Keep Her Close

by M. J. Ford

  Harry Ferman was playing darts with another old-timer, Malc, but from the chaser and short on the corner table, and the scarf neatly folded on the seat, it looked like he was occupying his normal spot for the evening. She’d first met him during the Dylan Jones investigation, a former detective himself, brought back in because he knew the case better than anyone. In his late sixties, white-haired, he had a slightly shambolic air and a sickly pallor. In the months after, they’d met a few times, always in his local. She wasn’t sure why exactly, and he’d been kind enough never to say how odd it was.

  He noticed her as his playing partner retrieved his darts from the board.

  ‘Well, well – not expecting you.’

  ‘Need a bloody appointment, do I?’ she mock scolded him. ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow. That enough?’

  ‘Say no more.’ He called across to the bar. ‘Connie, whatever the young lady’s having please.’

  ‘Usual, please.’ Jo peeled off her outer layers, and hung them on a wall-peg, then went across to the bar to claim her vodka tonic. ‘Cheers, Connie.’ She went back to the table to watch Ferman finish his game, which he did with a perfectly placed double-top. It took her back to the times she’d played with her dad in their garage – where he used to smoke out of her mother’s sight.

  Ferman shook Malc’s hand and they both wandered back to their table.

  ‘I don’t feel young, Harry.’

  ‘It’s all relative.’ As if to illustrate his point, he sat down in two discrete, laboured movements – a slow bend from the waist, then a sort of heavy flop backwards onto the cushioned seat.

  ‘Thanks for the drink,’ said Jo.

  Ferman took a swig of his pint. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you seem in less than festive cheer. Work or love-life?’

  ‘A perfect shit-storm of both.’

  Harry might be a functioning alcoholic, but he was a good listener. Certain things about Thames Valley Police had changed a lot since his day. Computers for one. And the all-pervasive drug problems faced by every city. The gender and ethnic make-up of the force. But his colourful stories suggested other things would always be the same – office politics and the stupidity of ninety per cent of the criminals they encountered.

  ‘You want to talk?’ he said. ‘Can’t guarantee I’ll have much insight into either modern policing or modern romance.’

  ‘I’ll spare you the gory details on the latter,’ she said. ‘Stratton’s got me on a wild goose chase. A hit and run out near Little Baldon.’

  He nodded. ‘I know the place.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, I’ve driven through it. Used to be a Borstal out that way. Brookhampton. Grim sort of Edwardian place where they send juveniles to learn respect. We had to transport ’em occasionally, or take ’em back when they did a runner. Ruin now. Called it the Buggers’ Palace, mostly to scare the kids into behaving. Funny how things change, eh? Wouldn’t get away with that now.’

  ‘Locking up kids or homophobia?’

  ‘Take your pick.’ He drained his drink. ‘So why’s the DCI got you on a hit and run?’

  ‘Same old crap,’ said Jo. ‘He still thinks I’m likely to go off the rails. Sees me as some sort of paranoid, hormonal harpy.’

  ‘Two out of three ain’t bad.’

  Jo wagged a finger at him. ‘Don’t test me. Not today.’ They sat a moment in silence. It was one of Harry’s specialities, knowing when to keep quiet and when to speak up. One of the reasons she liked his company. At the next table, the old couple rose simultaneously to leave, without any obvious signal or verbal interaction. Maybe at that age, together that long, there was telepathy involved.

  ‘You know what really pisses me off,’ she said. ‘It’s that he’d put me on the hit and run because he thinks it doesn’t matter. We’ve got this other case, a disappearance – looks like a college girl’s got herself messed up over drugs. He’s got the dad on direct dial, Andy Carrick on a tight leash, uniforms on standby. But the hit and run – some poor girl’s dead – and it might as well not matter. It’s all about appearances.’

  ‘Welcome to the world,’ said Ferman. ‘Listen, I need your help.’ He fished in his pocket, and pulled out a mobile phone.

  ‘No way!’ said Jo.

  ‘I took your advice,’ he said. ‘Joined the twenty-first century. Problem is, everything looks too small on the screen, and I don’t want to be carting the reading glasses around all the time.’

  ‘Let me have a look,’ said Jo.

  It took a bit of searching through the settings, but she managed to bump up the text display size. She put her number into his phone too, and dialled it.

  ‘Next time I will make an appointment,’ she said, saving his number to her device. ‘Right, I’d better go.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Harry. ‘And if you want some advice from me, the best you can do is solve the case. Prove yourself. Stratton won’t be your boss forever.’

  ‘You know something I don’t?’

  He smiled. ‘If there’s one thing long life gives you, aside from arthritis, it’s a sense of perspective. Glass half full and all that.’ He held up his, empty. ‘Speaking of which …’

  Chapter 12

  FRIDAY

  ‘In my office, please,’ said Stratton, beckoning Jo over before she’d even taken off her coat the following morning. Pryce was at his desk, his head down. Was he avoiding her eyes on purpose, because of last night? She’d really need to speak with him, somehow, without making it worse.

  Lucas had tried to call, but she’d replied by text that she was in the middle of something and would ring him later. Sometimes the job was a good excuse.

  ‘Close the door,’ said Stratton.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ asked Jo, as she obeyed.

  ‘We’ve had an official complaint,’ he said. ‘From Nicholas Cranleigh. He says you’ve been harassing staff at Oriel college.’

  What a pile of shit …

  She tried to stay calm, externally at least. ‘Have you spoken to Andy?’ she asked. ‘It looks like Malin is mixed up in drug-related crime, and Cranleigh’s worried about me asking his pet professor a few questions?’

  Stratton held up his hand in a particularly infuriating way. ‘I think it’s your manner he’s objecting to. The Vice Provost is very upset.’

  ‘She manipulated the crime scene, sir,’ said Jo. ‘Disposing of an unknown quantity of a class A drug and jeopardising our investigation.’

  ‘It’s not your investigation though, is it?’ said Stratton. ‘You’re supposed to be on this hit and run.’

  ‘And we’re following up on those leads,’ said Jo, biting the inside of her cheek. ‘Pryce and I were out until God knows what hour driving around the county.’ She almost added on a fool’s errand, but caught herself.

  ‘And?’ said Stratton.

  ‘Sir, if we could have a few uniforms, it would be much quicker,’ said Jo.

  ‘I think I made myself clear on that yesterday,’ said the DCI. ‘I don’t have infinite resources at my disposal.’

  There was a knock on the door. It was Pryce. Stratton waved him in.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sir, I couldn’t help overhearing.’

  ‘Couldn’t you?’

  ‘Sir, respectfully, it was Jo’s work on the Sigurdsson case that got us where we are.’

  It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room as Stratton turned to him. Jo wished he’d never got involved. She really didn’t need a white knight at the moment.

  ‘And where are we, exactly, detective?’

  Pryce didn’t seem to realise he’d pushed a button. ‘Well, we have a fuller understanding of Malin’s personal life. The drugs, her relationships. If you ask me—’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Stratton. ‘Tell me, are we any closer to locating Malin?’

  Pryce paused, and Jo said, ‘It’s all right, Jack. Don’t worry about it.’

  Stratton shook his head is dismay. ‘You
know, I took you on because I heard good things from the Met. But if you can’t follow simple orders, I might have to re-examine that decision.’ He pointed at Pryce, then at Jo. ‘Both of you, stick to the hit and run. Work the leads. Got it?’

  ‘Got it, sir,’ said Jo.

  Pryce nodded, a chastened look on his face. Stratton walked from behind his desk, opened the door himself, and waited for them to leave.

  ‘You didn’t have to stick up for me,’ muttered Jo, as she sat at her desk.

  ‘I was just stating the facts,’ said Pryce. He lowered his voice. ‘It’s a bit odd, don’t you think? He seems very keen to keep us off the case.’

  ‘I think it’s me he’s worried about,’ said Jo. ‘Sorry to drag you down with me.’

  She tried to stay positive, following Harry’s advice. ‘Come on, we’ve got our van-driving cheese merchant to call on …’

  * * *

  Predictably, Tasha Makepeace was a dead end as well. She had an even firmer case than the others, because her van wasn’t actually white on the sides, but emblazoned with colour that hadn’t shown on the head-on ANPR images – a French flag, and several graphics of famous Gallic landmarks. And though she couldn’t swear she’d never taken the road via Little Baldon, her route from her home in South Oxford down to Portsmouth gave her no reason to on the Tuesday in question.

  ‘I can’t help thinking we’re looking at this wrong,’ said Jo, as they drove back towards the city centre. ‘We’re trying to put drivers on that section of road, but we should be asking why Natalie was there in the first place.’

  ‘Selling sex is the only thing I can think of,’ said Pryce. ‘Something went wrong. Either the punter kicked her out, or she got scared and ran.’

  ‘I don’t buy it,’ said Jo. ‘She was wearing her work clothes, with her college pass. Hardly hooker attire.’ She thought back to the details of the file. ‘Hell, even her underwear was what I’d tactfully call functional. We haven’t got any evidence that she was a sex worker, there was no sign of sexual activity. We’ve got the trace of ketamine, but no evidence she was a habitual user.’

  ‘Her mum is.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jo. ‘But we’re not all like our mothers. Trust me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Pryce.

  ‘We’re trying to put Natalie in this box, and she doesn’t fit. Look at her bedroom. Neat and tidy, an island of calm in that shithole she shares with her mum. She’s holding down a regular job, the sort of place they’d dump her in a second if she gave them a reason. Making her own lunch. Does that sound like any addict you’ve ever come across?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Pryce. ‘Have you got another theory?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ she replied.

  Jo tried to imagine Natalie out walking on that road. The skid marks and blood suggested she was heading away from Oxford, not home. But it was a straight stretch. Though it would have been dark, her coat was pale, and there was enough room at the side to stay safe if she’d wanted to. Suicide was a possibility, throwing herself into the path of a speeding car, but that only raised more questions. Something related to the incident with the man at her college, maybe. And it still didn’t explain how she ended up in that spot. She couldn’t drive, and there were no buses that went out that way. To all intents and purposes, Natalie had seemed to be getting on with her life, despite the odds stacked against her.

  ‘I think I might go and take another look at the bridge.’

  Pryce shrugged. ‘If you think it’ll help.’

  She drove in silence a while, but there was a definite weight in the air between them. If she wanted to talk to him about her ill-advised offer the night before, now would be the time. As it happened, he spoke first.

  ‘I meant what I said to Stratton earlier, about the case. I think he’s mad to keep you off it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jo. ‘He and I have a bit of a history, though.’

  ‘If you want to make a formal complaint about his behaviour, I’d support it.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re there yet,’ she said. ‘And you don’t need to get on the wrong side of a DCI. Stratton is going to be around for a long time.’

  Pryce smiled. ‘I didn’t request a transfer to St Aldates because I wanted to work with Phil Stratton.’

  Jo blushed, remembering what Carrick had said about Pryce looking at her case files. It was almost exactly the same feeling as when Nathan Marshall had sent her a Valentine’s card in Year Eleven.

  ‘Well, sorry to shatter illusions.’

  ‘You haven’t.’

  He was looking at her, she realised, but she kept her eyes on the road, acutely aware that every second she let this go on, she was stringing him along. It would be the easiest thing to stop the car, lean across and make a small mistake into a colossal one. She shook herself mentally. Lucas had lied, but that didn’t mean he’d cheated on her.

  ‘Listen, Jack, you’re a great …’

  His phone’s ringtone came at just the right moment.

  ‘Hi, Heidi,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

  He listened, nodding, and cast a sideways glance at Jo. ‘Ten minutes, or so,’ he said, then hung up. ‘Stratton wants everyone back.’

  ‘What for?’ said Jo, her skin prickling.

  ‘She didn’t know. Sounds serious though.’

  * * *

  When she and Pryce got back to the station, all the other detectives were in the briefing room. And they could barely meet Jo’s eye. Stratton, at the front, had an evidence box on the table.

  ‘Good of you to join us,’ said Stratton. ‘Take a seat please, Jack. Jo, I think you’ve got some explaining to do.’

  What now? ‘Sir, I don’t understand …’

  Stratton put his hands on his hips, and Carrick shook his head. ‘Jo, I can’t believe you didn’t tell us. We’re supposed to be working together.’

  ‘Will someone tell me what this is about, because I really have no fucking clue?’

  Dimitriou brought a hand to his mouth. Was he actually laughing?

  Stratton reached into the evidence box, and lifted out a cake. His face broke into a smile. ‘Happy birthday, Detective Masters.’

  ‘You absolute fucking arseholes,’ said Jo, shaking her head.

  Everyone began to laugh, and Dimitriou lit the candles on the cake with his lighter.

  ‘Now make a wish,’ said Heidi.

  ‘I’m not seven,’ said Jo.

  ‘How old are you?’ said Dimitriou, grinning. ‘No one would tell me.’

  Jo blew out the candles. ‘I wish I was ten years younger,’ she said.

  They ate the cake, and while she was eating, Stratton came across. ‘Jo, I hope you don’t feel I’ve been unreasonable in the last few days.’ His faux sincerity made it hard to swallow, but she managed. ‘Of course not, sir. These open cases are tough.’

  ‘I take it you’re no closer with the hit and run?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Jo. ‘Short of new evidence coming forward, I’m not sure where we go from here.’ She almost suggested she get back on the Sigurdsson case, but she didn’t want to push his sudden good mood.

  He drifted back to his office, and Jo walked up to Heidi, who was wiping cream from the corner of her mouth. ‘Was this your idea? I can’t imagine the boss keeps track of birthdays.’

  ‘No way,’ said Heidi. ‘It was Lucas who told us. He’s booked a table for lunch at that Lebanese place off the High Street, by the way. Said he’d been trying to get hold of you but you hadn’t answered.’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘He dropped in first thing,’ said Heidi. ‘Something up?’

  ‘No,’ said Jo. ‘I’d better call him.’

  ‘And I’d better eat another slice of that cake,’ said Heidi. She looked around surreptitiously, then lowered her voice. ‘I know we’ve not spoken about it much, but I can’t imagine what you went through before, with Ben. But you’ve fallen on your feet with that guy.’

&n
bsp; ‘Lucas? Ha! Thanks. Apart from the dirt under the fingernails.’

  ‘No, I mean it,’ said Heidi. ‘You can just tell with some people, you know? If anyone deserves a straightforward life, it’s you, right?’

  Jo thought back to her moment with Pryce in the car. He’s young. Whatever he thinks he wants, it wouldn’t be right to take advantage. She did her best to smile.

  Lucas was already seated at the table when she arrived. He had dressed in what she recognised as his smartest shirt. The air smelled of spices and grilled meat, making her feel a little sick. She really didn’t know how she’d get through the meal without talking to him about the lie. Equally, she knew she couldn’t sit across a table from him and ignore it.

  He stood up when he saw her, smiling. They kissed, then she took off her coat and hung it over the chair.

  ‘Don’t you dare sing “Happy Birthday”,’ she said, as she sat.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Stratton let you out then?’

  ‘Practically booted me through the door,’ said Jo. ‘And Bob gave you some time off too?’

  ‘The guy has about two hours’ worth of fag breaks a day,’ said Lucas.

  Jo couldn’t help herself. ‘He should be careful. All that heavy lifting could finish him off.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Logs.’

  ‘Oh, right, sure.’ He handed her a menu. ‘Don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’ They ordered starters and sharing plates, and Jo watched Lucas’s face as he ate, looking for any clues she’d missed before. They talked about Christmas, for which Lucas still had a touchingly boyish enthusiasm, and where they would spend it. Paul and Amelia had proffered an invite to both of them, which Jo had accepted, but now she tried to backtrack, suggesting she and Lucas spend it alone. She’d let Ben inveigle his way into her family’s affections, and his death had sent tremors through the lives of her nephew and niece. If things were going south with Lucas too, she wanted to nip it in the bud discreetly and avoid collateral emotional damage to those close to her. They’d dealt with plenty already.