Watch Over You

by M. J. Ford

  ‘Ma’am,’ called Reeves. ‘In here.’

  Jo came out and saw the younger woman at the far end of the landing, standing in a doorway. ‘I think it’s where he cornered them.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Jo. She hurried past three other doors.

  Reeves was in the master bedroom. A simple bolt lock had been smashed off the inside of the door, and there was significant splintering in the architrave around the frame. ‘Someone kicked this in,’ said Alice. The room beyond, which overlooked the back of the house, hadn’t been thoroughly searched, but there were signs of a struggle, and bloodstains on the floor – several heavy spatters thoroughly soaked into the shaggy pale blue carpet. A tiltable full-length mirror was at an almost horizontal angle, as though something had knocked into it. A telephone cradle on a dressing table lay empty. Jo found the receiver in the corner of the room, and gingerly picked it up. The battery had run down.

  In the en-suite, a razor lay beside the sink, still crusty with shaving foam, and the sink itself was soiled with short hairs. It looked like Mr Bailey had been in the process of shaving when he was interrupted.

  Coming out again, Jo noticed that there was a shelf beside a small window overlooking the west side of the house. It contained half a dozen striking porcelain plates, and corresponded to six more on the opposite side of the room. The bright glaze showed semi-figurative versions of the Stations of the Cross. Two of the plates though were broken – one split in two, and the other in several pieces on the floor.

  Jo pointed to the one still on the shelf. ‘How do you think that happened?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Unlikely that someone broke a plate and put it back, isn’t it?’

  Now she was closer she saw the wallpaper behind the plate was pocked in places with small black marks like smudges. She pulled across a spindle-backed antique chair, and climbed up carefully. As her eyes came level with the shelf, she saw there were a number of lead pellets on top.

  ‘Bingo,’ she said, showing one to Reeves. ‘Someone let off a round in here.’ She pointed to the blood. ‘My guess is that it found a target, at least partially. The rest of the blast hit the plates and the wall.’ Glancing sideways, she saw some had shredded the curtain. Jo dropped to the ground – there were more pellets scattered in the thick shag of the carpet. She stood and turned over the tilted mirror. As she did so, shattered fragments of glass spilled onto the floor.

  Reeves moved across the room, past the blood on the floor, until she was facing Jo from the doorway. She mimicked a shotgun held at the hip. ‘About here?’

  Jo nodded. The range and trajectory fit perfectly with the blood and the damage. ‘Any sign of a spent shell?’

  Reeves got on her hands and knees, and it was only a few seconds before she moved to reach under the bed. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Leave it in place for Mel,’ said Jo. She looked too. Sure enough, the shell had come to rest a few inches under the divan. She reflected on the taxidermy, and fishing equipment. It appeared that Mr Bailey was a country sports enthusiast. ‘I suppose it’s plausible Mr Bailey had a licence, and kept the gun in here for security. Someone broke in, and they took shelter in the safest place. He breaks down the door, but Mr Bailey’s waiting for him, and gets a shot off. The intruder is injured, but not critically. He then overpowered them and got the gun.’

  ‘But didn’t shoot them?’ said Alice.

  ‘Maybe he was worried about the noise,’ said Jo, though as she theorised she felt uneasy. The thing that had happened in the cellar seemed more than a panicked response.

  Next along the hall was a guest room, completely undisturbed by all appearances, but the bedroom between it and the boy’s belonged to a girl for sure. Even if the shades of pink and purple bedding didn’t make it obvious, there was a dressing table, its surface covered in brightly coloured cosmetics bottles, with powder stains around the feet too, plus what might have been a lick of red nail polish or dye of some sort. Music posters on the walls, and several pairs of shoes ranging from pumps to heels lined up along the floor. The area around the bed’s headboard was entirely given to a collage of photos, stuck at angles. As Jo moved into the room, it was like stepping back into her own past. Here, the mess was entirely organic, the product of a scattergun life rather than criminal rifling.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Alice. ‘Where are the kids?’

  Jo had been thinking the same thing, and she was trying to stay positive. Maybe they were away on holiday, or didn’t live here any more. The alternatives didn’t bear consideration. She scanned the photos.

  ‘As long as they’re not here, I’m happ—’

  What the fuck?

  ‘Found something?’

  Jo’s voice was somewhere way in the back of her throat, her eyes glued to the wall of photos, darting between different points, and the same face. Most were group shots, or selfies with a friend or two. Some pictures were in school uniform, others appeared to be a park, or at various gatherings. But there was a single set, taken in a photo booth, showing a girl pulling a succession of funny faces, before ending in a sultry, over-the-top pout. The hairstyle changed a little in some of the photos, and sometimes it was tied up, but in this row of poses, she wore it loose. Shoulder length, springy curls. It couldn’t be … but it was.

  ‘It’s her,’ said Jo. ‘The girl from Harry’s.’

  This is her bedroom.

  Chapter 9

  Within five minutes, the rest of the investigative team were staring at the same wall. Jo had found the girl’s name – Megan Bailey – written on a few schoolbooks in a drawer, and the name of her school, Marsh Hill Secondary. Reeves came back up from downstairs, where she’d found a photo of the whole family together. It looked like a professional portrait – a studio background – and a sticker on the reverse confirmed it came from MX Studio Photography, based in central Oxford. The image showed Dr and Mr Bailey on the flanks, with the two siblings – Megan and a broad-shouldered young man – in the centre, arms looped around one another. Though Megan was smiling, it wasn’t the same full-beam as on the faces of the others. Or perhaps that was simply Jo’s imagination running away. Certainly though, compared with the other pictures of her, the ones taken on her own terms, there was something guarded in her eyes in that family shot.

  Jo dipped into the boy’s room and cross-referenced with the rugby team listings beneath the photo. His name was Gregory. After consulting with Carrick, she found a number for St Cuthbert’s, which was apparently a boarding school thirty miles away. It came as a relief to think he was probably somewhere safe, but the last thing they needed was for the boy to arrive at the door and find a police cordon. She got through to the school secretary, and explained she was a police officer enquiring after the whereabouts of a student called Gregory Bailey.

  ‘We can’t give out any information about students,’ came the reply.

  Jo had anticipated as much. Tied by what exactly she herself wanted to disclose, she said simply, ‘I’m afraid to say I’ve got some upsetting news about his parents. If you like, you could call the Thames Valley switchboard to confirm my identity. They’ll put you through to me.’

  That seemed to soften the secretary’s defences. ‘I’m sure that’s unnecessary,’ she said. ‘Would you mind holding the line for a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  As Jo waited, she wandered back into the master bedroom. Mel Cropper would get the blood processed for DNA, and the handprint analysed for any matches; they’d bring in a ballistics expert to draw up likely scenarios, as well as identifying the relevant details on the shotgun used. The whole of Thames Valley normally dealt with less than a hundred shootings a year, so two in a week, within the same geographical area, was highly irregular. She had to assume the shotgun was now in the possession of whoever had killed the Baileys. If Dimitriou was right, and that individual was Blake Matthis, it would be a priority to get both boy and firearm off the streets.

  ‘Hel
lo?’ said a man’s voice on the phone. ‘Has something happened to Mark?’

  ‘Sorry, who is this?’

  ‘My name is Dai Armitage,’ said the man. ‘I’m the head of the sixth form at St Cuthbert’s. You’re a police officer, I’m told.’

  Jo introduced herself. ‘I’m looking for Gregory Bailey.’

  ‘Has something happened to Mark?’ repeated Armitage.

  ‘You know Mr Bailey?’

  ‘Very well, yes – we served together. What’s happened exactly?’

  Jo saw no reason to keep him in the dark.

  ‘I’m sure you can appreciate the need for discretion, and I’m very sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it appears both Mark and his wife have died in suspicious circumstances.’ Here, Armitage muttered something indecipherable under his breath. ‘We’re trying to get hold of Gregory to determine his safety, and to inform him in the most tactful way.’

  ‘Greg’s no longer at St Cuthbert’s,’ said Armitage. ‘He finished last summer and took a place at Cambridge reading Natural Sciences. My God – this will finish him.’

  ‘Do you have any contact details?’ said Jo.

  In a subdued tone that suggested he was still reeling from the news, Armitage said he hadn’t, but that Greg was at Pembroke College. ‘Do you need me to pass on their number? Or I could call them myself?’

  ‘It’s best if you leave it to us, sir,’ said Jo.

  ‘You mentioned suspicious circumstances,’ said Armitage. ‘You mean they were murdered?’

  The scene two floors down hardly left room for any other hypothesis, but Jo said simply, ‘We’re working on that assumption, yes, but we need to keep that under wraps until we’ve spoken to next of kin. I assume we can rely on your discretion.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ murmured Armitage. ‘My God. He was a good man, you know. And Rachael too – a wonderful woman. I can’t imagine why anyone would hurt them.’

  ‘So you can’t think of any enemies they might have had?’

  ‘Not at all. Mark was a management consultant – retired now, but he still did a bit of pro bono for a missionary charity. Rachael was a celebrated figure in child medicine. Cancer.’

  ‘And what about their daughter, Megan. Do you know her?’

  A pause. ‘Not really. She was a bit younger than Greg, and only here for a couple of terms.’

  Jo recalled the other school name listed in the text book. ‘She was at St Cuthbert’s too?’

  Another long pause, as if the line was suffering a delay. ‘Er … yes. She left.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Mr Armitage, I’m sure you appreciate we’re concerned for Megan’s safety. She’s missing. If you can help us, at all …’

  ‘She was here, about four years ago. She was expelled.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘It’s really a private matter. I’d rather not—’

  ‘You’re assisting a murder inquiry,’ said Jo. ‘It’s not the time for being coy. Drugs, I’m assuming?’

  Armitage lowered his voice. ‘If you must know, there were issues regarding sexual propriety.’

  Jo looked at the image of the girl on the wall. She looked like any other teenager, but that didn’t mean a thing. She thought again of Dimitriou’s insinuations about Harry. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Mark’s daughter attempted to seduce a member of staff.’

  Jo’s lips curled into a wry, sceptical smile. She’d dealt with a number of cases when an older man claimed his young victim was the instigator. ‘Seduce how?’

  ‘She sent images of herself.’

  ‘And how old was she at this stage?’

  ‘She would have been around twelve.’

  ‘And this teacher – he reported it at once?’ said Jo.

  ‘Actually, the teacher was female,’ said Armitage. ‘But it wasn’t an isolated incident.’

  ‘And was any of this reported to the police?’

  ‘Look, we did what Mark wanted,’ said Armitage defensively. ‘We agreed that Megan would leave. It was for her own good, and her brother’s.’

  ‘I see,’ said Jo.

  ‘I mean, why drag Mark’s family through the dirt?’ said Armitage.

  Or the school’s reputation, thought Jo. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ she said. ‘We may need to talk to you more though.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Armitage, but his voice failed to disguise his burning antipathy for the idea. Having swapped numbers, Jo ended the call with a distinctly uneasy sensation in her gut. It was hard to deduce much at all from Armitage’s vague accusations. Though twelve was at the more extreme end, a promiscuous girl was hardly a rare thing. The thought of one staying with Harry didn’t look at all good though.

  Heidi Tan was waiting in the hallway. ‘We spoke to Marsh Hill,’ she said. ‘Megan Bailey’s in the final year of her GCSEs, but hasn’t been in school for the last week. From what we can gather, her truancy is not uncommon and her parents were well aware of the issue.’

  Jo shared her own intelligence from St Cuthbert’s.

  ‘Sounds like a troubled kid,’ said Heidi. ‘How the hell did she end up at Harry’s?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jo.

  And things aren’t going to get better for her any time soon.

  JAMES

  SEVEN WEEKS EARLIER

  The train was rammed, all seats occupied and people standing in the aisles. He’d managed to get a seat on a table of four, beside a mum trying her best to control her two young kids. The girl and boy were arguing over what to watch on an iPad, sharing the ear-buds between them. It was doing his head in.

  Getting out of Manchester felt like a release. Since Christopher Putman’s death, he’d stayed well clear of the Salford area, lying low in the hostel. He’d sunken his own bloody clothes further up in the canal. And though he’d heard of a few members of the homeless community being questioned, it was clearly a last resort, just to see if any of them had heard anything suspicious. The police had no leads. The papers, he noticed, had kept the worst details out of the reporting.

  He could have hitched to Oxford, but he knew he didn’t look particularly approachable, and the thought of two days or more thumbing at the road-side had filled him with despair. He’d run out of cash too. Jumping the barriers at Manchester Piccadilly would have been too risky – too likely to draw attention – so he’d taken a train in from a local station further out, then walked across the platform to get to the Oxford train, deliberately choosing a busy Saturday service.

  With his hood up, James rested his head on the window, and watched the countryside of middle England flash by.

  ‘Give it to me! Mum said it was my turn to choose!’

  The girl was trying to wrest the tablet from her brother, but her hand slipped and she hit herself in the mouth. Her face screwed up and she began to cry. James smiled.

  ‘Charlie – give it to her,’ said the mum.

  ‘But she snatched—’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said his mother. ‘The rest of the people on this train don’t want to hear you two fighting.’

  The boy – Charlie – handed over the iPad, sulkily. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Well I’ve got some fruit in the bag.’

  ‘I don’t want fruit.’

  ‘Well you’re not hungry then.’

  James tried to switch off, to focus on the task ahead. They’d be in Oxford in half an hour. It wasn’t a city he knew at all, but he was pretty good at finding his way around a place.

  ‘All tickets please!’

  He heard the voice above the carriage’s general hubbub and chatter. Glancing up the aisle, he saw the red-jacketed inspector at the far end, leaning over a table to speak to a passenger. Shit.

  ‘Excuse me, please?’ he said to the woman beside him, half-standing.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, shuffling from her seat.

  James climbed out of his, plucked his bag from above, and without a backward glance walked to his end o
f the carriage, through into a vestibule. There was a toilet, and he slipped inside, locking the door. All he had to do was wait for the inspector to pass.

  He checked his reflection in the mirror. His hair had grown out in the last six months, and needed a trim. His beard too. Maybe when he arrived at his destination, he could find somewhere to clean himself up. Didn’t want to make a bad impression when he made contact. His heart sped up at the thought.

  After about five minutes, he figured it would be all clear. All he had to do now was head to the far end of the train and he was home and dry. He pressed the door button. It slid open to reveal the ticket inspector standing right there in front of him, wearing a smile. He was a big guy, bald-headed, belly pushing out the shirt over his belt.

  ‘Ticket, please, sir.’

  James made a show of feeling his pockets, and saw the look on the inspector’s face. Not convinced.

  ‘Having trouble finding it, are we?’

  ‘I think someone must have taken my wallet.’

  ‘Oh dear. Without a valid ticket, I’ll have to charge you the full price for the journey.’ He began to tap at a machine on his waist.

  ‘I said, someone’s had my wallet. I’ve got no money.’

  ‘Right,’ said the inspector, with no sympathy at all. ‘Name, please.’

  ‘James Munro,’ he lied.

  The bald twat noted it down.

  ‘Address?’

  ‘12 Cardiff Road, Manchester.’

  ‘Got any ID to prove that?’

  James looked left and right. They were alone. ‘I told you …’

  ‘Oh, yeah, the disappearing wallet. So you’ve no way to show me that the address or the name you’ve given is genuine?’

  ‘I suppose you’ll have to trust me.’

  He tried to side-step, to head back towards his seat, but the big man shifted his body too. ‘It doesn’t work like that, sonny.’ He reached for the radio on his lapel. ‘Station security will meet us at Oxford. If they can’t verify your details, the police will—’