There's a ping on his tablet and he opens the email. `It's the list from the Griffin.'
He scrolls down, then back again. `No Jennifer. No Jenny. Bollocks.' He sits back in his seat. `We should go back in there and ask the old dear for the surname. She didn't look that bloody tired to me.'
I hold out my hand. `Can I see?'
He passes me the tablet, clearly irritated that I don't trust him to have checked properly. But there was something in what he just said `“ something Muriel mentioned `“ I may be wrong `“
But I'm not. That'll teach me to listen to what people actually say. Not just what I'm expecting to hear. I point at the screen. `This girl `“ here `“ I think it's her. Ginevra Marrone. It wasn't Jenny Michael was seeing, it was Ginny.'
Quinn takes the tablet. `Right,' he says after a moment. `And she's in the list for 1995, but disappears after that.'
Because she got pregnant. Because she had Michael Esmond's baby.
`So she's, what, Spanish?'
`Italian would be my guess. It's an Italian name.'
He nods. `So that explains why Michael came down here. Because the rest of the family `“'
``“ went back to Italy. Right. Presumably that's why Ginevra never returned to the school. And remember what Muriel said about a priest. I can well imagine how a traditional Italian family would have reacted to their unmarried teenage daughter getting pregnant. And this was twenty years ago, remember.'
`Not just teenage, boss,' says Quinn, looking at the list again. `Ginevra Marrone was in Year 11 in 1995. We won't know for sure until we track down Harry's birth certificate but I reckon she could have been as young as fifteen.'
So not just unmarried but underage.
Quinn sits back. `Jesus. First the harassment allegation and now this. No wonder Esmond was bricking it.' He turns to me. `Do you think that was what the two grand was for? This Harry bloke was blackmailing him? Threatening to go public if he didn't pay up? It would explain why he took out the money in cash.'
I'm not so sure. `The sequence is wrong, isn't it? He'd have spoken to Muriel before he handed over any money. And done a DNA test.'
But Quinn is right too: the money still doesn't fit.
`Though there's one thing all this does explain,' I say, getting out my phone again, `and that's why Baxter can't find anyone called Harold Brown. I don't think that's Harry's real name at all.' Because I've remembered now how Gislingham tracked down Jurjen Kuiper online. And didn't Alex once joke with me that Giuseppe Verdi would have sounded a lot less glamorous if he'd been plain English Joe Green?
It takes point nothing of a nanosecond on Google to prove I'm right. All those trips to Italy `“ I must have picked up something after all. I switch to the phone screen and dial the number. `Baxter? It's Fawley. The man you're searching for isn't called Brown. His mother's name is Marrone `“ it's the Italian word for Brown. He's using the English version of his Italian name, and I bet he's doing exactly the same thing with his first name too. If I'm right, the person you need to be looking for is called Araldo Marrone.'
Even though it's barely five minutes from her front door, Everett has never actually been inside the Volterra bar. She doesn't own any clothes she could possibly wear in there, for a start, and as far as she's concerned gin is just gin and gives her a headache, as does the idea of trying to choose between fifty-seven different artisan varieties.
At this time of day there's hardly anyone inside. According to the blackboard on the pavement, they serve coffee all day, but the indigo walls and ornate chandeliers have an after-dark feel to them compared to the wholesome coffee shops and brightly lit patisseries round the corner. She makes her way to the bar and glances through the back to where a young man with a large sandy beard and a black shirt and trousers is stacking glasses.
`Can I help you?' he calls.
`DC Everett, Thames Valley Police.'
The young man reaches for a tea towel and comes through to the front. `What's all this about then?'
She shows him her phone. `I think you've been employing this man?'
He squints at the picture then nods. `That's Harry. He's been working here about nine months.'
`When did you last see him?'
The young man frowns. `Why `“ what's going on?'
`Just answer the question, please.'
He considers. `New Year's, I think. Yup, that would've been it.'
`Was he due to be working since then?'
`Not sure. I don't do the rotas. But you could ask Josh. He's the manager.'
Everett takes down the mobile number. `What's he like, this Harry?' she asks, closing her notebook.
The young man shrugs. `He's a good barman. Knows his drinks, knows his punters.'
Ev's eyes narrow. `What do you mean by that?'
`Oh, you know. He can read people. The ones who want to be left alone. The ones who want a shoulder to cry on. The ones who want to flirt.'
`He does a lot of that, does he? Flirting?'
A dry grin. `Fuck yes. Women are all over him. Lucky git. I mean, looking like that, he has his pick.'
Ev frowns. `I thought he was gay?'
The young man gives a bark of laughter. `Gay? Harry's not gay. Where'd you get that from?'
`Sorry, must have got my wires crossed.'
He's still smiling. `Take it from me, he is not gay. I caught him once, in the back room, with a girl. One of the punters. And believe me, they weren't discussing the bloody weather.'
`Right,' says Everett, more than a little nonplussed but endeavouring not to show it. `And is there anyone special, do you know `“ an actual girlfriend?'
`Not that he talked about `“ at least, he never mentioned a name. Though I got the impression there could have been someone, the last month or so. But he was pretty cagey about it.'
`And this Josh, the manager. He'll have an address for him, will he?'
The young man shrugs. `An address, yes, but Harry's been moving round a bit so it may not be up to date. I know he was dossing with a mate for a while, and after that he was at that youth hostel on the Botley Road.'
Bugger, thinks Ev. Why didn't we think of that? We were parked virtually on top of the place.
The door opens and a couple of girls come in, laughing and looking at something on their phones. The young man glances across at them and then at Everett.
`Like I said,' he says quickly, `I'm pretty sure he's not there any more. Last time I saw him he said he was going to be moving.'
`You don't know where?'
`Nope,' he says, picking up some drinks menus from the counter, `but I think it was somewhere round here `“ somewhere decent too. I reckoned someone must have died.'
Ev stares at him. `Say that again.'
He flushes a little. `You know `“ he was getting some sort of legacy. He definitely said something about `њgetting what I'm due`ќ. I suppose that's why I wasn't surprised I haven't seen him. He probably doesn't need to bother with crappy bar work any more, the lucky bastard.'
2 January 2018, 3.09 p.m.
Two days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
Samantha shunts the front door closed behind her and drops the bags where she's standing. She's suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted. She can hear Zachary careering about upstairs, shouting at the top of his voice. You wouldn't think there'd ever been anything wrong with him. He spent the last half hour of the journey back jumping up and down on her lap saying he wanted to play pirates. She knows he didn't mean to be tactless, but it was just about the last thing Matty needed to hear. He, by contrast, sat silent and pale the whole way, staring out of the window. Every time she tried to speak to him he just blanked her. She's seen him sulk before but this is different. He's never been this sullen, this locked in. And it's the first time he's ever spoken about what happened to the dog.