by M. J. Ford
‘Jo,’ he said.
She hadn’t replied to his texts the night before. Dammit – she wasn’t going to apologise. If he can’t get it into his head …
‘I could do with you here, Jo,’ he said, and he sounded genuine. ‘We had to let Clement Matthews go. Rob’s breathing down my neck on this.’
Jo went along with it. Maybe he was playing her for a fool, maybe not. With Ben, you never knew, she’d learned that the hard way. Perhaps he didn’t know Rob had taken her off because of their split.
‘Have you got anything on the previous owners yet?’
He lowered his voice. ‘Carter couldn’t get water out of wet sponge, so I called and went through the utility company for the former owner. Told them I’d have to turn over their office on Monday if they didn’t assist as a matter of urgency.’
Jo smiled, despite herself. When Ben was just Detective Coombs, she could remember why she’d first admired him so much.
‘Chap got us a name within ten minutes. A Mr and Mrs Moulden. We did a trawl of the phone book, and found all the Mouldens. There’s one who still lives near Bradford-on-Avon. Turns out it’s the daughter who grew up in the house. She said her parents moved to France years ago. Dad’s dead now, but we got in touch with Mrs Moulden. She said they employed an architect, first in ’82, when the east wing of the house needed some underpinning work, under an extension. Then again a few years later. That’s when they wanted the terrace remodelled with a pool. They remembered the architects they used – RTA partners – but not the building contractor RTA employed.’
‘Sounds like you’ve been productive,’ said Jo.
‘Constable Aziz did some outstanding legwork.’
He paused and let out a laugh. Jo felt oddly hot as she realised Rhani was probably sitting next to him. His voice was more distant, away from the mouthpiece. ‘Compared with Kevin, you’re Hercule fucking Poirot!’ he said.
The volume returned. ‘Sadly, it goes a bit dry there. RTA folded years ago, and we’re trying to locate the owner via Companies House. Until we do, it’s a dead end.’
‘Sounds promising though,’ said Jo. ‘Whoever put that body there must have done so when the pool was put in. They must have had access to the site, and known it intimately. Mr Moulden check out?’
‘We think he’s unlikely. He’d been paralysed from the waist down since he was twenty-five. Horse-riding accident.’
‘Christ.’
‘Indeed. The pool was put in chiefly for physio work. Thanks, Rhani. Milk no sugar.’ There was a long pause. ‘I meant it, you know. I want you here.’
‘Sounds like you’re doing okay. Anyway, I think we’re close here. It’s a good team.’
‘I didn’t mean like that,’ said Ben. He was speaking louder now, and she imagined he’d moved into another room, making sure no one could hear. ‘I want to see you.’
‘Ben, Rob knows,’ she said.
Half a beat of hesitation. ‘You told him?’
‘He asked me. I had to.’
Silence, then, slightly fearful, slightly threatening: ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing about why, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Nosey fucking bastard,’ said Ben vehemently.
‘He’s just doing his job,’ said Jo, though part of her agreed.
‘So this is why you transferred.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Jo. ‘Rob took me off.’
‘But I bet you didn’t put up a fight, did you?’
Jo felt a rush of anger. How fucking dare he blame me for this? She tried to stay calm, not to react. There was a knock at the interview room door, and Carrick opened it.
‘We got something,’ he said.
‘Who’s that?’ said Ben.
‘I’ve got to go.’
Temper still high, she followed Carrick back to the incident room, where Dimitriou was plugging a memory stick into his computer. He placed a second one on the desk. Everyone was weirdly quiet, but Tan was tapping her foot anxiously.
‘We’ve got him,’ she whispered.
Dimitriou’s computer opened a video file, and black and white footage filled the screen. ‘This is from outside the chemist on Market Street,’ he said.
Dragging the cursor until the time said 09.40, he let the footage play. There were a few pedestrians and bikes. A delivery van pulled up, then at 09.41, a short man exited the Covered Market entrance, holding a single carrier bag and wearing a baseball cap. Dimitriou paused the tape.
‘We checked with the stall owner again – that’s the same as the bags they use – blue polythene.’
He played on, and the man walked off the opposite way. Too far away to get anything useful on his face. Jo was about to say as much, before the man stopped, turned, and headed back. Straight towards the camera. Dimitriou stopped the tape, took a screen grab, then opened it in another program. He zoomed in, losing resolution.
‘That’s our man?’ said Carrick.
Jo estimated his height of five-six or five-seven tops, with slightly hunched shoulders. He seemed to have a limp. He was wearing jeans, some sort of work boots, and a jacket zipped up to the neck. It was hard to see much of the face because of the angle and resolution, but it looked fleshy and clean-shaven. The cap had some sort of logo.
‘It’s pretty vague,’ said Stratton.
‘Wait – there’s more,’ said Dimitriou.
He took out the memory stick and plugged in the second. ‘We got this from HSBC. It’s better quality.’
Dimitriou was right. The CCTV was crisp, in muted colour, and showed Cornmarket, where the flow of pedestrians was much heavier. However, Jo spotted the suspect straight away. He walked quicker than those around him, and there was a definitely awkward lift of his right leg. He hurried up the street, the bag clutched in front of him. His top was actually dark blue or black; a fleece, she thought. Though he looked afraid, and nervous, there was something in his broad shoulders that suggested power, perhaps someone used to manual labour. The picture on the cap was a crest of some sort.
‘Get a close-up on the headwear,’ she said.
It took a few moments, but when it came up Jo grinned. It was indeed a shield motif, with coloured stripes.
‘Those are college colours,’ said Dimitriou.
‘Yes, they are,’ said Jo.
‘Anyone know which one?’ asked Stratton.
‘I’ll hazard a guess, sir,’ said Jo. She gestured at the keyboard. ‘May I?’
‘Knock yourself out,’ said Dimitriou, vacating his chair.
Jo typed in ‘Gloucester College’, the one where Mr and Mrs McDonagh taught, and located their page on the university site. Sure enough, the crest at the top of the page was a beige background, with blue and red detailing.
‘You think he’s staff?’ said Tan.
‘He’s a little old to be a student,’ said Dimitriou.
‘It can’t be this easy,’ said Carrick.
Stratton patted him on the back. ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,’ he said. ‘Anyway, what are you talking about? It’s solid police work that’s got us this far. Heidi, organise a couple of cars at the main college exits. Tell them to stand by. Andy, Jo – you two take the picture and get over to the college for an ID. Name and current address. As soon as you’ve got something, report it.’
Chapter 8
Gloucester College was less than five hundred metres from the station, and it was quicker to walk than take the car. Carrick was right – it felt too easy, too convenient.
‘You think this could be a grudge against the parents?’ said Jo, as they walked under the colossal gothic façade of Christ Church.
Carrick gave her a lopsided grin. ‘I know academia’s a cut-throat business, but kidnapping someone’s child is a stretch, isn’t it?’
The startling connection with the college had thrown her. The McDonaghs didn’t even live there, so it was hard to see how the suspect would even have come across their young son.
The sig
n at the front said Gloucester College was closed to visitors, but the studded medieval door was open and they stepped inside. Jo had never even thought about applying to the university, mainly because since the age of thirteen all she’d wanted to do was get as far away as possible from Oxford; all her friends had been the same. So it had been History at Sussex, and three wonderful years where she’d learned very little about Tudor England, but an awful lot about life.
Paul, being the perfect son he was, had stayed in the city of their birth, studying PPE at Balliol College. Somehow the fact that he returned home to get his washing done once a week had proved his filial worth, whereas her decision to go it on her own had been just another example of her lack of gratitude. At least in their mother’s eyes. Her dad, she thought, had respected her choice.
The gates opened onto a cobbled courtyard, and through a broad arch she saw a neatly mowed quadrangle of grass with a sign telling people to keep off. There was a small door on the left, with a glass-partitioned desk, and an old man in a bowler hat and blazer suit behind it. Jo, sensing Carrick was as ill at ease as she was, went in first.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the man, tipping his hat.
Jo showed her badge. ‘We’re from Thames Valley police,’ she said.
The man held up a hand to stop her. ‘Is this about the poor McDonaghs?’ he asked.
‘Our enquiries are related to that, yes,’ said Jo. ‘If you could just take a look at—’
‘The dean was very clear – all enquiries through him,’ said the man, his hand still in place. ‘I’ll summon him. A moment, please.’
Jo could hardly reach across and stop him as he picked up a bulky phone and dialled three numbers on an internal line.
‘Dr Silcott. Yes, it’s Howard here. I have the police … Of course, doctor. Of course.’ He placed down the receiver, then pointed at a ledger on the desk. ‘If you wouldn’t mind signing in …’
‘Is that really necessary?’ said Carrick.
The porter replied with a smile that suggested he might look like a doddery old man, but he was used to dealing with more difficult customers than them. Jo took the pen and signed in their names.
The porter scanned the book, gave a satisfied nod, and said, ‘Would you like to follow me?’
He led them around the cobbles at a stately pace, then along the northern side of the quad, which was lined with ivy-clad, three-storey buildings that must have been medieval. It was the summer holidays, so there weren’t many students around, but a gaggle of suited businessfolk, probably using the college for a conference of some sort, wandered past. The porter turned abruptly into an open doorway to a corridor with a rickety wooden staircase. A board at the bottom listed a number of names, including, she noticed, a ‘Dr A Silcott, Dean of Studies’, on the second floor. The porter started up, his body looking almost as creaky as the steps themselves.
‘We can find our way,’ said Jo.
‘No, no, no,’ muttered the porter. ‘Wouldn’t hear of it.’
So they were forced to follow him, painfully slowly, up two flights of switchback stairs.
At the door to the dean’s rooms, he knocked ponderously, and a slightly feminine voice called on them to come in.
The porter opened the door, then stepped aside to let them through. ‘The police officers, sir,’ he said. ‘A Ms Masters and Mr Carrick.’
Jo was impressed once again – she hadn’t even written their names all that legibly, and he’d barely looked at the badges. The man didn’t miss much, and she made a mental note to question him afterwards, whatever the dean gave them.
The room was lined with bookcases, with an internal door on the left and a huge fireplace. The man who sat across a large mahogany desk inlaid with leather was around fifty years old, with baby-smooth skin, and thinning blond hair combed violently across his scalp. His eyes, a cutting blue, sat a tad too close together over a delicate nose and full lips. He wore a pale green shirt with a yellow bow tie just visible under a racing-green jumper.
‘Thank you, Howard,’ he said, softly.
The porter nodded deeply, and left backwards, closing the door.
‘Dr Silcott,’ said Carrick. ‘We’re investigating the disappearance of Niall McDonagh, the son of two of your faculty members, and we’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Me?’ said the dean. ‘Gosh. Of course, I’ll do all I can to help. The McDonaghs are good friends of mine.’
He stood from behind the desk, and walked across to a bureau under the mullioned window with odd, small steps, almost like a dancer. His feet looked barely bigger than her own, and she took a size six. He opened it up to reveal a decanter, a couple of bottles and crystal glasses.
‘Drink?’ he said, his back to them. ‘I normally take one before lunch.’
Jo glanced at Carrick. Was this guy for real?
‘No, thank you,’ said Carrick, on their behalf.
The answer seemed to give the dean pause, then he poured himself a glass of what looked like sherry. He took a sip and turned back towards them. Jo guessed he was around five-eight.
‘Do you know their sons?’ said Jo.
A cock of the head. ‘Whose sons?’
‘The McDonaghs,’ she replied. ‘Niall and – ’ She took out her pocketbook, pretending to consult the names – ‘Kieran.’
It always paid to look a bit absent-minded. If people thought your questions were routine, they tended to be more open.
The dean took another sip, and from his knowing gaze, Jo sensed he’d seen through her misdirection.
‘Not well,’ he said. ‘Kieran used to sing in the boys’ choir until his voice broke.’
‘And Niall?’ said Carrick.
‘Not so much. He had a beautiful soprano, but …’
‘Had?’ said Jo.
‘When he sang,’ said Silcott. ‘He did a term with us, but you know kids these days, there are so many other distractions.’
Jo made some notes. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Oh, months ago,’ said Silcott.
‘Can you be more precise?’
‘Let me see …’ His eyes travelled up and to his left. ‘It would have been Michaelmas.’
‘In English, please,’ said Jo.
‘The autumn term,’ said the dean, eyes flashing. ‘That’s when he left the choir.’
‘Because of his … other distractions?’ said Jo, tapping the page with her pen.
The dean finished his drink. ‘I’m sorry, detective, I really don’t think I can help you. Niall isn’t a student here. He doesn’t live here. He’s simply the son of two faculty members.’
‘So why have you asked for all enquiries to come through you?’ asked Carrick.
Silcott placed his glass down, and for the first time smiled, knowingly.
‘The university houses over ten thousand students,’ he said, ‘but in some ways it’s a small community. We prepare our charges for the future, but despite everyone’s efforts, we’re locked into the past. Our tradition, our arcane titles, our rituals. I dare say it all appears rather strange to outsiders such as yourselves. But the smooth functioning of a college relies on institutions and rules. It doesn’t take a lot to upset the ship.’
‘I don’t follow,’ said Jo.
‘Perhaps you don’t,’ said Silcott. ‘But not two hours ago, we had a lady here. She managed to get past Howard, somehow, and she was taking pictures and asking questions of our foreign guests. I encountered her myself. It turned out she was from the city’s newspaper. I was forced to ask her to leave.’
‘Rebekah Fitzwilliam,’ said Jo.
The dean’s face darkened. ‘Indeed. My point is that I will not allow the reputation of this college to be tarnished by association with whatever it is Niall McDonagh and his friends are involved with.’
‘Which is what?’ said Carrick.
‘I do not know, and I do not care. I’d suggest you speak with his parents.’
His cheeks were quivering a lit
tle, and Jo decided it was time to take some of the heat out of the conversation.
‘We’ll be out of your hair soon,’ she said. ‘There’s just one more thing we need to run by you.’
‘By all means.’
Jo took out the printout of the suspect in the bank CCTV. ‘We’d like to speak with the gentleman in this image. Do you know who he is?’
The dean looked at the picture, and Jo watched him, trying to gauge his reaction. He showed no panic or recognition at all.
‘Is that a Gloucester crest?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Carrick. ‘We wondered if this man was connected with the college in some way.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ said the dean. ‘That sort of headwear would be available in several shops across the city. They sell them to tourists, mainly.’
‘We thought as much,’ said Jo. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more use,’ said the dean, walking to the door. There was nothing in his step that reminded her of the man in the footage. He trod delicately, as if afraid of making a noise.
Carrick left first, Jo behind. As she was passing through, she stalled.
‘Dr Silcott,’ she said, offhandedly, ‘could you tell us when you first heard about Niall’s disappearance?’
‘It would have been this morning,’ he said. ‘I read the Oxford Times when I can. You know, to find out what is happening in our city.’
‘And last night?’ said Jo, working nonchalantly towards the killer question. ‘Where were you?’
‘Ah, I was at home, writing up a lecture for next term. Early Norse folklore, if that interests you?’
‘Those the ones where children get snatched by strange monsters in the forest?’ said Carrick.
Silcott chuckled, but there was no unease in it.
‘Touché, detective,’ he said. ‘I worked until eight, after which my partner of twenty-six years and I attended our local bridge club. Would you like to know our score?’
‘That probably won’t be necessary at the moment,’ said Jo, refusing the bait. ‘Thanks for your time.’
‘Good day to you,’ said the dean, closing the door behind them.
Back in the fresh air of the quad, Jo asked Carrick what he made of Silcott.
