by M. J. Ford
‘What do you want me to play?’ she asked, flexing her fingers.
‘Whatever you like, dear,’ said Sally, smiling in the doorway.
The sheet above the keys was Debussy, the music Sally had been playing when Jo interrupted her evening. It wasn’t too challenging, and Jo let her fingers find their starting position. The smell was a bit worse in here, a definite tang of ammonia that she was all too familiar with from entering the houses of the elderly.
God save me from ever getting old.
She began to play, hoping the old synapses would fire as they did that night at Shane and Hannah’s wedding. When they didn’t, she stumbled discordantly to a halt.
‘Take your time,’ said Sally, her voice patient as always.
Jo began again, more hesitantly, and though she hit a few keys a fraction off-tempo, she found a purer sound. Her eyes were on the score, but she sensed Sally smiling behind her. And she actually began to enjoy herself, even finding a few places to lend greater expression to the notes. But a few minutes in, a clock chimed the quarter hour, and it brought her out of the music. She stopped abruptly. Her brother would be worried.
‘I’m sorry, Sally, I should be going.’
‘I quite understand. You must take some apple pie? I can’t eat it all – perhaps the children would like it?’
Jo stood up, smiling. Though Will could still be classed as a child, Emma probably wouldn’t appreciate the description.
‘That’s very kind.’
‘Wait here, I’ll get a tin.’
Jo did as she was told, wandering across to the bookshelf. There were several thick volumes on psychology, addiction and healing therapies that seemed quite out of place, but on the wall above the shelves was a certificate stating that Sally Carruthers had qualified as a talking therapist eleven years ago.
‘You’re a dark horse,’ she called.
‘What’s that?’ asked Sally, a little worried.
‘Your second career,’ said Jo.
The old woman entered, holding a tin.
‘Oh, that! It’s just listening to people, really. Same as the piano teaching.’
‘Don’t you have to weed out their darkest secrets?’
Sally laughed. ‘It’s odd – most of my clients are quite happy to tell me their secrets with no weeding. Half the battle is getting them here in the first place.’
Jo remembered her own GP had suggested she might want to see someone too, after she’d lost the baby, but she had flatly refused the offer, unable to see what could possibly be gained.
‘I imagine you’re very good at it.’
Sally offered the tin. ‘I don’t have a lot of clients these days,’ she said, sadness in her voice. ‘Not a lot of company at all, really.’
Jo noticed her hands again, holding the tin, the fingers twisted. She must be in pain all the time.
‘You know, you could pop up to Paul’s any time. The kids – they don’t have any grandparents, not really.’
Sally smiled. ‘Josie, you are a sweetheart. But I couldn’t intrude like that. They wouldn’t want a strange old crone turning up on their doorstep. It would frighten poor William.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Jo. ‘You’re a natural with children.’
Sally beamed. ‘That’s such a nice thing to hear. It’s one of my biggest regrets, not having a family of my own.’
Jo smiled back. She wondered if Sally and her husband had had medical problems too. It seemed rude to ask. Instead, she wagged her finger like a schoolmistress.
‘Well, I’ll speak to Paul and Amelia. You’re not getting off that easily. Perhaps Will could come here and learn the piano. Goodness, he needs something other than toy guns to distract him!’
‘That would be quite wonderful,’ said Sally. ‘They do say talent is genetic.’
They walked together back to the front door. Jo wondered if part of the reason for the lack of clients might be the odd scent. It came to her in waves.
‘You’re wondering about the smell,’ said Sally.
This time Jo blushed. Had she been so obvious?
‘Oh, no … what smell?’
‘It’s the cat,’ said Sally. ‘Before he moved out for good, he decided to use the carpet in here as his toilet. I’ve done my best with it, the patches I found, but can’t seem to work it all out. The hot weather doesn’t help.’
Jo grimaced. ‘Sounds nasty. Couldn’t you get the carpet replaced?’
‘I keep meaning to,’ said Sally, opening the door. ‘My husband used to take care of all that sort of thing.’
Jo stepped out. It wouldn’t be difficult to make some enquiries about flooring herself – not that she wanted to intrude.
‘How long’s it been since Mr Carruthers passed away?’ she asked.
‘Oh, almost two years now,’ said Sally. ‘It was for the best, really. He wasn’t such a nice man, towards the end.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Jo, remembering what her mum had been like, the last time she visited. It must have been over a year ago now.
Sally waved as Jo backed down to the front path towards the road. ‘You will come again, I hope. It would be wonderful to catch up properly.’
‘As long as you promise not to analyse me,’ said Jo.
‘It really doesn’t work like that,’ said Sally, and Jo worried that she’d offended her.
‘Thank you for the pie,’ she said.
The pavement was cold on her bare foot as Jo headed home, and the clear night air brought up goose pimples on her arms. But she clutched the warm tin to her chest, cradling it as carefully as a child.
Chapter 15
MONDAY
Jo was the first in – hardly surprising given the celebrations of the previous day. Ben had texted just after ten with an emoji of wine glasses chinking together and a note: You’re missing a good night!, to which she had replied, civilly, that she was spending time with her family. A lie, of course. She’d had a shower and gone to bed as soon as she got home, making up a lie about tripping over in the dark. Amelia, she thought, had looked unconvinced, but Paul had started tucking into the apple pie. She’d slept like a log until about two in the morning, when William had woken up screaming in the room beside hers. Apparently he’d started suffering night terrors around Christmas time. Monsters under the bed, in the garden, that sort of thing.
Jo dumped her things beside her desk and called the hospital for an update on Niall. She managed to get through to a Dr Parvinder Srai, but was told the hospital couldn’t give out any information over the phone due to patient confidentiality.
‘He’s all right though?’ said Jo, adding, ‘I was the one who found him.’
Dr Srai sighed. ‘Physically, he’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come to the hospital in person.’
As Jo hung up, the front desk clerk came through. ‘There’s someone in reception for you, detective,’ he said.
Jo was still wondering what ‘fine’ meant, but she was intrigued by the summons, and followed the clerk back through to the reception. The dean of Gloucester College was waiting patiently, clutching a document case.
‘Morning Dr Silcott,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Ah – I was hoping to speak to DCI Stratton,’ he said.
‘It’s just me, I’m afraid. Want to come through?’
He gave a brisk nod. ‘Very well,’ and trotted past as she held open the door.
The CID room was as they’d left it the night before, with papers scattering the desks and dirty mugs dotted about. Silcott wore a look of slight distaste as he sat down. It was a long way from his salubrious study.
Jo was struggling slightly to understand why the dean was here, and why it was Stratton he’d wanted to speak with. When he wasn’t forthcoming, she initiated.
‘You’ve spoken to the McDonaghs?’
‘Briefly,’ said Silcott, the document case clasped in his hands. ‘They’re relieved, of course. Thankfully, with it being t
he holidays, they have very few teaching duties to attend to. I’ve suggested it might be best for all the family to put the college to the back of their minds for the moment.’
‘Of course.’
‘He wasn’t officially a member of staff, of course,’ said Silcott.
Jo took a moment to realise his eyes were lingering on Alan Trent’s face, still tacked to the board across from them.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Not on the payroll, I mean,’ said Silcott. ‘I understand our head gardener Mr Whittaker had an informal arrangement with him. Cash in hand.’
He spoke the words with a twist of his mouth, as though the transaction had been in some way beneath him.
‘I got the same impression,’ said Jo. ‘Anyway, is there something specific—’
‘That practice will be coming to an end,’ added Silcott, pursing his lips. ‘You can rest assured of that.’
‘That’s really none of our concern,’ said Jo. ‘How the college pays its staff is a civil matter.’
Silcott sighed through his nose impatiently, as if she was an undergraduate answering a question incorrectly.
‘That’s exactly my point,’ he said. ‘The college really had nothing to do with Alan Trent.’
Jo leant back in her chair. ‘Mister Silcott,’ she said, deliberately not using his academic title, ‘Alan Trent was a convicted sex offender working at your college, and we have every indication he met his victim on college premises, in all likelihood using his access to plan his crime.’
‘Do you have any proof of that?’ asked Silcott, jutting out his chin.
‘Proof of what?’
‘That the college is the place Alan Trent first met Niall?’ He began to open his document case.
‘I can’t see how that is relevant at the moment. Trent is dead, and Niall is safe. Thank goodness we were able to put the pieces together in time, because I can tell you from experience that these cases don’t always turn out so well.’
‘It might not be relevant to you, but I can assure you the college takes the welfare of all students and occupants very seriously. If we as an institution were to suffer reputational damage because of spurious press claims …’
So that’s why he’s here …
The letter he took out, written on heavy paper, had some sort of embossed crest at the top.
‘… This is correspondence from the college’s legal representatives. It lays out in some detail the unfortunate circumstances under which Mr Whittaker brought Alan Trent onto the college premises. It also makes clear our position going forward …’
‘Let me stop you there,’ said Jo.
But Silcott was still going – ‘As I say, I hoped to deliver this personally to your superior, but given his absence, I submit it to you on the understanding that it will find its way to him before anyone says anything erroneous to the press.’
Jo took the letter. He must have had this drafted the night before, maybe even before the outcome of the search was known. When everyone else was focused on looking for a missing child, the dean of Gloucester College was trying to cover his own backside. She hoped her look of disdain was clear.
‘I’ll see that DCI Stratton gets your letter,’ she said coldly.
‘Very good,’ said Dr Silcott, closing the case with a flourish and standing up. ‘Then I’ll wish you a good day, detective.’
Jo walked him to the door. ‘We don’t yet know the extent of Niall’s ordeal, by the way.’
‘That’s business for the family,’ said Silcott. ‘I would never think to intrude.’
‘You’re not a family friend then?’ said Jo.
Silcott stiffened. ‘Not really.’
‘You didn’t know Niall well?’
‘He sang in the choir for a few months,’ said the dean. ‘One of the sopranos. I know I mentioned that.’
Jo opened the door, but stood in front of it. ‘He left, didn’t he?’
‘You know what children are like. They lose interest.’
‘This choir – it includes adults? All male by any chance?’
The dean frowned. ‘Yes. I myself sing tenor. What exactly are you implying?’
‘Perhaps you could furnish us with a list of members?’
Silcott blanched. ‘I’d have to speak to … I really don’t see …’
Jo let the door close again behind her.
‘No, you wouldn’t see,’ she said. ‘But there’s still a chance Trent might not have been working alone. Given his clear connections with your college, we’ll be investigating every avenue. I’ve asked nicely, but I can come by the college later if you’d like, with a warrant and couple of officers in uniform. Not very low-key, but this was a serious crime …’
Silcott glared at her as he took a deep breath. ‘I’ll have a list drawn up,’ he said.
‘Thank you for your co-operation.’ She didn’t believe it herself, not really, but he’d pissed her off enough to make a point.
Jo stepped aside and let him leave, just as a somewhat unkempt George Dimitriou came the other way. He barely registered Silcott until after he’d bundled past.
‘What’s up with him?’ he asked. ‘Never mind,’ said Jo. ‘Looks like it was a good night.’
‘God, Detective Coombs can put it away,’ he said, flopping into his chair, peering curiously into a mug half-full with cold coffee, then swigging it down. ‘He filled us in on your sordid past.’
Jo blushed, feeling suddenly trapped. ‘He did?’ she asked.
Fucking arsehole. How dare he?
‘You’re a tough one. Said you got stabbed working undercover a few years ago, but maintained the alias. Insisted on staying on the case. Went back out. Kidnapping and sex offenders must pale in comparison.’
Jo felt the tension ooze out of her. Ben had been the first face she’d seen when she woke up in hospital, three pints of new blood pumped into her system, and an impressive three-inch scar across her abdomen. She’d cried her eyes out while he held her.
So maybe he had kept their private lives to himself, after all.
‘He exaggerates,’ she said.
Dimitriou took out his electric razor. ‘By the way, Stratton’s briefing the press at ten a.m. at the town hall.’
‘Do we need to be there?’
‘I think so. Decorating the troops and all.’ He began to shave over his bin, grimacing at his reflection. ‘I hope the cameras are forgiving.’
* * *
She’d never worked on anything big enough to warrant a press conference before.
Jo had never liked the limelight. From her earliest school performances, young Josephine Masters had always been listed as ‘third soldier’, or ‘handmaiden’, letting those in possession of almost preternatural confidence take centre stage. But Stratton was very specific she was to be at his right. Dimitriou and Tan were there too, along with a young man from the Thames Valley Comms team who probably earned twice as much as Jo but looked ten years younger. Carrick, who’d been on duty for nine days straight, was enjoying a day of enforced leave. That hadn’t stopped him from calling in a couple of times already, though – apparently he was at a theme park with his kids.
Stratton’s rank badges were sparkling, his shoes polished as they filtered behind a row of tables at the town hall. Jo felt hopelessly underdressed, and despite dabbing at the tea stain on her lapel, it was still obvious. About two dozen journalists had gathered, with as many camera operators. Jo wasn’t sure where to look, because everywhere a lens stared back. And, right at the back, talking to a colleague, was Rebekah Saunders. Jo purposely avoided her eye.
The chief inspector gave the outline of the case: that the suspect was deceased, that the boy, Niall, was alive and well, and then read a statement from the McDonaghs asking for privacy.
Fine chance of that, thought Jo, as the cameras rolled.
Stratton ended by thanking his committed and resourceful officers, specifying each of them by name and rank, and then opened the floor to question
s. He hadn’t mentioned the Gloucester College connection, she noticed, even though he’d only grunted non-committally when she’d handed over Silcott’s letter earlier.
The first questions focused on Alan Trent’s previous criminal history, and the police intelligence on his whereabouts prior to the crime. Stratton, with the briefest of glances at the Comms rep, answered that Trent had recently moved to the area, but that he was deemed to be a low-level threat based on his old convictions. That brought a sarcastic follow-up about the integrity of police intelligence. Stratton summoned a pained expression.
‘We feel that failure acutely, and we’ll be looking into the procedural shortfalls to ensure this won’t happen again. We’ll be liaising with the parole board and prison services to re-examine our protocols.’
The questions moved on to the victim, which Stratton expertly batted aside, citing privacy, and Jo felt the energy of the room dip. What was there to say, really, other than the barest facts?
‘So the Killer Clown is dead.’ It was Saunders. ‘Does this mean the murder of Dylan Jones is solved as well?’
Stratton placed his hands on the table. ‘First of all, we’d appeal to the press not to use that term. There’s no evidence that Alan Trent’s disguise was anything but an opportunistic way to conceal his identity based on the location of the kidnap – at a carnival. Nor, it appears, was he a murderer.’
‘So you’re still looking for the killer of Dylan Jones?’ Saunders caught Jo’s eye as she spoke.
‘That investigation is complex, due to the time that has elapsed, and it’s likely to be some time before we have any definitive answers. I’m afraid you’ll have to address any specifics to Avon and Somerset, as they’re carrying out those enquiries.’
Jo was impressed – he was a smooth operator.
‘I think it’s time to wrap up,’ said the Comms rep.
‘Hang on a moment,’ said Saunders. ‘These are important questions, and it so happens you have a representative from Avon and Somerset sitting to your right.’
‘Detective Masters was helping us with the investigation into Niall McDonagh’s disappearance,’ said Stratton, ‘and it was due to her solid police work that he was found alive.’
