`Wednesday? The night of the fire?'
`You got it. He was somewhere in the Tottenham Court Road area.'
He doesn't need to draw me a diagram: Esmond was fifty miles away when his home and family were wiped out. And whoever did it could well have known that.
`The phone was only on for about an hour though,' Gis says. `He turned it off again at 11.45. And he didn't make or receive any calls in the meantime either.'
`And that's it?'
He nods. `It's been off ever since.'
`Anything odd in the last few months?'
`Baxter's been through the call log and there are no obvious patterns.' He's flicking through a sheaf of printouts. `He used to phone home a lot during the day, but that's hardly unusual. Otherwise it was mostly mundane stuff like British Gas and his mother's care home.'
`Mostly?'
`Ah, that's the only vaguely interesting bit. He's been calling a pay-as-you-go mobile a fair amount lately, but we may struggle to find out who it belongs to.'
`When did the calls start?'
Gis leafs back. `June last year. There's one or two that month, and then they become more frequent. At least two or three a week. The last one was on the morning of the 27th December.'
`Nothing the day of the fire?'
He shakes his head. `Nope.' He shifts to another printout. `Though there've been a few calls to that number from the Esmonds' landline as well. The last of those was before Christmas. None from the wife's mobile, though. For the record.'
`I assume you've tried calling it `“ this mystery number?'
`Afraid it just rings out.'
`Do we know where that mobile was when Esmond was calling it?'
`It was in London on one occasion, but the rest of the time always in Oxford. Mostly in and around the Botley Road area. But without a name it'll be like looking for a black cat in the dark.'
Always assuming, of course, the damn cat is there in the first place.
I must have sighed because Gis hurries on. `I've got the Tech unit monitoring Esmond's mobile in case he switches it back on again. But right now, wherever he is, he's not talking.'
I glance at him and then at my watch. In precisely twenty-five minutes Michael Esmond should be talking all right: he should be getting to his feet in front of a hall full of people.
`I know,' says Gis, reading my mind. `Asante rang half an hour ago but there's been no sign of Esmond yet. But that doesn't mean he's not coming. He may just be one of those blokes who does everything at the last minute.'
But I can see from his face that he doesn't really believe that. And, frankly, nor do I.
At Southey Road, it's got so dark the fire investigators have had to turn on the arc-lights. It started to snow about an hour ago and, despite the makeshift tarpaulin, huge white flakes are drifting in, catching golden in the lamp beams and dropping softly on to the heaps of blackened debris.
Paul Rigby is outside on the phone when he hears the shout behind him. He turns to see one of the investigators beckoning urgently.
`Have you found something?'
The man nods and Rigby starts towards him, clambering up the rubble, roof tiles and shards of glass slipping and breaking under his boots. Three of the team are staring down at something at their feet. Rigby's seen that look too many times before to mistake it. Under the twisted window frame and the metal pipes and the sheet of scorched plasterboard, there's something else.
A human hand.
This time when Gis comes to my door, I only need to take one look at him to know there's something.
`What is it `“ did Esmond turn up?'
He makes a face. `Nope. He was a no-show. Asante spoke to the organizers and they haven't heard a thing from him. No phone message, no email, nothing.'
I sigh heavily. And then realize that my overwhelming feeling right now is that I'm not surprised. At some level I must have been expecting this. Does that mean I suspect him? I didn't think I did `“ not consciously, anyway. But my gut instinct is clearly telling me otherwise.
Gis takes a step into the room. `Though even if we haven't found him, we may have found her. That's what I came to tell you. Rigby called. There's another body at the site. Just like we thought.'
`Female?'
He nods.
`And they're sure it's her?'
`As sure as they can be. She was wearing some sort of nightdress. Looks like she must have been in one of the other bedrooms on the top floor. I hope for her sake she just went to sleep and didn't know anything about it.'
Unlike her son, who woke in terror and found himself alone.
I glance up at Gislingham and I can see he's thinking the same. `No more news on Matty yet, boss,' he says. `But we can always hope, eh?'
9 April 2017, 2.13 p.m.
270 days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
`Oh bloody hell!'
Michael Esmond drops the spade and it hits the grass with a metallic clang. The shrub he's trying to shift has wrenched the handle clean off. He stands there, staring down at the unyielding stump, breathing heavily. He really does have better things to do than this.
`Everything OK?' It's Sam, joining him. She hands him a mug of tea. It has `Happy Birthday Daddy' on the side.
`Fine,' says Michael, a little tetchily: it was his wife's idea to replant this bloody border. `Broken the sodding spade, but otherwise absolutely hunky-dory.'
Samantha looks down the garden to where her sons are playing. Matty is trying to interest Zachary in a game of football but the toddler is just running about after the ball, screaming with delight.
`You're supposed to be the goalie,' Matty is saying wearily. `I'm the striker.'
`Perhaps we should get someone in,' she ventures, `for the garden.'
He turns to her. `Gardeners round here cost a bloody fortune, you know that.'
`Not one of the firms,' she says quickly. `Perhaps ask around at the faculty? There must be students who'd like to earn a bit of extra beer money.'
He's still staring at the wrecked shovel. `It's all Dad's fault,' he says eventually. `Why did he have to plant stuff like this?'
`I think he wanted to keep the weeds down,' she says, willing herself not to look across at the other borders, already spiked with the first signs of nettles. She doesn't want her husband to think he's being criticized, but a garden this size needs someone on it at least twice a week.
Michael drains his mug and turns to his wife, looking at her properly for the first time. `How are you feeling?'
`OK,' she says at once.
`You do look a bit brighter. Better than yesterday, anyway.'
`I'm sorry, I was just so exhausted `“ I didn't mean to dump all that on you `“'
`It's fine,' he says. `That's what I'm here for. To look after you. You and the boys.'
She hesitates. `You don't think I could `“'
`No,' he says firmly. `That's not a good idea. We can't go through all that again. You can't `“ I can't.'
`But I hate the way I feel `“ it's like living in fog `“ please, Michael `“'
But whatever her husband was going to reply is drowned out by their youngest son, who suddenly careers into his father, waving the handle of the spade, shouting, `Daddy, Daddy, you broke the spade! You broke it, Daddy!'
`Ah, Fawley, there you are. Take a seat.'
I was at the coffee machine when Superintendent Harrison's PA tracked me down and suggested I `pop along' and give the superintendent an update. And like my inspector told me when I was just a DC, `it's only a suggestion but let's not forget who's making it'.