tutting, and makes a comment to her husband in an undertone. She doesn't like swearing. And men like him, they should know better.

Five minutes later, she hears his voice again. She twists round and realizes he must be on the phone. He's keeping his voice low but the intensity `“ the vehemence `“ is unmistakable.

`I know who you are,' he's saying. `Do you hear me? I know who you are.' He shakes his head. `Not now `“ not on the phone. Meet me at the house. I should be back by midnight. We can talk about it then.'

`You were right, sir. To question where Philip Esmond was when he called me.'

It's Somer, on the speaker-phone. We're in Gislingham's car. Quinn is in the back, making a superhuman effort not to criticize his driving.

`He wasn't sailing south like we assumed,' Somer continues. `He'd already turned round. He was heading back to the UK.'

`When did the boat change course?'

`As far as we can work out, it must have been in the early hours of the 4th of January.'

`So he knew,' I say quietly. `He knew about that fire long before you told him.'

Long before it hit the news. And the only person who could possibly have told him is his brother. Michael Esmond. He didn't die in that fire. He's still alive.

`Philip got a call from a mobile phone at just after two that morning,' she says, `which must have been right around the time he turned back. The caller was in the Southampton area. No prizes for guessing where.'

`Calshot Spit.'

`Right. Those witnesses who ID'd Michael were right after all. He was at the hut. We just didn't get there in time.'

I sense Gislingham shift in his seat next to me and when I glance up, he's frowning.

`Though the mobile number he used to call Philip was different,' continues Somer. `It wasn't the same one as when he rang Harry from the train. He must have thrown it away because he thought we might be able to trace where he was.' Or `“ which if you ask me is much more likely `“ it was Philip who realized, and Philip who told him to dump it.

`So whose phone was it?'

`That's where it gets interesting. It belongs to a man called Ian Blake. He reported it stolen that very morning `“ January 4th. He lives in one of the blocks of flats on the Banbury Road, about half a mile from Southey Road.'

I must be missing something here. `So how the hell did Esmond get his hands on it?'

I can almost hear the smile in her voice. `Because it was on the front seat of his car at the time. You probably don't remember `“ uniform were handling it `“ but this chap Blake had his car stolen from outside his flat in the early hours that morning. He does shift work at the John Rad and he left the engine running to de-ice the car. Only when he came back out again it was gone. There was quite a bit of cash too `“ the wallet was in the car as well.'

So that's how Esmond got to Calshot. He stole a car. The one thing we hadn't thought of. The one thing a man like him would never dream of doing. Not if he was in his right mind.

`Has Esmond made any more calls on that number since?'

`No, but he did get a text later that same day. From Philip's satellite phone. I checked the timing `“ Philip sent that text five minutes after he spoke to me. Five minutes after I'd asked him whether he knew anything about a hut and he denied all knowledge. That's why Michael wasn't at Calshot when we got there, sir `“ his brother had already warned him we were coming.'

And just to be on the safe side, he left it the best part of three days before calling us to claim he'd `remembered'.

`Good work, Somer. Anything else?'

`Oh yes, DC Asante said to tell you Davy Jones has ID'd the ring. Says he definitely saw Harry wearing it.'

`Tell him good work.'

`I will, sir. And Everett wants a word. Hold on.'

There are muffled noises on the line and then Ev's voice.

`I spoke to the Poole harbourmaster, boss. Turns out Esmond isn't in the main marina but one on the other side of the harbour. Took us half an hour to track down which one but we got there in the end. It's a place called Cobb's Quay. The manager there says Philip Esmond docked sometime in the afternoon on January 7th. He'd phoned ahead to say there'd been a change of plans and he needed a berth.'

I'm trying to remember the timeline but Ev does it for me.

`When DC Somer spoke to him on the 7th he told her he hoped to be back in a couple of days. But he was lying. He was already here.'

I pound the dashboard in frustration. There was no reason to suspect him at that point, but all the same we should have checked. We should have been more thorough. I should have been more thorough.

`The boat's definitely still there?'

`Yes, sir. The manager at Cobb's Quay says he's spotted at least one man on board in the last couple of days. Quite tall, dark hair, he says. Though he's only seen him at a distance.'

And Philip and Michael look very alike. At least superficially. It's not conclusive.

`Tell him to let us know at once if he shows any sign of leaving. But with luck we'll be there ourselves in an hour.'

`Less,' says Gislingham as I finish the call. `We're past Eastleigh now.'

He's still frowning, though.

`Everything OK?'

`Fine,' he says, checking his rear mirror before indicating to overtake. `I think I forgot to mention that Hants Police called.'

`Oh yes?'

`It was late Friday. I was half out the door. It was that DI you spoke to. Saumarez. He said the tramp we found in that hut claimed someone else had already broken into it before he got there.'

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

`No, boss.'

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

And then my phone rings.

4 January 2018, 12.05 a.m.

23 Southey Road, Oxford

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

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

`The train was delayed.'

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

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

`I know who you are,' says Michael.

`Look `“'

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

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

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

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

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

`Not when what, exactly?'

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

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

He never swears.

He never swears.

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

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

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

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

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

`I'm warning you `“'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`And where's the boat?'

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

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

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

Philip Esmond.

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

`Neither did we, Mr Esmond.'

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

`You could say that,' says Quinn sardonically.

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

`But `“'

`Please.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Esmond turns away, takes a deep breath and then lets it out in a heavy, jagged sigh.

4 January 2018, 12.09 a.m.

23 Southey Road, Oxford

`And what about Sam?' says Harry. `Stuck in this bloody great mausoleum day in, day out. No job, no friends, just wiping Zachary's arse and waiting on you hand and foot. No wonder she's fucking depressed `“ no wonder she turns to someone else for a little bloody affection `“'

He knows even as he says it that he's gone too far. `Sorry,' he stumbles, `I shouldn't have said that `“'

But it's too late. He can't take it back `“ can't unsay it `“

Michael's eyes narrow `It's yours `“ is that what you're telling me?'

`What `“ what are you talking about?'

`The fucking baby `“ that's what I'm talking about.'

Harry swallows. `Shit `“ I didn't know `“'

`She's your stepmother, you disgusting little pervert.'

Harry's eyes widen. `No `“ you've got it all wrong `“ shit `“ is that what you think?'

The bottle of whisky may be half empty but it's heavy, easy to wield.

Harry stumbles as the first blow lands and he staggers backwards, a rush of blood breaking down his neck.

`You bastard,' he hisses, sprawled against the wall. `You total fucking bastard `“'

`It wasn't Michael we found at the house, was it, Mr Esmond? It was Harry. Or should I say Enrico?'

Philip still has his back to me. `So you know about that.'

`We know your brother had a relationship with Ginevra Marrone and that she had a baby. We also know Harry came here last year looking for his father. And it was his body we found in the ruins of Southey Road.'

Philip turns slowly to look at me. Quinn has his phone in his hand and the voice recorder on.

`What I don't know, Mr Esmond,' I continue, forcing him to meet my eye, `is how much you know about DNA.'

He looks baffled. `I don't know what you mean.'

`Our lab concluded that the body at the house was Michael because it shared enough of your DNA to be your brother. And you knew that, didn't you? That's why you were so keen to give us that bloody sample `“ you'd looked it all up and you knew the conclusion we were bound to come to. But that's not the only possibility, is it? There's at least one other relationship that could produce exactly the same result.'

He's not saying anything now. Just staring at me.

`How long have you known Harry was your son?'

15 July 2017, 2.09 p.m.

173 days before the fire

23 Southey Road, Oxford

`You want me to prove it? You want to do a test?'

They're standing at the far end of the garden. By the summerhouse and the compost heap, where a cloud of midges flitter in the July heat. Further up the lawn, Sam is dozing in a deckchair, and the two boys are kicking a ball about.

Harry is staring at him, waiting for an answer. `I asked you `“ do you want to do a test, because that's fine by me. I don't have anything to hide.'

`It's not that I don't believe you `“'

Harry's face hardens. `You're just not sure who's the daddy, right? Whether it's you or your little bro.'

`You don't understand `“'

`I understand all right. I understand that he dumped my mother and you moved in on her. That's what I understand.'

Philip sighs. `It wasn't like that.'

Harry raises an eyebrow. `So what was it `њlike`ќ, exactly? A quick fumble in the back of your car? Got her on the rebound, did you?'

`She knew what she was doing `“ she was hardly a `“'

He stops, embarrassed.

`Hardly a virgin, is that what you meant? No, your brother saw to that, didn't he?'

`I didn't mean that `“ I meant she was mature for her age `“ she made her own decisions `“'

`She was fifteen, for fuck's sake. Fifteen.'

Philip flushes now. `I know. Look, you have to believe me `“ if I'd known she was pregnant `“'

`What? You'd have married her? Fat chance. Daddy would have put paid to that.'

`I meant money. I could have given her money.'

The blue eyes are icy cold now. `You'd have paid her to abort me.'

`Don't be ridiculous. You know that's not what I meant. If I'd known I'd have done the right thing.'

`Oh, don't worry,' says Harry with a bitter laugh. `You're going to. I'm your son. The eldest son of the eldest son. And that means all of this is mine.'

He gestures up at the house. Philip watches as Michael comes out of the office and goes over to his wife. She looks up at him, shading her eyes against the sun. They exchange a few words then he unfolds another deckchair and sits down next to her.

`I got a lawyer to look at that will I found,' says Harry. `I bet the trustees don't know your brother is living here, do they? In fact, I bet you didn't even bother asking them.'

Philip flushes. `It's an informal arrangement.'

`I'll take that as a no, then. My lawyer says he's got no right to live here. That if you don't want to that's your decision, but after that it comes to me, not him. And as far as I'm concerned I've been waiting long enough. It's my turn. That's why I came here. Looking for you.'

`You can't expect me to turn them out `“ that's completely unreasonable.'

Harry moves closer. `What's unreasonable is leaving a fifteen-year-old girl to bring up a baby alone. What's unreasonable is growing up on the breadline because your mother's family have disowned her. What's unreasonable is finding out your father's rolling in it and not a single fucking penny of it has ever come your way `“'

`We're not rolling in it. We never were and we certainly aren't now.'

`Fine. Like I said. I just want what's due to me. My fair share.'

Philip takes a deep breath. `You're going to have to give me some time. Something like this `“ out of the blue `“ it's going to be one hell of a shock. And you know as well as I do that he has a lot on his plate right now.'

`OK, I get that. I'm not about to make things worse for Sam and the kids if I can help it. You, frankly, I can take or leave, but them `“ they're my family.'

`I'll speak to him `“ find the right moment. I promise.'

`Six months,' says Harry, starting up the mower again. `I'll give you six months. If you haven't told him by then, I'll do it myself.'

`So when did you tell him?'

Philip looks away again. `I didn't.'

`You never told Michael that Harry was your son? You never told him he and his family were going to have to move out of that house?'

`There never seemed to be a good time. Mike was in over his head already. What with Sam, and Mum, and all that crap with his job. I didn't think he could take any more.'

I take a deep breath. `So instead of dealing with any of that `“ instead of facing up to the consequences of your own actions `“ you decided to swan off to Croatia and leave the shit to blow up behind you?'

`It wasn't like that,' he says quickly.

`So what was it like? Because I'm afraid from where I'm standing `“'

`I spoke to the trustees,' he says. `In July. Before I left the UK. I asked whether what Harry said was right.'

`And?'

He makes a face. `It was pretty much exactly what he told me. They said that if Harry wanted to live in the house, they couldn't see how they could refuse, as long as he could prove who he was. The best they could come up with was him and Michael sharing the place, but there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of that working. Even if they'd both agreed.'

`Did you do the DNA test?'

He nods. `Yes. But it was just a formality. I knew he was telling the truth. He looks `“ looked `“ exactly like Ginny.'

He glances away again, past me, over my shoulder. Towards the quay.

`But Michael did find out, didn't he? How did that happen `“ did Harry tell him?'

He shakes his head. `No. I managed to persuade him to give me a bit more time. But Michael worked it out for himself. He told me, that night when he called from the hut, that he'd overheard Harry telling Sam about some pudding or other his mother used to make at Christmas. It's a speciality from Puglia `“ that's where the family come from. Mike remembered having some at Ginny's house. It was too much to be a coincidence. Especially with the bloody tattoo.'

He can see from my face that I have no idea what he's talking about.

`Harry had a tattoo on his chest. Juniper berries. He told Michael it was for his mother. That's what her name means. Juniper.'

`I see. So even if he didn't say anything explicitly, he wasn't exactly keeping it secret, was he?'

Philip makes a grim face. `He's a risk-taker. Like his father. I think he enjoyed sailing close to the wind.'

We stand there a moment, staring at each other. I can feel the sun on my back, the pontoon moving gently beneath my feet.

`How did Harry die?' I say eventually.

He sighs heavily. `When Mike called me that night he was barely coherent `“ I could hardly make out what he was saying `“ I couldn't believe it `“ that Harry was dead `“ that Mike had actually killed him `“' He runs a hand through his hair. `He said they'd argued, that Harry claimed he'd been having an affair with Sam and Michael thought the baby must be his and I think that was the last straw, coming on top of everything else. I think for one fucking ghastly moment it just sent him over the edge.'

`Was that true `“ the affair?'

Philip shrugs. `I don't know. She was very unhappy, and she was lonely. I suppose I can see how it might have happened.'

`And Michael tried to cover up what he'd done by setting fire to the house. With his innocent family asleep upstairs `“'

`He didn't know that,' he says quickly. `They were supposed to be in Liverpool. Some show or other. For Matt's birthday. You have to believe me.'

`I do,' I say gently. `She left him a message on his mobile, to say Zachary was sick and they were at home.'

But I didn't realize till now exactly what that meant.

`He lost his phone `“ he never got that message `“'

`I know. The phone's been handed in. We knew he'd lost it.'

And the rest, we can check. And in all this appalling mess, there is suddenly a tiny splinter of relief. He never meant to kill them. He was a family destroyer all right, but he never set out to be.

`Look,' he says, `Mike's half out of his mind about Sam and the kids `“ he didn't give a shit about that house `“ he always pretended to love it but it was just a colossal millstone round his neck `“ round both our necks `“'

And I remember, now, that office in the garden. Everything about it the polar opposite of the rest of the house: colour, furniture, atmosphere, light. That house wasn't a treasured legacy. It wasn't even a home; it was a prison. A curse.

`Where is he now, Mr Esmond?'

He opens his mouth and closes it again. `I don't know,' he says eventually. `When I heard you on the pontoon I thought it must be him. He should have been back by now `“'

He looks up towards the quay again, visibly concerned now.

`He went that way?' I say, following his gaze.

`About an hour ago.'

There's something else. Something he's not telling me.

`What is it, Mr Esmond?'

He swallows. `When Michael found out about Harry `“ when he worked out Ginny was his mother `“ he assumed, you know `“'

And there it is `“ the last missing piece.

`He assumed Harry was his son. Not yours.'

He reddens. `He never knew, you see `“ that she and I had had a thing. I mean, it was only once or twice. I didn't think it mattered.'

But once or twice can matter. Once or twice can be everything.

Philip sighs. `And when he went to Brighton to see Muriel she just kept referring to `њthat Esmond boy`ќ. He had no idea she actually meant me.'

She said exactly the same when we saw her. And I jumped to exactly the same conclusions.

`Does he still think that?'

He glances at me and then away. His face is bleak with shame. `He's barely spoken to me since he got here. I just didn't think he could take any more right now.'

`So what happened this morning?'

`I went to get some food and when I got back he was on my iPad. I've been hiding it in my stuff but he must have found it. There was that story in the news `“ on the BBC.'

``“ saying that the man who died at Southey Road was still alive when the fire started.'

He nods. `Mike was in a terrible state `“ he said that just made it worse `“ that if he'd known Harry wasn't dead he'd never have set the fire at all `“ that they'd all still be alive. He got hysterical `“ started saying he'd seen him `“ he'd seen Matty. I tell you, I was seriously worried by then `“ I thought he might actually be losing his mind. But then he seemed to calm down and said he had to get out `“ that he was going mad cooped up in the boat twenty-four hours a day and he needed to clear his head.'

`And you let him go?'

He shrugs miserably. `What else could I do? He said he wanted to be on his own.'

Gis must have spotted something on the quayside because he gestures to me and I turn to see a man running towards us. But it's not Michael Esmond. It's the marina manager.

4 January 2018, 12.12 a.m.

23 Southey Road, Oxford

`Look,' gasps Harry, `I didn't sleep with Sam `“ I swear `“ and she's not `“ you're not `“ seriously `“ you've got it all wrong `“'

He tries to get up but slips heavily back. There's panic now, as he starts crawling towards the door. Michael watches him for a moment, then walks slowly round to stand in front of him, blocking his exit, gazing down.

`So what is it that I've got wrong, exactly?'

Harry's elbows buckle and he rolls over on to his back, his chest heaving hard. There's blood in his hair, down his face, in his mouth.

`I'm `“ not `“ your son `“ whatever you think `“ it wasn't you I came for `“ it was Philip `“'

But if he thought that would make this all go away he couldn't be more wrong.

Michael stares down at him, and the fear he's lived with for all these weeks darkens quickly into something far, far worse. This man hasn't just broken into his family, stolen their love, taken his place, he's going to take his home `“ ruin his life `“ destroy everything he's worked so hard to get.

And suddenly there's something about the heft of the bottle in his hand that makes him feel, for one appalling moment, that he is free. Free from himself, free from that man everyone has always expected him to be and no matter what he does it's never been enough. Free to be angry and vindictive and out-of-control and who-gives-a-shit just like `“

Something in his face must have changed because Harry tries again to get up but his body fails him and the words he needs to say spew in a bubble of blood. And then there's a foot against his neck and he's being forced back down, and the weight is pushing, pushing, pushing until his face hits the floor and there's bile in his mouth and no air in his lungs and darkness in his eyes.

`Inspector!' calls the marina manager as he comes within earshot, breathing heavily with the exertion. `One of the other owners has just reported their inflatable stolen `“ I thought you ought to know.'

`When was this?'

`Can't have been more than an hour. Perhaps less.'

Philip Esmond has gone white.

`Does your brother know how to use one of those things?'

He shakes his head. `I doubt it. He never comes sailing `“ he hates the water.'

I turn back to the manager. `If he's heading out to sea, what's the best way to stop him?'

His eyes widen. `Shit, I don't give an amateur much chance out there in a bloody dinghy `“'

`I said, how do we stop him?'

`To get out to sea from here he'd need to go through the Little Channel `“ that's right by the lifeboat station. If he's still this side of the bridge those guys can probably intercept him `“ but if he's past that already, it'll be a lot harder.'

`How far is it?'

`Ten minutes by road `“ less.'

Gis and Quinn are already running back to the car.

`I'll come with you,' says Esmond.

`Call them,' I shout to the manager, starting back towards the quay. `Tell them we'll meet them there and to be on the lookout for that dinghy.'

`Hang on,' he calls. `What does this bloke look like?'

`Him,' I say, pointing at Esmond. `He looks like him.'

4 January 2018, 12.22 a.m.

23 Southey Road, Oxford

Zachary sits up. He can hear voices downstairs. He slips off the bed and creeps to the door. He can definitely hear the voices now. It's Harry. And Daddy! Mummy said Daddy wasn't coming back yet but Zachary's sure he can hear him. Perhaps it's a surprise. Perhaps he isn't supposed to know. Zachary likes surprises. He likes presents and surprises and pirates and chocolate.

He pushes the door open and tiptoes over to the banisters in the dark. There aren't any voices now. He slides down on to the floor and looks over. And there he is. Daddy. Wearing his coat. But he looks funny. Just standing there. Sort of angry and sort of sad. Zachary is about to call out but Daddy suddenly turns and goes to the kitchen. Zachary hears the back door open and a few minutes later Daddy's back. He's carrying something. He goes back into the sitting room and Zachary can hear the sound of water sloshing about. Like when they played in the paddling pool when Uncle Philip was here. Perhaps that's what the surprise is. He edges closer and peers through the banisters. Then there's a funny `pop' sound and suddenly there's a pretty yellow light in the sitting room. Like the bonfire they had with Harry when he did all those tricks. Zachary liked that. It was fun.

Daddy comes out again. He doesn't look so sad now. He looks like he did when the dentist told him he had to have his tooth out and then he didn't have to after all. Zachary watches his father take a long look around the hall, then let himself out. The front door closes and there's the sound of footsteps on the gravel.

Zachary stands up and starts slowly down the stairs, one step at a time, one hand clutching the banisters, his pale blue security blanket trailing behind him.

We pull up outside the lifeboat station in a screech of brakes. The boat is already in the water. One of the crew comes towards me at a run. The wind is getting up now. It may be a dead calm in this channel but it'll be choppy out on the open sea.

`DI Fawley? Hugh Ransome. We think your man must have gone through already. One of the lads thought he saw a dinghy like that a quarter of an hour ago.'

He looks across at the four of us. `We only have room for two.'

`I'll come,' I say quickly. `With Mr Esmond. My officers will check in with Dorset police. Make sure they know what's going on.'

Ransome nods and turns towards the boat. `There are helmets and life jackets on board,' he calls over his shoulder. `They're non-negotiable.'

As we clatter down the gangway a small crowd is already gathering. There are two people in the boat already `“ a man and a woman in the same white hats and high-vis jackets. The engine is running and we move off in a surge as soon as we have our gear on. Safe to say Philip Esmond is quicker at it than I am.

`Will your man know what to do if he gets in trouble?' shouts the team leader over the spray and the boom of the engine.

Esmond shakes his head. `Even if there are flares on board I doubt he'd know what they were.'

`He can swim?'

Esmond nods. `But not well.'

It's a narrow channel and ferries and motor cruisers are pulling past us in both directions, sending huge bow waves in their wake that smack hard against the boat, but we're a lot more stable than a small dinghy would be. I can see from Philip's face that he's thinking the same thing.

And then we're heading into wider water, the dry docks and industrial units thinning out on the near bank and low woods on the far shore. The water glistens in the winter sun, and here and there a sailing boat is pulling against the wind, but that's all I can see. Ransome has binoculars, scanning the bay.

`Anything?' I ask.

He lowers the glasses and points. `Over there.'

4 January 2018, 12.43 a.m.

23 Southey Road, Oxford

When Matty opens his eyes he knows at once something is wrong. He can smell burning. He sits up. And now he hears it again `“ the terrifying sound that broke into his dream.

Zachary.

Matty leaps out of bed and on to the landing. From the top of the stairs he can see Zachary below him in the hall. He's staggering, screaming `“ screaming in a horrific animal howl Matty has never heard before.

His pyjamas are on fire. His skin is on fire `“

`I'm coming `“ I'm coming!' Matty yells, racing down the stairs, his legs giving way under him, nearly falling. Zachary lurches towards him, still screaming, but Matty can hear words now `“ Daddy, Daddy `“

He seizes the blue blanket lying on the bottom step and rolls his brother up in it, like he's seen them do on TV. Tighter, tighter, until all the flames are out. The smoke is thicker now. The rug in the sitting room is on fire and it's spreading through the floorboards, running like little rivers of flame, like the lava they saw on the volcano film at school. He can't get to the front door `“ he can't get to the kitchen `“ the fire is everywhere and he doesn't have any shoes. And he has Zachary to think of. He looks around. It's as if they're on an island in a sea of flames. They can't stay here `“

He scoops his brother up in his arms, staggering under the weight. Zachary isn't screaming any more. 999, thinks Matty, I need to call 999, like they told us in citizenship class `“ get an ambulance and the fire engine and the police `“ `Don't worry, Zachary,' he says, his breath already raw in his throat, `we'll go back upstairs and then I'll wake Mummy and find a phone `“'

That's what he keeps repeating to himself, all the way back up the stairs, his burden heavier at every step.

Wake Mummy `“ find a phone `“ wake Mummy `“ find a phone `“

When they get to the nursery Matty puts Zachary down on the bed. He keeps telling him that everything's going to be OK but he isn't moving and Matty is starting to panic. He goes back to the nursery door and opens it a couple of inches. He can see the red glow of the flames against the wall of the stairwell and he can feel the heat on his face. The fire is really big now. He can't go back down there.

He goes over to the window but he knows it's locked. Daddy's locked all the windows to keep them safe. There's no way out that way `“ he can't even call for help. He feels the hot wet pee running down his leg. Then suddenly, everything's OK again, because he can see Daddy `“ Daddy is on the other side of the road, staring at the house. Matty starts banging on the window, screaming Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

His father looks up and his face stiffens in horror `“ for a moment he stands there, not moving, as if frozen to the spot, then he moves towards the house. First slowly, then at a run, but as he gets to the door there's an explosion from the sitting room and glass and burning debris rain down over the garden. Matty sees his father stagger back, his hands shielding his face, and then the flames climb higher and Matty can't see him any more.

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

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

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

There's no one in the water.

Michael Esmond has gone.

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

Blood is thicker than water.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three rings, four, five.

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

`CID, DC Somer speaking.'

`I was hoping it would be you.'

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

`It's Giles, Giles Saumarez.'

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

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

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

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

`Oh yes?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Sit down, Adam, please.'

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

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

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

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

Other things `“ what other things?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I take her in my arms, touching her is electricity. Two months' absence `“ and now her smell, her hair, her body `“ known and not known. Intimate and gloriously strange. She's the one, in the end, who pulls back. Takes my face in her hands, traces the tear on my cheek with her finger.

`You really thought I wasn't coming back?'

`I knew how much it meant to you. I knew how unhappy you were.'

She smiles again. `Not any more.'

I stare at her a moment then reach forward for the bottle. `We should celebrate. It's a Meursault.'

Her favourite. Her absolute favourite.

She shakes her head. `No, thank you. Not for me.'

`OK, it's a bit early but it's the same one we had at the Boathouse last summer. The one you went mad about. Took me bloody ages to find it.'

She smiles. `It looks wonderful and I wish I could, but I can't.' Her smile widens. `I really can't. I did tell you, didn't I, that I wanted to be sure. And now I am.'

And now she's staring at my dazzled and incredulous face and nodding and my eyes are full of tears and I'm laughing and she's taking me in her arms and holding out a photo and my heart is in freefall as I look, for the first time, at the blizzard of grey and white dots and realize what it means. What all of it means `“ the weeks of pain and waiting and doubt.

A child.

Our child.

`I still can't believe you didn't guess,' she whispers, her eyes sparkling. `Call yourself a detective`¦'