`Quinn here.'
`DC Quinn? It's PC Kumar.'
`Yeah. I know that,' says Quinn, making a face at the phone.
`I had half an hour spare so I took another look at that area where we last spotted your suspect.'
Quinn starts doodling on his pad. `Thought you said it was just residential?'
`Ah, but that's just the point.'
`Sorry `“ not with you.'
`One of the buildings further along that street is a residential care home. Fair Lawns, it's called.'
`So you think `“'
Kumar's excitement is obvious now. `I don't think. I know.'
Sent:Fri 19/01/2018, 13.28Importance: High From:AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk, CID@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: DNA results: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road
Those DNA results you wanted a rush on: we've compared the sample from Philip Esmond to the DNA extracted from the male corpse at Southey Road. As you know, familial identification isn't as clear-cut as a simple yes or no, but in this case the results are entirely consistent with the two men being brothers.
Quinn's carefully crafted persona is way too suave to do urgent, so when he comes hurtling into my office without even knocking I know something's really up.
`I know where Esmond went,' he says, slightly out of breath. `In Brighton. It was an old people's home. Fair Lawns. His name isn't on the visitor log for that day, but when we emailed over a picture of him the staff recognized him at once. He was visiting an old lady by the name of Muriel Fraser. Claimed he was her nephew or something but we know for a fact he isn't.'
`So if she's not his aunt, what the hell was he doing there?'
`I haven't turned up any connection yet. But the staff at the home say she definitely knew him.'
I'm on my feet already. `Get Asante to phone through. Tell them we're on our way.'
2 January 2018, 10.45 a.m.
Two days before the fire
CrossCountry train service, just outside Birmingham
`Is there anything I can do to help?'
The woman in the tartan coat means well but, right now, the last thing Samantha wants is more attention. Zachary has been screaming at the top of his voice for twenty minutes and the carriage is crowded. The surreptitious looks have become openly hostile. Several people have taken to earphones. She can hear their voices in her head. Can't she control that brat? You shouldn't bring kids on trains unless they know how to behave.
`I'm sorry,' she says to the woman in tartan, raising her voice loud enough for the rest of them to hear. `He has a tummy ache and I can't remember which bag I put the Calpol in.' There's one holdall open at her feet and another squashed beside her, but just her luck, it's in neither. `It must be in the one on the rack.'
Matty is hunched in the window seat, staring out at the dull landscape. He looks wretchedly embarrassed, as only ten-year-olds can.
`Do you want some juice, Zachary?' says Sam. He's twisting and writhing, his face red and blotchy. He shakes his head vehemently, squeezing his eyes shut.
`I'm getting off at Birmingham,' says the woman, `but do you want me to take him for a minute while you get his medicine?'
`Oh, would you?' says Sam in a gush of relief. `I'll be really quick.'
She lifts the screeching Zachary and manages to get him on to the woman's lap, though she gets a kick in the neck in the process.
`Oh dear,' says the woman, struggling to keep hold of the little boy. `Are you all right?'
`It's nothing,' Sam says quickly. `Happens all the time.'
She reaches up to the bag and pulls it down on to the seat, then starts to dig about in it. The train lurches and judders as it starts to slow down, and suddenly the woman opposite lets out a strangled cry.
Zachary has been sick all over her.
Judging by what Somer told me, Fair Lawns is a world away from the home where Michael Esmond put his mother. You could get them under trade descriptions for the `lawns' for a start: there's asphalt on every flat surface. Tired 1970s architecture, and that nasty textured glass in the front door. It reminds me horribly of where my grandmother ended up. I used to dread being dragged there once a month as a child, sitting for the required hour and a half while my father said the same things he said the previous time, in a terrifying bright and happy voice. Even now, I can't bear the smell of disinfectant.
Quinn locks the car door and heads off to reception. He seems intent on proving to me just how efficient he can be and, hey, I'm not complaining.
The young woman on the desk has a heavy East European accent. Romanian, if I had to guess. She also has perfect skin and small, exquisite features that must have the old ladies yearning for their past youth, but Quinn seems determined to be Mr Professional. He doesn't even smile when he introduces himself.
`DC Quinn, DI Fawley, Thames Valley Police. To see Muriel Fraser?'
`Ah yes,' she says. `We spoke to your office. Please come this way.'
Mrs Fraser is having one of her good days, she tells us, as we follow her down the corridor, but all the same we shouldn't expect too much. `She is ninety-seven, after all.'
She leaves us with the care assistant in the `lounge', who's serving tea from the sort of trolley I haven't seen since I was a constable. She's much older than the receptionist `“ one of those competent motherly types we must all be thankful are prepared to work for minimum wage in places like this. Jeremy Kyle is on full volume in the corner and the newspapers are untouched on the coffee table. One old chap has a chessboard on a table in front of him and a book about the Spassky/Fischer world championship open in one hand. I don't want to think about the state of his inner life.
`Mrs Fraser's long-term memory is still pretty good,' says the assistant. `Though she struggles with more day-to-day things. But she really is a sweet lady.' She smiles. `One of the easy ones. Never complains.'
Muriel is in a chair by the window, hunched up against a cushion, her thin arms shrunk into a baggy sugar-pink cardigan.
`You made that cardi yourself, didn't you, Muriel?' says the assistant kindly, seeing me looking at it. `Though her knitting days are long gone now, I'm afraid.'
She reaches down to pat Muriel's clawed-up brown hands and the old lady smiles up at her.
`You have some visitors, Muriel. Two nice gentlemen from the police.'
The old lady's eyes widen and she stares first at Quinn and then at me.
`Nothing to worry about, lovey. They just want to check a few things with you.' Then she pats Muriel's hand again. `I'll see about getting you all some tea.'
We pull up the hard plastic visitor chairs and sit down.
`I think you had someone else come to see you recently, didn't you, Mrs Fraser?' asks Quinn.
She smiles at him. I think there's even the ghost of a wink. `I'm not completely gaga, you know. It was that Esmond boy.'
In the background, Jeremy Kyle is losing his patience. `It's a simple enough question. Did you sleep with her or didn't you?'
Quinn sits forward, clearly startled to have got so far so fast.
`That's right,' he says. `How do you know him?'
`He's Jenny's boyfriend.' She folds her hands then, disapproving. `Or was.'
Quinn and I exchange a glance. Jenny. The girlfriend Philip mentioned. The one Michael Esmond dumped when he went on his shag spree.
`And remind me, who is Jenny?' I ask, keeping my voice light.