Keep Her Close

by M. J. Ford

  Creasey managed to get the locations of the Tyndle’s calls. His phone was mostly pinging at the address in Thatcham, or in that vicinity. Once at the quarry. Once at a service station just off the A34, the main road between Oxford and Newbury. And twice in Oxford itself, the day before Malin Sigurdsson’s disappearance. They dispatched a team and a dog unit to the service station, just in case there was any trace of the girls. It was just as likely he’d stopped to make a call or to get petrol though. Dimitriou, back from Evergreen too, began to cross-check the information and times into the ANPR network.

  ‘The building in the Malin polaroid looks industrial to me,’ said Carrick.

  ‘Hardly narrows it down,’ said Carter. They were gathered around the board, on which the three images had been blown-up and attached.

  A text came through, and Jo peered at her phone. Lucas again, but this one was different.

  Jo, I know you don’t want to talk right now, but there’s a journalist pestering me. There’s a video online. Of what happened at the house. I’m sending a link.

  Jo looked up – Carter was staring at her suspiciously.

  The link came through a few seconds later in another text. Her heartbeat felt laboured in her chest. ‘Excuse me a second.’

  She took herself off to the corridor, checked she was alone, then clicked through to the YouTube link. The video window was entitled ‘Police arrest “crazy” woman in Oxford street.’

  What the fuck …

  The clip loaded. A woman – her – stood right up against Carly Granger’s front door, shouting, ‘I’m here to see Lucas. Open this door. Now!’

  She lowered the volume and watched, gripped and horrified at once, as she scrambled over the fence.

  The video looked like it had been taken from across the street.

  The woman with the pushchair …

  She reappeared, through the gate, at speed, then Carly’s daughter ran from the front door in her slippers, up the drive and into the road, where she threw herself into the arms of Lucas. She looked terrified. It looked like Jo was chasing her. Thankfully the audio didn’t pick up any of the conversation that followed, but from the body language the argument between her and Lucas was clear. And then Jo left, clearly in a fury, screeching from the kerb only to be cut off by the police car driven by Olly Pinker.

  Jo willed the clip to end, but she could see from the time-bar at the bottom that it ran for another ten minutes. They’d captured every second of the mortifying episode. She hit pause, took a deep breath, and bit her lip to stop herself crying again. She needed to get the woman’s number, get the video taken down, but she had no idea how to do that. Heidi would know, but she’d left. Dimitriou was concentrating on his computer.

  Looking at the screen once more, she saw the video had only had seventeen views. There was still a chance to keep it contained.

  She refreshed. 30 views.

  She returned to her desk, trying to lie low. As the minutes wore on, and the team worked in silence, Jo sank deeper into the private nightmare, seated at her desk. Every time she checked, the number of views grew. One hundred. Four hundred. In less than half an hour, it had topped a thousand. The comments began to flow.

  AWKWARD!!!!

  Where is this?

  What did they arrest her for?

  And then, inevitably:

  I think that’s the policewoman who solved a missing child case. Masters or something.

  The next commenter had copied a link to the Oxford Times profile Thames Valley had insisted she do in July.

  Yep – it’s definitely her!

  Jo’s desk-phone rang and she picked it up.

  ‘Detective Masters?’

  ‘Hi, we spoke earlier. Tim Lester.’

  ‘No comment,’ said Jo. And put the phone down.

  A few seconds later, it rang again. She let it. How had he got her personal number?

  ‘You going to answer that?’ said Dimitriou.

  Jo snatched it up.

  ‘Detective, I know you don’t want to talk. There’s a video that’s surfaced online …’

  ‘I’ve seen it. It relates to my private life, and has nothing to do with the current case.’

  Dimitriou looked over. Carter too.

  ‘I suspected that was the case,’ said the journalist. ‘But you see why I’m calling. People might jump to the wrong conclusion.’

  ‘People?’

  ‘I’m not your enemy here,’ said Lester.

  ‘You’re sure as hell not my friend,’ said Jo.

  ‘Perhaps you could help us put the record straight. The public are worried about the missing girls.’

  ‘As am I,’ said Jo. ‘And I’m wasting time talking to you when I could be looking for them. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’

  She hung up once more.

  Almost at once, her mobile rang. It was Heidi.

  ‘Jo, something’s been shared to the Thames Valley Twitter feed. I think you need to see it.’

  That was it, then. So much for containment.

  * * *

  Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, Stratton arrived back with the Chief Constable in tow. They both decamped to his office, and the inevitable summons came shortly after.

  ‘Is this about the video, sir?’ she said pre-emptively.

  ‘This is about a lot more than the video,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Though it looks bad. We’re fielding press enquiries left and right. Whether you like it or not, these disappearances, these deaths, they’re becoming synonymous with your name.’

  ‘The Josie Girls,’ Stratton added helpfully. He reminded her of the little kid hiding behind the school bully, though in fact the Chief Constable was a diminutive woman in her mid-fifties with the demeanour of a small, but particularly vicious, cat.

  ‘So surely I’m the best person to look into it,’ said Jo.

  ‘Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to partake in … in whatever soap opera we just watched,’ said the Chief Constable. Jo didn’t have much to say to that. ‘You’re toxic, Detective Masters.’

  ‘At least let me help,’ she said.

  The Chief Constable looked to Stratton.

  ‘We think you’d be better elsewhere,’ he said.

  Jo stood her ground. ‘You’re making a mistake.’

  The Chief Constable walked past her and opened the door. ‘Detective Masters, do we need to have you escorted from the building?’

  * * *

  She drove away from the station, past a clutch of reporters, and headed out of town before she realised she was blindly following the route to Lucas’s place. She took a right at the next T-junction.

  ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ She hammered the steering wheel with every exclamation, hard enough to make her regret it.

  There was no way back now. She wouldn’t even be allowed to cross the threshold at St Aldates. Out of the loop, there was nothing she could do or say to help those three scared young women. He – whoever he was – had won. She wondered whether, if she called Rob Bridges, her old DCI, he might be able to talk to Stratton, convince him to let her back …

  She took out her phone, but didn’t dial. Rob might talk Stratton round, but not the Chief Constable. She drove on, aimlessly. Was it just her imagination, or were more people looking at their phones than normal? It seemed like every other person on the streets was inspecting their screen. She told herself they couldn’t all be watching her humiliation unfolding, and resisted checking the number of views the video had reached now. If it had entered the Twittersphere, there would be no stopping it. Ex-colleagues, friends, everyone connected to the case … She felt like a fish in an aquarium, the whole world looking in. Christ, her niece Emma would surely have seen it by now too. Would she show her mum and dad?

  She parked up a couple of streets over from Canterbury Road, proceeding on foot to The Three Crowns. Walking through the door, she felt the tiniest salve of relief. Guaranteed, in here, no one had a bloody clue who
she was apart from Harry. Ferman wasn’t there, but a few of the other regulars were in, and she very much doubted any of them had a Twitter handle. She ordered a double vodka at the bar, paid, and drank it before Connie had even brought her change.

  ‘Tough day?’ said the barmaid.

  ‘Tough week,’ said Jo. ‘Can I have another please?’

  The TV was showing a highlight reel of speedcross crashes, bikers losing control and slewing into the barriers or one another. It seemed an apt metaphor for her recent career trajectory. She watched anyway, and tried to take the second drink more slowly.

  Her phone rang. Lucas. She switched it to silent. Fuck them all.

  She was on her third, maybe fourth drink, when Ferman shambled in.

  ‘Hello, Ms Masters,’ he said. ‘This is becoming a habit. Usual, Connie, when you’ve got a moment.’

  Jo kissed his cheek, not their normal greeting. He frowned. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fucking dandy, Harry.’

  ‘How many have you had?’

  ‘Not enough,’ said Jo. ‘Connie, I’ll get these.’

  * * *

  She didn’t go into details. Something told her the world of YouTube upvotes and social media shares would go over Ferman’s head. She filled him in on the other bits of the case – Tyndle’s van, Anna Mull, the photo that Tyndle couldn’t have taken – but she was aware as she related it all that she might not be making complete sense, because it still didn’t make complete sense to her. Harry drank at his usual pace, rum and chaser, steady, and they fell into sync. Her phone rang every few minutes. Paul, Lucas, Jack Pryce. She thought about answering the latter, but she knew she’d probably be slurring by now. She finished her latest drink while Ferman still had three quarters of a pint.

  ‘You want another?’

  ‘You sure you’re not done?’

  ‘You’re not my bloody dad, Harry.’

  He took a long pull. ‘Same again then, if you’re buying.’

  A couple of people came and went. Jo put some Sam Cooke on the juke box. ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’. The TV started showing European football.

  ‘I need a piss,’ she said.

  Her feet were unsteady, but she made it to the loos in pretty much a straight line. Did her business. In the mirror she thought she actually looked okay.

  As she got back to the table, she saw Pryce had called again.

  ‘You’re in demand,’ said Ferman.

  She went to the bar. ‘Another vodka, Connie.’

  ‘Sorry, love. Last orders have been and gone.’

  Jo blinked up at the clock. It was twenty past eleven. How did that happen?

  ‘Go on. No one’s watching. I’m a copper, you know?’

  Connie looked over towards Ferman, who shuffled across. ‘We’ll call you a taxi,’ he said.

  Jo leant on the bar. ‘I’m parked around the corner.’

  He looked at her and shook his head. ‘Let’s not make today any worse, eh?’

  ‘I’ll walk,’ she said.

  ‘Your place is four miles away,’ he said. ‘From what you’ve been saying, Lucas is off the cards.’

  ‘Did I tell you about that shit?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ said Connie. ‘You told the whole pub.’

  Jo groaned. ‘I think I need to lie down.’

  On the bar, her phone rang again. Pryce. She wasn’t sure what exactly made her answer this time. ‘Hey, Jack.’

  ‘I spoke to Carrick. He told me what happened. Are you okay?’

  ‘Can I crash at yours?’ she asked. A split-second after she’d made the request, the other, more sensible Josephine Masters, sat up somewhere in the back of her mind, suddenly taking notice, and said, Are you really sure about this? ‘I think there might be journalists at my place.’

  ‘What about Lucas?’ said Pryce.

  ‘Look, if it’s a problem, I can get a hotel.’

  ‘No, no – it’s fine. Do you even know where I live?’

  ‘Text me your address. I’ll be there in a bit.’

  * * *

  Pryce lived right in the town centre, not far from the train station, in a modern block of flats with a gated entrance. Jo wound down the window of the taxi all the way to try to sober up, and by the time she arrived, she thought it might have worked a little. Enough, anyway, for Josephine to again protest that this might all be a bad idea.

  She rang the bell for number 34, and he buzzed her in. Having briefly considered the stairs, she took the lift instead. The place felt like a hotel – identical doors lining a long corridor. It swayed a little as she walked.

  His flat was pristine, and she felt suddenly a pang of the old inferiority complex that had plagued her as a girl, a mental shortcut to a teenage Josie who felt she was never good enough. How had he got his existence into this much order?

  The books on his up-lit shelves were neatly arranged, the subtle tones of the room and the furnishings combined perfectly. The mugs hanging on the pegs over the kitchen counters all matched, hanging at exactly the same angles. He walked across and took one now.

  ‘You want a coffee?’

  He was dressed in the same tracksuit bottoms as earlier, but he’d stripped the hooded top and wore only a vest. It was strange seeing his naked arms, and the hint of his chest. She’d always thought he carried himself with a slightly odd gait, stiff and reticent, but he had the body of an athlete, lithe and in control of his environment.

  ‘You got anything stronger?’

  He opened a cupboard. ‘Whisky?’

  In the back of her mind, the last vestiges of sensible Jo tried to offer wise counsel, but she was ignored. ‘I wouldn’t say no.’

  He poured a tumbler for each of them, adding ice from a dispenser in the front of his fridge. He pushed one across to her with his bandaged hand, then raised a toast. ‘To DCI Stratton contracting a terminal illness?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she replied, laughing.

  ‘The futon pulls out,’ he said.

  ‘I really appreciate it.’

  ‘No worries.’ He sipped. ‘Things not good with Lucas?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t seen the video. My last shred of dignity can’t take it.’

  ‘It looked painful,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and grab some bedding.’

  He set his glass down then padded over to what she guessed was his bedroom.

  She walked across the room. Above the TV was a large triptych of photos showing rock faces and a climber perched in precarious positions, bare-chested, the cords of his muscles taut and perfectly balanced, his long hair hanging down. She realised, as she stepped nearer, that it was Pryce.

  ‘Holy shit!’ she said. ‘You some sort of daredevil?’

  ‘Used to be,’ he said, coming back in with a pile of sheets and blankets that he deposited on the futon. ‘That was Yosemite. I did a semester at UCLA. There’s quite a climbing scene there. You must think I love myself.’

  ‘If I could do that, I’d put up the evidence too,’ she said. She gestured at the room. ‘Nice place by the way.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He started to make the bed.

  ‘Leave that. I’ll sort it.’

  He nodded. ‘There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet. Help yourself to anything you need.’

  ‘I might have a shower if that’s okay? Been in these clothes since yesterday.’

  ‘You want a T-shirt or something?’

  ‘If you’ve got one.’

  ‘Sure – I’ll leave one out. Goodnight.’ He left his whisky glass on the counter, and retreated into his bedroom.

  Jo went into the bathroom. It was just as pristine as the rest of the flat. Towels neatly stacked. Even the few items in the bathroom cabinet sat at right angles. She switched on the shower and stripped as steam filled the room and misted the mirror. She closed her eyes as she washed, turning the heat up as high as she could bear in an effort to drive all the other thoughts from her head. She almost succeeded, but she couldn’t help
wondering what might be happening in the CID room that very moment, at the Randolph Hotel, in Sophie Okafor’s house, at the guest rooms in Somerville College. So many people relying on her, and she couldn’t help them at all.

  She finished washing and towelled herself dry, then brushed her teeth. She realised she’d made a rookie error – what were the chances Pryce had a hairdryer, even if he once had long hair? She checked the cabinets, with no luck.

  As she left the bathroom, towel wrapped around her, the cooler air of the living room brought the skin of her arms up in goose pimples. Under Pryce’s bedroom door, a faint light still glowed. She padded over and knocked gently. ‘Jack, sorry, have you got a hairdryer?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Just a sec.’

  She heard a bit of clattering, then the door opened, and he stood there in just his jogging bottoms, a bandage taped around his midriff, holding the hairdryer, the contours of his lean physique caught in light and shadow. ‘Did you find the T-shirt I left out?’

  She’d made so many mistakes already, that one more hardly seemed to matter. And really, both stupid drunken Jo and Catholic-school Josephine had been skirting around the issue since the moment she’d answered his call in The Three Crowns. She reached up and slid a hand around the back of his neck, tipping up her mouth to meet his. For a moment, she felt him resist. His eyes met hers, a hint of confusion. She let her hand drop. ‘You’re my boss,’ he said.

  ‘Not for much longer, I expect,’ she said. ‘Listen, sorry. I misunder—’

  His lips came down quickly onto hers, and the hairdryer dropped to the carpet as both his hands reached around her, pressing her body into his. They stumbled backwards, and he landed on the bed, wincing.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

  He nodded, laughing. ‘Just be gentle with me. Stitches, remember.’

  Lucas’s face came briefly to her thoughts, then vanished. She reached under her arm to loosen her towel. ‘I’m not making any promises.’

  Chapter 28

  WEDNESDAY

  She woke to a pounding head, and the faint tang of peatiness on her tongue … had she drunk whisky? She hated whisky. She rolled over, momentarily confused at her surroundings. Then it all came back, and with it, a terrible, yawning feeling of regret. She raised her head off the pillow, but Pryce wasn’t in bed beside her.