Keep Her Close

Chapter 6

They had to call him though, and DCI Stratton arrived back at the station just before nine pm, as Jo and Carrick were getting ready to speak to Ronald Myers in IR1. Carrick had obviously briefed him on Jo’s involvement, because he didn’t say anything other than a mumbled, ‘Great work, Detective Masters.’

‘What’s the old bastard done with her?’ he said next.

‘Dimi’s standing by at the property,’ said Carrick. ‘Let’s talk to Myers first before we rip the place up.’

‘I’ll be watching on the monitor,’ said Stratton. ‘And hold fire on communicating with Nick Cranleigh until we’ve got something concrete.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Carrick.

He and Jo entered the interview room, and Myers started talking at once. ‘I hope you’ve seen sense.’ His lawyer sat beside him, a man of about the same age, but plump and florid, with badly-dyed blond hair.

Carrick started the tape and introduced Myers, himself and Jo for the record, then asked the counsel to state his name.

‘Freddie Allgreave,’ said the man. ‘For the record, my client denies having anything material to do with the disappearance of Malin Sigurdsson.’

‘We’re investigating her death, now,’ said Carrick.

‘That as well,’ said Myers. ‘For God’s sake, this is preposterous. You have no evidence.’

‘Care to tell us why you were disposing of Malin’s property a mile from your home?’ asked Jo.

Myers glanced briefly at his lawyer, who nodded.

‘I panicked. You seemed to think I was guilty of something, wanting to snoop around. So I tried to get rid of her things.’

‘Why did you have those things in the first place?’ asked Jo.

‘That’s none of your business,’ said Myers.

‘Did you steal them from her, maybe?’ asked Jo. ‘We know you liked her. You told us that before. Wanted something to sniff?’

Myers looked horrified. ‘I’m not a pervert.’

Jo fought back her laughter. You’re a lot worse than that.

‘If you tell us where she is, right now, it’s going to reflect a lot better on you when it comes to sentencing. Mr Allgreave will confirm that.’

The brief leant across and whispered something in his client’s ear.

‘I don’t know where she is,’ said Myers. ‘I want to help.’

Jo took a breath. She didn’t think he’d hold out long. Her vague theory was that he’d done something in a fit of temper, and all she needed to do was play on the same short fuse in the IR and he’d crack again. She was almost looking forward to it. ‘Tell us about Malin,’ she said. ‘What was she like as a student?’

Myers pouted, as if he expected a trick. ‘She was gifted,’ he said. ‘Our tutorials were stimulating.’

‘I bet,’ said Jo. ‘And the one where you tried to stick your tongue down her throat. Did she find that stimulating?’

‘I said before – it was a misunderstanding.’

‘And dealt with internally at the college,’ said Allgreave.

‘Swept under the carpet, more like,’ said Jo. Carrick was sitting back and listening carefully, letting her take the lead. She wondered in the back of her mind how Stratton, watching from the AV suite, would take the line of questioning. Not that she cared. She’d always scored highly in interrogation test scenarios.

‘It was the friend who sent you on this wild goose chase, wasn’t it?’ said Myers.

Jo folded her arms. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied.

‘You know why the complaint was dropped, don’t you?’ said Myers. ‘Because she never wanted to make it in the first place. It was that little minx Anna Mull who put her up to it. She’s hated me ever since I told her to buck up her game.’

Jo didn’t let her face betray her surprise. It might not even be true, but now wasn’t the time to start digging. Carrick’s phone, on the table in front of them, beeped. He turned it over and looked at the message, before showing it to Jo. It was from Dimitriou. ‘Neighbours opposite report seeing blonde girl arriving with Myers three days ago by car. Leaving next morning.’

What the hell did that mean?

‘Time to be open with us, Ron,’ said Jo. ‘Because we’re this close to turning your house upside down. When did you last see Malin Sigurdsson?’

Myers’ lips were sealed.

‘Come on, Mr Myers,’ said Carrick. ‘If you didn’t take her, that means someone else did. The quickest way to eliminate yourself from our enquiries is to tell the truth. We can still charge you with obstruction of justice for the unauthorised disposal of her possessions.’

Allgreave put a hand on Myers’ arm. ‘I’m sure my client will do his best to help you. He’s an innocent man.’

Myers nodded gratefully. ‘I saw her on Monday,’ he said.

Three days ago …

‘For what?’ said Carrick.

Myers folded his arms. ‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘Extra tutoring?’ said Carrick.

‘We enjoyed each other’s company,’ said Myers.

‘You had sexual intercourse?’ said Jo.

‘And it was entirely our private right to do so,’ said the professor.

‘You and Malin Sigurdsson?’ said Jo.

Myers looked at her with utter disdain.

‘So you say you haven’t seen her since Monday,’ asked Carrick. ‘Any contact at all? An argument, perhaps?’

‘No,’ said Myers. ‘We parted … amicably.’

‘And you didn’t visit her in college?’

‘I think I’ve answered that.’

‘Answer again.’

‘No, I didn’t visit her in college. I don’t even have a security pass anymore, and you can check with the porter’s lodge to see if I signed in.’

‘We’ll need to take your fingerprints.’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘No.’

Jo suspended the interview, and was glad to be out of the room with Carrick.

‘Are you buying it, guv?’

Stratton joined them.

‘We’ll need to confirm the visitor was her,’ said Carrick, ‘but the days matched. Maybe Anna Mull can clarify. Sounds like she wasn’t particularly fond of Myers.’

‘I hope I’m not being shallow,’ said Jo, ‘but can you really see Malin Sigurdsson going for a bloke like that?’

Stratton cut in. ‘If there’s one thing this job has taught me, it’s not to make assumptions about women.’

Jo guessed from his smile that it was supposed to be a joke. ‘She accused him of sexual harassment. He lost his job. In my experience, women don’t run to shag their sex pests.’

‘He said the complaint was dropped,’ said Stratton.

‘We’ll check with Frampton-Keys,’ said Carrick. ‘I’m with Jo on this, sir. Even if she dropped the accusation, I’m not sure how it squares with voluntarily spending the night at his house.’

Maybe, thought Jo, we’re not looking at a square.

* * *

They took the prints, and Heidi gave the files a cursory scan before sending them to the lab for a confirmation.

‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure they’re not a match for Malin’s room,’ she said.

Stratton looked aggrieved. ‘I’m not sure we can hold him.’

‘Agreed,’ said Carrick, though Jo saw it pained him to admit it. ‘We checked the evidence manifest from Malin’s room, and it included a toothbrush. Which makes it more likely that the one at Myers’ house was indeed a spare, taken there voluntarily.’

‘We’ve got him on obstruction, though.’

‘Pretty sure his lawyer could argue that was simply panic,’ said Carrick, ‘and he’s not an ongoing material threat.’

‘Are we finished at his house?’ asked the DCI.

‘Almost,’ said Carrick. ‘There’s nothing obvious yet. Certainly no blood.’

‘If he killed her at the college, there wouldn’t be,’ said Jo. ‘He looks strong enough to carry her.’ She knew that didn’t answer the access problem, though.

‘Okay, I want every nook and cranny looked into,’ said Stratton. ‘Find Myers a hotel. Get him what he needs from his house. And advise he doesn’t go on any sudden holidays.’

Carrick did as asked, signing Myers’ belongings back to him. On seeing Myers’ unbelievably smug face as he pocketed his things, Jo couldn’t help herself.

‘Not sure how Mr Cranleigh is going to react when he hears about you and his daughter.’

Myers coloured. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against me, Detective. Did you fail your Oxford entrance exam?’

‘I never fancied the place,’ said Jo. ‘Something about all those one-on-one tutorials made me feel uneasy. Maybe my gut instinct was right.’

She left him in reception.

Back in the CID room, Heidi had shouldered her bag, and switched off her computer. ‘That’s me done.’

‘You should go home too, Jo,’ said Carrick. ‘Jack’s finishing up at the college.’

‘Anything new?’

He shook his head. ‘Oh, apparently Hana Sigurdsson is landing in the morning.’

‘You want me here to liaise?’

Carrick shot a glance towards Stratton’s closed door. ‘Better not, for now,’ he said, and Jo got it. There were times to push the DCI, and times to give. This was the latter.

* * *

Her car stank of the Korean food, which would have cooled to the point of inedibility. She opened the window, despite the cold outside, and let the wintry wind blast the smell away.

Lucas’s flat was in the Northcote area of Abingdon, a quarter-hour from the station. It wasn’t much – a two-bed on the upper floor of a small nineties block – but it was well kept, with Lucas himself taking care of the communal gardens on behalf of the residents. Jo parked up beside his beat-up Land Rover. It was the only car not covered in a fine sheen of frost, and touching the bonnet there was still a hint of warmth. He must have nipped out. She dropped the takeaway into the outdoor bin, and as she approached the front door, the security light blinked on.

She took the stairs, and let herself into the dark apartment. Turning on the light, she saw his work boots by the door and his coat hanging on the peg. Jo made her way through to the open-plan kitchen-lounge. The bedroom door was closed. She opened the fridge, but it was scarce pickings. A pineapple, several condiments, some milk and cheese. Half a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet. So she settled for an impromptu midnight feast of pineapple chunks and a glass of cold wine while sitting at the small dining table. When she’d first learned Lucas didn’t indulge in alcohol, she’d been reticent to drink at his flat, but he’d insisted it was okay. She knew already she’d have trouble sleeping without it tonight. There was a torn brown envelope on the floor by the table leg. HMRC. Probably another tax return reminder. Though he worked for the college, he was a freelance contractor.

‘Hey, stranger,’ said a voice.

Jo almost jumped out of her skin, dropping the piece of paper.

Lucas stood in the doorway of the bedroom, one arm resting on the frame, his blond surfer’s hair tousled, squinting a little into the light. He wore just a pair of shorts, his muscular torso on display, and padded towards her on bare feet.

‘You scared the shit out of me,’ said Jo.

He folded his arms around her, and kissed the underside of her neck. ‘Sorry. I thought you were a burglar.’

His stubble brushed her cheek, and though there was still a hint of the soap he used, his hair carried the scent of burned wood.

‘You smell funny,’ she said.

He leant past her and stabbed at a piece of pineapple, popping it in her mouth.

‘Bonfire,’ he said. ‘You want me to shower?’

‘We’ll have to wash the sheets,’ she said.

‘Guess so.’ He went to the fridge and took out a carton of milk. Tipping it back, he took several gulps. ‘Busy day, huh?’

‘Complicated,’ she answered.

He replaced the milk. ‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Not much to talk about at the moment. You go out somewhere?’

‘Huh?’

‘Car’s warm,’ she said.

‘Just the shops, Sherlock,’ he said.

He took himself off to the bathroom. She heard the shower start up.

In the first weeks of their relationship, her work was all he’d wanted to ask about, but he’d cottoned on quickly that Jo would rather talk about anything else and now he was much better at gauging her mood. She found his own work much more fascinating. Gardening wasn’t a topic she’d ever thought about much before, but Lucas had been working across the colleges for around eight years, and his tales of collegiate politics, student high jinks, and academic malfeasance were as rich as any case she’d worked on. It helped that he was a naturally gifted mimic. He had an eye for humour, an open disposition, and, compared with most people Jo came across, a sometimes charming innocence. She almost didn’t want to share the things she came across day to day – the banality of deaths, the lies and desperation, the lives shattered and inconsequential in the fringes of society – for fear it would drain some of that positivity from him.

Of his own history, she knew little. He’d grown up in Somerset, and the accent remained. His parents, who had separated when he was seven, were both dead. He had a sister, in New Zealand now, with whom he spoke a handful of times a year. His friends in Oxford were mostly in the same line of work. He wanted, ultimately, to own his own landscaping company, but he was in no rush. At twenty-eight, Jo hadn’t been either.

She wondered, in moments of self-doubt, what he thought of her. Over a decade older, weighed down by the pressures of work, one seriously failed romantic life behind her. She hadn’t told him about the counselling, not because she was ashamed of it, but because it might have meant talking more about what had happened that night in Sally Carruthers’ barn. Anyone with eyes and ears to take in the news was aware of the basics, of course. She and Lucas had met during the case – he’d been a helpful witness in the search for a suspect. But it hadn’t been until four weeks after, and the bruises had faded, that he’d left a message through the front desk, that his offer of a drink was still open. Dimitriou had overheard, and found it hilarious. And though every instinct had screamed at Jo that it was a bad time, she had taken him up on it, having run a thorough criminal record check, of course. She couldn’t help herself. Besides, Lucas was as clean as they came. The fact he looked like a Greek God cast away on a sun-kissed desert island helped.

She finished her wine and put the glass by the sink with the empty bowl of pineapple. Peeling off her clothes in the bedroom, which smelled faintly of smoke too, she walked naked to the bathroom door. It was thick with steam inside, but she could make out the shape of Lucas in the shower. For a moment, she remembered Malin’s bloody handprint across her mirror.

Pulling back the shower curtain, she climbed in behind him stealthily, then threaded a hand over his rib cage and taut stomach, making him jump.

‘Now you’re scaring me,’ he said, turning and pulling her towards him, into the flow of hot water.

She ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed him tenderly, glad to be free of her thoughts – for a little while, at least.

Chapter 7

THURSDAY

The phone woke her from a deep and dreamless slumber. Lucas groaned slightly as she prised herself from under his arm, reaching into the darkness. She found the phone and answered. It was almost three am.

‘Jo Masters.’

‘Sorry it’s late, Serge. Williams here.’

‘Andrea.’

‘We’ve got a body, ma’am,’ said the PC.

The fog lifted in an instant and Jo sat up in bed. The room was cold, and the skin across her upper body broke into gooseflesh at once.

‘Malin Sigurdsson?’

‘Hard to tell, ma’am. It’s submerged.’

‘What’s up?’ asked Lucas sleepily.

‘Nothing,’ said Jo, swinging her legs out of bed. ‘Just work.’

With one hand still on the phone, she manoeuvred her dressing gown off the hook. ‘Location?’

‘Near Little Baldon,’ said Williams. ‘Just down from where the main road crosses the river.’

Jo moved into the hall. ‘Who called it in?’

‘Truck driver. He’s still here.’

‘Keep him there. I’ll be over in twenty minutes.’

She hung up and dressed quickly, feeling guilty for the excitement that quickened her heart, even though it might well be the young girl she was looking for.

Outside, the car was iced over again, and she gave it a cursory scrape before setting off into the deserted back roads that crisscross the farmland south of Oxford. The heaters took a while to get going and her hands were freezing as they clutched the wheel. Her headlights picked up a badger, the odd rabbit, their peaceful night’s ramblings disturbed by her progress through small villages at close to the speed limit. A patch of black ice took her by surprise, and the car slid nauseatingly for a moment before traction took hold. Slow down, Jo. She’s not going anywhere.

She phoned Pryce. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but he’d always been clear he kept strange hours, and unlike Carrick, he wasn’t a family man. Plus, there was something about the empty roads, with the grey spectres of sleeping houses, that made her long for his steady company. He answered almost right away, and after she’d filled him in, asked, ‘Where’s Little Baldon?’

‘Nowhere near Myers’ place,’ said Jo, and gave him directions.

‘On my way.’

* * *

It was a lonely place to die, if indeed the death had occurred here; empty farmland, weather-blasted hedgerows, with the occasional house set well back from the road. There was a dilapidated and disused petrol garage a couple of hundred metres from the bridge and the overhanging trees had been stripped back by the cross-country progress of lorries. Jo saw the spinning lights of a squad car pulled up in a layby by woodland, and a truck a few metres on bearing the name ‘CoolFlo Logistics’.

The driver was sitting in his cab on his phone, smoking a roll-up. Constable Andrea Williams sat in the passenger seat, notebook in hand. Jo pulled up on the grass verge opposite, put on her hazards, climbed out and crossed the road. Williams climbed down to talk.

‘Hi, boss,’ she said. ‘We’re doing shifts.’ She pointed to the bridge. ‘Olly Pinker’s down there now. You’d better be careful – there’s no path and it’s pretty slippery.’

‘Got it. Trucker okay?’

‘Just wants to get moving,’ said Williams. ‘He’s on a three-day haul to Hungary. Got to get to Portsmouth by seven.’

‘How did he find her?’

‘Stopped to take a shit. Worked his way into the bushes to be clear of the road. Saw her. It sounds feasible. His English isn’t great.’

‘Speak to his employer if you can. Explain things. We’ll need his details. Plus his movements over the last twenty-four hours,’ she said. ‘If it checks out, take a statement here and cut him loose.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Jo looked towards the lorry. Killers coming back to the site of their crimes was a documented phenomenon. Sometimes they were even the ones to find the body, despite the inherent risk of being caught. But Williams was right – this didn’t feel like that. The call of nature in a secluded area made more sense on the surface. And killers tended not to call in their own misdeeds.

The river was about twelve feet wide, with trees on each side. It was still flowing a little in the centre, but around the banks it had frozen solid after the days of zero or sub-zero temperatures. The bridge was stone on one side of the road, but the other was metal fencing. Jo saw the way down, a small cutting by the more modern side, through thick foliage. She peered over. Torchlight shone in her face then dipped away.

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ hollered Pinker. ‘Careful how you come down.’

Jo tucked her own small torch into her pocket, gripped the uppermost stanchion of the bridge and placed her foot with care, supporting her weight as she lowered herself. She had to let go, and half walked, half scrambled on hands and feet to get to the bottom. There might have been a path down here once, but it was overgrown long ago. She picked her way through the scrubby grass and dotted bushes to where the PC was standing further down the bank.