Keep Her Close

by M. J. Ford

  Jo began to make calls – just finding the right person to speak to at the colleges was hard enough, and she hardly knew what to say when she did get through to the right person, partly because it was hard to convince herself of what they were dealing with. Jesus, Oriel and Somerville had nothing in common that she could see, and despite what Stratton had said, there really weren’t any clear links in the method involved in taking each girl. Malin’s was by far the most audacious, if indeed it was a kidnapping. The perpetrator had actually entered the college. Rita’s seemed much less risky – really she could have been any female using the alley in the early hours. But Heidi was right – if they were connected, they were talking significant planning and almost military precision in the crimes themselves. Who knew how many girls their man had been following, looking for the best pickings?

  ‘Do we know the code for Rita’s phone?’ asked Jo. ‘If I was being followed, the first thing I’d do is record evidence.’

  ‘We could get a warrant to serve to the manufacturer,’ said Pryce. ‘It’ll take a few hours.’

  While he went to fetch the phone from evidence, Carrick called Nabil and Rita’s parents. No one knew the code, but he made a list of any important dates they could think of to try.

  It took a couple of lock-outs, but the mother’s date of birth proved successful. Jo went to the photos first. There were lots of college life with friends, a couple of chaste shots with Nabil, some Oxford scenery, a series of bored-looking selfies in a library. She tried to stay detached, but the pictures were so full of life, and naïve happiness, that she felt herself welling up. She went back four weeks, but there was nothing that looked helpful. She checked the texts too, which proved slightly more interesting. It looked like Rita had tried to break things off with Nabil during the summer, telling him her parents would never approve. But it appeared they’d picked up their relationship again almost at once in October when the new term began.

  Carrick concurred. ‘Seems flimsy. Lover’s tiff. He was definitely at the college this morning.’

  He headed back out again, with Phil Stratton, to liaise with the Chief Constable and the media team. As the office buzzed with activity, and comings and goings, Jo leant across to Heidi’s desk.

  ‘Can I ask you something? About Lucas?’

  ‘Er … sure.’

  ‘Did he mention booking a holiday to you?’ Heidi looked a little flummoxed, mouth flapping. ‘It’s all right, you can tell me.’

  ‘Yeah, he did. He wanted to know if Stratton would let you have a week off at the end of January.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘I told him Stratton would be happy to see the back of you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Hey, it was sweet. Last surprise my husband got me was an orthopaedic shoe appointment to help my cankles.’

  Jo grinned. ‘I’m sure his heart was in the right place.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Pryce, ‘check this out.’

  He had Rita’s phone, and flicked it round. It showed Rita at some sort of black tie event. She looked proud, a little shy, and completely innocent, and was standing beside a pink-cheeked man in a dinner jacket, holding a glass of champagne. Jo had to double-take. It was Nicholas Cranleigh.

  ‘No way,’ she said.

  ‘Interesting, huh?’ said Pryce, in what seemed an understatement.

  There were several pictures of the evening, with Rita sitting at some sort of dinner. Cranleigh appeared in only the one. Nabil didn’t feature. But another shot, of just Rita and a friend, showed a background with a podium and a panel reading ‘Oxford University Young Conservative Association’.

  A search on the web showed it had taken place the previous June.

  ‘We have to speak with him,’ said Jo. ‘He’s a link.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Pryce. He looked surreptitiously towards Stratton’s empty office.

  ‘Look, I get it,’ said Jo. ‘I’ll go on my own.’

  ‘No,’ said Pryce. ‘You’re right. This is a legitimate lead. We just have to be cautious.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Jo. ‘He’s not a suspect, he’s just helping us with our enquiries.’

  ‘And let’s finish calling round the colleges first – cover all bases.’

  Jo smiled. Dimitriou was right – Pryce was getting the hang of things. It was true that if Stratton were here, there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of him letting them talk to Cranleigh. But so far the guy had got a clean pass. True, the thought of him in a white van was pretty much preposterous, and he likely had sound alibis. However, the fact that no one had questioned him officially until now still rankled. If he was involved, in any way, Jo wanted to be the one to bring him in. And even if it was just a case of eliminating him from their enquiries, it would put her mind at rest.

  Before they left, she went to the board with a photo of Natalie Palmer. She knew it wasn’t proven, and she knew it would piss off DCI Stratton, but she couldn’t help herself. She circled Jesus College, wrote a J, and pinned Natalie’s picture from her ID beside it.

  * * *

  They took Pryce’s car – a brand new Honda Civic with all the bells and whistles, and spotlessly clean inside. It seemed to match his personality perfectly. He must be leasing it, Jo thought, then remembered that his father had died early, so perhaps he’d had a windfall. She pondered shamefully what he must have thought of her car, with its scrapes and dents, and stubborn crumbs that even the valet service had failed to dislodge. Did that say something about her character too? she wondered.

  Cranleigh’s registered address was in Shipton-under-Wychwood on the edge of the Cotswolds and they hopped from one affluent country village to the next, places with one pub, one shop if they were lucky, and a distinct lack of non-white residents.

  ‘Do you think Cranleigh’s behaviour has been a bit weird?’ she said. ‘From the start, he seemed more interested in his own reputation than anything else.’

  ‘Malin’s not his kid,’ said Pryce. ‘It doesn’t sound like they had much of a relationship. Can’t see why he’d kidnap her, though.’

  ‘Nothing about this case makes sense to me.’ After a long pause, she spoke again. ‘I never thanked you properly for last night. Coming in to rescue me with a fire extinguisher.’

  He shifted in the seat. ‘It was pretty crazy, huh?’

  ‘That’s one word for it. Selina’s March’s face though …’

  He laughed. ‘I guess it was all quite tame for DS Masters.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘You’ve had a few scrapes though, right? Over the years?’

  ‘You’re making me sound like a dinosaur! But yeah, I’ve been lucky at times.’

  They reached Shipton, and followed the navigation system up a long driveway towards a resplendent Queen Anne style mansion. A non-operational fountain with a cherub sitting on a sea-serpent’s back occupied the centre of the circular driveway.

  ‘How the other half live,’ said Jo.

  They knocked, and the door was answered by a Korean housekeeper who said that Mr Cranleigh wasn’t in, and wasn’t expected back for another two hours. When asked where he was, she declined at first to answer until Jo insisted it related to Malin. Reluctantly, she told them.

  * * *

  The Nine Elms was a private members’ golf course about five miles from the Cranleigh residence, and Jo received several hostile stares from the collection of elderly, well-clad men on the first tee.

  ‘It’s like they’ve never seen a woman before,’ she muttered to Pryce.

  ‘You’re probably not allowed on the course,’ he replied.

  They wandered towards the club-house, where an obsequious man at the front desk asked to see their warrant cards and then checked his computer.

  ‘Mr Cranleigh is still out on the course in all likelihood. You’re welcome to wait for him in the bar.’

  ‘We’d quite like to speak to him now,’ said Jo. ‘What time did he tee off?’

  �
��Around noon,’ said the receptionist. ‘He shouldn’t be long.’ He addressed himself to Pryce. ‘The bar is just through the double-doors to your right.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jack.

  He followed the directions into the bar area which was warmed by a fire, and filled with leather furniture. As Pryce had intimated, the members were all men. A sign above a set of French doors read, ‘To the course’. Jo walked through it. Pryce jogged after her.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m not sitting around waiting for him to finish his bloody round.’

  As it happened, she saw Cranleigh almost at once, walking down a sculpted slope towards them in the failing light, pushing an automated trolley with his clubs. Another younger man plodded beside him, carrying a set of clubs. Two balls lay on a green shaped like an upturned saucer. When Cranleigh caught sight of them, he said something to his playing partner, broke away, and approached.

  ‘We’re sorry to interrupt your game,’ said Pryce.

  ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘No, we haven’t, sir,’ said Pryce. ‘We actually just needed to ask you some more questions. Is there somewhere inside we can talk in private?’

  ‘Can I finish my putt? I’ve got two hundred riding on this par.’

  Jo was about to say ‘no’, but Pryce answered in the affirmative.

  So they watched. Whether it was the audience, or just bad play, he took three shots to hole the ball. His playing partner chortled as they shook hands. Cranleigh looked livid.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Jo. ‘Drop in the ocean, though, eh?’

  ‘Let’s do this in the car park,’ said Cranleigh.

  They walked beside him as he wheeled his clubs into the car park, drawing out a set of keys. When he pointed them at the boot of a racing green Jaguar, Jo shot a glance at Pryce.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ he said, loading in the clubs.

  ‘Do you remember attending an event in the Ashmolean museum, last June?’ asked Jo.

  ‘I attend lots of events,’ said Cranleigh. ‘Be more specific.’

  ‘For the University Association of Young Conservatives?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I was there.’

  ‘You suppose?’

  Cranleigh slammed the boot closed. ‘Is this about my step-daughter? Because she wasn’t involved in politics at all.’

  ‘It’s about a girl called Rita Prakash,’ said Jo.

  ‘Who?’

  Jo took out an enlarged version of the photo from Rita’s phone showing the two of them side by side at the event. ‘Rita,’ she said.

  Cranleigh looked flummoxed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know that girl at all. She probably just wanted a picture with me. I was the main speaker.’

  ‘So you remember it now?’ asked Jo.

  Cranleigh went to his car door. ‘I don’t know why you’re wasting my time, but it’s starting to annoy me.’

  Jo couldn’t help but ask.

  ‘Where were you this morning, at around half-past seven?’

  Cranleigh stopped. ‘In bed, like most decent people,’ he said. ‘I know who you are, Detective Masters. I read the papers. It looked to me like you’re the sort of person who goes in all guns blazing, and to hell with anyone who gets caught in the crossfire. Like your boyfriend. Or your family members. Well, I happen to care about my family, and I wonder why you’re here asking me questions about some random girl rather than looking for my daughter. If this is another one of your crusades, I’d advise you to tread more carefully. I’m not sure your career can take any more mishaps.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ she said.

  He climbed into his car without answering, started the engine, and drove away.

  ‘That went well,’ said Jo.

  ‘Do we follow him?’ asked Pryce. ‘Bring him in?’

  ‘On the basis of a green car and a photo, no,’ said Jo. ‘Stratton would eat us alive.’

  ‘You think he’s clean?’

  Jo thought of Lucas.

  ‘I think it’s easy to think the worst of someone.’

  Chapter 18

  Pryce was quiet on the way back to the station, watching the road as a light drizzle began to fall. It was true the encounter had been an anti-climax, but it seemed to have taken the wind out of his sails completely. Or perhaps it was just because the daylight was fading already. The days were passing quickly, and each falling dusk denoted another day in which they had failed to make any real headway with any of the cases they were working.

  Jo got a text from her brother as they arrived back on the outskirts of Oxford.

  We’re home! Come over for Sunday lunch tomorrow and check out my tan.

  She replied that she’d do her best, but work might get in the way. She was actually off duty the following day, but something told her she might be pulling overtime.

  It was dark as they drove up to the St Aldates station. Inside, the CID room had an air of desperation as the avenues of the investigation dwindled. It began to look, just as with Malin, as though Rita Prakash had disappeared off the face of the earth. Or at least from Oxford. Hana Sigurdsson checked in from the Randolph for an update, and Jo gave her what they had. DNA analysis of the blood had come back from the bathroom in Oriel College. It belonged to a single individual, presumably Malin.

  Dimitriou had found out the assistant instructor at SAS Circuit Fitness was neither ex-services nor legally allowed to drive the van bearing the company logo, on account of a previous conviction for driving while intoxicated, but he had an alibi for that morning. There was a brief flicker of excitement when they learned he had also worked on the door of various establishments in the city, and believed he had once met Maynard, but it came to nothing as well.

  ‘A conspiracy of bouncers-cum-kidnappers would have been neat,’ said Heidi, ‘but I don’t think either of them have quite the brains to pull off a double kidnap.’

  ‘You know,’ said Dimitriou, from where he stood before the board, ‘If I were really into conspiracy theories, I’d say that spells the first three letters of your name.’

  Jo wondered who he was talking to.

  Dimitriou pointed to each of the colleges in turn. ‘J. O. S.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘Josephine.’

  ‘Bit of a stretch,’ said Heidi.

  ‘And literally the only person to call me that was my mother,’ added Jo. ‘She’s in an old people’s home, and hasn’t been outside for about eleven months.’

  ‘I’ll get a SWAT team ready to bring her in,’ said Dimitriou.

  Carrick came into the room, looking troubled.

  ‘I’ve just had Surrey Police on the phone,’ he said. ‘Anna Mull’s parents have reported her missing.’

  Things had moved so fast in the previous twenty-four hours, Jo had hardly thought of the timid young student they’d first interviewed at Oriel College.

  ‘I thought she was with friends in London?’

  Carrick was frowning. ‘Turns out she never checked in with them after all. In fact, they weren’t even expecting her.’

  ‘So she was lying to her parents?’

  Carrick shrugged. ‘I haven’t got the foggiest at the moment. Looks like it, though.’

  ‘You want me to get her phone records?’ said Pryce.

  ‘Surrey are on it – they’re going to share when it comes through,’ he said. ‘They’ve got a nationwide alert out on her car too, a mint green Fiat 500. Hopefully it’s nothing.’

  Jo looked at the other faces in the room. Hope looked to be in short supply.

  SUNDAY

  The modern semi her brother’s family were renting was off the Kennington Road, in the area known as Little London. Jo had wanted to report in for work, but Carrick had insisted, ‘as her superior officer’, that there was really nothing she could do. She wondered aloud if Stratton had got wind of the latest altercation with Cranleigh. If so, he hadn’t said anything directly, which was maybe even worse. Carrick had said it was nothing personal; Pryce was o
ff too. It felt as though Thames Valley were caught between two poles trying to deal with the fall-out of the disappearances – not quite sure whether to hit panic stations yet. Jo kept her phone close to her side, checking messages and emails frequently.

  As he opened the door, her brother Paul looked the picture of health.

  ‘Hey, sis. No Lucas?’

  ‘It’s his five-a-side match,’ she said. ‘He didn’t want to let the team down.’

  She handed over the bottle of white wine she’d bought. He examined the label, nodded in approval, and stepped aside. ‘You may enter.’

  As she passed, he did a little twirl. ‘Bronzed Adonis or what?’

  ‘Your bald spot’s peeling,’ she said.

  Paul went to the mirror, fingering his head and trying to see.

  Jo walked through to the kitchen, where Amelia was putting a beef joint into the oven. She looked a little tired, which meant she could still pass as the lead actress in an aspirational lifestyle commercial. Just one between takes.

  ‘How are you?’ Jo asked. ‘Pleased to be back in the land of sub-zero temperatures?’

  ‘To be honest, you can have too much sun,’ she said. ‘I’m okay. A bit jet-lagged.’

  William was sitting on a beanbag by a low table, drawing.

  ‘Wotcha doin’?’ Jo said, crouching beside him and kissing the top of his head.

  ‘Drawing,’ he said.

  Jo looked at the picture. ‘Is that a shark eating an apple?’

  ‘It’s a spaceship with teeth,’ said Will. ‘It chews up asteroids.’

  ‘Oh … wow! Where’s your sister then?’

  ‘Hockey game,’ said Amelia. ‘She was pretty desperate to catch up with her friends. The wifi at the hotel was patchy, so she was suffering serious gossip withdrawal. Paul’s going to pick her up when she calls. Drink?’

  ‘Go on then,’ said Jo. ‘Whatever you’re having.’