`So?'
`I know it sounds far-fetched, but don't you think we should check it out? Just to be sure?'
`Why on earth would he go there, of all places?'
`I know, it makes absolutely no sense. But I just keep remembering that one of those sightings on the tip line was at Hythe. That's not far from Southampton.'
And on that, she has a point.
`OK,' I say. `I'll get on to Hants Police first thing `“ won't do any harm to rule it out.'
Upstairs, the landline starts ringing.
`Excuse me a minute.'
I want it to be Alex. I'm telling myself it's Alex `“ that she's ringing the landline because she wants to make sure I'm at home, on my own, so we can talk `“
But when I lift the receiver I hear the irritatingly cheery tones of the bank's automated credit card security system. I have a moment's ironic amusement that their algorithm has already detected an unprecedented preponderance of fast-food outlets in my recent spending habits, but reconfirming my last four transactions takes longer than I want it to, and by the time I get back downstairs, Somer is stacking the dishwasher. The clean stuff sits in neat piles on the counter.
She blushes. `I didn't want to start opening your cupboards. I hate it when people do that.' She sees my face and bites her lip. `Sorry `“ I didn't mean to intrude. Just trying to make myself useful`¦' Her voice trails off. `Sorry,' she says again, her cheeks bright red now.
I make a face. `I hate that too, actually. But thank God you tackled that bloody dishwasher; I've been putting it off for the best part of a week.'
She smiles, clearly relieved. `I'll trade you clearing the stuff in the sitting room for another glass of wine.'
`I thought you were driving?'
`I can get a cab. Pick the car up on my way in tomorrow.'
My turn to smile. `Well, if you put it like that.'
2 May 2017, 12.27 p.m.
247 days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
Sam is sitting on the bed in the top-floor spare room, staring out of the window. She's taken to coming up here on the bad days. As if she can box them up and keep them closed in this echoey half-empty room no one's used for years. As if by doing that she can stop them leaking into the rest of the house `“ the rest of her life. Though the room is chilly, outside the sun is shining and there are flowers in the garden despite the weeds. A flurry of tulips all down one border. Blowsy scarlet petals with black spikes in their hearts. But inside, in this room, there is a weight of grey cloud somewhere just above her peripheral vision. A tell-tale tenderness at the base of her skull. But Michael said he might pop back to check on her at lunchtime. She doesn't want him to find her up here. He would only worry, and he has enough to deal with already.
She hauls herself to her feet, reaching for her cardigan. That's when she hears it. Downstairs. The soft thud that could be a door swinging to or something falling or a step on an old board, muffled by carpet. Not the children because they're not here. Not a draught. She stands there, listening fiercely. It's happened before but never indoors, never inside the house. Once, it was on the side path. The last time, outside the kitchen. A flicker just beyond her eye. A movement that wasn't the wind or a bird or a squirrel running along the fence. She tastes metal in her mouth and realizes she's bitten her lip so hard it's bleeding. But she is not going mad `“ she is not going mad `“
She forces herself to move quickly, reaching the door and throwing it open. She goes down the stairs, clinging to the banister like an old woman, then works her way through every room on the floor beneath, throwing open every cupboard and wardrobe until she is breathless with the effort.
Then she hears the front door bang and her husband calling for her.
`Sam? You upstairs?'
`I'll be down in a minute,' she replies, her voice half strangled. `I'm just sorting the washing.'
When he looks up a few moments later she is coming down the stairs smiling at him with the laundry basket under one arm.
`Hello, darling, how was your morning?'
On Monday morning I spend half an hour on the phone tracking down the right person at Hampshire Constabulary, and explaining what we need to do. I can hear the man's irritation levels rising. `We're not complete turnip tops down here, Inspector.' Well, he didn't actually say that, but he might as well have done.
As I put the phone down there's a flurry of wind against the window. Outside, the sky is yellowish; we may even get snow. But probably only enough to cause havoc, not enough to justify it. There's no town in England that looks more beautiful under really heavy snow: Christ Church Meadow, the Magdalen deer park, Radcliffe Square. But in this job, all you tend to think about is the body count going up. Rough sleepers die in snow, and they do it here just as much as anywhere else.
Telephone conversation with DI Giles Saumarez, Hampshire Police, 8 January 2018, 11.26 a.m.
On the call, DI A. Fawley
GS:DI Fawley? We've checked out that beach hut for you and there's definitely someone there. Male, apparently arrived a few days ago, but we don't know exactly when. Couple of locals noticed a bonfire on the beach and called it in. We showed them your man's picture and they're sure it's the same guy. AF:Your officers haven't attempted to speak to him? GS:Nope. There haven't been any signs of life this morning but we'll just babysit him till your guys get here. Makes the paperwork a hell of a sight easier for a start. AF:OK `“ we'll get there as fast as we can. And thank you. GS:No worries. We've got two officers parked up on the road in case he makes a run for it. Though it's not as if he can get out any other way. Not without a boat, anyway. I'll send a link to the dashboard cam so you can see for yourself. AF:What's the area like? GS:Calshot? It's a bit of a nothing place to be honest. The Spit is busy in the summer, but this time of year, it's as dead as a dodo. Four times last week I had the next beach down completely to myself. AF:Walking? GS:Swimming. AF:Christ, in this weather? GS:[laughs]
No better way to clear your head. I go most mornings `“ it's only about five miles away from where I live. Ironic, really.
AF:Ironic? GS:Where I live `“ it's called Fawley.***
I go back to the incident room to tell them it looks like we've finally found Esmond and there's a moment of silence followed by a surge of questions.
`Calshot? What the hell is he doing there?'
`So the bastard killed his entire bloody family and ran away to the sodding seaside?'
`He must have known we'd track him down eventually `“'
`Trust me `“ the man's lost it `“ it'll be a white-coats job, just you wait `“'
But under the anger there's also a palpable ripple of relief. And I don't blame them. We were beginning to wonder if we were chasing a ghost. A couple of the DCs pat Somer on the back and she flushes and tries to play it down. Which she shouldn't, of course, but getting the right balance between being a pushover and a push-aside is fiendishly difficult in this job. Especially for women. Needless to say, I tell her she should be the one to go to Calshot with Gislingham, and after they've gone I go back to my office and sit for a moment staring at the dashboard cam link Saumarez sent over.
A flat expanse of scrubby bushes and wind-flattened grass on one side, and on the other, a line of huts in bright primary colours. A litter bin. A carrier bag caught in a tree. Other than that, no movement, no cars, no people, nothing. It's only the swooping seagulls and the billowing plastic that prove it really is a live feed.