Everett gets out her phone. `I'll go down and see the pathologist now.'
Back at his desk, Gislingham is in a quandary. In theory he could go home `“ it is the weekend after all `“ but the rest of the team are in, and he's the DS. He doesn't want it to look like he's slacking. So when he opens up Google and types `Michael Esmond' for a second time it's more to have something to do than because he actually thinks he's going to find anything.
Which appears to be borne out by the fact that ten minutes later, all he's found is what Baxter already got from Facebook. Routine references to Esmond's qualifications, links to conference speeches and publications. At the bottom of the sixth page Google tells him `we have omitted some entries very similar to the 72 already displayed'. Anyone else would give up `“ Quinn certainly would `“ but stubborn is Gislingham's middle name, so he scrolls back up and clicks on a few of the less-promising links. And that's when he finds it.
`You mean I don't have to actually go in there?'
Gregory Gifford is sitting in a small waiting room adjacent to the mortuary. There are no windows and thin institutional grey carpet on the floor. In front of him there is a table with a computer. The hospital's logo pings back and forth lazily across the screen. At least it's better than digitized fish.
Everett smiles at Gifford kindly. `It's not like you see on the telly, thankfully. Much less dramatic. When you're ready, the attendant will bring up a photo on the screen here, and they'll ask you if it's your daughter. That's it `“ there's no need to do anything else.'
He swallows. `OK. I see.' He drums his fingers on the table for a few moments. `Right. Better get on with it. Laura will be wondering where we are.'
Everett nods to the attendant, who taps a couple of computer keys. An image appears on the screen. It's taken from above. The woman's face is visible, but the sheet is pulled up over her body. Not like it was when Everett first came down here. She's said it before and she'll say it again: whatever sort of death they died, there's always one thing about the dead that lodges in your mind and won't budge; some trivial little thing that captures an echo of who they once were. With Samantha Esmond it's the nail polish. Despite the damage and the dirt, Everett can see how much care this woman took of her hands. Clear varnish, neat cuticles. She's prepared to bet she kept a pot of hand cream by the side of her bed.
She hears Gifford draw breath beside her and turns to him. `Is that your daughter, sir?'
He swallows again. `Yes. That's Samantha.'
`Thank you. I know that can't have been easy.'
The image disappears. Gifford swivels round in his chair to face Everett.
`What about Zachary? Doesn't someone have to identify him too?'
Everett and the attendant exchange a glance.
`There are other methods that can be used which we think are more appropriate in his case,' says the attendant.
But Gifford's no fool. `You don't want me to see him, do you? Because he's in such a terrible state, is that it?'
Everett starts to shake her head but she knows she's being disingenuous. She's seen the photos.
`There's no need to upset yourself,' she says. `Really.'
Gifford sits back in his chair, and for one awful moment she thinks he's about to insist, but then his shoulders sag a little. `OK,' he says. `You know best.'
She makes a rueful face. `I think I do. Sadly.'
`DI Fawley? There's someone down here to see you, sir.'
It's Anderson, the duty officer, sounding more than usually suspicious of the occupational hazard which is the General Public. `Just came into reception. German bloke. Hasn't got an appointment. I can tell him you're not here `“ I mean, it is the weekend `“ you're probably wanting to get off back home `“'
`No, it's OK, send him up.' Because let's face it, I don't have anywhere else I need to be.
Five minutes later the sergeant ushers the man into my room. He's tall `“ very tall, actually, probably six four `“ and that's the first clue. And when he introduces himself the accent clinches it. He's not German at all. He's Dutch. The last time I saw my brother he had a Dutch girlfriend. Her accent was exactly the same. And she was six foot two. Julian joked that he'd taken up mountaineering. Though obviously not in front of her.
`How can I help you?'
He sits down. Neatly, for someone of his height. `It concerns the fire. The most unfortunate fire in Southey Road. If I am not mistaken, this is the house of my colleague, Michael Esmond.'
I'm intrigued. Not least by his evident anxiety.
He pushes his wire-framed glasses back up his nose. `I believe you are what is called the Senior Investigating Officer?'
`I am, yes,' I say. He must have looked that up.
`As soon as I saw the news on TV, I knew at once that you would wish to speak to me. So I have pre-empted this request and come in myself.'
`Intrigued' bumps up a notch. What the hell is this all about?
Gislingham sits back. If what he's found is true, they're going to have to reassess the whole bloody case. Go through everything again. And not least the fact that Annabel Jordan lied to them. This isn't just pissing someone off; this is holing their career below the waterline. Gislingham leans forward, pulls up Google and keys in `Jurjen Kuiper' again. Age, place of birth, qualifications and current position. A Facebook page, which mostly looks pretty anodyne (though a lot of it's in Dutch, and the automated translation may well be missing the nuance). There's also a Twitter feed, but that's all suitably academic too. No sign, in fact, that there is anything in the slightest amiss. Gislingham makes a face. Does that ring true? Is it really believable that a professional disaster of these proportions would leave no external trace at all? He sits thinking a moment. Then he shifts forward quickly and starts typing.
Ox-eGen
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Posted by Tittle-Tattler 21 November 2017 11.56
Tribal warfare?
Latest rumblings on the departmental jungle drums suggest it's harpoons at dawn at a certain faculty building on the Banbury Road, after one of its inmates was stabbed in the front by a frankly blistering TLS review of his magnum opus. The culprit? None other than a member of his own tribe. Rather too close to home? One might well think so. After all, constructive criticism is one thing, live human sacrifice is quite another. Our sources tell us the atmosphere in the department is positively glacial, which doesn't, for once, reflect the primitive condition of the central heating system. Interested observers are now agog to see whether a rumoured TV contract will be the next casualty. Suffice to say that should such a catastrophe transpire, our amiable Dutchman's career will be less `flying' than crashing and burning. One might well forgive him for fantasizing about the latter by way of revenge`¦
`So you understand, Inspector, why I had to come.'
I nod slowly. `You're worried that we might think you had something to do with the fire.'
`Yes, yes,' he says, his cheeks slightly flushed. `Even though that is ridiculous `“ unthinkable. Even if I had borne such a resentment of Dr Esmond `“'
`It strikes me, Dr Kuiper, that you had a very good reason to feel aggrieved.'
He blinks. `Yes, of course. Naturally. He had cast a slur upon my research. My professional integrity. I am sure you yourself would have felt no small annoyance should such a thing have happened to you.'
It has, by the way, and it went way beyond `no small annoyance'. I was absolutely bloody incandescent. Which is, of course, a very unfortunate metaphor. In the circumstances.