`When DC Somer spoke to him on the 7th he told her he hoped to be back in a couple of days. But he was lying. He was already here.'
I pound the dashboard in frustration. There was no reason to suspect him at that point, but all the same we should have checked. We should have been more thorough. I should have been more thorough.
`The boat's definitely still there?'
`Yes, sir. The manager at Cobb's Quay says he's spotted at least one man on board in the last couple of days. Quite tall, dark hair, he says. Though he's only seen him at a distance.'
And Philip and Michael look very alike. At least superficially. It's not conclusive.
`Tell him to let us know at once if he shows any sign of leaving. But with luck we'll be there ourselves in an hour.'
`Less,' says Gislingham as I finish the call. `We're past Eastleigh now.'
He's still frowning, though.
`Everything OK?'
`Fine,' he says, checking his rear mirror before indicating to overtake. `I think I forgot to mention that Hants Police called.'
`Oh yes?'
`It was late Friday. I was half out the door. It was that DI you spoke to. Saumarez. He said the tramp we found in that hut claimed someone else had already broken into it before he got there.'
`Well, that tallies. Michael Esmond wouldn't have had a key.'
`No, boss.'
But there's still something, and for the life of me I can't work out what it is.
And then my phone rings.
4 January 2018, 12.05 a.m.
23 Southey Road, Oxford
When Harry gets to the house, Michael is waiting for him. He opens the door in silence, and then walks away at once to the sitting room.
`What's this about?' says Harry lightly. `Bit cloak and dagger isn't it `“ all this `њmeet me at midnight`ќ stuff?'
`The train was delayed.'
Michael closes the door behind them. He hasn't switched on the lights. There's only the dull glow of the street lamp, casting a long thin stripe through the curtains and across the floor. In the shadows he looks different. Strange. You can almost hear the crackle of nervous energy. He has a half-empty bottle of whisky by the neck. For the first time, Harry starts to feel uneasy. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea.
`What do you want?' he says, all lightness gone. `Because there's somewhere else I need to be.'
`I know who you are,' says Michael.
`Look `“'
`Don't try to deny it. I know who you are. And whatever it is you want, I'm telling you now you're not going to get it.'
Harry raises his eyebrows. `Really? You sure about that? Because I spoke to a lawyer `“'
`I don't care who you've spoken to. I'm not going to let you ruin my life. You have no right `“'
`Oh, I think you'll find I have every right.'
Michael starts moving closer. Harry can smell the alcohol on his breath. There's something unfocused about his eyes. Harry begins to back away. `Look, we can talk about this `“ but not now. Not when `“'
`Not when what, exactly?'
Harry feels the wall crunch against his spine. Michael is so close his spit is on Harry's skin. He lifts his hands and pushes Michael away. `You're pissed.'
`Too right I'm fucking pissed. In every sense of the fucking word.'
He never swears.
He never swears.
`I'm going,' says Harry, pulling his coat back up round his shoulders. `I should never have come in the first place.'
`No you fucking shouldn't,' says Michael, drilling a finger into his chest. `So why don't you just pack up your crap and go back to that shithole you came from.'
Harry moves a little closer. His voice is still low, but there's a menace in it now. `Yeah, well, if I come from a shithole, whose fault is that? Because it can't be the genes, can it. There can't be anything wrong with those. I mean, look at you `“ your wife's in pieces, your son is struggling, and you don't even appear to have bloody noticed.'
`Don't you dare talk about my family like that `“'
`Don't you get it? They're not just your family. Not any more. They're mine. And I've done more for them in the last six months than you have in six bloody years. Look at poor bloody Matt `“ how many times have you promised to do things with him and let him down at the last minute? There's always something more important, isn't there? Always something about you `“ about you and your career and your big important job that as far as I can see you've made such a fucking mess of they're going to fire your sorry arse `“'
`I'm warning you `“'
Michael is swaying now, slurring. Too drunk to take anyone on. Or so Harry thinks.
It's not the only error he's about to make.
Poole is bright but cold. The slap of ropes against fibreglass. Seagulls. High clouds fleeting across a washed blue sky. I breathe a lungful of salt air and think `“ not for the first time `“ that I really should get out of Oxford more often.
`Couldn't have chosen a better place for a hideout if he'd bloody well tried,' says Quinn tetchily, slamming the door and making great show of stretching his legs.
But he's right. In the summer this place must be heaving `“ the social club, the chandlery, the shiny new yachts lined up for sale `“ but at this time of year it's almost deserted. And even if it wasn't, the pontoons stretch out two or three hundred yards into the water. If your boat was moored at the far end you could be on it for days and no one would even know you were there. It's almost too perfect.
We walk towards the water and the manager must have been watching for us, because the door to the office is already opening. And a few yards away, in the car park, I can see a red Nissan Juke.
`Detective Inspector Fawley?' says the man, looking at the three of us and plumping for me. I guess I should be flattered.
`Duncan Wright. I've been keeping an eye out since you phoned but I haven't seen any movement on Freedom 2.'
`And where's the boat?'
`Berth C31,' he says, pointing. `Over there.'
Cobb's Quay must be top end because every boat we pass is either new or in pristine condition. Polished wood, colour-coordinated sails, gleaming chrome catching the winter sun. And right at the far end, tilting gently on the water, Freedom 2. It looks like something out of a Sunday supplement. I'd wondered about that name the first time I heard it, thinking it was just a rather adolescent lifestyle statement `“ Philip's way of thumbing his nose at the choices his brother made. `Freedom to' do what the hell he liked, freedom to get out from under the weight of family expectations. But knowing what I do now about the life those two boys led, the home they had, I'm not so sure. Like everything else in this case, what's on the surface may not be as superficial as it seems.
There may have been no sign of life on the boat all morning, but there is now. By the time we get to the boat he's on the prow, waiting for us. Navy hoodie, padded gilet, Ray-Bans.
Philip Esmond.
`Inspector,' he says, taking off his glasses. `I had no idea you were coming `“'
`Neither did we, Mr Esmond.'
He glances at Gislingham and Quinn and then back at me. `What's happened? Has there been a development?'
`You could say that,' says Quinn sardonically.
`Could you move away from the boat, Mr Esmond.'
`But `“'
`Please.'
`All right,' he says heavily, holding up his hands. `If you insist.'
He steps down on to the pontoon, and Gis moves past me and on to the boat, ducking down into the cabin.
`When you first came to St Aldate's you told my officer that you'd only just got back to the UK. That you had come straight to Oxford as soon as you arrived.'