Gislingham shrugs. `Well, I wouldn't, that's for sure. But right now we have no idea what might have gone on in that house last night. Something could have happened to that family we don't know anything about. Which is one reason why we need to track down their next of kin. Any progress on that, Baxter?' He flushes slightly at this first, very public, assumption of authority, but Baxter takes it in his stride. As he does with most things.
`Not yet, Sarge,' he says. `Samantha was an only child so no brothers or sisters. The parents live in Cumbria but we haven't been able to speak to them yet. Michael's mother is in a home in Wantage. Alzheimer's, according to the manager. So, yes, we should deffo go and see her but I doubt we'll get very much.'
`Right,' says Gislingham, turning to Somer. `And the PM on the little boy `“ Zachary?'
Somer looks up. `Only one thing stood out. Boddie was surprised how little soot he found in his lungs. But apparently a child that young could have suffocated much more quickly than an adult. Especially if he had asthma or even something as minor as a cold. Boddie's running blood tests to be sure.'
There's a silence. Half of us are hanging on to the fact that it must have been over very fast; the other half know pain like that can't be calibrated in seconds. And cruel though it sounds, I do want them thinking about that `“ because I want them committed, angry, relentless. I want all their energy focused on getting to the truth. On finding out how something this appalling could possibly have happened.
`OK,' says Gislingham, looking around the room, `I'm going to hand over to Paul now, and then we'll divvy up the jobs for the next couple of days.'
He steps to one side and Paul Rigby stands up and moves briskly to the whiteboard. He's a practised presenter, no question of that. He moves swiftly and succinctly through what they know, what they assume and what they can deduce.
`In conclusion,' he says, `and as I said to the sergeant earlier, we're working on the basis that the fire was started deliberately.'
I see Quinn's head twitch at `sergeant', which he covers by quickly turning it into a cough. But Gislingham saw it too.
`There's no chance it was just an accident?' says Everett, though less in hope than in despair. `A dropped cigarette, a Christmas candle `“ something like that?'
Rigby nods. `Freak accidents do happen, and I've seen some weird ones in my time, I can tell you. There was a case a couple of years back only a mile or two from this one `“ young boy took an unignited Molotov cocktail into the house. Apparently he said he `њliked fireworks`ќ. It was in all the papers `“ you might even remember it.'
Of course we remember it. It was Leo Mason, Daisy Mason's brother.
`It was our case,' I say, quietly.
`Right,' says Rigby. `Well, you'll know what I mean then. But this is different. This isn't just an accident. Or bad luck. The amount of damage, the speed of spread `“I'd stake my mortgage we'll find some sort of accelerant under all that debris. And significant quantities of accelerant at that.'
I get up and walk to the front, then turn to face them.
`I probably don't need to say this, but I'm going to anyway. What we have here is two crimes, not one. One we know for a fact, and one we're going to have to assume, unless and until we can eliminate it. The first is arson: we have to find out who set fire to that house, and why. The second is murder. Did the arsonist know there were people in that house, and if he did `“ or she did `“ what the hell could have driven them to burn down a building with two kids asleep inside?'
I turn to the whiteboard and pick up the pen.
ARSON
MURDER
And under those two words, I write one more.
WHY?
`One thing I still don't understand,' says Everett after a pause, `is where you found him. The older boy, I mean.'
`That's a good point,' replies Rigby.
The DC sitting next to Everett nudges her, `You're on fire today, Ev,' at which she blushes and swipes him one, and then suddenly he looks sheepish because he's realized quite how insensitive that comment must have sounded.
`I was coming to that,' continues Rigby, stony-faced. He must have heard every bad-taste fire pun a hundred times over. `As far as we can ascertain, the fire must have started sometime soon after midnight `“ the 999 call was logged at 12.47. At that time of the night you'd expect the children to be in bed, but the older boy was found near the bottom of the stairs.'
`So what do we think?' says Somer. `He woke up and wanted a drink of water or something?'
`Er, hello,' says Quinn, getting up and tapping at the photo of the boy's room. And irritated though I am with the performance, I have to acknowledge he's right: the room is snowed with soot and flakes of ash but you can still see the jug of water and beaker on the bedside table. Quinn rolls his eyes in Somer's direction and one of the DCs titters.
Somer's now gone red in the face and she's not looking at Quinn. She doesn't tend to, when she can avoid it. They're both keeping up the illusion that nothing ever happened between them, but the whole station knows it did.
`All I know,' she says, quietly but firmly, `is there had to be a reason.'
`So given he's in a coma, how do you suggest we find out? Find a bloody psychic?' There's no mistaking Quinn's tone now. I see people shifting slightly.
`He could have heard something,' says Rigby evenly, apparently unaware of the undercurrent. `Or perhaps `“'
`Where are the phones?' says Everett suddenly.
Rigby turns to the floorplan. `We found one mobile on charge here, in the kitchen, but it was completely burnt-out `“'
`We're trying to find out whose that is,' says Gislingham quickly.
``“ and according to BT, there was only one landline point.' Rigby indicates. `In the sitting room. Here.'
`Oh my God,' whispers Everett. `That's what the boy was doing on the stairs. He must have woken up and realized what was happening and tried to call for help. But it was too late. He couldn't get out.'
Poor little sod didn't stand a chance. I can't be the only one thinking that.
I turn to the photos again. In the nursery there's still one patch of wallpaper that's almost untouched. Just a few scorch marks here and there among the Tiggers and the Eeyores and the Piglets. The burns look oddly like handprints. I can hear the room going silent behind me. I look across at Rigby.
`How long before you can officially confirm it's arson?'
He shrugs. `A few days. Perhaps a week. There's half a house to work through. It's going to take time.'
`So what's the priority, sir?' It's Gislingham.
I turn and face him. `Finding the parents. I want as many people as possible on that, including uniforms if we can get them. I want that car found, for a start. Where are we on the ANPR? And have we spoken to the Met about Esmond?'
Gislingham nods. `They checked arrests and hospital admissions but came up empty. Other than that, there's not much they can do without any sort of address.'
`OK. But if we haven't tracked him down by tomorrow morning I want someone waiting for him at that conference when he turns up.'
Gis glances across the room. `DC Asante is going to pick up on that, sir.'
Someone in the back row looks up and our eyes meet. I remember now who Tony Asante is. Not long out of graduate fast-track entry, and newly hired from the Met himself. The Super says he's good, which is code for `we didn't hire him just to up the BME numbers'.
Asante holds my gaze with a degree of confidence I hadn't expected. I'm the one, in the end, who looks away.