by M. J. Ford
‘What’s new?’ said Carrick.
Chapter 10
When he opened his front door, Ronald Myers didn’t look at all pleased to see them again, and despite their assurances he wasn’t under arrest, he insisted on having his lawyer present.
‘I’m not talking to you.’
‘We have some follow-up questions,’ said Jo. ‘Just a few things to clarify.’
‘And if I refuse?’ said Myers.
‘We’d rather not go down that road,’ said Jo. ‘We can do it here. You’re not under caution. You’re just helping with our enquiries.’
‘You people made a terrible mess,’ said Myers plaintively.
‘And that’s unfortunate,’ said Carrick, ‘but you must understand, we’re only interested in finding Malin. And if you’d come clean about your relationship earlier, all the mess could have been avoided.’
‘So it’s my fault?’
‘It’s no one’s fault,’ said Jo. She felt like she was talking to a child. ‘The sooner we clear up a few points, the sooner you never have to see us again.’
‘I really don’t know what’s happened to her,’ said Myers. ‘I cared about her deeply.’
‘We believe you,’ said Carrick, ‘but it’s important that you’re honest with us. You said you had a sexual relationship with Malin.’
‘Indeed. And last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.’
‘Forgive me if this sounds insensitive, but what did Malin get out of this arrangement?’
Ronald’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction, and for a split-second. ‘Insulting me will get you nowhere.’
‘Did any money change hands?’ Jo asked.
‘Money?’
‘Yes. You know what money is, I assume? Did you pay Malin Sigurdsson for her … er, company?’
‘Of course I didn’t. What do you take me for? What do you take her for?’
‘A vulnerable young woman with a drug addiction she’d go to any length to quench. Any length.’
Myers looked away, impatiently. ‘I’m not saying anything else without a lawyer.’
‘I don’t think we need any more,’ said Carrick, turning from the door. Jo followed suit.
‘Hey, wait!’ said Myers. ‘What happens now?’
Carrick turned back. ‘I think we get a warrant to look at your bank records. Establish what was leaving your account, and if we can match it with Malin’s spending habits.’
Jo played along. ‘Good thinking.’
‘No,’ said Myers. ‘Look, I may have taken Malin out for dinner a few times.’
‘Just dinner?’ said Carrick. ‘Whereabouts? In Oxford.’
Myers clammed up. ‘A place in Thame,’ he said. ‘We … we didn’t want to be seen. For obvious reasons.’
‘And other than that, did Malin ask you for money?’
Myers ran a hand over his beard. ‘You’re making it sound tawdry, but why shouldn’t I give her something? I have plenty, she was a student. She needed books, food, a bicycle … stationery.’
Jo couldn’t stop the burst of laughter, to which Myers slammed a hand on the doorframe. ‘Enough of this! They were gifts. Nothing more. I can give gifts to whom I please.’
‘She wasn’t spending the money on stationery,’ said Jo. ‘It was going on heroin.’
‘Well, I know nothing about that. Nothing at all. And you can’t prove I did.’
‘Thank you,’ said Carrick. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
When they were back in the car, Jo turned to her colleague. ‘Can we swing by Oriel college?’ Carrick looked at her quizzically. ‘I have a feeling I know whose prints we might have found in Malin’s room.’
* * *
‘My fingerprints?’ Belinda Frampton-Keys looked flustered. ‘Why?’
‘It’s just a formality,’ said Carrick. ‘We’ll have you back at the college in half an hour.’
‘I’m really busy,’ said Frampton-Keys. ‘Shouldn’t you be out looking for Malin?’
Jo was losing patience. ‘Did you enter Malin’s room between Anna telling you she was missing and the first police officer arriving on the scene?’
‘Well, yes – I told you that. We used our spare key. We thought she might be in danger.’
‘That’s what I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you assume she was just out?’
‘She didn’t answer her phone. It was Anna Mull who was worried.’
‘And why would she be worried? People don’t answer phones all the time.’
Frampton-Keys looked back and forth between them. ‘Maybe she … well … they’re friends, aren’t they? People worry about their friends.’
‘If their friends have drug problems,’ said Carrick.
The Vice Provost coloured. ‘We have a zero-tolerance policy on drugs at the college.’
‘That’s the second time I’ve heard that in two days,’ said Jo. ‘They say the same about prisons, but the addiction rate is higher inside than out.’
‘I hardly think you can compare the college to a prison,’ said Frampton-Keys, with a toss of her head.
‘Of course not,’ said Carrick. ‘And having established Malin wasn’t in her room, what did you do next?’
‘I phoned the police.’
‘Straightaway?’
A pause. ‘Pretty much, yes.’
‘Pretty much?’
‘Yes, right away then.’
‘You didn’t enter the room?’
‘Only to establish she wasn’t inside. What are you getting at?’
‘Forensics found a set of prints in the room that wasn’t Malin’s,’ said Jo. ‘It appears on all the drawers, the wardrobe door, in the bathroom cabinet. We thought it must be someone intimate with Malin, maybe even the person who hurt her, but now we’ve got another theory. That it was someone going through her things. Looking for something.’
Frampton-Keys didn’t say anything but her face was twitching a little around the mouth.
‘I looked over the statement Anna Mull gave,’ said Jo. ‘She told you that she came to you at around noon. You phoned us just after one.’
‘I phoned her father’s office. I wanted to know if he knew where Malin was.’
‘You didn’t mention this before.’
‘I didn’t think I had to?’
‘There was blood in the bathroom. Quite a lot. You didn’t think to phone the police first?’
‘I suppose I panicked.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Jo. ‘If we were to take your fingerprints, do you think they’d be a match for those in Malin’s room?’
The Vice Provost did not answer.
‘I understand why,’ said Jo. ‘The family have a right to privacy. If there was something embarrassing in Malin’s room, why not remove it? But you must understand, removing evidence from a crime scene, especially class A drugs, is obstructing the course of a police investigation – a serious offence.’
Frampton-Keys looked at her sharply. ‘Am I in trouble?’
Jo shook her head casually. ‘Not if you tell us the truth now.’
The Vice Provost nodded briskly. ‘I’ll need to talk to Nicholas – Mr Cranleigh, first.’
She made to stand, but Jo remained planted. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘We’ll be speaking to Mr Cranleigh ourselves, very soon. How about you tell us where the drugs are now?’
‘I … I didn’t know what it was. It’s not something I know about at all. I flushed it down the toilet, like they do in the TV shows.’
‘Very enterprising,’ said Jo.
Carrick opened his copy book. ‘We need you to be a lot more honest with us,’ he said. ‘For Malin’s sake. We’re aware of the sensitivities, both with Malin’s father and the colleges, but if you hide things, it will only make the outcome worse. Do you understand?’
The Vice Provost nodded.
‘Tell us, then,’ said Jo.
It spilled out of her, and it turned out the ‘zero tolerance’ policy on drugs at college depend
ed, strictly, on who your parents were. In addition to the hospital admission in her second year, one of the scouts – the name given to the cleaning ladies at the college – had found Malin semi-conscious at the beginning of her very first term, a needle still protruding between her toes. Malin had fled, that time, before the college authorities had come to the room, and the Dean had been keen to make an example of her before Nicholas Cranleigh had stepped in with assurances that Malin was struggling because of what had happened to her father. Jo wondered if the news had even reached Hana Sigurdsson in Sweden before it was hushed up. Frampton-Keys told them that Malin had voluntarily entered a drug programme and was being prescribed methadone in diminishing doses. And for the most part, it seemed to be working. Certainly, Malin’s tutors all seemed to have no idea about her habit, reporting her as one of their more gifted students. Frampton-Keys began to well up as she spoke.
‘When I saw the blood, I was cross,’ she said. ‘I thought Malin had probably just had a stupid accident. If I’d known it was something else – something worse – I wouldn’t have taken those things.’
Carrick looked genuinely sympathetic as he nodded, but Jo struggled to feel much at all for Frampton-Keys. People always lied to the police, to keep their secrets hidden, but the Vice Provost had acted like she was above the whole process from the start. ‘I can’t promise this will exonerate you,’ she said. ‘What you did was stupid, and illegal. And if there’s anything – anything at all – that you’re not telling us now, then so help me God I’ll drag you to the station in cuffs myself.’
Carrick shot her a sideways glance as if trying to read how sincere she was being. ‘We know you want to find Malin as much as us,’ he muttered.
Frampton-Keys sniffed. ‘I pray you do,’ she said. ‘I really do.’
* * *
Stratton summoned Carrick as soon as they were back in the station, and Jo knew at once it was a boys-only meeting. Andy wouldn’t downplay her involvement, she knew, and indeed, she caught Stratton throwing slightly pained glances at her through the partition of his office as Carrick filled him in. That’s right, you vindictive sod – I do know how to do my job …
Pryce was in front of his screen, staring intently, chewing on the end of a pencil.
‘Any luck with the ANPR on the 4074?’ she asked.
‘We’ve got eight hundred and ninety vehicles southbound in the time-frame,’ he said. ‘And six hundred northbound.’
More than she’d thought. ‘And cross-reffing with vehicle types, any white transit-style vans?’
Pryce tapped his notepad. ‘Five.’
He showed her a collection of printed images of drivers behind the wheel. It was next to impossible to see any faces due to the fact the pictures were taken after dusk. Jo noticed that one of the vehicles on the list was flagged as untaxed.
‘Let’s start there,’ said Jo.
The van was registered to a Mark Hannity, address in Basingstoke.
‘Good thinking,’ said Stratton, arriving at their side.
‘Any chance we could get a couple of uniforms to share the load?’ asked Jo, though she knew the answer before she finished the question.
Stratton shook his head looking pained. ‘I think you two should handle it, Jo. I mean, we wouldn’t want to miss anything by being sloppy.’
In a clenched fist, she drove her nails into her palm. ‘Of course not, sir.’
Chapter 11
It was close to 10.30 pm when she dropped Pryce back at the windswept station, and hardly anyone was braving the streets of Oxford in the bitter cold. Despite the settling frost, her blood was boiling.
‘What a waste of fucking time!’ she said.
They’d spent an hour waiting for Mark Hannity to arrive home, laden with takeaway from a chip shop. He was a sorry state, contrite about his lack of up-to-date tax – simply an oversight, he said, because he’d been in hospital recently. He still had a fixed boot on his foot where two toes had been amputated due to complications arising from his diabetes, so they didn’t go hard on him. He allowed them to search the van he used for his struggling house clearance business. There were no dents that they could see, and he denied using the Little Baldon bridge. Jo watched him eat greasy fish and chips from a tray, her stomach grumbling.
Of the four remaining vans, two were in the Oxford environs, one in Didcot, and one in Bicester. They’d spoken to three of the owners at home – a plumber, a painter, and a florist, but the fourth, a food wholesaler of artisan French cheeses, was apparently out of the country until the following morning. Of the three interviews, none had been in the slightest bit productive, and Jo felt she’d wound back time to her days on the beat, carrying out mind-numbing door-to-door enquiries that never went anywhere. The plumber and the florist had been heading home from jobs, the painter on his way to pick up stock. All said their routes hadn’t taken in the Little Baldon bridge, and none of their vehicles had any obvious impact markings either. It didn’t mean they were clean, but it meant there was zero evidence to link them with the hit and run. She knew Stratton would never sign off on sampling the rubber from each of their tyres. Departmental budgets were tight, and the hit and run of a potential drug addict wouldn’t meet the public interest threshold.
Pryce unclipped his seatbelt and muttered, ‘For every door that closes, another opens.’
She curled her lip. ‘What on earth does that mean?’
‘Something one of our lecturers used to say on the investigative programme. I think it means even a lead that goes nowhere at least tells you where not to look for answers.’
‘He must have been a hit at parties.’
‘A woman actually,’ said Pryce, smiling warmly. ‘So what’s next?’
‘A fucking Tarot reading, maybe? Seems as good an option as any.’
Pryce looked askance at her. ‘Are you okay?’
She really wasn’t. Lucas would be at home, and with all the driving she’d had plenty of time to dwell. Would Bob have told him she’d stopped by? And if so, would he have an excuse already for the lies? She hardly relished that particular interrogation.
‘I suppose we have to hope someone else comes forward from the public appeal,’ said Jo. ‘Or the culprit has a religious awakening and hands themselves in, and gives a full statement of their wrongs.’
Pryce chuckled. ‘That happen often?’
Jo laughed as well. ‘Hey, Jack,’ she said, as Pryce was getting out of the car. ‘You don’t fancy a drink, do you?’
‘Oh!’ He blinked, like she’d just asked him something utterly unfathomable. ‘Now?’
‘That’s what I was thinking. Look, no pressure. I just thought, y’know, it’s been a shit day …’
‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘But I can’t. Not tonight anyway. I’ve got—’
‘It’s fine,’ said Jo. She was already starting the engine. ‘You don’t have to give me an excuse.’ To her horror, she was blushing, and in the car’s internal light, it must be obvious. ‘Catch up tomorrow, okay?’
‘Sure.’
He saluted awkwardly as she drove away. As she did, she worried she’d put him on the spot, made him feel uncomfortable. Maybe it was a bit odd, just the two of them. She was his superior, and even if the relationship was completely platonic, it wasn’t really on. And she could hardly claim ignorance of that. When she and Ben had got together, they’d kept it a secret from almost everyone, but especially their commanding officer.
‘Fuck,’ she cursed herself. Though she hadn’t been thinking of anything romantic, she couldn’t deny her pride was bruised at the blunt rejection. That look on his face at her simple offer had taken her by surprise. Shock, but something else too. Pity, perhaps. Contempt, even. Okay, she was older, but hardly past it. And they’d been getting on well; he was easy to talk to. She didn’t think he had a partner. Maybe she’d misread it. Carrick too. Or maybe he was just aware of what others would say if it got out. He might have got wind of the bet Pinker was running …
> She stopped at the lights, and a young couple, red-cheeked and wrapped up, skipped across arm in arm. She felt suddenly even older. The knot in her stomach grew.
Shifting logs with Bob? No you weren’t.
He’d lied so easily, and if there was one person she’d never thought would lie to her, it was him. Had the experience with Ben not taught her anything, or was it just a feature of falling in love that your critical faculties went out of the window? No, it wasn’t just her. Her sister-in-law Amelia had said it from the first time she met Lucas. ‘He’s great, Jo. No edges, you know?’
‘You mean boring,’ Jo had said. At that stage, they’d only been seeing each other a month, and most of the hours they spent together were horizontal.
‘No!’ Amelia had protested. ‘I mean genuine.’
Jo had scoffed to make light of it, but inside she’d been glowing. Amelia’s affirmation shouldn’t have meant anything. Jo was a grown woman, and she didn’t need the approval of her brother’s wife. Of anyone. But knowing they liked Lucas, admired his qualities, saw he was a good person, signified more than just that. It meant, in a vicarious way, that because he had chosen her, she was good too.
Or, at least, it had.
She hadn’t travelled beyond the city centre when she decided to pull over. Taking out her phone, she messaged Lucas.
Working late, so staying at my place tonight. Sleep well x.
Adding the kiss, a tiny subterfuge, felt like a betrayal to herself as much as him.
We’re both telling lies now.
* * *
She drove instead across town to The Three Crowns on Canterbury Road, and the warm light through the glass door of what was still called the Public Bar welcomed her. Lucas’s text came back. Don’t work too hard. Happy birthday for tomorrow xxx The mention of the date made her stomach twist with dread, and she was even angrier with him for bringing it up. She pushed the door open into the slightly musty interior, stepping over the landlord’s shaggy Welsh collie that seemed as much part of the tired décor as the stains on the carpet and the old framed Punch cartoons that hung on the walls. There were half a dozen in, all regulars. A couple in their eighties who sat opposite one another and never spoke; Fat Eddie at the bar, with his thin strands of artfully back-combed hair, and the barmaid herself.
