Keep Her Close

by M. J. Ford

  Stein stuck out his bottom lip lugubriously. ‘I wouldn’t say that’s a given. Indulge me. Tell me about Ben.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Jo coldly. ‘Which means he’s an unlikely suspect in the current case.’

  Stein closed the laptop and peered at her over the top of his glasses. ‘I’m not trying to be challenging,’ he said. ‘I simply want to get an idea of your personality. Whoever is doing this has set themselves up in direct opposition to you. Your nemesis, to use the parlance of archetypes. Your antagonist, in storytelling terms.’

  Jo folded her arms. ‘There are three missing women. One is fifteen. She has a mother. Why are we talking about stories when there’s a fucking psycho out there looking for his next victim?’

  Stein smiled. ‘Good question, Detective. Your antagonist, your nemesis – the fucking psycho, as you so clearly put it – sees this as a story, believe me. In fact, he probably sees himself as the protagonist, and you as his opposite. It’s structured, it’s planned; it has inherent drama. It has suspense. And he knows it. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s been watching it all unfold as well, from closer than you think. Detective Chief Inspector Stratton said you have officers at two potential sites, so if the perpetrator didn’t know before that you were onto him, he will now. It’s possible, therefore, that he will forgo the final stage of the plan in favour of a twist, something to blindside you.’

  ‘Thanks for the insight,’ said Jo. ‘Any idea how we catch him?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Stein, lifting a finger as though suddenly pleased with his pupil. ‘To do that, we have to work out where this story began.’

  ‘Which is what I’ve been trying to do. Looking over my old cases. There were a couple of gang busts where guys went away for fifteen years plus. I’ve done six murders, three domestic, two drugs …’

  ‘And that would be the most obvious place to search, if this were a simple case of revenge. But in those situations, typically, the perpetrator would have killed you already. It wouldn’t be hard, would it? To stab you at your home, to run you down in a car, to pay someone to execute you. He’s shown already that he’s capable of significant forward planning.’

  The way he said it, so matter-of-factly, made Jo uneasy.

  ‘This feels different, does it not?’ said Stein. ‘The theatricality of it, the drama. He doesn’t want simply to kill you, he wants to embarrass you, shame you, make you a viewer of your own suffering. Which isn’t to say he won’t want to kill you, too, when the time comes.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jo. ‘Is that your professional opinion?’

  Stein, for the first time, smiled. ‘For what it’s worth, my professional opinion is probably not going to tell you anything you can’t work out on your own. This individual is a psychopath, you’re quite correct. He is highly organised, perhaps a high achiever in whatever field he is in. He knows this area very well, and probably lives in Oxford or the immediate environs. He is not averse to risk – indeed, he might even be a thrill-seeker. He may be independently wealthy, in a powerful position. Probably charming or at least a proven manipulator. And also – I find this compelling – he might be the mind behind this, rather than the actual actor.’

  ‘You mean he’s paid someone off?’

  ‘Convinced, importuned, coerced. Perhaps there’s money involved, but some psychopaths can be very persuasive. If he wasn’t directly involved in the kidnappings, it would give him the opportunity to enjoy the story from a distance.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jo. ‘So if these girls mean nothing to him, if they’re just disposable characters in a twisted story, what has he done with them?’

  Stein looked across at the map, and the four images appended to the locations of their kidnap, or in Natalie’s case, the attempted kidnap.

  ‘I don’t know for certain,’ said the profiler, ‘but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say they may well still be alive. I’d go as far as to say, because of the atypical nature of these crimes, that he might not be disposed to murder.’

  ‘He’s murdered Natalie Palmer.’

  Stein’s brow creased. ‘Ah, incorrect, I think.’ He sifted through some papers, pushing up his spectacles again. ‘Here it is … yes. Ms Palmer drowned.’

  ‘Having been run down.’

  ‘Well, yes, but I don’t think he intended to kill her.’ Stein paused. ‘And despite his unwillingness to kill outright, I don’t have the impression he puts much store in the sanctity of life or the feelings of others. If the rest of these women die, that won’t trouble him greatly. After all, he’s continued with his plan, despite what happened to Natalie.’

  Jo wasn’t sure what to make of Stein. He wasn’t a particularly comforting presence.

  ‘Don’t suppose you have any idea what he’ll do next, now that we’re onto him?’

  ‘He becomes a lot more dangerous,’ said Stein. ‘Don’t expect him to give up, not this close to his goal. He’ll adjust, certainly. And his next step might well take us all by surprise. Our best hope is that he makes a mistake in his desire to finish what he’s started.’

  The only mistake he made so far ended up with a woman dead, thought Jo.

  ‘So, anyway,’ she said, ‘you wanted to talk about Ben?’

  ‘Actually,’ said the profiler with a rictus smile, ‘I think I’ve got enough for now.’

  Chapter 20

  Dr Stein spent some time with Stratton while Jo went back to her desk. She wanted desperately to hear what they were saying. Well, specifically what Stratton was saying about her. Probably that she was stubborn, unhinged, had trouble following orders. All of it fair. She thought of all the people she’d interviewed in the same room, how every one of them had been keeping something hidden. Wasn’t it only fair they’d assume the same about her?

  But I’m not hiding anything. Am I?

  She tried to put herself in their shoes – they couldn’t see how genuinely confused she was by the situation. They had to think logically, like investigators. If she was linked to these crimes, it was their job to find out how. And all she could do was do the same before she became a pariah.

  She called up the ANPR database, planning to go through the images frame by frame. If Sophie Okafor’s kidnapper had gone straight out of Oxford by the A4074 route, travelling within or just above the speed limit, she figured there would be a ten-minute window when he’d have passed the cameras mounted over the road. She widened the search to twenty minutes, just to make sure she didn’t miss anything.

  There wasn’t a single white Transit van. Heidi was right – this guy was too clever for that. Looking at the map, there were half a dozen less frequented routes by which he could have left the city. And none were on the camera network. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Going from what the forensic psychologist had said, the kidnapper wouldn’t be making any elementary mistakes.

  Her phone rang. Paul.

  ‘Hey, sis. Any news?’

  ‘Nothing yet. The parents are going to put out an appeal. How’s Em doing?’

  ‘Shaken up. She’s known Sophie for years.’ He paused. ‘Listen, I heard you say something, back at the house.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You said, “I think the link is me.”’

  Jo looked across at the board in IR1 with the four crime scenes marked so far, spelling out her name.

  ‘I … think you must have misheard me,’ she said.

  ‘Did Amelia mishear you too?’ A beat. ‘Jo, I’m your brother. I know we don’t speak that much, but I saw your face, too. You looked white as a sheet.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ she said.

  ‘Is this connected to Sally Carruthers and what happened before?’

  ‘What? No! Of course not. Sally’s incarcerated.’

  ‘Jo, are you mixed up in something?’ Not that I know of. He went to Em’s game, but that was only because he needed an ‘I’ – there was no reason he would have known she was there.

  Even as she tried to reassure herself, she knew
it likely wasn’t true. The kidnapper was meticulous. Maybe he’d even thought about taking Em herself, but decided there was an easier target. She felt a pang of nausea at the thought.

  ‘Paul, it’s fine. Don’t worry.’

  He sighed. ‘If you say so, sis.’

  As soon as she was off the phone, she went to Stratton’s office. He was writing on a notepad. ‘Sir, would it be possible to have someone go to my brother’s house? He’s there with his kids. If …’

  ‘Say no more,’ said Stratton, tapping his pen. ‘I’ll ask Andrea to stay there after she’s seen you home.’

  ‘Pardon, sir?’

  ‘I want you out of the picture, Jo. Is there somewhere you can go?’

  ‘I should be here, sir. There are still leads I can follow up.’

  ‘Stein seems to think the next twenty-four hours are crucial. I’m putting you on leave. We need a tight ship.’

  ‘So you’re chucking me overboard.’

  ‘A day, Jo. We need to know you’re safe.’

  ‘I’m safe here. It’s a police station.’

  Stratton set the pen down. ‘Pryce was right. The press are going to swarm us. They’ll want blood.’

  ‘I can handle a few journalists.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Stratton. ‘And what happened to the last journalist you got mixed up with?’

  It was a cheap shot, and Jo was hit with the freeze-frame of Rebecca Saunders splayed dead and half-naked on the floor of Sally Carruthers’ barn. The horror of the memory faded into dull anger. How dare Stratton lay that at her feet?

  She was about to challenge him when his phone rang. With his hand over the microphone, he glanced at Jo. ‘If you could close the door on your way out, Detective Masters.’

  * * *

  Andrea Williams followed Jo home, and waited outside until she was in the house, before driving away. Jo thought it was overkill. Stein was right – if this guy wanted to kill her, there’d have been a dozen chances already. But she was pleased there’d be someone near to her brother’s family. She’d asked Andrea to be as discreet as possible.

  A bitter wind blew across the car park of Lucas’s block, and she was pleased to get indoors.

  She found Lucas chopping apricots on a board. The place smelled of cumin and coriander. The washing machine was spinning his football kit, and he was freshly showered, his hair still damp.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,’ he said.

  ‘Neither did I,’ she said. She kissed him on the cheek. ‘What are you making?’

  ‘Tagine. You hungry?’

  ‘Starving.’

  She took off her coat. ‘I’m going to take a bath.’

  ‘Any news on the girl?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s fucked up.’

  ‘And it’s the same guy?’

  ‘That’s the current thinking.’

  In the bedroom, she prised off her shoes. Lucas’s sports bag was sitting on the bed. She grabbed it, ready to sling it into the top of the wardrobe, when something fell out of the side pocket. It was a phone charger. Not for a modern smartphone, but one of the older ones, with a bulky pin connector. She put the bag away, then walked back to the other room.

  ‘Hey, Lucas – what’s this?’ She dangled the wire.

  He was taking a pot from the oven and looked over, then quickly away. Too quickly.

  ‘Old charger,’ he said. ‘Where’d you find it?’

  ‘It was in your bag.’

  He took the lid off the pan and swiped the apricots off the board. ‘Takes you back, doesn’t it? Must have been there for years.’

  ‘Want me to sling it?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  She went to the bin, about to drop it in. She’d rolled over too many times today already. ‘You know, I don’t think it was there before …’

  Lucas, who had his back to her, started waving his hand. ‘Ow!’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Burned myself.’

  He put his hand under the cold tap. He wasn’t looking at her.

  ‘I borrowed the bag,’ she said. ‘About three weeks ago, when I was shifting clothes over here. I’m pretty sure the charger wasn’t in there then.’

  ‘It must have been,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen that thing for donkey’s years. Would you mind putting the pot back in the oven?’

  She picked up the gloves and did so. ‘Lucas, it wasn’t,’ she said.

  He turned off the tap, inspecting his fingers. ‘Why are you fixating on a phone charger?’

  ‘I’m not fixating,’ said Jo. ‘I just don’t know why you’ve still got it. Is there a phone, too?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Lucas. His gaze was open, innocent, maybe even a little hurt. ‘Why would I keep an old phone?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jo.

  He came right up to her, eyes creased in confusion, and took the charger off the counter. ‘Jo, you’re being paranoid,’ he said. ‘I’m not lying to you. I’m not Ben.’ He dropped the charger in the bin. ‘It’s an old charger. People have them. Can we just forget about it? It’s not often we get to have dinner together, is it? Don’t ruin it.’ He leant down and kissed her on the mouth. She let him, just to see if she could taste the lies on his lips. ‘Have we got any plasters?’

  ‘I’ve got a first-aid kit in the car,’ she said.

  Leaving him to douse his hand in more cold water, she put her coat on, and a pair of trainers, then went to the door. On the way, she took his car keys as well as her own. Heading down the stairs, part of her brain was still trying to reason. She had to let this go. What was it that was stopping her believing him? Believing in him? What had he ever done to betray her trust?

  She walked quickly to his Land Rover. The back was filled with various bits of gardening equipment and other junk, and it would take too long to search through. Instead, she checked the glove box and the central console. Nothing. The door pockets contained crumbs, receipts, and cracked CD boxes.

  Why am I doing this?

  Then she reached underneath the driver’s seat, and her fingers found the plastic casing. She pulled out a Nokia phone. It was switched off.

  The feeling of vindication, the pleasure that her instincts were correct, was short-lived. It was followed quickly by a sensation of great weight pressing down on her, squeezing any emotion away. She glanced back towards the windows of the building. No one was watching. She had choices, but the thought of going up there again, confronting him again, watching his lies crumble, made her stomach turn. This wasn’t an interview room. For better or worse, it was her life.

  Her fingers were already cold. She switched on the phone, but it was locked by a code. She tried the one he had on his smartphone and it didn’t work. She tried four zeros, with the same result. There were answers, but the chances of finding them like this were something like one in ten thousand possible permutations.

  There were other ways, though. Rules that could be bent.

  She sat in Lucas’s driver’s seat, and dialled ‘999’ from the phone, bypassing its internal security. It rang, and was quickly picked up by the operator.

  ‘Which emergency service do you require?’

  She held the phone away from her mouth. ‘Billy, is that mine? Give it here!’ She brought the phone closer. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Do you require an emergency service?

  ‘I’m so sorry, my little boy got hold of the phone.’

  ‘Happens all the time. Can I take your name and address please, for our records?’

  ‘Jo Masters. I’m a policewoman actually.’

  ‘None of us are immune,’ said the operator.

  Jo gave her address too, and they ended the call.

  She turned the phone off and replaced it under the seat, went to her car and got the plasters. Back in the building, she called Heidi at the station.

  ‘What’s going on over there?’

  ‘Fending off the press, but it’s a losing battl
e. I’m knocking off in five. Dimi spoke to Sophie’s ex – gave him a bit of a fright. He swore he thought Sophie was sixteen. He’s got a leg in a cast at the moment, anyway, which rules him out. Apparently he took a fall at work. Stratton’s organising an appeal with Sophie Okafor’s mum which should be on the nightly news.’

  ‘All quiet at the colleges?’

  ‘Nothing from Carrick or Pryce. They’ve briefed the security staff at Exeter and St Edmund Hall, and there’ll be a couple of uniforms near each overnight. Whoever this guy is, he’d be mad to try anything.’

  ‘Let’s hope he is then,’ said Jo, ‘because at the moment we’ve got nothing.’

  ‘Here’s to that. For what it’s worth, I think Phil’s mad to keep you away.’

  ‘Thanks. Listen, Heidi, could you do me a favour before you leave?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It’s off the record.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  ‘I made a phone call to the emergency control centre two minutes ago from Manor Gardens. I need the phone number of the mobile I called from. Can you grab it from them and text it to me?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Thanks, Heidi. You’re a star.’

  She hung up, feeling oddly detached from the whole situation. She went back inside to find Lucas stirring couscous in a pan.

  ‘You took a while?’

  ‘Just had to make a call,’ she said. She wondered if he’d retrieved the charger from the bin yet, or if he’d wait until a safer moment. ‘Let’s see that finger.’

  He held it out. The skin was blistered and raw, and she placed the plaster over it. Even touching him made her feel sick.

  * * *

  They ate dinner together, but she had barely any appetite. Heidi sent the number through, which she copied into her phone under ‘LB’ for ‘Lying Bastard’, an attempt to bring a wry smile to her day. It failed. Afterwards, she watched the appeal on the national news while she and Lucas cleared up. It was a strange gathering, the participants tightly packed along one side of a long table, that only threw into relief the bizarre nature of the crimes – the sheer number of people involved, and the lack of obvious connection between the victims. They’d managed to locate Sophie’s father, and he and his wife sat side by side in the centre, holding hands as they addressed the camera through their tears, begging for the person who’d taken their daughter to bring her back, to contact the police, to leave her somewhere safe, to do any number of things that Jo knew were unlikely. Beside them were Mr and Mrs Prakash, and at the far end, separated from the others by DCI Stratton, Hana Sigurdsson, who looked like she’d wandered in from a 1930s aristocratic dinner party.