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  'I'm sorry, love,' I said into the too-quiet house.

  Silence greeted me, filled with the absence of the little sounds of the person who wasn't there any longer. I counted the hours of a long sleepless night.

  Monday, 6 April 2015. 10:01

  I caught the bus into town, jammed in amongst the commuters and the old ladies going in for a day's shopping. I wasn't thinking about the video, or the newspaper, I wasn't capable of holding the concepts in my mind; they burned and slipped out.

  I was relieved to get out and into my own car outside the St. Aldate's police station. By the time I'd driven through some of the city's endless roadworks back to the Physics Building, however, I was hot, hungry and inclined to think that what had happened at the lab on Saturday was just a kind of practical joke. Some bastard had obviously found out my safe combination, blagged the office key from Norman the porter, and then just waited for me to nip to the gents before returning everything. Very funny. I was still shaking my head at the stupidity of all this as I walked into the building. To my joy, Freddy Wright was standing at the reception desk.

  'Afternoon, Norman,' I called, ignoring him and heading straight for the stairs. I wasn't surprised when he took a long step across the foyer and intercepted me, one finger jabbing into my chest.

  'What did you do it for?' he asked, his face absolutely alight with fury. I stared at him. His eyes were dancing with rage and he seemed on the point of exploding. He couldn't still be angry about the missing 122, surely? He'd get it in the end anyway.

  'Eh?' My baffled face only enraged him further. His face went a dark red and then, alarmingly, bone white, in seconds.

  'You know it was you, you shit!' he squeaked, his usual polished tones forgotten, 'you emailed Professor Collins to say I was faking my results! I was still working on them! You had no right to accuse me of anything!'

  A light bulb went off in my head. So Gilbert's little protégé had been cooking the books in his research, and someone had ratted him out to the department's top man. A small smile tweaked the corner of my mouth.

  'Oh dear, had a kitten, has he?' I grinned openly now. 'And I bet Uncle Bill's made himself scarce too, yeah?' Wright was almost rigid with anger but he managed a slight nod. No surprise, as soon as the shit was airborne Gilbert would have jumped happily on the plane to Florida to get away as far and as fast as possible. 'Well, too bad, Freddy, but whoever snitched it wasn't me.'

  I turned to step past him and had a fleeting sensation of air rushing then a punch crashed into the side of my head and I staggered. As I looked back, bracing for another blow, I saw Norman moving with unexpected speed around the reception desk and grabbing the post doc by his upraised fist.

  'Now, then, sir, that'll do,' he said, heaving the taller but paunchier man backwards and then shoving him out of the main door. 'Go off and cool down, sir, or I'll have no choice but to call a Proctor.'

  We all stood and stared at each other through the glass, Freddy looking slightly appalled at what he'd done, and me rubbing the back of my head. He gave me one more hard stare and then wheeled away, walking quickly up onto the main road and out of sight.

  'You alright, Dr Kitchener?'

  'Yeah, I'm ok.' I gave the porter's hand a quick shake. 'Thanks for wading in.'

  Norman smiled. 'No problem. Brightens up the afternoon, I must say.'

  By the time I got into my lab and went through my usual routine my ear was feeling three times its usual size and was throbbing. I went out to the vending machine (locking the door carefully each way) and got a cold can of coke to hold against my head, which helped a bit.

  I spent a fruitless hour or so looking again at the 122 data. It really didn't make any sense. The readings blipped out at the low magnetic fields with such completeness that if I didn't know any better I'd think that the whole sample had been removed from the array. Between Levi in Boston and me here in Oxford we'd now tested the mineral right across the spectrum and the periods of absence, for want of a better description, were always proportionate to the strength of the field used. But neither of us had any more of an idea of why.

  I sat back and scowled at the computer. Something was nagging me about this but I just couldn't put my finger on it. And more pressingly, none of these results were going to be good enough to scotch Gilbert's plan of taking me off the research team – whether my place now went to Freddy or to a new favourite.

  Just to annoy me further, my phone rang. I dug it out of my pocket and found it was innocently stating ‘Richard and Maggie calling…’ After a long second I pushed the button and raised it to my ear.

  ‘Adam, darling?’ breathed Maggie. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ I could imagine her standing in her magazine-picture kitchen, that look of fake interest on her face. I wondered whether her mood was going to be sugar or poison and found that I didn’t really care. A loud buzzing filled my ears and it took a moment to realise that it was the sound of my own blood pounding through my veins. I had to hold on to my temper, I didn't want to tip Rose and Fred off to the police investigation that – I hoped – was now in progress.

  ‘How are you?’ She was good, I had to admit, her voice vibrated with concern. ‘We’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.’ I didn’t reply that I had trashed the answering machine after one of their calls. ‘Richard and I were wondering if you’d be free to come to dinner sometime soon,’ I absolutely could not think of any reply to that. ‘So, er, what do you think?’

  ‘Um, I’m really busy in the lab at the moment,’ I said, lamely, trying to not let my head explode with fury at the thought of stepping into that house ever again. ‘I’ll have to get back to you when things are less frantic.’

  ‘It’s just that Richard needs to talk to you about Sarah’s estate.’ There was an edge to that polished voice now, and I wondered what she was frightened about.

  ‘What?’ Was she actually able to bring this up? Did even Maggie have the nerve to start discussing the house where her daughters were abused and one of them probably murdered?

  Maggie, however, was ploughing on. 'Her estate, her property, you know?'

  I took a deep breath, and felt my hand clench on the phone. 'Sorry, Maggie, I don't know what you're talking about.'

  There was a slight hesitation at the end of the line, and I got the impression that Maggie was conferring, hand held across the mouthpiece of the handset.

  'Sarah owned a house in Headington, darling. It was left to her and... to her sister by an aunt.' She paused. 'I am afraid that might be a bit of a shock to you, Adam, that she never told you.'

  My anger coalesced into something much worse, much colder. 'She did tell me,' I said, 'just before

  she died.'

  That silenced Maggie for a few seconds, but then she carried on with:

  'It's been let out for years and Richard has been managing it. He’d like to carry on with that arrangement. Is that alright with you, dear?’

  I think my face actually curled up in snarl. ‘No,’ I took a deep breath and carried on more calmly, ‘I'm going to sell it and donate it to Homes For All.’ I admit, my entire motivation was to be as obstructive as possible, but it was a good idea nonetheless.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘The charity Sarah worked for.’ You stupid murdering cow, I thought.

  There was a very long pause. I was just about to check to see if the phone had dropped the signal when a deeper voice came over the line.

  ‘Adam? Richard.’ I stood up and started pacing. I had been right. The bitch must have had the phone on the speaker, him standing at her elbow. ‘It would be a very bad idea to sell the property at this time, the market isn’t very robust at present.’

  ‘Oh, really? I thought the papers are saying that it’s on the up just now.’

  ‘That’s a very naïve interpretation,’ his voice was compelling, persuasive, ‘it would be a much better investment for Sarah’s charity if we left the house as a rental for now. Perhaps you could us
e some of the income to help with the renovations...’

  ‘Until when, do you think?’

  ‘Well, property is a long-term investment, Adam. This is something you probably don’t know much about, so best leave it with me as Sarah’s financial manager.’

  I wouldn’t leave him a fucking postage stamp. ‘No, I’ve already spoken to Katie at the charity, she’s expecting the money as soon as it can be realised,’ I lied. ‘So I’ll be speaking with my solicitor and the estate agents today. Got to go.’

  I stabbed the hang-up button and then very deliberately smashed my phone into pieces on the bench. Bits of smartphone flew in all directions and it was only when a bit pinged off my array of electromagnets and associated measuring equipment that I stopped. My hands shaking, I sat down and waited until my blood stopped pounding, until I could breathe properly, and then swept up the bits and dumped them into a box on my desk, shoving the sim card into my pocket.

  That fucking tossing man, I raged to myself. Just expecting to carry on with his perversions as if nothing had happened, as if Sarah hadn't remembered everything, as if she hadn't died... I vaguely remember rushing out of the office. I think Dave tried to speak to me in the corridor but I pushed past him and ran to my car. I had to go to the place Sarah had gone on the last night she was alive; I couldn't think why I hadn't done this before, why I hadn't driven over there last night.

  I don't think my brain engaged at all on the drive across Oxford, I just found myself sitting in the car at the curb in a perfectly ordinary Headington street, staring at the perfectly ordinary 1930s semi-detached house opposite. White pebbledash on the walls, black front door, UPVC windows – all completely normal and respectable. The street was just a normal and respectable Headington street, filled with identikit houses, half with skips or scaffolding outside denoting homeowners busy capitalising on Oxford's crazy housing market. The only incongruous note was a spray of cubed windscreen glass which fanned across the road and clustered, glittering, in the gutter.

  I wiped my face and found my hand was shaking. The huge adrenalin surge that had carried me over here was now flat-lining, leaving me blank and nauseous, a man-shaped piece of nothing. What the hell was I doing here, anyway? Did I really expect to see anything other than a normal house? Richard and Maggie had owned it for over 30 years and the fact that I'd never seen it in the news, surrounded by crime scene tape, meant that no-one must know what went on in there.

  As I hesitated, the front door opened and to my surprise a uniformed policeman stepped out. My heart seemed to leap in my chest: this was it! Walters had made good on his promise and the police were investigating! Before I knew what I was doing I'd jumped out the car and was jogging across the road. The constable's gaze snapped round to me and he changed his stance, hand drifting down to the tazer clipped to his belt. That stopped me in my tracks.

  'Hi,' I called, lamely, walking much more sedately in his direction.

  'Help you, sir?' he asked, blank-faced, still in his repel-all-attackers pose.

  'Are you investigating this house, officer?' He frowned slightly, so I plunged on, 'I mean, I reported to DI Walters that I had – er – suspicions about what went on here and...'

  'What's your name, please, sir?' The man's hand released the grip of his tazer and instead pinched the radio attached to the lapel of his stab-vest. '232 to control,' he spoke into it. 'Your name?'

  'Adam Kitchener,' I said, starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable in the policeman's unflinching gaze. I felt his eyes roaming over my face as if committing it to memory. 'I've been speaking to Detective Sergeant Nick Walters about...'

  'There was a break-in at this address yesterday, sir,' he interrupted, 'do you know anything about that?'

  There was a long moment of silence as I tried to make sense of this question. Why was he here just for a break-in? I thought police didn't attend those any more. And why on earth would he think I knew anything about it? Do burglars turn up again once they've got away?

  I started to feel simultaneously stupid and nervous, stood on the pavement, looking at this robot. The sounds of a north Oxford afternoon – a bus idling, people calling to each other, a distant ice cream van – lapped at the edges of my consciousness. Still the policeman said nothing. Finally, his radio crackled and a voice asked: '232, this is control, over.'

  'Standby,' he told it, then to me said the imperious single word, 'well?'

  I felt the blood rush into my face as I fought down a surge of irritation. This prick had come to investigate a poxy break-in, when Walters knew this was the house where Sarah had been abused, and Helen likely murdered?

  'No, of course not.' I said as calmly as possible. 'But this house is being investigated by DI Walters and the Greenland team –'

  'Then you've no business here, sir, move along.'

  I stared at him, incredulous. 'You're not even going to –'

  'Move along, sir.' He took a half step towards me, the implied threat as clear as if he'd back-handed me across the face.

  'Fine.' I bit the inside of my mouth to stop myself adding something pithy that would probably have got me arrested, and turned to march back across the road to the car. As I got into the driver's seat I heard the police radio crackle again as he clicked it, and he said clearly, '232 to control, no problem here, just

  a nutter.'

  Fucking fucking bastard, I thought, turning the engine over and driving away as sedately as I could manage. What the hell were they doing?

  There seemed absolutely no point in returning to the lab. Instead I stopped at a large supermarket and slammed up and down the aisles, taking my temper out on some tins and packets that couldn't fight back. But who was I kidding? I wasn't fighting back either. I stomped to the checkout, stopping onto to pick up a cheap mobile to replace the one I'd smashed to atoms earlier. Sitting back in the car I slipped in the sim card I'd rescued from the destruction of my old phone, resolving to ring bloody DI Walters as soon as the thing had reconnected to the network.

  By the time I was pulling into the drive at home the phoned had beeped several times to alert me to messages that had come in whilst I'd been mobile free. I felt the familiar tug of exhaustion and depression. Maybe somebody had pulled strings to get that burglary investigated – after the Jimmy Saville scandal I, like probably everyone else in the country, could easily believe that some big wig in the police might be in on this disgusting conspiracy. In the face of that, what could Nick Walters do, assuming he was trying to do anything? I fed the cat on autopilot, threw a box of chicken curry into the microwave, and looked to see who had been trying to reach me.

  The first message was a text from Dave asking if I was alright. I texted back to say I was fine. After that came three texts telling me that I'd got voicemail. I held the plasticky little phone to my ear and pressed 1 to listen to them.

  'This is a message for Adam Kitchener,' I recognised Walters' voice. 'Could you give me a call, please. You have my number.'

  'Hi, my name is Tessa Davies from the Oxford Mail. I am investigating –' I cut the voicemail short with a vicious stab of my thumb. Fucking bitch! Did she seriously think I would phone her back? I kicked a kitchen cupboard door, slamming it loudly back and denting it. Fergus wailed and took off. Bugger it, I thought, trying to calm down.

  Eventually I could raise the phone to my ear again and listen to the final voicemail. It was from Katie from Homes for All. Her voice sounded nervous. 'Hello, Adam, I'm sorry to bother you. Er – do you remember me telling you about Susie Roper? The client of ours who believed that Sarah was, um, killed? Well, she's apparently gone off somewhere so I was just ringing to see if she'd been in touch at all. Could you let me know? Thanks.'

  I pushed that mystery to once side and called DI Walters instead.

  'Hello, Adam,' he said in his unhurried way, 'I understand that you visited the address in Headington today.'

  My blood pressure went up. 'Yes, I did, and an officious bloody constable told me to piss off.' />
  'Well, what did you expect?'

  'What?'

  'That house is part of an active investigation, Adam, you need to keep clear.'

  'Is it? Or are you just stonewalling me?'

  I heard him take a deep breath. 'Your statement has been passed to our Greenland team and we will be in touch with you. I know it's not easy but try and be patient. I will call you as soon as I have any news.'

  'Tessa Davies from the paper has just called me.'

  'What did you tell her?'

  'Nothing! She left a message which I've deleted.'

  'Right, that sounds like a good plan, Adam,' he said, and then to my surprise just rang off.

  I banged the phone onto the kitchen worktop and ran my hand over my face. Was that it? Thanks for alleging murder and child abuse, sir, now shut up and forget about it. I grabbed the phone up and dialled Darren Underwood's number. It went straight through to voicemail, his message explaining he was on a training course and unavailable. Shit.

  The phone made me jump by suddenly hopping and buzzing in my hand, signalling an incoming call. I answered, but was disappointed that it was just Katie.

  'Hi, Adam.' She began. I cut across her, impatiently.

  'Yeah, Katie, I got your message. What's happened exactly?' Her nervousness deepened.

  'I am sorry to trouble you. It's just that client, Susie, she's gone missing and we're trying everyone we can think of to see if she's made any contact.'

  I hauled back on my irritation; the woman was actually missing? 'She hasn't been in touch, Katie, sorry. She's really gone off somewhere? Have you been to the police?'