The Body in the Snow

by The Body in the Snow (retail) (epub)

‘She should stand out then,’ Gillard replied. ‘Do you have a photo?’

  Karen dug into her bag and produced an iPad. ‘I picked this from her YouTube channel,’ she said selecting a video and turning it around so the officers could see it. Beatrice was wearing a sparkly black dress, standing in front of a full orchestra, with her eyes half closed and a beatific smile. The detective tried to concentrate on the woman’s elfin face, framed by wavy chestnut hair, but the power of the music and its overwhelming melancholy kept intruding. It was almost as if the soundtrack for the case was getting ahead of itself, the woman’s musical epitaph appearing before they knew whether she was dead or alive.

  Lynne Fairbanks’ jaw was almost hanging open in admiration. ‘My god, she’s playing Zigeunerweisen,’ she gasped.

  Karen nodded. ‘Pablo Sarasate’s masterpiece, one of the hardest pieces in the repertoire.’

  Lynn was entranced. ‘I got up to grade eight violin, but couldn’t begin to tackle that. All that double and treble-stopping, and glissando’

  Karen turned to Lynne, clearly surprised to find such expertise in a PC. ‘Beatrice has such enormous talent.’ There was a catch in her throat as she said: ‘We can’t lose her, it would be a tragedy.’

  It may already be that. Some things you just don’t say. Gillard took down some more details. Ms Ellsworth and Ms Ulbricht shared a flat at the Royal Academy’s student accommodation in Goldhawk Road in West London. PC Lynne Fairbanks passed across the missing woman’s phone number, and the landline number of Adrian Singer. ‘I’ve already tried ringing him, and it went to voicemail,’ Fairbanks told Gillard.

  After the interviewees had left, Fairbanks turned to Gillard with a face full of respect and asked: ‘What do you think?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Well, normally 18 hours since the last phone contact is no time at all, except perhaps for a child. But the crucial thing here is that she missed an important concert. I’m no musician, but that speaks volumes.’ He was about to continue when his mobile rang. A glance at the screen confirmed the call was from the chief constable.

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’ he answered.

  ‘I’m sorry to drag you away from the funeral earlier, Craig, but this is a very important case and I want you on it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ The detective was a little surprised to have been chosen considering his delay in cracking the Empire of Spice case just a week ago.

  ‘The missing woman is the daughter of the German minister of justice, Karl-Otto Ulbricht.’

  ‘I see.’ Suddenly it all made sense.

  ‘Exactly. I’ve had representations, via the Home Secretary, that is our Home Secretary. I’ve tried to pass it on to the Met, because that’s where the young woman lives, and, as far as we can establish, where she was last in contact with anybody, but unsurprisingly they don’t want to touch it with a barge pole. Unfortunately because she was first reported missing after a concert in Surrey, by someone who has an address in Surrey, it’s our baby. Your baby.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Gillard tried his damnedest to keep every trace of sarcasm from that response.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do a fine job, Craig. I’m counting on you. I’m allocating Claire Mulholland to help you.’

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  Gillard had originally entertained hopes of being able to make it for the funeral reception at the Red Lion, Colin Hodges’ local. His wife Joan would have ordered a great spread, and he had been looking forward to munching his way through a stack of sandwiches. The magnitude and urgency of the case now dumped upon him made that impossible. He texted Joan his apologies.

  Before driving back to Surrey police headquarters in Guildford he emailed Research Intelligence Officer DC Rob Townsend with the missing woman’s mobile number and told him to get cell tower traces done in time for an incident room meeting in Mount Browne at four o’clock. Three hours should be enough. He also put in an urgent email request to London’s Met Police to get some basic interviews undertaken at the Royal Academy of Music in South Kensington with the missing woman’s teachers, friends and fellow students. He wanted her medical records, and any electronic devices at her student digs too. Years of experience led him to copy in the chief constable, to ensure that his resource-grabbing request was treated with the appropriate respect, rather than the virtual V sign that a nobody like him would normally get from the capital’s police service.

  With the ball now rolling, Gillard spent the journey back thinking about the student’s movements. She and her colleagues had taken a last-minute booking for their string quartet at a village in Surrey on Sunday, and had gone their separate ways afterwards. No one had seen her since that time, but there were two text messages at least as late as Tuesday afternoon. One to Karen Ellsworth, confirming that she would be at the concert in London and, according to Karen, another several hours later to another member of the quartet, saying she was fine, and would be there on time.

  The hands-free phone disturbed his thoughts as he was on the A3. It was the control room patching through a call from an Adrian Singer. Perhaps the last person to see Beatrice Ulbricht.

  ‘Hello Mr Singer.’

  ‘I’m returning your call, detective chief inspector. I had one earlier from PC Lynne Fairbanks. I’m really worried to hear about Beatrice. It’s quite unlike her.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what everybody says. I’d like to get you in to make a detailed statement, but perhaps I can just ask you a couple of questions.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I understand that you had arranged to pick up Ms Ulbricht from West Clandon Village Hall after the concert.’

  ‘I did yes. I brought her back to my place in Gomshall for dinner and after that I dropped her at the bus stop.’

  ‘So she was heading back to London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You went to fetch her from the station, but you only dropped her back at the local bus stop. That’s four or five miles away from the station.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Actually I didn’t drop her. She walked out to the main road where the bus stop is. It’s only 200 yards.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Just before eleven.’

  ‘Are there bus services at that time of night on a Sunday?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Gillard didn’t want to press too hard at this point. There were obvious question marks over Singer’s account, but he would rather apply pressure when he was in a position to make notes.

  ‘Did you contact her to make sure that she had got home all right?’

  ‘Not until the next day. And she didn’t reply. I think she’s upset with me.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘We had an argument. I think she misunderstood my intentions.’

  Or understood them too well, Gillard thought. ‘Would that be about the nature of your offer of accommodation?’

  ‘Er, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where she might have gone?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  He arranged to visit Singer in the evening, and then hung up.

  The man had volunteered a great deal of information that did not put him in a great light. But it was equally clear he hadn’t told the complete truth.

  * * *

  Rob Townsend was waiting by Gillard’s desk, like a dog expecting dinner. ‘What have you got for me, Rob?’ he asked.

  ‘Got a clear trace on the phone. She didn’t go back on Sunday evening, despite the text message saying so. The phone was off for a day and a bit, until Tuesday afternoon when she headed up to London, according to the cell site analysis. She lights up all the towers from Clandon to Waterloo. The speed and path fits with a train journey, with further traces within London during the evening. There’s another trip, seemingly by road, towards Brentford this morning.’

  Gillard blew a sigh of relief. ‘Hopefully she’s not missing at all then. What about texts and emails?’
<
br />   ‘There’s dozens incoming, only a few in the other direction. I’ve just sent an electronic copy of the warrant to the service provider, so should get be able to see the full contents today.’

  ‘Did you call in any CCTV?’

  ‘Well, I thought maybe we didn’t need to. It would be hard to know where to start.’

  ‘Not Waterloo obviously, unless you want to send Carl Hoskins mad scanning a million people emerging from trains. You obviously start at the quietest place where she would be easy to spot. Clandon station, I suppose. Does that fit the trace?’

  ‘Yes, that seems to be where she got on.’

  Clandon, a tiny village a few miles east of Guildford was known for Clandon House, a stately home belonging to the National Trust. The small station served a semi-rural hinterland of well-heeled commuter belt. The village hall where the concert took place was just a few hundred yards south.

  ‘Did you ring Network Rail to check whether it has CCTV?’

  Townsend looked flustered. ‘Not yet, sir.’ It was easy to see what he was thinking. She’s obviously alive and kicking so why would we bother?

  Gillard sighed. ‘Have you tried ringing her?’

  ‘Yes, but not for several hours. There was no reply.’

  ‘Let’s have another go.’ Gillard reached across for the paperwork, tapped out the number on his desk phone and heard it ring out. It then went to a message service which said the mail box was full. He shrugged, waited a minute, then tried again. This time the phone was answered.

  ‘Hello, is that Beatrice Ulbricht?’

  It clearly wasn’t.

  Townsend watched his boss. There was clearly a lot of background noise, even he could hear that. Machinery, it sounded like. He watched as his boss repeated the name loudly, spelling it out, then began to make some notes. Gillard wasn’t wearing the kind of expression that marked the happy discovery of a missing person, safe and well.

  ‘Can you hold it all for me?’ Gillard asked, and then read out his police credentials. ‘Yes, the entire container.’

  Gillard hung up.

  ‘Who was that?’ Townsend asked.

  ‘Someone called Gladys at the Brentford waste transfer station. She’s got Beatrice’s phone. Found in a consignment of rubbish.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Townsend said. ‘That’s not good news.’

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Canelo

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  Third Floor, 20 Mortimer Street

  London W1T 3JW

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © Nick Louth, 2020

  The moral right of Nick Louth to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788636971

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Look for more great books at www.canelo.co