Hope to Die

Grover sighs. ‘Any suggestions where we look, Sarge, cos I’m all out of ideas.’

Barnetson stares at him, then looks away. He’s all out of ideas too.

* * *

First thing the following morning, Gis and Quinn are standing by Baxter’s desk, staring at printouts. It’s the Swanns’ phone records since the start of the year.

Gis shakes his head. ‘This is really all there is? In over nine months?’

Baxter nods. ‘That’s what I thought too. So I double-checked with BT that the line was working. Which it is. Though judging by that list, I don’t reckon the Swanns would even have noticed if it wasn’t.’

‘Three calls from the Swanns’ GP,’ says Quinn thoughtfully. ‘Most of them recent. Do we know why?’

Baxter shakes his head. ‘It’s a fair guess it’s about Margaret given how many times she’s been in the JR, but we’re still waiting on authorization for her medical records and, frankly, I can’t see her agreeing. Though it could be completely irrelevant to the case, of course.’

Quinn sighs. ‘I hope you have some good news, Baxter, because this isn’t doing it for me.’

Baxter gives a dry smile, turns to his screen and opens up a file. ‘How about this?’

It’s CCTV. From the station, by the looks of it. At the bottom of the screen it says 21/10/2018 20:41:06.

‘The cab driver says our vic could have been in the cab queue for anything up to half an hour,’ says Baxter. ‘So I went back to eight thirty and worked forward from there.’

He presses Play and the two sergeants lean forward, one over each shoulder like good and bad angels, a thought which may also have occurred to Baxter, judging by the small smile he now has.

The camera is trained on the ticket barriers, and the three of them watch as people come along the platform and through the doors. It’s obviously cold – everyone’s wearing scarves and gloves, quilted jackets and heavy coats. Groups of boisterous blokes wearing football scarves who’ve clearly had a few, one or two elderly ladies, a couple of priests in cassocks. Well, this is Oxford. But it’s mainly students. Alone, in groups, in pairs.

It’s Quinn who spots him first.

‘There,’ he says, pointing. ‘That’s him.’

He’s about the right height. Not tall – no more than the five foot seven which Boddie estimated in the PM. Dirty blond hair, dark trousers and jacket, and – there – a small backpack slung over one shoulder. He sticks his ticket in the barrier and collects it the other side.

‘He has a return,’ says Gis softly. ‘He was planning on going back.’

On the screen the man stops, looks round the concourse, then makes for the main doors. A few moments later he disappears out of sight.

Baxter winds back the footage a little way and presses Pause, then sits back. ‘I checked the cameras on the platforms and he got off a Chiltern train from Marylebone, so in theory there’s half a dozen places he could have got on between here and there –’

‘Nah,’ says Gis. ‘Most likely he came from London. At least let’s rule that out first. Have you contacted Chiltern for the on-train footage?’

Baxter nods. ‘On its way.’

‘Right,’ says Gis, ‘looks like we’re cooking with gas. Finally.’ He points at the screen; the man’s by the barrier, frozen in mid-gesture, one arm outstretched. ‘Get a still of that out to the press office pronto, will you?’

‘It’s not the best angle,’ says Quinn. ‘You can’t really see his face – it’s always the bloody same with these things.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ replies Gis. ‘It’ll be enough. If you know him, it’ll be enough.’

* * *

9.29

Thames Valley Police @ThamesValleyPolice

**APPEAL**

Do you know the man in this picture? He arrived at Oxford station at approx 8.45pm on Sunday, possibly travelling from London. We need to identify him in relation to a serious incident at Wytham later that evening.

Contact the force with info/footage – reference 7713954632

* * *

By mid-morning, Thomas Hansen has been on the task Gislingham gave him for nearly three hours and is actually rather enjoying himself. He read I’ll Be Gone in the Dark when it came out and was absolutely engrossed – the idea that familial DNA could catch a killer who’d evaded capture for nearly fifty years had him deciding there and then to retrain as a forensic scientist. Though it only took a couple of days of cooler reflection to realize that the idea was, in purely practical terms, a complete no-no. He’d never be able to fund himself through a course like that, for a start. But all the same, his interest hasn’t waned, and in the last six months he’s done a lot of reading, and listened to a few podcasts, and ended up a bit of a self-confessed wonk on the subject. And even though what he’s doing now isn’t, strictly speaking, the same thing, the pleasure it offers has to be darn close. The kick of the hunt, the tracking down, the elimination of false positives, the final, conclusive identification. Because he’s worked it out. He knows. More than that, he knows he’s right.

He gets up and wanders round to Gislingham’s desk. Only he’s not there.