`She had her husband to help, didn't she?'
`Michael? He was exemplary. He couldn't do enough for her. Shopping, washing, cleaning, taking Matty to school. He did the lot. He was extraordinarily supportive.'
Or extraordinarily controlling, thinks Somer.
`I don't know how he managed to do it all and still hold down such a responsible job,' says the doctor, a little tersely. Perhaps she has sensed Somer's scepticism. `It would have defeated most people. Me included.'
`Did he show signs of being under stress?'
Dr Miller's eyes narrow. `Dr Esmond was not taking medication for stress, depression or any other similar condition. As for Matty, he was a rather nervous child, but clearly loved and well cared for. What more do you want me to say?'
This is new. `You say Matty was nervous `“ how did that manifest itself?'
Miller starts tapping her biro again. `He was a bit fretful. Took things a bit too much to heart. Impressionable and, I imagine, easily intimidated.'
`Intimidated? You mean, he was being bullied?'
She shakes her head. `No. I'm fairly sure that wasn't the case. The school nurse did get in touch with me last year, and I'm sure she would have mentioned that if it had been any sort of issue.'
`So if it wasn't that, why did she want to talk to you?'
Miller sighs again. `Matty was worried about his mother. He told his teacher she was seeing ghosts.'
Gislingham is on his way in to the station when his phone rings. One glance at the screen and he knows he has to take the call. He pulls over and picks up the handset.
`DS Gislingham.'
`Chris? It's Paul Rigby. I'm at Southey Road. Where are you?'
`In the car. But I can be there in twenty minutes.'
`Good. Because I think you'll want to see this as soon as possible.'
13 June 2017, 2.13 p.m.
205 days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
When Sam gets back from the park with the boys, Michael is in the garden. After a grey start the sun has come out, and it's now so hot that she's had to bring the children home early. She gives them a juice each in the kitchen and it's only when she goes to the sink to rinse the glasses that she realizes her husband is not alone. There's a young man with him she's never seen before. He's tall and good-looking, in cargo shorts and a pair of loafers. Even at this distance he looks at ease with himself. Intrigued, she encourages the boys outside, and follows them down the lawn.
`I'm Harry,' he says as she approaches, holding out his hand. She's seen that smile many times in this town. The sort of smile that springs from a lot of attitude `“ from deep-set assumptions about your own worth and your place in the world, and the reception you think you're going to get.
`Harry replied to the ad,' says her husband. `The one I put up in the newsagent's about getting some help in the garden.'
`You never told me you actually did that,' says Sam, openly incredulous. Her husband has never put a card on a shop noticeboard in his life. He's always saying you never know what you might be letting yourself in for.
`Mr Esmond was hoping I could get the grass cut before you got home,' interjects Harry. `As a surprise. But the mower ran out of petrol.'
`I told you we should keep a spare can,' says Sam, keeping her tone light. She doesn't want Michael to think she's nagging. Especially in front of someone else.
`So you're a student, are you, Harry?' she says, turning to him.
He nods. `Only an undergrad, hence needing the money,' he says with a rueful face.
Matty has by now sidled up to the adults. He has his ball under his arm and starts dragging at his father's sleeve. `Da-ad.'
Michael turns to him. `I'm busy, Matty. We're talking.'
`You like football, Matt?' says Harry, and Sam sees her husband stifle a wince. No one calls their son Matt. They've worked really hard to make sure of that.
Harry reaches forward and takes the ball, walks away a few paces and starts doing tricks. Bouncing it on his knee, catching it on his shoulder blades. Matty is beside himself.
`Can you teach me to do that?' he says, almost gasping.
Harry gathers up the ball. `Sure,' he said. `How about now?'
Sam sees her husband open his mouth to say no but Matty is already jumping up and down, pawing at him, squealing, `Can I, Dad? Can I?'
Zachary hurtles towards them and starts shouting, `Me too! Me too!'
Sam turns to Harry. `Are you sure you're up for this?'
That smile again. `Sure. No problem. I didn't have anything else planned. And I always wanted a brother when I was growing up.'
An hour later the boys are exhausted and Michael's retreated to his study. In the kitchen, Sam pours Harry a beer.
`Nice place,' he says, wandering through to the sitting room and looking round at the furniture, the grandfather clock, the piano with its framed photographs.
`It's Michael's family's house,' she says, wondering why she feels the need to apologize. `Nothing much has been changed in here since his grandmother died.'
Harry lifts the lid of the piano and plays a few notes, then makes a face. `Needs tuning.'
She sighs. `I know. We keep meaning to get it organized but you know how it is. Matty wants to learn, though.'
Harry looks up. `Really? You should encourage him. It's a great age to start.'
He closes the lid and picks up a picture of her son playing in a sandpit with his uncle. Matty must have been about four, grinning from ear to ear. Sam realizes with a sudden lump in her throat that he hardly ever smiles like that any more. Until this afternoon, that is.
`So you'll definitely come back?' she says quickly. `For the garden?'
Bishop Christopher's Church of England Primary still has a tired post-Christmas look to it. The bins bulging with recycled decorations aren't helping, and there are bits of tinsel still sellotaped to some of the windows. Somer and Everett get out of the car; Somer has never been here, but Everett has. It's why Somer asked her to come.
`Has it changed much?'
Everett shakes her head. `No. I suppose some of the kids will be different by now, but the place is just the same.'
Just the same as when Daisy Mason went missing and Everett and Gislingham came here to question her teachers and classmates. And now the school has lost another child and the questioning will start all over again.
Everett leads the way inside: it's a warren of corridors but she knows exactly where she's going. And they are `“ clearly `“ expected. Alison Stevens is waiting restlessly in the reception area outside the head teacher's office.
`DC Everett,' she says, coming towards them with an outstretched hand. `How nice to see you again, despite the tragic circumstances.'
`This is my colleague, DC Somer.'
Somer shakes the woman's hand, noting how cool her skin is and how anxious her smile.
`Do please come in. I've asked Matty's teacher to join us as well.'
Everett doesn't recognize the woman waiting inside. She has large round glasses, a splashy floral-print dress and heavy cardigan, with unflattering flat shoes, in sharp contrast to the elegant and understated Stevens.
`This is Emily West,' says Stevens. `She joined us last year.'
So she never knew Daisy Mason. Stevens doesn't say it, but she doesn't have to. Then she turns to the desk and starts occupying her nervous energy by pouring tea. There's a picture of her daughter by the computer, her hair in elaborate crochet braids. She must be about the same age as Matty Esmond.