Everett and Somer are only just in time for the team meeting at 4.30. Somer leaves Everett to park the car and makes her way across to the police station. It's started to rain again and Everett struggles to find a space; when she turns the engine off and looks up she can see Somer talking to someone in the doorway. In the gloom and the downpour it's another few seconds before she realizes who it is.
Fawley.
Everett's not nosy by nature. She's not interested in tittle-tattle, and she tries to live and let live. But she can't stop herself watching. He and Somer are standing close together, but it's impossible to tell if that's just to keep out of the rain. The light above their heads casts deep sharp shadows and Fawley's bending his head now, talking to Somer in an urgent, intimate way she can't ever remember seeing before. He usually holds back `“ keeps his distance, in every sense. But not this time.
She opens the door and gets slowly out of the car. Then reaches into the back seat for her umbrella, which she opens as extravagantly as she can manage. She wants to give them as much chance as possible to see her coming. Which they evidently do, because by the time she reaches the door, Somer is alone.
`Who was that?' asks Everett casually, shaking out the brolly.
`Oh, just one of the uniforms. He wanted to know how the case was going.'
Everett's heart sinks. As any halfway decent police officer knows, people don't bother lying if they've nothing to hide.
Sent:Weds 10/01/2018, 15.45Importance: High From:Colin.Boddie@ouh.nhs.uk To:DIAdamFawley@ThamesValley.police.uk, CID@ThamesValley.police.uk, AlanChallowCSI@ThamesValley.police.uk Subject: Bloodwork and toxicology: Case no 556432/12 Felix House, 23 Southey Road
I have just had the toxicology results on the three victims. To summarize: there were no untoward findings in relation to Matthew Esmond. Zachary's bloods showed a relatively high level of acetaminophen (paracetamol) but one which would still be consistent with a therapeutic dose of a paediatric medicine such as Calpol.
Bloodwork from Samantha Esmond detected the presence of desmethylsertraline (i.e. the antidepressant sertraline) at a concentration consistent with ongoing therapeutic use. However, there were also very significant levels of both alcohol (a BAC of 0.10%) and benzodiazepine (i.e. temazepam). For the avoidance of doubt, the latter was not inconsistent with a therapeutic dose, but in combination with the alcohol would have quickly rendered a woman of her height and weight drowsy. There's one final test outstanding on Samantha, which I will forward to you as soon as I get it.
I've also had results from Zachary Esmond's bloods. The level of carbon monoxide detected is significantly lower than I would have expected. I cannot, therefore, rule out the possibility that Zachary was already dead before the fire took full hold. There being no other obvious signs of injury, the most likely cause of death in that case would have been suffocation.
It's fair to say I'm probably not on top form at the team meeting. Alex's call is still distracting me. I tried to phone her back three times today and got nothing but voicemail. And then I stopped because I knew it would just make me look desperate. Even though I am. Even though part of me wants her to know I am.
So if I lose the thread of the discussion a couple of times, that's why. It's not an excuse. But it is an explanation. And I only manage to wing it because there's so little to discuss. Despite the appeal, the tweets, the thankless door-knocking, despite the hundreds of calls that have come in and a running total of man hours I don't even want to think about, we still have no bloody idea where Esmond is. And I say as much. I notice Everett eyeing me once or twice. Especially when Somer is reporting back on the meetings with the school and the family doctor.
`So,' she says, summing up, `we now know that Samantha Esmond was suffering from post-natal depression. But the doctor insists she wasn't a risk to herself or her children.'
She's not saying so explicitly, but we all know what she means: if anyone was thinking of putting Samantha forward as a possible suspect, as far as Somer is concerned you can forget it. It wasn't her who set that fire.
`Are you sure about that?' says Baxter, googling on his phone. `It says here that severe cases can lead to paranoia and hallucinations, and if it goes untreated up to four per cent of mothers will commit infanticide.'
There's a flicker of unease round the room at that. They're remembering what Boddie said: Zachary could have been dead before the fire even started. And suffocation is one of the commonest ways women kill their children.
`You're talking about post-partum psychosis,' says Somer, slightly abruptly. `Not post-natal depression. Samantha was never diagnosed with PPP.'
`All the same `“' begins Baxter, but she doesn't let him finish.
`Post-partum psychosis almost always starts within two weeks of having the baby. Zachary was three. The number of cases where PPP comes on without warning that long after birth is vanishingly small.'
Baxter looks from me to Somer. `Could her post-natal depression have turned into this PPP? Is that possible?'
She shakes her head. `No. They're entirely different. And the one doesn't lead to the other.'
`So if Samantha really was seeing things, it wasn't down to that?'
`Not that, no. I guess the medication she was on may have been a factor. But even if that were true, there's a huge leap from seeing ghosts to deliberately killing the entire family.'
There's something in her face `“ the way she says it `“ that stifles further disagreement. I just wish I had her certainty.
25 June 2017, 4.30 p.m.
193 days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
Sam can tell at once something's up.
`I brought you a beer,' she says carefully, easing the bottle on to the edge of the desk. The study is a beautiful space at this time of year, the glass doors open to the garden and the light and the scent of cut grass. A red admiral butterfly has landed on the printer and is opening and closing its wings in the warmth. But her husband is frowning.
`What is it?'
He makes a face. `Just Philip. He emailed to say he'll be here on the 13th July.'
`How long is he staying?'
`He says two days, but you know him. It could just as easily be two weeks.'
`Well, we can hardly say no `“ what with `“'
`I know, I know,' Michael says tetchily.
Sam bites her lip. She knows better than to offer any defence for Philip. Last time she tried she found herself on the wrong end of a twenty-minute tirade about what a waster he is, bumming about the world from one tropical beach to the next and never being around to do any of the heavy lifting. Like Dad's funeral. Like getting Mum into a home. The first time Michael ever really opened up to her had been about Philip. They'd only been together about six weeks and up till then his whole persona had been so carefully crafted she was beginning to think he was too good to be true. Always courteous, always patient, always considerate. And then she got to his flat early one night to find him on the phone to his father. He'd rung home to tell him he was about to get his first article published in an academic journal, but by the time he finished the call he was almost in tears.
`What do I have to do?' he'd said. `Philip's the one who flunked even getting in to Oxford. Philip's the one who's never bothered doing a proper day's work in his life because he's been living off money my grandfather left him. Philip should be the disappointment. And yet to listen to my father you'd think I was sleeping rough under Charing Cross station.'