At Southey Road, Quinn pushes open the door to Esmond's office and stands there looking around. Judging from what's left of the rest of the house, he was expecting a pompous roll-top desk, an antique leather chair and one of those reading lamps with green shades. But he couldn't have been more wrong. Everything in here is light, modern and well designed, right down to the sleek Dyson heater, the Bose CD player and the gleaming Nespresso machine. Complete with supplies. He slings his jacket over the back of the chair and turns the heater on full. Maybe this won't be such a crap job after all.
Sent:Weds 10/01/2018, 18.45Importance: 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've had that final test back on Samantha Esmond. Her bloods showed slightly raised levels of human chorionic gonadotropin (hCG). This can be produced by cancerous tumours, but in the absence of any such abnormalities I see no reason to deviate from the simplest clinical explanation: Samantha Esmond was pregnant.
Given the level detected, and the fact that nothing was discovered in the uterus, I would estimate a gestation of no more than four weeks. At that stage the foetus would be little more than a cluster of cells.
`So, do you think she knew? About the baby?'
It's Gislingham, in the incident room. And whether he realizes it or not, he's looking at Ev and Somer.
Everett shrugs. `I'm not the one to ask. I've never been pregnant.'
Somer flushes slightly and I wonder suddenly if she has, at some point in her past.
`Impossible to say, sir,' she says. `Though I think the doctor would have told me, if she'd done a proper test.'
But that doesn't mean anything. Alex only got to that stage once, in all the years we tried. All those days of hope, month after month. Days when she'd buy one of those kits and lock herself away. Days when I'd hear her sobbing. Days `“ the worst days `“ when she'd emerge, dry-faced and silent, her hands cold and her body rigid in my arms. And then there was the blue line that was Jake and a new more desperate hope and a ferocious caution and pacts with a God I don't believe in. I've often wondered, since, if that's where I went wrong. I only begged to have Jake; I never begged to keep him.
`Might give her a reason though,' says Baxter, breaking into my thoughts. He's looking at Somer. `I mean, I know you said she couldn't have set that fire, but that was before we found out she was in the club again. If she'd had such a bad time with the previous two, she might not have been able to face having a third.'
Somer looks at him icily. `That's not a reason to kill herself. And it's definitely not a reason to kill those children.'
Baxter puts up both hands. `OK, OK, I was just saying.'
Somer opens her mouth to reply but Everett cuts in. Peacemaker mode. `There's no point in us arguing about it. The simple fact is we have no way of knowing if she even knew about the pregnancy.'
`Can we do a DNA test?' asks Asante.
I shake my head. `Good try, but no. Way too early.'
`So we don't know Esmond was definitely the father,' he continues. `I mean `“ if it was someone else and her husband found out `“'
`He was in London, though, wasn't he?' says Gis quietly.
`And we haven't come across any other men in her life, either,' I say. `And as far as I can see she was barely up to leaving the house, never mind carrying on a secret affair.'
Asante backs off. He clearly knows when to stop digging. But he's right about one thing. That pregnancy is a wild card we hadn't allowed for. And it's nagging at me like a stone in my shoe.
The door opens and the duty officer looks in, scanning the room.
`DC Somer? Someone in reception for you. A Mr Philip Esmond.'
12 July 2017, 4.43 p.m.
176 days before the fire
23 Southey Road, Oxford
Philip and Matty are on their third chorus of `What shall we do with the drunken sailor?' when Michael finally gives up trying to work and goes back up to the house. In the kitchen, Philip has Zachary on his shoulders and Sam is at the sink scraping food into the caddy. The debris from the picnic is scattered all over the kitchen.
`Way! Hey! and up she rises, Way! Hey! and up she rises, Way! Hey! and up she rises, Ear-ly in the morning,' bellows Philip, before turning and seeing his brother at the door.
`'Gain! 'Gain!' shouts Zachary, banging his hands on Philip's head. `Want it 'gain!'
Philip swings him down on to the table and grins at Michael. `Sorry `“ did we disturb you? Just got rather into the nautical spirit, if you see what I mean.'
Sam looks up from the sink and smiles. `It was fabulous `“ I can't think why we don't do it more often. It's only ten minutes' walk.'
Michael eyes his brother. His T-shirt is dripping wet.
`Did you fall in?'
Philip makes a rueful face. `Well, you know what they say `“ you're not doing punting right unless you get soaked.'
`Uncle Philip was really good,' says Matty. `We went faster than anyone. And there was a big fat man who fell in and made the most huge splash, and someone else got his pole stuck in the water.'
Michael nods. `Sounds like you all `“'
But Matty hasn't finished. `And then there was the fox. That was awesome.'
Michael frowns. `There must be a better word than that, Matty.'
`Actually,' says Philip, `it was pretty awesome. In the literal sense, I mean. We'd just turned round up past the Vicky Arms and were on the way back and suddenly there was this drowned fox in the water. It must have literally run into the river only a minute or two before.'
`It was wicked,' breathes Matty, his eyes wide and round. `It was like a wizard had turned it into stone.'
Sam turns, wiping her hands on a tea towel. `I've never seen anything like it. It was actually quite spooky, the way it was hanging there. Like the river had turned to ice.'
Michael frowns. `As far as I was aware, foxes can swim.'
Philip shrugs, then swings the squealing Zachary back on to his shoulders. `Well, all I know,' he says, `is that this one definitely couldn't.'
In the weeks that follow, Michael thinks a lot about that fox. Did it really just plunge straight into the water? Was it running after something or away from something? He even dreams about it once. He was in the punt with Philip; it was cold, the trees hanging close, and wisps of mist coming off the water. Everything wishy-washy in black and grey. Except the fox. That was burning with colour. And so close to the boat he could reach out and touch it. He could see the whiskers, the coarseness of the fur, the air bubbles caught about its mouth, and the eyes. Wide open and staring into death.
There are four people in the reception area and Somer doesn't need telling which one is Philip Esmond. An old man with a greyhound, a young black guy in a hoodie playing a game on his phone, his leg jiggling up and down, a female journalist she recognizes from the Oxford Mail, and a man in his forties, pacing. At a distance, the resemblance to Giles Saumarez is striking. The same stature, the same tan, the same physical confidence. But Philip Esmond's face is lined with anxiety. When he turns and sees her, he comes forward at once.
`DC Somer? I'm Philip Esmond. I came straight here.'
Somer glances around. `Look, shall we go for a coffee or something? It might be easier.'