‘Yes?’
‘DC Chris Gislingham, PC Erica Somer, Thames Valley Police. Could we have a word with you?’
He blinks, then glances back into the room. ‘Actually, I’m taking an after-school class. Can you come back later?’
‘We’ve come from Oxford,’ says Gislingham. ‘So no, we can’t “come back later”. Can we come in?’
The two men stare at each other for a few moments then Walsh steps aside. ‘Of course.’
The room inside is more a classroom than a study. No leather armchairs here, just a desk, a row of hard-backed chairs, an old-fashioned blackboard and a couple of framed posters. Madam Butterfly at the ENO; an exhibition of Japanese artefacts at the Ashmolean. And fidgeting a little at one of the desks, a red-haired boy with an exercise book on his lap. Eleven, maybe twelve years old.
‘OK, Joshua,’ says Walsh, with perhaps a little too much gusto. ‘It seems an unexpected deus ex machina has released you prematurely from the purgatory that is the repeal of the Corn Laws.’
He holds open the door and gestures to the boy. ‘Off you go. But I shall want to see that prep first thing in the morning.’
The boy pauses in the doorway and looks back at Gislingham, and then he’s gone. They can hear his feet clattering down the stairs.
‘So,’ says Walsh, moving round behind his desk in a power play that’s not lost on any of them. ‘What can I help you with?’
‘I imagine you probably know why we’re here,’ begins Gislingham.
Walsh looks at him, then at Somer. ‘To be perfectly honest, no.’
‘It’s about your uncle, or strictly speaking, your aunt’s husband. William Harper.’
‘Oh,’ says Walsh. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Though I don’t know why they felt they needed to send you.’
‘It’s a serious matter, Mr Walsh.’
‘Of course. I wasn’t meaning to imply – well, you know. Just have them get in touch with me and I’ll sort things out. I suppose there isn’t anyone else. Not now.’
Gislingham stares at him. ‘Who are you talking about, Mr Walsh?’
‘The solicitors. I assume he had some. Oxford firm, is it?’
‘I’m not following you.’
‘About the will,’ says Walsh. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Bill’s dead?’
Somer and Gislingham exchange a glance.
‘You haven’t seen the news? The press?’
Walsh smiles, faux-helpless. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have time to read newspapers. Have you any idea how much is involved in this job?’
Somer knows very well, in fact. But she’s not about to tell him so.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘I think you’d better sit down.’
***
‘As a colleague of mine observed only this week, sometimes we just get lucky.’
I’m at the lab, standing next to Challow, looking down at a metal table spread with sheets of paper covered with lines of handwriting. Some are intact, others streaked with damp, a few reduced to pulp and completely illegible.
‘What is it – some sort of journal?’
Challow nods. ‘Nina found it when she went through the boxes that were in the cellar. It was stuffed down the side, presumably so the old man didn’t find it. There were some old books in there and the girl’s torn out the blank pages. There were a couple of old biros in the boxes too. Those orange Bic things. Looks like Harper’s the sort who can never bear to throw anything away.’ He gestures at the sheets. ‘We’ve saved what we can but I think the bog on the floor above must have overflowed recently. In fact, I’m surprised that girl didn’t have raging pneumonia, trapped in that bloody awful place all that time.’
He turns on an overhead lamp and brings it down so we can see more clearly.
‘I’ve transcribed the sheets that are still intact and sent them to you as scans, and I’ll do what I can to decipher the rest. You never know – it’s amazing what technology can do these days.’
‘Thanks, Alan.’
‘Happy reading. Though on second thought, that’s probably just a figure of speech too.’
***
Quinn’s just about to give up when the door finally opens. Though it doesn’t open very far. Enough, all the same, to register bare feet, long blonde hair, even longer legs, and a camisole that clearly doesn’t have anything underneath it. A shit day is suddenly not looking quite so shit after all.
‘Is Mr Gardiner in?’
She shakes her head. She has one of those faces that always look slightly bruised. Either that or she’s been crying.
Quinn whips out his warrant card and his suavest smile. ‘Detective Sergeant Gareth Quinn. When do you expect him back?’
‘He’s at work. Late, I should think.’
She’s about to close the door but he takes a step forward. ‘Perhaps I could come in – leave him a message? We just wanted to apologize about how the news came out about his wife.’
She shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’
She turns and walks away and as he pushes the door open wider to follow her he realizes she has a glass of wine in one hand. A large glass.
The girl has already disappeared and Quinn finds himself alone in the sitting room. There’s a handbag decorated with a clutch of different-coloured pom-poms on the sofa, and a wine bottle on a low table. It’s almost empty. Quinn starts to check out the room; if she catches him he can always claim he was looking for paper and a pen, even though he has both in his inside pocket. A fairly expensive TV, a few books, mainly medical textbooks, framed prints in black and white. Quinn’s never let a woman move in, but it does strike him that there’s not much of the girl’s stuff here. He goes back to the hall.
‘Are you OK?’ he calls.
There’s a silence, and then the girl comes out of the bedroom carrying a suitcase gaping with clothes and dumps it on the sitting-room floor. She has jeans on now and a pair of very high-heeled ankle boots. There’s an inch of pale skin between the top of her boots and the hem of her jeans. She perches on the sofa and tries to close the lid of the bag, her long hair falling across her face.
‘Here,’ says Quinn, rushing forward. ‘Let me help you with that.’
She looks up at him, struggles with the zip for a few moments more, then gives up. ‘Whatever.’ She slumps back on the sofa and turns her face away, and it takes him a few moments to realize she is, really, crying.
He pulls the zip the last couple of inches and stands the case upright. ‘Are you OK?’
She nods, pushing the tears away with her fingers. She still isn’t looking at him.
‘Do you need a lift or anything?’
A little gasp that might be a sob, then a nod of the head. ‘Thanks,’ she whispers.
*
Ten minutes later he’s putting the case in the back of his car, and they’re heading down the Banbury Road.
He glances across at her.
‘Can’t be easy for him. You know, all that –’
She turns to look at him. ‘Yeah, right,’ she says. ‘All that finding your wife under the floorboards thing. But it was two years ago.’
Which is nothing, of course. But perhaps not at her age.
‘Where will you go?’ he says, after a while.
She shrugs. ‘Dunno. Not home, that’s for sure.’
‘Why not?’
She shoots him a glance and he decides not to push it.