`Is there anything else?' asks Somer. `Anything that struck you about Dr Esmond in the last few months? Other people seem to think he was under a lot of strain. Did he appear that way to you?'
She considers. `I didn't see him a whole lot. But I guess he did seem a bit off. That whole Kuiper review thing can't have helped, but you can't say he didn't bring that on himself. You do know about that, right?'
Somer nods. `Is there anything you can tell us about it? Something we might not already know?'
Kaminsky yawns again. `I doubt it. Look, can we take a rain check? I'm totally wiped out. If I think of anything I'll give you a call.'
Somer glances at Gislingham: they're not going to get much more here. They get up to go.
`Thank you, Miss Kaminsky,' Gislingham says at the door. `And do phone us, won't you? Even if it's something that doesn't seem significant.'
They go down the stairs and out into the cold air. Somer pulls on a beanie and Gislingham smiles at her. `You look just like my kid sister.'
She glances across. `I didn't know you had one.'
`Yeah, she's seven years younger than me, so she was always the baby of the family. You?'
`Older sister.' But something about the look on her face means he doesn't ask any more.
`So, what do you think?' asks Somer, as they reach the porter's lodge and Gislingham pulls open the heavy glass door.
`I can't see why Kaminsky would lie. And we know she wasn't in the country when the fire started.'
`And only fifteen per cent of arsons are committed by women,' says Somer thoughtfully.
`Right, so this is just ticking a box, isn't it? Or am I missing something?'
Somer is silent for a moment. `What about the boyfriend?'
`The bloke at Magdalen? Ned whatsit? What about him?'
`He was obviously seriously pissed off at Esmond. Wouldn't you be `“ if it was Janet?'
`Yeah, course I would. But I wouldn't set his bloody house on fire. Trust me. This is a dead end.'
Up at her window, Lauren Kaminsky watches the police officers down the path and out of sight. Then she picks up her mobile.
`Ned `“ call me back, will you? The police have been here.'
She ends the call but remains standing at the window. Her face is troubled.
Back at St Aldate's, Everett has taken one for the team and volunteered to go through the calls they've been taking on the tip line, which has to be in the dictionary under `thankless task'. After an hour of it she realizes her foot has gone numb and stands up to get herself a coffee, limping down the corridor to the machine as the pins and needles kick in.
`You all right?' asks Quinn, who's contemplating the selection. He has his pen behind his ear. Like he does.
`Fine,' she says. `Trying to stop the rest of me falling asleep as well as my foot.'
`That good, eh?'
`What about you?'
He kicks the machine. `Nada. No sign of Kuiper anywhere that night. Doesn't look like he took a cab either, though we haven't covered all of them yet. How many bloody taxi firms are there in this city?'
`There's never one at the station when it's raining, though,' says Everett with a sigh.
Back in the office she sits down next to Somer. `Anything useful?' she says, looking across at what's on the desk in front of her.
`Just seeing if I can find out anything about Lauren Kaminsky's boyfriend.'
Everett raises her eyebrows. `You think he could be a suspect?'
Somer gives a wry smile. `No, not really. But I'd just like to put a big fat tick in the box marked `њCast-Iron Alibi`ќ.'
`Somer?' calls Baxter from the other side of the room. `Call for you, line three.'
Telephone interview with Philip Esmond, 7 January 2018, 4.55 p.m.
On the call, DC E. Somer
PE:DC Somer? It's Philip Esmond again. I saw the news. About Matty. ES:I'm so sorry. PE:I just wish I could have got back in time. ES:His grandparents were with him. If that helps. PE:That's something, I suppose. They must be devastated. First Zachary, then Sam, and now this.
[sighs]
Well, at least all those shits online will stop abusing her for being a bad mother now.
ES:I know it's hard but you just have to ignore all that stuff. They don't know you. They're just venting in a vacuum. PE:Yeah, I know. Easier said than done, though, if it's happening to you. Look, the main reason I phoned was because I remembered something. Last time you mentioned a hut? Something Mum said? ES:That's right. She seemed to think your brother might be there. PE:Well, if you ask me, that is highly unlikely, but I think I know what she might have meant. When we were kids we went to the south coast on holiday once. Dad hired us a beach hut on Calshot Spit. ES:A beach hut? PE:Right. But what with the Alzheimer's, she does get pretty confused. She's probably forgotten Michael is forty, not fourteen. I know he did love that place. But it probably fell to bits years ago. If you ask me, there's sod-all chance he's there, but I thought you ought to know. ES:Can you text me exactly where it is `“ the hut? PE:Sure. ES:And obviously if you hear from your brother `“ PE:Of course. And as soon as I dock at Poole I'll come straight to Oxford. Should be no more than a couple of days, with a fair wind.***
The house is dark when I get back. It's what I expected, but my heart is still heavy as I turn the engine off and walk up the drive. I can barely get the door open for the junk mail. Estate agents' flyers, something from the Liberal Democrats which is going straight to recycling, offers of gardening services, pizza takeaway menus. Though I can't really complain about the latter; I've been living on the bloody things. I turn the lights on, stick a frozen meal in the oven and switch on the laptop on the kitchen island. I make a cursory effort to clear away last night's debris, but the dishwasher is already full so there's nowhere for it to go. I open a bottle of wine. I thought there was one in the fridge but I must have finished it last night. That seems to be happening a lot these days.
The doorbell rings. I decide not to answer it. Alex has a key, and I'm not in the mood for Jehovah's Witnesses. Or ex-cons selling from suitcases `“ the one thing I don't need right now is more dishcloths. The bell rings again. And then again.
I throw the door open, but it's not a Nottingham Knocker. It's Somer.
`I'm sorry to bother you at home, sir. I tried your mobile but it's just ringing out.'
Bugger. I must have forgotten to charge it.
`I just wanted to run something past you,' she says, tentative.
`Oh yes?'
`It's something Philip Esmond said. He called this afternoon.'
It occurs to me I'm still holding my glass of wine. And that sharing the bottle with someone else is probably the only way I'm going to avoid finishing the whole lot on my own.
I stand back. `Do you want to come in?'
She hesitates and glances down the passage behind me. `What about your wife, sir `“'
`She's visiting her sister.'
She smiles. `Well, if you're sure. Why not.'
I follow her down to the kitchen, watching as she takes in the decor, the furnishings, the ornaments. She's making judgements `“ of course she is. That's what we're trained to do. Pick up nuances, intercept signals, interpret appearances. But you don't need police training to draw some pretty obvious conclusions from the state of this place. The mess, the empties lined up by the back door, the fact that I haven't bothered to shower since I got home. I should care that she's seeing all this, but somehow I don't.
`Glass of wine?' I say, gesturing to a stool.
`Just a half,' she says. `I'm driving.'
I reach for the bottle and a clean glass. `So what's this about Philip Esmond?'
`When DC Everett told Esmond's mother he was missing, she said something about a hut. Turns out it's a beach hut on Southampton Water.'