At 2.30, Gislingham pulls up on the main road leading towards Calshot Spit. Fast grey clouds, salt in the air and a slicing wind coming off the water. There's an unmarked police car parked a few yards away and a rather beaten-up black Land Rover just behind it. The driver's door swings open. The man who gets out is in plain clothes. Probably mid-forties but he looks a lot younger. Slim, athletic-looking, and with the year-round tan of someone who lives by the sea. Gislingham catches the look on Somer's face, and when he gets out of his own car he's uncomfortably aware that he's holding his stomach in.
`DI Saumarez,' the man says, coming up and shaking their hands. `I spoke to Adam Fawley earlier.'
`DS Gislingham, DC Somer. Any news on Esmond?'
`Haven't seen any movement since I got here. Though the lads tell me they could hear someone inside earlier so presumably he's still in there.'
Saumarez turns and points. `It's that red one halfway down. There are no windows this side so I doubt he knows we're here.'
Gislingham starts towards the hut then realizes Saumarez isn't moving.
`You not coming?'
The DI shrugs. `Your collar, as the Americans say.'
Gislingham eyes him narrowly; he's starting to wonder if he's taking the piss. That physique of his certainly is. Gislingham squares his shoulders and moves slowly down the side to the front of the hut. The door is shut, but it's definitely been broken into. The wood is badly splintered and the handle is hanging off.
Gislingham knocks, then stands there, his head against the door, straining to hear above the wind. He knocks again. And now there's definitely movement inside. The sound of scraping, and then the door opens a couple of inches.
`Who is it?'
`Mr Esmond?'
`No, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong address. I am a different person entirely.'
The man laughs `“ it's a slightly manic laugh, and he's slurring. Gislingham can smell the alcohol.
He takes out his warrant card and pushes it against the gap in the door. `Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham, Thames Valley Police. Can we come in?'
`Fuck off `“ I told you `“ I'm not whatever his bloody name is `“'
The door starts to close and Gislingham wedges his foot against it. `We know it's you, Mr Esmond `“ people have identified you.'
Somer glances round; despite what he said, Saumarez has followed them. And behind him there's a uniformed officer. With a battering ram in one hand.
Gislingham can feel the strain against the door. `Mr Esmond, I really don't want to have to force this open.' He knocks again. Silence now. He turns and gestures to Somer `“ why doesn't she have a go. She steps up to the door, absurdly self-conscious that Saumarez is watching all this.
`Mr Esmond, my name is DC Erica Somer. Can you open the door for a moment? I'm sure we can sort all this out.'
There's a moment when everyone seems to be holding their breath. And then the door suddenly swings wide open.
A table and two ancient folding chairs; the man is slumped in one of them. He's wearing a cord jacket and chinos but they're creased and dirty. There's a candle wedged in a Coke bottle, a scatter of crisp packets and sandwich wrappers, and an empty bottle of whisky upended on the floor. The tiny room reeks of sweat and piss and drink.
The man is eyeing them, struggling to keep his gaze steady.
`I told you, fuck off.'
Somer takes a step forward. Now her eyes have adjusted to the gloom she can see him properly. He's the right age, the right height, the right colouring. But he's not Michael Esmond. They've come all this way for nothing, and it's all down to her. She bites her lip, trying to come up with the least-worst way to say that to Gislingham, when the man lurches suddenly forward, his body doubled up.
`Oh fucking hell,' says Somer, as he vomits all down her.
12 May 2017, 11.49 a.m.
237 days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
Michael Esmond kicks the front door open and dumps two carrier bags in the hall, then goes back to the car, lets Matty out of the back, and goes round to the other side to unstrap Zachary from the car seat. The little boy has been crying all the way back from the supermarket.
`Matty `“ can you come back and carry one of these bags?' Michael calls, lifting his youngest son out of the car. His skin feels hot to the touch.
Matty comes back out of the house, dragging his feet.
`Is your mum up?' asks Michael.
Matty shakes his head.
`OK, just take one of these bags, will you `“ the green one isn't very heavy.'
Five minutes later he has the shopping stacked on the kitchen floor and Zachary balanced on one arm while he sticks macaroni cheese in the oven for lunch.
Matty comes in from the hall. He's still wearing his outdoor clothes.
`Can I take Mollie for a walk, Dad?'
`You know you can't take her on your own, Matty. She's too big. She might pull you into the road.'
`You come with me then.'
`I can't,' says Michael, exasperated. `I've got to unpack this lot, then sort the lunch out, and this afternoon I absolutely have to do some work.'
`Ple-ee-ease, Dad!'
`I said NO, Matty,' Michael snaps. He's just realized one of the yogurt pots has broken in the carrier bag. There's white goo seeping on to the floor. He stifles an expletive; he never swears. And certainly not in front of the kids.
`You're always saying that,' wails Matty. `I never get to do anything.'
`You know that's not true `“'
`Yes it is. You said we were going to the zoo and then we didn't because Zachary was sick and then you said you'd play football with me and you didn't. It's not fair, you only care about Zachary. No one cares about me.'
Michael flushes. `Look,' he says, gentler now. `We talked about this, didn't we? I told you that Mummy hasn't been very well and you and me need to do our bit to look after her and keep things going until she gets better. That means being a Big Boy and helping me with things like tidying your room and not making too much noise when she's trying to sleep.'
Zachary is crying now in a dull weary drone as if he hasn't the energy to scream. Michael hitches him a little higher. `Look, why don't you go and play on your Xbox for a bit while I get Zachary settled? And if he's feeling better later perhaps we can take the dog out. The two of us.'
`Promise?' says Matty, sceptical.
`Promise.'
Michael carries Zachary up the stairs to the nursery, where he pulls off his clothes and tries to find his Winnie the Pooh pyjamas. There's a rash across the little boy's stomach that he doesn't like the look of. Zachary curls up under the duvet and Michael sits a moment, stroking his hair, before getting up and going along the landing to look in on his wife. She's in her dressing gown, lying on top of the covers, her eyes closed. Her hair looks lank and he wonders if she's even bothered to shower today. He's turning to go when she stops him.
`Are the boys OK?' Her voice is heavy, as if she's half asleep.
`They're fine. Do you want some lunch?'
She turns over slowly, her back to him. `Not hungry,' she murmurs.
Michael pulls the door to, and is about to go back down the stairs when he hears something that stops him. It's coming from the nursery. Michael frowns, then starts back along the landing. He can hear exactly what it is now. Matty, talking to his brother, his tone irritated and impatient over the little boy's cries.
`You've got to have some because if you don't I can't take Mollie for a walk.'