`Well, that worked a treat, didn't it,' says Quinn sardonically.
`How long had the cabbie had it?' I ask, ignoring Quinn.
`Ah,' says Gis, `that's the point. He found it on the evening of January 3rd.' He watches us piece it together. January 3rd `“ the night of the fire. The night there was a signal from Esmond's phone in the vicinity of Tottenham Court Road and we assumed that's where he was.
`So it wasn't Esmond who turned the phone on that night `“ it was this cabbie?'
`In one, boss. He must have tried the same thing as Weltch, only he didn't have any luck either.'
`So `“ what `“ he just drives around with it for ten days?'
Gis shrugs. `He's been away for a week in Las Vegas and he didn't manage to hand it in before he went. And to be fair, he had no idea it was important `“ he was already in the States by the time we made the appeal. Apparently the phone had slipped down the side of one of the back seats `“ he didn't have a clue how long it had been there.'
I nod. That's what bedevils most investigations. Not the out-and-out lies and the deliberate evasions, just the inadvertent sloppiness of the day-to-day.
`But I've got the taxi driver's mobile,' continues Gislingham. `I'll give him a call and text him a picture of Esmond. If we're lucky, he'll remember the fare.'
It's something. Possibly more than something.
`And the Met are sending the phone up here overnight,' Gis adds, clearly trying to be as positive as possible. `That might give us more to go on. Remember that pay-as-you-go number Esmond was calling? If he stored it with a name we may be able to track them down. Always assuming Baxter can get into the bloody thing, of course.'
Baxter makes a gesture of false modesty and there's a ripple of subdued laughter. But I'm not listening. I walk up to the whiteboard and look at our timeline, doubt clutching my gut for the first time. Is it possible we've got this all wrong? That we've had it back to front, right from the start?
I turn back to Ev. `That witness who saw Esmond in the pub on the night of the fire `“ the organizer woman? It was you who spoke to her, wasn't it?'
Ev frowns. `Yes, boss. What about her?'
`She was absolutely sure it was him?'
Ev has gone a little pale. `She seemed to be. But I can speak to her again if you want.'
`Yes. I do want. And as soon as possible please.'
Telephone interview with Tony Farlow, 15 January 2018, 6.55 p.m.
On the call, Acting DS C. Gislingham
CG:Mr Farlow? I'm calling from Thames Valley Police. It's about the phone you handed in at the Savile Row police station. TF:Thames Valley? Bit out of your range, isn't it? CG:This is important. I'm going to send you a photo. This is the man who owns that phone. Can you look at the picture and tell me when you think you picked him up? TF:Seems a lot of fuss over a poxy phone, but it's your funeral.
[pause `“ sound of text arriving]
Oh yeah, I remember this bloke. Picked him up on Great Queen Street. Figured he was staying at one of those hotels round there.
CG:When was this? TF:Now you're asking. Definitely a couple of weeks now, what with the holiday and that. CG:Tuesday 2nd? Wednesday 3rd? TF:Must have been the Wednesday. I remember now. I had a doctor's appointment first thing so I started later than usual. He was one of my first fares. CG:So you picked him up when? TF:Lunchtime. Around 12. CG:And do you remember where you dropped him? TF:Victoria station. Rail, not bus. CG:Did he say where he was heading? TF:Nope. Didn't talk to me at all. He was looking at something on the phone most of the time. That must have been when he dropped it. CG:Did he have luggage with him? TF:Nah. Just one of those poncey laptop bags. I reckoned that wherever he was going, he wasn't planning to stay.***
`Once we knew where to look, we found him almost immediately.'
It's Baxter, in the morning meeting. He's projected an image on to the screen: CCTV footage at Victoria station on the afternoon of 3 January. It's the usual grainy quality but there's no doubt: it's Esmond.
`That's him getting on to the 14.30 to Brighton.' He flips up another image. `And this is him at Brighton station at 15.24, after getting off that train. He stays two hours, then he's back at the station at 17.40 for the London train at 17.46.'
`Brighton?' says Quinn. `What the fuck was he doing in Brighton?'
`Search me,' says Baxter. `We haven't turned up any sort of Brighton connection so far. Nothing on Facebook, that's for sure.'
`And we're sure he came back to London? He didn't get off somewhere on the way?'
`Like bloody Gatwick, for instance,' mutters Quinn. Who knows darn well we've checked all ports and airports and yet says it all the same.
`Well, we haven't spotted him at Victoria that night yet,' says Baxter. `There was a derailment just outside Haywards Heath. They had to get lights and lifting gear and God knows what. Everything was at a standstill for two hours. The train didn't get back to London till gone nine and by then the whole place was chaos. We're still going through the footage.'
`OK,' I say, `keep at it. We need to know exactly where Michael Esmond went that night. Even if it was only back to that pub.'
I turn to look at Ev, and she's gone slightly red about the cheeks.
`I just spoke to the organizer again, boss. I'm afraid she's gone flaky on us. She still thinks it was Esmond, but he had his back to her and she can't be absolutely certain. Apparently it was the jacket she recognized more than anything `“ she never actually saw his face.'
`Oh, for fuck's sake,' says Quinn. `Who bothers looking at a sodding jacket?'
Somer shoots him a look that says That's rich, coming from you, but no one says anything.
`One thing we do know,' I continue, `is that Michael Esmond made this mystery trip to Brighton only a few hours before his whole house went up in flames. I'm not about to put that down to coincidence until we prove it really was one.'
A ripple of nods and wry exchanges of looks; they know how I feel about coincidences.
`We need to liaise with Sussex police on checking cabs and buses `“ see if we can establish where Esmond went after he left the station. Why don't you do that, Quinn `“ nothing like sea air to blow the crap away.' A couple of smirks at that, but he deserves it, he's been a pain in the arse all morning. `Even better `“ you get to drive that flash new car of yours.'
Sent:Tues 16/01/2018, 10.54Importance: High From:TimothyBrownTechUnit@ThamesValley.police.uk To:DCEricaSomer@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road `“ satellite phone tracking
Hi Erica,
We've managed to trace the call you were asking about. The phone in question was definitely offshore when the call took place. I won't bother you with the techy stuff, but Freedom 2 was twenty miles off the Portuguese coast at the time.
Let me know if you need anything else `“ always happy to help.
Cheers,
Tim
Having heated seats in your car has its downsides. It makes for a more comfortable ride, but you sure as hell notice it when you get out. And with the temperature below freezing and the wind off the sea, Brighton is as chill as charity.
Quinn locks his car and walks up to the police station. Architecture-wise it could have been separated at birth from the Thames Valley HQ. Squat, square, functional. And it's much the same inside as well. Quinn signs in and kicks his heels for fifteen minutes; he's just about to go up to the desk again when a uniformed constable appears.