Keep Her Close

by M. J. Ford

  Williams led her towards a door behind police tape. Stationed beside it was Oliver Pinker. Squat, ginger-haired and affable, he was often paired with Williams, though the sight of the two together was strangely disconcerting, like a double act about to break into some mysterious dramatic display. He handed her polythene booties and gloves, and she stepped under the tape into a sterile linoleum corridor with several dorm rooms and a fire door at the end. The Vice Provost attempted to follow, but Williams placed a hand on her arm. ‘Best if you stay off the crime scene, ma’am,’ she said.

  ‘Crime scene?’ said Frampton-Keys. ‘Has that been established?’

  Jo smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as possible.’

  The second internal door was open, and Pryce emerged, on the phone, wearing gloves too. Almost as tall as Andrea Williams, with doe-like dark eyes and floppy, black hair, he’d turned a few heads when he’d first arrived at St Aldates three months ago. Even Jo, normally immune to such things, hadn’t failed to notice. The most disconcerting thing was the more than passing resemblance he bore to Ben. If you took away all the anger, passion, and the hint of danger from her former boyfriend, Pryce was a fair approximation of what might remain. His background was in computer forensics, and he’d been fast-tracked into investigative work from the private sector without ever serving time on the beat – a new kind of professional rather than vocational police officer. He remained essentially naïve, in an almost endearing way, but he proved himself more than able to pull his weight, arriving early and leaving late but without ever drawing attention to the fact. Indeed, Heidi had had to convince him to accurately record his overtime. His paperwork, as Stratton never ceased to extol, was exemplary. He nodded to Jo as he spoke.

  ‘… very sorry I can’t give you more specifics over the phone. If you could relay this to Mr Cranleigh as a matter of urgency. They can reach me on this number, or through the Thames Valley switchboard … Pryce. Jack Pryce … Of course … Goodbye.’ He hung up, and flashed his gaze back to Jo. ‘Boss,’ he said, nodding. ‘Just chatting to the father’s office. He’s in a meeting.’

  ‘We can notify Mr Cranleigh,’ called Frampton-Keys from outside. ‘He’s a close friend.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ said Jo. ‘Let us handle it, please.’

  ‘Want to look?’ said Pryce, gesturing to the door.

  He let her enter first. Once over the threshold, Jo was immediately back at her own student digs in Brighton, twenty years before. The single bed, utility shelves loaded with books, 2-star hotel curtains, office chair, scuff-marks on the walls. The college might have looked glamorous on the postcards, but student rooms were the same everywhere. Malin Sigurdsson had tried to improve it – there were pot-plants, and some rather fetching black-and-white photos of seascapes on the walls. A musical instrument case stood beside a music stand. Jo guessed a flute. But she was confused. ‘Carrick said there were signs of a struggle.’

  ‘In the bathroom,’ said Pryce.

  He moved aside, and Jo realised his body had been obscuring another door. She pushed it open.

  Blood. Not a lot, but a patch on the wall above the bath, a smeared handprint across the sink, and a few drops on the floor. Like someone had hit their head, then stumbled around. There were several bottles of expensive cosmetics scattered around the sink, a few had rolled off.

  ‘Anyone in the other rooms?’

  Pryce shook his head. ‘Not according to the Vice Provost. Most students have gone home, even the postgrads. Malin’s the last resident in this dorm block.’

  ‘Sorry, you said the father was called Cranleigh?’

  ‘Sigurdsson is the mother’s name.’

  ‘So they’re separated?

  ‘Yep. Dad’s in Parliament. MP for Witney. Using the mother’s name could just be a security thing, I suppose.’

  Jo’s mind went automatically to kidnap, but she checked herself. Until a ransom demand came through, there was no point in jumping to conclusions.

  ‘Been in touch with the hospitals?’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ said Pryce. ‘Her description is circulating.’

  ‘Vehicle?’

  ‘She doesn’t even hold a licence.’

  They backed out again into the bedroom. Jo went to look at the photos above the desk. There were several of mixed-sex groups in various happy poses. But one picture in particular caught Jo’s eye – a striking teenage girl with her arms around the neck of what must have been her mother – the resemblance was undeniable. They both had perfect high cheekbones, piercing green intelligent eyes with more than a hint of defiance, almost imperceptible cleft in the tip of the nose. The older woman’s hair hung straight and tended to silver, though she still wore it long. The younger’s was a natural blonde. If the Scandinavian surname didn’t give their heritage away, the looks would. Perhaps the photographer was particularly talented, but to Jo the pair looked almost otherworldly – their beauty made her think of a race of elves. Jo’s eyes passed back over the other pictures, and there was the same girl in most of them nestled among her friends. In some she looked slightly less ethereal, but in all she was quite stunning. One showed an orchestra, including Malin with a clarinet.

  ‘That’s our girl then,’ said Jo. ‘She’s beautiful.’

  ‘That she is,’ said Pryce, his pale cheeks reddening as if he’d said something inappropriate.

  Jo pretended not to notice. ‘Have you called forensics?’

  ‘Didn’t want to until you got here, ma’am – strictly it’s the lead investigator’s role to designate and delegate resources.’

  Always by the book, thought Jo. Dimitriou said he once saw Pryce raise his hand to go to the toilet, but she was sure it was a joke. Fact was, since Pryce had joined them, he had proved himself diligent and thorough – almost exactly the opposite of George Dimitriou.

  ‘Well, let’s designate,’ said Jo. ‘Initial thoughts?’

  Pryce drew himself up and threw a glance around the room.

  ‘I’d say it’s someone known to Malin,’ he said. ‘There’s no sign of a forced entry – door’s self-locking on a spring mechanism, with a spy-hole. Implies she let him in. Maybe they argued in the bathroom, it got physical, and Malin got hurt. He panicked and removed her body.’

  ‘You think she’s dead?’

  ‘Don’t you? There’s no shower curtain.’

  Jo felt her own cheeks flush. She was surprised she’d missed that. It explained why there was no more blood outside the bathroom. Still, the way Pryce had said it, almost matter-of-factly, gave her pause. It was a feature of his personality she’d noticed before – the distance he could keep from things, almost a protective shell. In the brief few months they’d worked together, she’d never seen him lose his temper once. Given the sort of people they had to deal with, that showed some restraint.

  ‘It’s a good theory,’ she admitted. ‘Let’s get forensics in then.’

  ‘They’re over in Didcot for the next few hours.’

  ‘Course they are.’ Since the pooling of resources in the name of cost savings, getting a forensics team in place in a timely manner was increasingly challenging. ‘I’ll draw up a brief back at the station.’

  It would all take time to process anyway, and quite possibly be useless. If Frampton-Keys had entered, with goodness knew who else, the integrity of the scene was already compromised. Still, Jo sensed, she needed to do this one by every letter of the book if she was going to keep Stratton happy.

  ‘And see if we can find out Malin’s recent movements,’ she added, opening the wardrobe. Inside were clothes, neatly sorted, a few nice dresses in dry-cleaning bags and a good collection of shoes. She tipped one over. Designer. Clearly Malin wasn’t short of a few quid.

  She went to the desk beside the bed and pulled open the top drawer, finding a box of condoms. She turned to Pryce.

  ‘Anything on a boyfriend?’

  ‘Vice Provost said she didn’t know of one,’ said Pryce.

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nbsp; The drawer below had stationery, a lighter, fag papers. A roll of extra-thick foil looked distinctly out of place. She took the drawer out, then the other two, crouching down. There was a plastic bag taped to the underside of the desktop. She detached it, opened it up and sniffed the dark putty-like substance inside. Just weed. She placed the bag on the desk. ‘We should probably try and find her dealer. Small college like this, it shouldn’t be too hard to squeeze it out of someone.’

  Though with the holidays, finding someone to squeeze might be tricky.

  ‘No sign of her phone,’ said Pryce, ‘but we’ve got a computer.’ He tapped the laptop case from the desk with a gloved hand. ‘I can take a look once it’s logged as potential evidence.’

  ‘See if we can find her phone number too, and talk to Stratton about accessing the phone records. The blood should be plenty enough to convince him.’

  Pryce’s own phone began to ring, and he looked at the screen. ‘It’s Cranleigh’s office. You want to take it?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He handed her the phone. ‘Detective Sergeant Jo Masters.’

  ‘Something about my daughter?’ The voice was brusque, a little impatient.

  ‘Mr Cranleigh?’

  ‘That’s right. Look, if she’s done something silly …’

  ‘Do you know your daughter’s whereabouts?’

  A pause. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Sir, Malin is missing. My colleague and I are at her college now.’

  ‘Well, where’s she gone?’ He seemed almost belligerent, and Jo, despite herself, was already forming a mental image of him. Tall, balding, fleshy around the face and neck, no longer the man who’d first drawn Malin’s stunning mother.

  ‘Mr Cranleigh, I’m afraid there are indications Malin might have been hurt.’

  ‘Okay, I’m coming over. Is Bel there?’

  It took Jo a moment to register that he was talking about the Vice Provost.

  ‘We can come to you, if it’s easier. We’ll need to ask some questions.’

  ‘Right, fine. Call my secretary – she knows the diary.’ Another pause. ‘No one’s blabbed to the press, have they?’

  Jo bit her tongue. ‘No one from my team,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s keep it that way, eh?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jo.

  Cranleigh hung up.

  ‘That was brief,’ said Pryce.

  ‘He didn’t seem all that surprised,’ said Jo. ‘Has Malin been in trouble before?’

  ‘Not that I know of. I can get Detective Tan to have a look for priors?’

  ‘Good.’

  Jo looked around the room again, trying to make sense of the contradictions. The Oxford beauty, the weed, the blood, the musical talent. The sooner they really got to know Malin Sigurdsson, the sooner the circumstances of her disappearance would become clearer.

  ‘Let’s go and speak with the friend,’ she said. On the way out of the room, she told Pinker to keep everything clean until forensics arrived. She walked to the end of the corridor, to the fire door. Pushing the bar at the ends only, so as not to smudge possible prints, she opened it onto a narrow street. On the far side was the tall wall of another college. Not overlooked. She retreated inside and the door closed on its sprung hinges. ‘Maybe get this door processed for prints too. If she was carried out, this seems the obvious route.’

  ‘But he didn’t come in that way,’ said Pryce. ‘No handle on the street side.’

  Well spotted, again. Frampton-Keys was on her phone a few metres from where they’d left her, saying, ‘Don’t worry, Nick. I’m sure the police will do their best … No, of course not. Of course.’ She saw Jo approaching. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  She put the phone away. ‘Mr Cranleigh’s very worried,’ she said.

  Bel and Nick. Very cosy.

  ‘He’s a politician, I heard,’ said Jo. ‘Why was he calling you?’

  ‘We’re good friends,’ said the Vice Provost. ‘Nicholas was an alumnus of this very college.’

  ‘Is that why Malin is a student here?’ asked Pryce.

  Frampton-Keys flinched. ‘She’s here on her own merit.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t suggesting nepotism,’ said Pryce. ‘I was just wondering if it was a family tradition of some sort.’

  The Vice Provost pursed her lips, obviously still offended by the unintended slight. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Any idea why she doesn’t use his surname?’

  ‘Oh, Malin isn’t Mr Cranleigh’s biological daughter,’ said Frampton-Keys.

  ‘So who’s her real father?’ asked Jo. She foresaw a headache already. They really shouldn’t have been involving anyone but close family about the disappearance.

  Frampton-Keys looked bemused. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t feel it’s my place to talk about other people’s private affairs. Her mother lives in Sweden, I believe.’

  ‘Can we follow up on that, Jack?’ Jo said. She faced the Vice Provost again.

  ‘We’d like to talk with the friend who came to see her, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Anna Mull?’ said Frampton-Keys. ‘She’s in the buttery.’

  ‘Which is what? And where?’ asked Jo. She was trying her best not to dislike the Vice Provost, but every sentence the senior academic uttered seemed designed to confound her and present the clear subtext: This is not your place.

  ‘This way,’ said Frampton-Keys.

  They walked back towards the main quad. As they did, Jo asked, ‘Apart from the fire exit in the corridor, what are the other ways out of the college?’

  ‘There’s a door out onto Oriel Street,’ said Frampton-Keys. ‘You need a security card to access it – all the students at the college have one.’

  ‘And staff?’

  The Vice Provost nodded. ‘Yes, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Not getting at anything,’ said Jo. ‘But if someone took Malin from her room, they had to get into the college and out again. Are there cameras on the security door?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We have a surveillance system at the front of the college, covering the porters’ lodge, but that’s it. Sorry, you think she’s been kidnapped?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  They took a passage past an open door leading into kitchens. A young man wearing whites, with heavily tattooed forearms was unloading pallets of bread and nodded a greeting as they passed, and there were catering staff at work inside.

  ‘I thought the students had gone home,’ said Pryce.

  ‘We’ve got a three-day conference coming in later,’ said Frampton-Keys. ‘Ornithologists. We can’t afford to let the college go empty out of term.’

  She turned a sharp right angle, then pushed open a heavy, metal-studded door into a cosy wooden-clad room of benches and tables, with a small hatch counter. A young woman with a short, dark pixie-cut and delicate features to match was sitting next to an empty mug and several screwed-up tissues, hands toying with her phone. She stood up sharply. She was wearing jeans, a thick sweater, and what looked like trail shoes. Sensible, in the current weather.

  ‘Have you found her?’ she asked meekly.

  ‘Not yet,’ said the Vice Provost. ‘Anna, these visitors are police officers. They need to talk to you.’

  Anna looked scared. Her already large, almond-shaped eyes opened wider, and she gave a single nod.

  Jo introduced herself and Pryce, then sat down opposite the student. Frampton-Keys was still standing off to one side.

  ‘Perhaps we could have some privacy?’ asked Jo.

  The Vice Provost frowned. ‘I really should be here,’ she said. ‘It’s a student welfare issue.’

  Jo smiled tightly. ‘It’s an active police investigation. Anna’s an adult, and we’re only asking a few questions.’

  Frampton-Keys’ mouth twitched. ‘Very well. Is that all right with you, Anna? You don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to.’

  Jo was close to losing her temper, but Anna said, ‘Yes,�
� quietly, and the Vice Provost turned on her heels and left.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Anna,’ she said. ‘How long have you known Malin?’

  Anna looked up. ‘Over three years. We matriculated together, chose to do our MPhil’s here too. We’re the only two doing a History Master’s at Oriel.’

  Jo’s ears pricked up. She studied History as an undergrad at Sussex, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  ‘So you’re close?’ asked Pryce.

  ‘I’m probably her best friend,’ said Anna. She didn’t elaborate, so Jo decided to get straight to the point.

  ‘It looks like she might have had a fight with someone in her room. Have you any idea who that might be?’

  Anna didn’t answer straight away. ‘No.’

  ‘No enemies?’

  Anna smiled. ‘Everyone loved Malin.’

  ‘What about a boyfriend?’

  ‘Nothing serious.’

  ‘But she had relationships?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And recently?’

  Anna shot a look towards the door, as if she thought someone was on the other side. ‘Ross,’ she said. ‘Ross Catskill.’

  ‘Is he a student at the college?’

  Anna laughed, a low chuckle. ‘I doubt Ross even has any GCSEs. Sorry, that sounds awful, doesn’t it? He runs an events company in Oxford – Calibre.’

  ‘So Malin was seeing Catskill,’ said Pryce. ‘What was the relationship like?’

  ‘Just an on-off thing,’ said Anna. ‘I don’t know what she saw in him. I mean, I guess he’s sort of good-looking, but that’s about it.’

  ‘You don’t like him much, then?’ said Pryce. ‘Do you think he might have hurt Malin?’ Anna stared down at her hands, and a few seconds of silence followed.

  ‘Anna?’ said Pryce. ‘Did you hear the question?’

  Anna looked up, at him, directly. ‘You know when you just get a bad feeling about someone?’