`Yes, I'm sure you would. But there are procedures `“ consents I have to obtain. I will speak to the lawyers, and then to the young woman, and I will come back to you as soon as I reasonably can.'
In Summertown, meanwhile, Everett has only just got back from dropping her father off at his house just outside Bicester. Anything involving him always takes five times longer than she allows for, and this morning was no different. And she hasn't spoken to him about the care home yet either. But she's looked up the number for his local Social Services and she's going to force herself to call them by the end of the day. Though right now she has a job to do. She pops back up to the flat to check on the cat (who's clearly as relieved as she is that normal service has been resumed) and then returns to the pavement, where she takes out the picture Baxter found on Samantha Esmond's Facebook page. He was pretty sure it was taken in one of the shops on the Summertown parade, and she'd agreed with him. She hasn't lived here for two years for nothing.
Five minutes later, she's pushing through the door. Candles, china, bathrobes, towels. If it's not white, it's glass. And it's all so delicate and refined and sweet-smelling she feels twice her normal size just standing there. Thankfully she doesn't have to do it for long; the girl behind the counter looks up with a smile. `Is there anything in particular you were looking for? We have some of our discontinued items in the sale.'
Everett edges nervously round a display of ornate champagne glasses and pulls her warrant card from her jacket. `DC Everett, Thames Valley. Could I speak to the manager?'
The girl looks alarmed. `Is there something wrong?'
Everett's turn to smile. `No, not at all. I just need to speak to the lady in this photo.'
The girl takes the picture and nods. `Oh yes, that's Mel. She's on her break. I'll just get her.'
She disappears out the back, leaving Ev standing there staring at the champagne flutes. The ones she has at home were a gift from her mum when she first left home. They look like something out of a Babycham ad.
`Hello? I'm sorry, Jenna couldn't remember your name.'
She turns. It's definitely the woman in the photo. Mid height, strong, handsome features and well-cut dark auburn hair. Under the unforgiving lights the red is purplish.
`DC Everett,' she says, holding out her hand. `Verity.'
`Mel Kennedy. What's this about?'
`The woman in this picture with you `“'
`Sam? This is about Sam?'
Everett takes a deep breath. `Did you see the news `“ the fire?'
The woman goes pale. `Oh no `“ not those children `“ please don't say `“'
`I'm very sorry.' She watches as Kennedy reaches half blindly for a chair and sits down heavily. She has her hand to her mouth. Her shock seems completely genuine.
`Take your time. Would you like a glass of water?'
Kennedy shakes her head. `I just can't believe it.'
`When did you last see Mrs Esmond?'
Kennedy looks at her for a moment. `You know, I can't honestly remember. Perhaps last summer?'
`This picture is a couple of years old, I think?'
Kennedy glances at it. `At least three. She only worked here a short time. But we got on, you know? We really got on.'
Everett moves a little closer. `We still haven't been able to track Mrs Esmond down. Do you have any idea where she might be?'
Kennedy shakes her head again. `She's a very private person. She never talked much about her personal life.'
`No particular friends? No one she might be visiting?'
She shrugs, helpless.
Everett takes a deep breath; there's no easy way to broach this. `Knowing Mrs Esmond `“ Sam `“ do you think she'd be likely to leave her children alone in the house?'
But Kennedy is already interrupting her. `Sam would never have done that,' she says fiercely. `Never.'
`Why did she stop working here?'
Kennedy gets out a tissue and blows her nose. `It was when she got pregnant with Zachary. Her husband thought it would all be too much for her. What with Matty as well. But between you and me, I don't think he wanted her working here in the first place. Used to make snarky comments `“ `њWhat the hell is shabby chic anyway?`ќ That sort of thing. He's a bit snooty, I reckon. A bit of a snob.'
`You saw a lot of him?'
She shakes her head. `No. He didn't come in much. Like I said, I don't think he approved of a wife of his doing shop work.'
`But they're happy, as far as you know? No problems at home?'
`Oh no. Nothing like that. He doted on her. She was always saying so.'
21 February 2017, 7.45 a.m.
317 days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
It's the clatter of crockery that wakes her. She'd slept unusually deeply, and surfaces from half-remembered menace like someone pulled from drowning. The other side of the bed is cold; Michael isn't there. That's unusual too `“ he never normally gets up first. And then she remembers. It's her birthday. That's what the noise downstairs is about. The boys are preparing her breakfast in bed. It's the same surprise every year, but she always manages to pretend she wasn't expecting it. She hauls herself to sitting position, and reaches to plump the pillows behind her. The air in the room is icy, despite the central heating. She sighs: the only way to insulate these houses properly is to take the plaster off the walls and start again. That's what the people in the house opposite did before they moved in. But they were renting somewhere at the time: they didn't have to live there while the builders were doing it. She got an estimate from the firm but when she broached it with Michael all he kept going on about was the mess.
There's the sound of their footsteps on the stairs now, and she can hear Zachary shouting and Matty saying `Ssh, ssh!' A few moments later the door pushes open and Zachary rushes in yelling `HAPPY BIRTHDAY!' at the top of his voice. He clambers on the bed, hurling himself at her, and his father says, `Easy, Tigger.' Like he always does.
Michael perches on the edge of the bed and hands her the tray. Tea in one of the Wedgwood cups they were given by his mother, a boiled egg (Matty's contribution), three slices of toast laden with strawberry jam (Zachary's) and a rose in a little vase. Michael turns to his eldest son, who's hanging back, his face a little closed. `Come on, Matty, stop skulking about over there.'
Matty pushes his glasses up his nose `“ Samantha knew they were too big for him, but the optician insisted. Her son sidles forward. He's holding two parcels.
`You wrapped yours yourself, didn't you, Matty?' says Michael, encouraging him closer.
`Come and sit with me, sweetheart,' she says quickly.
Matty puts the parcels on the bed and then climbs carefully across to his mother. She reaches out and pulls him to her, kissing him on the side of the head. Zachary starts to fidget, sending the tea slopping into the saucer.
`Mummy eat toast!'
`I will, sweet pea,' she says, catching the flicker of a frown on her husband's face. `Let me just have this tea before it goes everywhere.'
The egg is almost hard-boiled and the toast is cold, but she eats it all, then breathes a silent sigh of relief as she hands the tray to Michael.
`Right,' he says, smiling. `Presents!'
The boys have given her the same perfume they give her every year, and she kisses them both, then carefully folds the paper and detaches the gift tag Matty has written and puts it in her bedside drawer, making sure he sees. Things like that matter to him.
Michael's gift is in a small box. Silver earrings in the shape of tassels. She'd seen an actress wearing some like it a few weeks before and said how much she liked them. And he'd remembered. Remembered and spent God knows how long looking for them. She looks up and sees him smiling at her. There's hardly a strand of grey in his dark hair, and he's as slim as he was when they first met. That party in Hackney. She can't even remember now whose house it was. She was only a couple of months past graduation and he was already halfway through his PhD. There are times, even now, when she can't believe he really did choose her.