Keep Her Close

by M. J. Ford

  ‘Are we finished at his house?’ asked the DCI.

  ‘Almost,’ said Carrick. ‘There’s nothing obvious yet. Certainly no blood.’

  ‘If he killed her at the college, there wouldn’t be,’ said Jo. ‘He looks strong enough to carry her.’ She knew that didn’t answer the access problem, though.

  ‘Okay, I want every nook and cranny looked into,’ said Stratton. ‘Find Myers a hotel. Get him what he needs from his house. And advise he doesn’t go on any sudden holidays.’

  Carrick did as asked, signing Myers’ belongings back to him. On seeing Myers’ unbelievably smug face as he pocketed his things, Jo couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Not sure how Mr Cranleigh is going to react when he hears about you and his daughter.’

  Myers coloured. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against me, Detective. Did you fail your Oxford entrance exam?’

  ‘I never fancied the place,’ said Jo. ‘Something about all those one-on-one tutorials made me feel uneasy. Maybe my gut instinct was right.’

  She left him in reception.

  Back in the CID room, Heidi had shouldered her bag, and switched off her computer. ‘That’s me done.’

  ‘You should go home too, Jo,’ said Carrick. ‘Jack’s finishing up at the college.’

  ‘Anything new?’

  He shook his head. ‘Oh, apparently Hana Sigurdsson is landing in the morning.’

  ‘You want me here to liaise?’

  Carrick shot a glance towards Stratton’s closed door. ‘Better not, for now,’ he said, and Jo got it. There were times to push the DCI, and times to give. This was the latter.

  * * *

  Her car stank of the Korean food, which would have cooled to the point of inedibility. She opened the window, despite the cold outside, and let the wintry wind blast the smell away.

  Lucas’s flat was in the Northcote area of Abingdon, a quarter-hour from the station. It wasn’t much – a two-bed on the upper floor of a small nineties block – but it was well kept, with Lucas himself taking care of the communal gardens on behalf of the residents. Jo parked up beside his beat-up Land Rover. It was the only car not covered in a fine sheen of frost, and touching the bonnet there was still a hint of warmth. He must have nipped out. She dropped the takeaway into the outdoor bin, and as she approached the front door, the security light blinked on.

  She took the stairs, and let herself into the dark apartment. Turning on the light, she saw his work boots by the door and his coat hanging on the peg. Jo made her way through to the open-plan kitchen-lounge. The bedroom door was closed. She opened the fridge, but it was scarce pickings. A pineapple, several condiments, some milk and cheese. Half a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet. So she settled for an impromptu midnight feast of pineapple chunks and a glass of cold wine while sitting at the small dining table. When she’d first learned Lucas didn’t indulge in alcohol, she’d been reticent to drink at his flat, but he’d insisted it was okay. She knew already she’d have trouble sleeping without it tonight. There was a torn brown envelope on the floor by the table leg. HMRC. Probably another tax return reminder. Though he worked for the college, he was a freelance contractor.

  ‘Hey, stranger,’ said a voice.

  Jo almost jumped out of her skin, dropping the piece of paper.

  Lucas stood in the doorway of the bedroom, one arm resting on the frame, his blond surfer’s hair tousled, squinting a little into the light. He wore just a pair of shorts, his muscular torso on display, and padded towards her on bare feet.

  ‘You scared the shit out of me,’ said Jo.

  He folded his arms around her, and kissed the underside of her neck. ‘Sorry. I thought you were a burglar.’

  His stubble brushed her cheek, and though there was still a hint of the soap he used, his hair carried the scent of burned wood.

  ‘You smell funny,’ she said.

  He leant past her and stabbed at a piece of pineapple, popping it in her mouth.

  ‘Bonfire,’ he said. ‘You want me to shower?’

  ‘We’ll have to wash the sheets,’ she said.

  ‘Guess so.’ He went to the fridge and took out a carton of milk. Tipping it back, he took several gulps. ‘Busy day, huh?’

  ‘Complicated,’ she answered.

  He replaced the milk. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Not much to talk about at the moment. You go out somewhere?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Car’s warm,’ she said.

  ‘Just the shops, Sherlock,’ he said.

  He took himself off to the bathroom. She heard the shower start up.

  In the first weeks of their relationship, her work was all he’d wanted to ask about, but he’d cottoned on quickly that Jo would rather talk about anything else and now he was much better at gauging her mood. She found his own work much more fascinating. Gardening wasn’t a topic she’d ever thought about much before, but Lucas had been working across the colleges for around eight years, and his tales of collegiate politics, student high jinks, and academic malfeasance were as rich as any case she’d worked on. It helped that he was a naturally gifted mimic. He had an eye for humour, an open disposition, and, compared with most people Jo came across, a sometimes charming innocence. She almost didn’t want to share the things she came across day to day – the banality of deaths, the lies and desperation, the lives shattered and inconsequential in the fringes of society – for fear it would drain some of that positivity from him.

  Of his own history, she knew little. He’d grown up in Somerset, and the accent remained. His parents, who had separated when he was seven, were both dead. He had a sister, in New Zealand now, with whom he spoke a handful of times a year. His friends in Oxford were mostly in the same line of work. He wanted, ultimately, to own his own landscaping company, but he was in no rush. At twenty-eight, Jo hadn’t been either.

  She wondered, in moments of self-doubt, what he thought of her. Over a decade older, weighed down by the pressures of work, one seriously failed romantic life behind her. She hadn’t told him about the counselling, not because she was ashamed of it, but because it might have meant talking more about what had happened that night in Sally Carruthers’ barn. Anyone with eyes and ears to take in the news was aware of the basics, of course. She and Lucas had met during the case – he’d been a helpful witness in the search for a suspect. But it hadn’t been until four weeks after, and the bruises had faded, that he’d left a message through the front desk, that his offer of a drink was still open. Dimitriou had overheard, and found it hilarious. And though every instinct had screamed at Jo that it was a bad time, she had taken him up on it, having run a thorough criminal record check, of course. She couldn’t help herself. Besides, Lucas was as clean as they came. The fact he looked like a Greek God cast away on a sun-kissed desert island helped.

  She finished her wine and put the glass by the sink with the empty bowl of pineapple. Peeling off her clothes in the bedroom, which smelled faintly of smoke too, she walked naked to the bathroom door. It was thick with steam inside, but she could make out the shape of Lucas in the shower. For a moment, she remembered Malin’s bloody handprint across her mirror.

  Pulling back the shower curtain, she climbed in behind him stealthily, then threaded a hand over his rib cage and taut stomach, making him jump.

  ‘Now you’re scaring me,’ he said, turning and pulling her towards him, into the flow of hot water.

  She ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed him tenderly, glad to be free of her thoughts – for a little while, at least.

  Chapter 7

  THURSDAY

  The phone woke her from a deep and dreamless slumber. Lucas groaned slightly as she prised herself from under his arm, reaching into the darkness. She found the phone and answered. It was almost three am.

  ‘Jo Masters.’

  ‘Sorry it’s late, Serge. Williams here.’

  ‘Andrea.’

  ‘We’ve got a body, ma’am,’ said
the PC.

  The fog lifted in an instant and Jo sat up in bed. The room was cold, and the skin across her upper body broke into gooseflesh at once.

  ‘Malin Sigurdsson?’

  ‘Hard to tell, ma’am. It’s submerged.’

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Lucas sleepily.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Jo, swinging her legs out of bed. ‘Just work.’

  With one hand still on the phone, she manoeuvred her dressing gown off the hook. ‘Location?’

  ‘Near Little Baldon,’ said Williams. ‘Just down from where the main road crosses the river.’

  Jo moved into the hall. ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘Truck driver. He’s still here.’

  ‘Keep him there. I’ll be over in twenty minutes.’

  She hung up and dressed quickly, feeling guilty for the excitement that quickened her heart, even though it might well be the young girl she was looking for.

  Outside, the car was iced over again, and she gave it a cursory scrape before setting off into the deserted back roads that crisscross the farmland south of Oxford. The heaters took a while to get going and her hands were freezing as they clutched the wheel. Her headlights picked up a badger, the odd rabbit, their peaceful night’s ramblings disturbed by her progress through small villages at close to the speed limit. A patch of black ice took her by surprise, and the car slid nauseatingly for a moment before traction took hold. Slow down, Jo. She’s not going anywhere.

  She phoned Pryce. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but he’d always been clear he kept strange hours, and unlike Carrick, he wasn’t a family man. Plus, there was something about the empty roads, with the grey spectres of sleeping houses, that made her long for his steady company. He answered almost right away, and after she’d filled him in, asked, ‘Where’s Little Baldon?’

  ‘Nowhere near Myers’ place,’ said Jo, and gave him directions.

  ‘On my way.’

  * * *

  It was a lonely place to die, if indeed the death had occurred here; empty farmland, weather-blasted hedgerows, with the occasional house set well back from the road. There was a dilapidated and disused petrol garage a couple of hundred metres from the bridge and the overhanging trees had been stripped back by the cross-country progress of lorries. Jo saw the spinning lights of a squad car pulled up in a layby by woodland, and a truck a few metres on bearing the name ‘CoolFlo Logistics’.

  The driver was sitting in his cab on his phone, smoking a roll-up. Constable Andrea Williams sat in the passenger seat, notebook in hand. Jo pulled up on the grass verge opposite, put on her hazards, climbed out and crossed the road. Williams climbed down to talk.

  ‘Hi, boss,’ she said. ‘We’re doing shifts.’ She pointed to the bridge. ‘Olly Pinker’s down there now. You’d better be careful – there’s no path and it’s pretty slippery.’

  ‘Got it. Trucker okay?’

  ‘Just wants to get moving,’ said Williams. ‘He’s on a three-day haul to Hungary. Got to get to Portsmouth by seven.’

  ‘How did he find her?’

  ‘Stopped to take a shit. Worked his way into the bushes to be clear of the road. Saw her. It sounds feasible. His English isn’t great.’

  ‘Speak to his employer if you can. Explain things. We’ll need his details. Plus his movements over the last twenty-four hours,’ she said. ‘If it checks out, take a statement here and cut him loose.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Jo looked towards the lorry. Killers coming back to the site of their crimes was a documented phenomenon. Sometimes they were even the ones to find the body, despite the inherent risk of being caught. But Williams was right – this didn’t feel like that. The call of nature in a secluded area made more sense on the surface. And killers tended not to call in their own misdeeds.

  The river was about twelve feet wide, with trees on each side. It was still flowing a little in the centre, but around the banks it had frozen solid after the days of zero or sub-zero temperatures. The bridge was stone on one side of the road, but the other was metal fencing. Jo saw the way down, a small cutting by the more modern side, through thick foliage. She peered over. Torchlight shone in her face then dipped away.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ hollered Pinker. ‘Careful how you come down.’

  Jo tucked her own small torch into her pocket, gripped the uppermost stanchion of the bridge and placed her foot with care, supporting her weight as she lowered herself. She had to let go, and half walked, half scrambled on hands and feet to get to the bottom. There might have been a path down here once, but it was overgrown long ago. She picked her way through the scrubby grass and dotted bushes to where the PC was standing further down the bank.

  The woman’s body was face-down, lodged almost entirely in ice a foot from shore. She was clothed, in jeans, and some sort of pale puffer jacket. Straight away it felt wrong to Jo. The hair was hard to make out, but it looked too dark to be Malin Sigurdsson’s.

  ‘Crime scene are on their way,’ said Pinker. ‘Maybe thirty minutes.’

  Jo crouched closer, looking up and down the bank, then back to the bridge. It seemed unlikely the woman could have fallen in by accident from the road. There was no pavement at the top, and it was hardly the place for a stroll.

  Pryce arrived shortly after at the top of the slope. He made it a couple of steps, before his feet went from beneath him. With a cry he slid to the bottom, before exclaiming, ‘Fuck’s sake!’

  Straightening his long grey coat, he walked over to them. ‘Is it our missing person?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Jo. ‘Can’t be sure though.’

  Pryce shone his torch at the body. ‘How the hell did she end up here?’

  ‘Suicide?’ said Pinker.

  Pryce moved the beam of his torch to the bridge. ‘That’s a ten-foot drop,’ he said. ‘I can think of more promising methods.’

  Pinker blushed. ‘Maybe she went in further upstream then, and drifted this far.’

  ‘It’s a theory,’ said Jo. ‘The river must have been freezing up for a couple of days at least, I think, and it’s hardly fast-flowing. We’ll know more if we can get an ID.’

  She placed a hand on the ice, to test its thickness. There was no give.

  ‘I’ve got a toolkit in the boot,’ said Pryce. ‘We can break her out if you want.’

  Jo stood up. ‘Let’s wait for forensics to get a few pictures first,’ she said. Pinker rubbed his hands together. ‘Don’t suppose I could wait in the car, guv? Been down here for forty minutes.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jo. ‘Go warm your cockles.’

  The constable made his way back to the slope and Jo followed. Pryce delayed, taking a few paces further up the bank, shining his torch into the trees, then he came too. Near the slope he suddenly stopped and lifted a foot. ‘Bugger! I think I stood in dog shit.’

  Above, Pinker cackled. ‘Not dog shit, boss. That’s evidence.’

  * * *

  Pryce cleaned his shoe in the water and replaced his footwear with sports pumps from the boot of his car. They sat in Jo’s vehicle for the next hour, sharing a thermos of tea, while he filled Jo in on his work that afternoon. Prints had come back from Malin’s room at Oriel, and they’d found two sets primarily. One was Malin’s, found on her clarinet and all over the room. The other was focused around the drawers in the bathroom and bedroom. ‘Like someone was looking for something,’ he said. ‘Whoever left those is likely our prime suspect, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sounds plausible,’ said Jo.

  Frampton-Keys had given a full statement on the Myers affair. It seemed that the old tutor was telling the truth about one thing at least. Malin had dropped her complaint of harassment. The Vice Provost insisted that Myers had left the college voluntarily after that, and had returned his security pass. He’d come into college just once since, to meet with a former colleague on a committee. She claimed to know nothing about Malin’s extra-curricular relationships.

  ‘You think Anna Mull had some sort of
axe to grind?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Could be,’ said Pryce. ‘There were some concerns, last academic year – an accusation of plagiarism against Anna, by one Ronald Myers. She got off with a warning.’

  ‘You think she knows more about the disappearance than she’s letting on?’

  Pryce shrugged. ‘Everyone knows more than they let on. She was leaving for the vac today, wasn’t she?’

  ‘The vac? You mean the holidays? You sound like one of their lot.’

  Pryce smiled, and raised his eyebrows. ‘Guilty as charged, ma’am.’

  ‘You came to uni here?’

  ‘Cambridge,’ he said. ‘Computer science, though. Proper subject, not like History.’

  ‘Hey, I studied History!’ Jo protested.

  His demeanour shifted and he looked suddenly quite mortified. ‘Oh. I didn’t … Sorry, ma’am.’

  She laughed, reached across without thinking, and touched his wrist. ‘Don’t worry – I might have been offended two decades ago, but it’s all a distant memory now.’

  He looked at her hand, and she pulled it away again. That was stupid, Josephine. Change the subject …

  ‘So how’d you end up being a plod?’

  Pryce lay his head back on the rest. ‘My father was in the force. That almost convinced me not to – he wasn’t a happy man. My folks broke up when I was thirteen, mostly because he was never around. He died when I was seventeen at the grand old age of forty-nine.’

  ‘So what changed your mind?’ asked Jo. ‘Can’t have been the money.’

  He looked at her. ‘Maybe I’ll let you go first.’

  ‘Oh, I often ask myself the same question,’ she said. ‘I suppose I wanted to make a difference. Fuck, that sounds naff.’

  ‘A little,’ said Pryce. ‘But at least you succeeded. That Dylan Jones stuff was … out there.’

  Silence fell for a few seconds. She realised they’d never spoken of the case at all until then. In fact, few of her colleagues ever mentioned it. They must have recognised it was tacitly off-limits, at least for the time being.