Keep Her Close

by M. J. Ford

  She stopped at a row of grim sixties pebbledashed terraces where a squad car was parked up, plus Andy’s Toyota. As she approached, she showed her ID to a young female officer.

  ‘They’re already upstairs,’ she said. The slightly awed look she gave Jo wasn’t reassuring. She was pretty sure she’d cleaned any evidence of tears away, so it could only relate to what was inside.

  Carrick was actually at the back door, on the phone, and he ended the call. ‘Still trying to get the landlord,’ he said. ‘Looks like this place is being let to Eastern European workers for the most part but Tyndle had the bedroom at the front for the last eight weeks or so. We are struggling to get much out of the other occupants, but the local police have got a translator they can call. Go up and have a gander. It’s really something.’

  She walked into a small kitchenette, dirty crockery piled around the sink and the bin overflowing. There was a lounge, but it had two double mattresses on the floor, and a second uniformed officer – a young man – was watching two surly-looking Slavic males. The stairs were bare wood with a few scraps of carpet still clinging on to the grippers in places. On the upper floor was a bathroom, clean enough, but completely bare apart from a bar of soap on the sink and a single towel. There were two further bedrooms. Stein stood just inside the one at the end of the short landing. The door lock had been smashed off, splintering the jamb.

  ‘Here cometh the lady of the hour,’ he said.

  Jo walked in. She’d known what to expect when Carrick had filled her in on the way, but she still wasn’t prepared for the reality. Apart from a plastic garden chair and a single bed with a sleeping bag and no sheet, the room was unfurnished, three walls scuffed and stained. The fourth was entirely covered with photos, all of them of her. She moved nearer, lips parted. Here she was, leaving St Aldates. Here out running along the towpath. Entering the supermarket. Picking up William at school, the day she’d taken him to see a movie at the cinema. There were pictures of Lucas too – chatting with Bob outside Gloucester College. But by far the majority were of her. In her car, drinking a coffee before one of her sessions with Dr Forster. On the phone, walking through the town centre, entering The Three Crowns for a drink with Ferman. There was even one outside the Bright Futures Fertility Clinic in Bath, smiling in a summer dress, taken, it seemed, from the small railed-off park opposite. Jo did a mental calculation. They must have all been taken over a six-month period. Each photo had something else in common too – her face had been shredded with a sharp object, sometimes leaving nothing but a ragged hole.

  ‘I imagine this is rather sobering,’ said Stein.

  ‘It’s reassuring, in a way,’ she said. ‘That he’s dead, I mean.’

  There were newspaper clippings too – from the spate that had appeared in the press after the Sally Carruthers case. The Clown Killer. Hero Detective Closes 30-year-old Case. The Evil That Lurked in the Oxford Suburbs.

  Jo went to the wardrobe where a few items of clothing were hanging. In the bottom was an old suitcase. She opened it. Inside were several plastic medication pots, tabs of pills, a pair of wellington boots. Also a framed photo of Tyndle as a much younger man, his face unmarked and happy-go-lucky, with a girl on his shoulders. She wondered if the daughter who’d emigrated to Canada had ever visited him when he was inside, and what she would have thought if she had. His face had had nine years to get better, but it was still hard to stomach now. She’d no idea how a kid would have coped seeing it.

  There was a long, leather case leaning up against the inside of the wardrobe. Her first thought was a rifle, but it was too lightweight. Unzipping the side, she saw it contained a fishing rod.

  ‘Even psychopaths have hobbies,’ Stein said.

  Jo heard footsteps. It was Carrick entering the room.

  ‘Translator’s arrived,’ he said. ‘You want to lead the questioning?’

  Jo went back down, where a young woman in jeans and a thick coat was waiting with the uniform. They shook hands and the woman introduced herself as Julietta. ‘They’re scared,’ she said. ‘They don’t have all the correct papers.’

  ‘Tell them that doesn’t matter now,’ said Jo. ‘It’s the man who lived upstairs we’re interested in.’

  Julietta spoke to them. One shook his head, but the other seemed more willing to talk. He gestured at one point to his face with a grimace and a twist of his hand.

  ‘He says the man kept himself to himself,’ said Carrick. ‘Some of the local kids used to freak out when they saw him around. He used to wear a hoodie a lot.’

  ‘When did they last see him?’ asked Jo.

  The men talked to each other after Julietta had relayed the question.

  ‘They think perhaps five days ago, but they’re rarely here in the daytime.’

  ‘And what about a vehicle? Did they see one?’

  Again, they conferred before answering.

  ‘A white van,’ said Julietta. ‘Really old. It broke down a couple of weeks ago, and they helped him to jump-start it.’

  ‘Don’t suppose they have the reg?’ she asked.

  The answer, predictably, was no.

  One of the men whispered to the other, who shook his head.

  ‘What are they saying?’ asked Jo.

  Julietta spoke to them both and after some mutterings back and forth, Julietta’s tone became impatient. She scolded them both, and the quieter of the two men spoke in several mumbled phrases.

  ‘He says the man upstairs had a visitor a couple of times, maybe a fortnight ago.’

  Jo wondered if they were talking about Anna Mull. ‘A woman?’

  ‘No,’ said Julietta. ‘They think it was a man, from the voices.’

  ‘But they didn’t hear what was said?’

  Julietta responded in the negative.

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ said Jo.

  Outside the room, she spoke to Carrick. ‘Thoughts?’

  ‘The other man could be anyone,’ he replied. ‘I think if we find that van, we find the girls.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Jo. ‘The van must be in Oxford somewhere, given that’s where he ran into Pryce. I can’t see him keeping three dead women in the back. Not for this long.’

  ‘You have another theory?’

  ‘Looks like he was a keen angler,’ she said. ‘I don’t know the fishing spots around here, but if there was somewhere remote … Remember Natalie, dumped in the river. What if that wasn’t an accident after all? Might be his preferred method of disposal.’

  ‘Let me do a search.’ He took out his phone. ‘Stein still upstairs?’

  Jo went to check. She found the psychologist holding the photo of Tyndle and his daughter. ‘You finished up here?’ she asked.

  He faced her, frowning. For the first time, he seemed less than sure of himself. ‘Does this feel right to you?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Tyndle,’ said Stein. ‘I get the impression you’re not entirely convinced by the validity of my profession, which is a prejudice I’m used to dealing with. But you can be open with me if you have doubts about my analysis in this particular case.’

  Jo pointed to the wall. ‘I’m no expert, but the fact he’s ripped my face to bits seems a strong indicator that he didn’t like me.’

  ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So why the umming and aahing?’

  Stein held up the photo. ‘This man doesn’t look like a psychopath to me.’

  ‘That was before his unfortunate meeting with a car windscreen.’

  ‘Indeed. It might be that he was mentally impaired during or after the accident. But I find it odd that he kept this photo. It speaks to a man of complex emotional investment, of hope. That isn’t the typical profile of a psychopath. And this room – it isn’t what I expected. It all feels rather desperate. Barely a life at all. There’s no egotism, no narcissism that seems to match the nature of the crimes.’

  Carrick called up. ‘Jo, I might have something.’

  She left Stein
again. Andy was on the stairs.

  ‘There’s an old flooded sand quarry, four miles from here. Popular in the summer with the angling crowd. I imagine there’s not much going on there in the winter months. Could be worth a look.’

  ‘It’s all we’ve got,’ said Jo.

  * * *

  Chiltern Aggregates had once owned the quarry, according to the ancient sign illuminated by Jo’s headlights. It also warned that trespassers would be prosecuted, and that swimming was strictly prohibited.

  But the fence that had once stood blocking the entrance lay to one side, twisted out of shape, so they drove off the main road and up a track. The ground was slick with mud and Jo’s wheels spun a couple of times. It would be the cherry on her day if she had to get towed out. She shifted to a low gear, following Carrick until the track ran out at an old Portakabin, its windows smashed and its door hanging open.

  A cloudy starless sky was the only witness to their arrival, and Jo left her engine running, headlights on as she pulled alongside the Toyota. As she popped open her door, the freezing evening air seeped quickly into the car’s interior. Carrick shone his torch towards the Portakabin, approached the front step and pushed open the door. She saw the flash of the light coming through the shattered panes, then he turned back, shook his head, and descended.

  They moved side by side, two metres or so apart. Outside the arcs of their torches, there was pitch black, and Jo rolled her beam back and forth over stubby, thistle-pricked ground, picking out scraps of rubbish, but nothing more.

  Then Carrick’s snagged on what was clearly a vehicle track through the glistening mud, leading on from where they’d parked their cars.

  ‘Looks recent,’ he said.

  They focused both beams on the tyre marks and continued. The ruts led off over uneven grassland that sloped gently downwards. The ground was boggy, and cold water quickly seeped through to Jo’s toes. She was in danger of losing a shoe. Carrick slipped, his torch jerking, and landed with a splat.

  ‘Flippin’ heck!’ he said. One half of his coat was covered in mud as he clambered to his feet.

  Jo would normally have grinned at his pre-watershed exclamations, but there was something about the atmosphere tonight that repressed humour, however wry or black. Her torch picked out a fence of barbed wire ahead, with more warning signs about a steep drop and unstable ground. The tyre marks led through the thistles and scrub to a section of the fence that was missing, the wire lying in twisted coils, still attached to unearthed wooden posts.

  ‘Careful,’ said Carrick.

  Jo had to see. The ground was drier here anyway, and she crept to the edge. She couldn’t see any sign of the van, but the tyre marks led right over the drop. Either someone had Thelma-and-Louise’d it over the side, or they’d pushed a vehicle over. The water was only fifteen feet below and as still as a millpond, reflecting the yellow of her torch and her own spectral face.

  Something told her that real ghosts lurked just beneath that calm surface.

  ‘I think we might have found them.’

  Chapter 25

  TUESDAY

  By the time the Marine Unit arrived at first light, under command of a sergeant called Howe, Jo was exhausted. It hadn’t been worth returning to Oxford, so they retreated to a 24-hour truckers’ cafe a couple of miles away on the edge of an industrial estate, drinking mug after mug of strong tea through the early hours. Apart from the waitress, Jo had been the only female in there. She’d surprised herself by finishing something called a mega breakfast that she was still struggling to digest, while Carrick had stuck to fluids. He retreated at 7 am into Newbury itself, returning with a fresh smoked salmon bagel.

  In the grey drizzle of the morning, the scale of the quarry became clear. It was at least two hundred feet across, with a kidney-shaped pool of water. There were more signs suggesting swimming might not be the best idea, though there were four small rescue buoyancy aids at regular intervals around the perimeter just in case someone was stupid enough to try. Through the long drag of the night-time hours, Carrick had found out that Chiltern Aggregates had ceased trading over a decade ago, and technically the local council was responsible for the site now. The man they’d sent out to liaise and monitor looked rather annoyed to be there, and sat in his car back by the abandoned cabin.

  A lone fisherman appeared from the mist at around half eight, setting up a chair further along the bank. If he saw them, he showed no interest in Sergeant Howe and his team assembling their gear. Carrick wandered over to speak with him.

  Jo spoke with Howe as he stripped to thermals and began to pull on his dry suit. Most of the work they did now was terrorism-related, he explained – patrolling the various culverts and inlets of the Thames. He’d been a regular uniform in London for most of his career, but made the switch a few years ago after first falling in love with scuba diving on holiday in the Caribbean.

  ‘This must be a tad less glamorous,’ she said, casting her eyes over the quarry.

  ‘You’re not wrong.’

  She’d told him what they were dealing with already. The fire service hadn’t been keen to send a winching unit until they knew what was down there, but Stratton had gone straight to the Chief Constable who oversaw the whole of Thames Valley. They’d bashed heads, figuratively at least, and the upshot was that a specialist rig was on its way.

  Howe and one other diver were heading down, while the remaining guy stayed on the cameras in the van. Jo guessed the water could only be a fraction above freezing and wondered if they’d drawn straws for the honour.

  Carrick came back from his interview.

  ‘Chap’s not all there,’ he said, tapping his temple. ‘He comes here a couple of times a week, but never speaks to the other anglers. He thinks he remembers seeing Tyndle once or twice, but not a van.’

  ‘We’re ready,’ said Sergeant Howe, tightening the straps on his partner’s breathing apparatus. They both had waterproof headtorches attached to their masks, and utility belts at their waists. He and his colleague walked awkwardly in their flippers, following the contour of the slope down to the lake’s edge.

  Jo watched them wade into the water until it was chest deep. Then they slipped the mouthpieces in, and with a couple of hand gestures, dived in. She followed their progress by the bubbles that disturbed the surface.

  After less than a minute, the third member of the team called from the van. ‘This what you’re looking for?’

  On his monitor was a split-feed, showing the chest-mounted camera footage from his colleagues labelled D1 and D2. Jo saw the white bodywork of a vehicle from different angles, a tyre, a door handle.

  D1 headed towards the window at the front, his headtorch rotating onto the glass.

  Suddenly he jerked backwards, and the image spun dizzyingly.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Carrick.

  The image stabilised, and the diver approached the front of the van. Jo saw at once through the windshield that there was someone in the passenger’s seat. Brown hair fanned out in the water around pale skin.

  ‘Closer …’ Jo whispered.

  The other diver came into shot at the passenger window, so the split-screen showed the corpse head on and in profile. Her eyes were open, staring right at them. Elfin features. Completely unafraid.

  ‘God rest her soul,’ mumbled Carrick.

  ‘You know her?’ asked the marine cop.

  ‘It’s Anna Mull,’ said Jo. The initial shock faded fast. ‘Tell them to try the rear doors.’

  Both D1 and D2 drifted through the water to the back of the van, and Jo saw a hand reach out to open the doors, close to the blue oval of a Ford badge. She was holding her breath. Both guys knew what to expect, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to see it herself. The doors were evidently locked. D2 waved a finger in front of his camera.

  ‘Can they break a window?’ said Carrick.

  ‘Not easily. And if there’s evidence inside, you’re better waiting until we can get the vehicle out in one piece
.’

  Carrick folded his arms. ‘Let’s get the plate while they’re down there,’ he said.

  Jo went to tell the site manager from the council what they’d discovered. It looked like Tyndle would be keeping his secrets a while longer yet.

  And if she was right about what was inside, she could happily wait a lifetime.

  * * *

  The growing commotion was too much for the lone fisherman, or maybe he figured any potential catch would be disturbed. Along the bank, he gathered his things, and plodded away. They’d checked on the van’s plates – it was almost twenty years old, and registered to a Matthew Maguire in Slough. They called him straight away, and he told them he’d sold the van to a scrap merchant almost a year ago when it failed its MOT for the third year running and the repairs were exorbitant. Clearly someone had decided it deserved a second lease of life and it had ended up in Tyndle’s hands. Carrick, meanwhile, put in a long call to Surrey Police, asking them to notify Anna Mull’s parents of the upsetting find.

  The scene had been populated considerably, with a squad car, a fire engine, and a winching rig supported by a substantial truck-mounted crane. A crime scene team stood by, with one member video-taping the whole enterprise. Further back, in recognition of their very much supporting role, two ambulances waited in anticipation of the bodies to be transported. Maybe twenty-five or thirty people, all unwilling participants to Tyndle’s atrocities. The ground that had been boggy before was a quagmire and Jo was sure her shoes were beyond salvation. Her patience had reached breaking point as the hours passed, but now at last as the divers emerged from tethering the van, the signal was given for the winching to begin. With a squeal and shriek of mechanical energy, the coil of metal cord began to rotate, hauling the van upwards. It rose, pale, like the corpse of a dead, bleached creature from the depths, before it emerged from the water.