Keep Her Close

by M. J. Ford

‘Sorry, if you don’t want to talk about it …’ continued Pryce.

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Jo. ‘They’ve had me seeing a shrink, that’s all. I’m all talked out. Anyway, what about you?’

  Pryce sipped his tea, and looked at her, as if considering sharing some confidence. His gaze was slightly disconcerting, and the car seemed a fraction too small.

  ‘I worked in IT for a few years, but I suppose I wanted to see what it was all about. On the thin blue line.’

  ‘And has it lived up to expectations?’

  His eyes lingered on hers. ‘So far, yes.’

  Jo was glad to see the lights of the forensics van approaching. ‘Why don’t you see how Williams and Pinker are doing with the driver? I’ll chat to these guys.’

  * * *

  After taking pictures, and some initial measurements, the crime scene team set to the task of getting the body out of the river. No one had an ice-pick, but they made use of Pryce’s crowbar to chip away at the thicker ice, until cracks began to appear. Williams and Jo hauled the body up onto the bank together.

  The dead woman was quite stiff, and Jo didn’t know if it was rigor mortis, or that the extreme cold had frozen her limbs. As they rolled her over, Jo saw her suspicions confirmed – it clearly wasn’t Malin Sigurdsson. The woman’s skin was a light shade of violet, and one eye was half open, the other glued shut, but the features were all wrong. Her face was teardrop-shaped, the eyes widely spaced, with a pointed chin and thin lips. She could only have weighed seven or eight stone when not waterlogged. The right sleeve of her jacket was torn open, and three of the fingers on her right hand were misshapen grotesquely, snapped like twigs. Her right leg around the knees was badly skinned, protruding through a hole in her jeans.

  ‘Something bashed her around,’ said Pryce.

  Jo glanced back to the road, and a new theory came to her. ‘You think it was a hit and run? She gets knocked down and stumbles down here somehow?’

  Pryce shrugged. ‘Maybe. Odd place to be walking, though.’

  The lead CSO was Mel Cropper, a dour man in his late forties with an air of perpetual disappointment, three failed marriages, and a sense of humour that made people uncomfortable. Rumour had it his family owned a funeral parlour, but his elder brother had taken it over, and he’d chosen forensics to get his kicks. He was also very, very thorough. He pulled up the woman’s top lip and shone a torch inside. Jo saw straightaway the victim’s teeth were in good condition.

  ‘Anything in her pockets?’ asked Pryce.

  Jo patted the jeans, but found nothing. Reaching into the woman’s jacket, she felt something in the inside pocket. She pulled out a lanyard with a plastic tag case. There was a passport photo and a name underneath. Natalie Palmer. Though slightly blurred, it was unmistakably the woman before them. At the top of the tag was a crest, and the words ‘Jesus College – Staff’.

  ‘Christ, I know this one,’ said Pinker. ‘She went missing last week. The mother reported it and I went to take details in Blackbird Leys. Place was a real shithole. Mum’s a smackhead.’

  ‘Daughter too, maybe,’ said Pryce.

  ‘Still doesn’t explain what she was doing out here,’ said Jo. ‘Can’t imagine she gets her fix in a layby two miles from the city centre.’ She watched Cropper work. ‘Any idea of the cause of death?’

  ‘Too early to say for sure, but I’d lean towards hit and run too. She somehow fell in. If she was already disorientated and injured, the cold of the water could well have induced cardiac arrest. And if she was high, it would only compromise her further.’

  ‘When will we know for sure?’ asked Pryce.

  ‘Failing her waking up and telling us, we’ll look at her lungs as soon as she’s on the slab,’ said Cropper. ‘Given it looks criminal, I’m sure it’ll bump anything else. Vera’s back from sabbatical, you know.’

  ‘I heard,’ said Jo.

  Vera was Vera Coyne, Thames Valley’s most experienced pathologist. She was also, according to some insider gossip, the object of Cropper’s unrequited affections.

  Cropper fished out a purse and a set of keys from Natalie Palmer’s jacket, handing them to Jo. The purse contained a five-pound note, a library card, and bank card in the same name, and the two keys were a Yale and a Mortice. Jo bagged them. There was no phone.

  Jo thanked him and headed back towards the road, where Andrea Williams had set up a tape. There was no traffic and the lorry had moved on. The sun wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours. Jo walked along the road, shining her torch on the tarmac. Nothing on the near side. But as she followed the far side she saw it, about twenty yards up from the bridge. A long slew of rubber, crossing the centre line. Someone had skidded to a sudden, barely controlled stop. She went back to where the markings began.

  ‘Found something?’ called Pryce.

  ‘I think so,’ she said. Crouching down on the road, she examined a small patch of blood.

  ‘We’re going to need to close this section, and mark out the skids with cones,’ she said. ‘Get a team to come out and extract this rubber. The CSOs can take proper measurements when the light’s improved. Tell Cropper to sample the blood too. Heidi can check any ANPR cameras out this way.’ She looked along the road, trying to imagine what Natalie was doing when the car hit her. ‘We need to inform the mother. You want to come and do the honours?’

  Pryce didn’t look particularly happy about that, but nodded.

  Jo had a text from Lucas asking if she’d be back for breakfast and replied in the negative. If Natalie had been a minor they would have gone round to the next of kin straight away, but Jo made the call to give it until after sunrise. She and Pryce returned to the station instead, in order to check the missing persons file Pinker had mentioned. Dimitriou was the assigned investigator, but the case was low priority. When they spoke to him at home, he seemed shocked.

  ‘Ms Palmer couldn’t even tell us where her daughter worked – just said she did cleaning jobs,’ he said. ‘Dad’s a Polish national – out of the picture. We tried to call the phone but it was switched off. I’ll see what the DCI wants to do. Makes sense for me to follow up.’

  He didn’t sound enthused at the idea, and was probably already anticipating the struggle ahead. A possible user in a hit and run, with no witnesses, at an undetermined time. As her old friend Harry Ferman would say, it looked like ‘a hiding to nothing’.

  As is happened, Stratton made the opposite call. ‘You take the Palmer case, Jo,’ he said.

  ‘Sir, Dimitriou …’

  ‘… has got a couple of days of training coming up. You stick with it, Masters. I’ve every faith in you.’

  Jo sighed inwardly. Every faith that I’ll come back empty-handed, you Machiavellian bastard.

  ‘And take Jack along,’ Stratton added. ‘It’ll be good experience on a bread-and-butter case.’

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. The Myers hand that had seemed a winner was looking like a busted flush, and that had been Jo’s call. This was payback – to keep her off the case, and put her back in her place.

  They drove out to the Blackbird Leys estate off the Cowley Road. The car thermometer said it was zero degrees outside. The address for Natalie’s mother was a narrow modern terrace. The front garden was strewn with rubbish, and the house to the left was boarded up. A mattress leaned against the fence, springs protruding from what looked like a burned patch. A black bag, torn open by rodents maybe, was spilling its contents. Not a soul in sight.

  Jo rang the bell, but there was no sound from within. She knocked instead. When no one answered after a minute, and with nothing stirring inside, she thumped harder, opened the letter box and called out, ‘Susan?’

  ‘I’ll check the back,’ said Pryce. He squeezed past the mattress.

  Jo banged the door again.

  Next door on the right, an upstairs window opened and a middle-aged man looked out. ‘Can you keep the fucking noise down, love?’

  Jo held up her warrant card. ‘
With apologies. Do you know if Susan’s in?’

  The man closed his window again.

  Nothing like the neighbourly spirit, thought Jo. Then the front door opened. It was Pryce. ‘Back was unlocked.’

  Jo stepped into a hallway of bare underlay. Straightaway she covered her nose.

  ‘Christ, what’s that smell?’

  ‘Looks like a cat has been using the kitchen as a toilet,’ said Pryce. ‘At least, I hope it’s a cat.’

  Jo called for Susan again, announced herself as police, and began to search. In the front room was a sofa, and a small coffee table. The attachments for a wall-mounted TV were there, but no screen. Several makeshift ashtrays and beer cans were scattered about. It was freezing cold.

  The kitchen was similarly sparse. Curled turds were piled in an under-counter space where it looked like there might have once been a washing machine. A cereal box lay on its side on the floor.

  Jo went first up the stairs. Three doors opened off the landing, the first into a filthy bathroom that smelled faintly of vomit. The next was closed. The end door was slightly ajar. A woman in a dressing gown was sitting up in bed, her eyes glassy and unfocused. One arm was exposed and covered in angry red marks. On the floor at her side, though Jo hardly needed it for proof, was a syringe. The bedside table was strewn with other drug paraphernalia.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the woman, lighting a cigarette. She didn’t seem particularly alarmed at strangers coming up her stairs.

  ‘We knocked,’ said Jo. ‘We’re the police. Susan, is it?’

  The woman nodded, and took a long suck. ‘I suppose this is about Natalie?’

  Jo nodded. ‘Would you like to get dressed? We could talk downstairs.’

  Susan Palmer nodded, so she must have registered Jo’s words. Though if she had any idea of the news to come, her face didn’t betray it. ‘Give me a minute,’ she said.

  Jo and Pryce retreated to the lower floor to wait. Jo had been in plenty of addicts’ homes before – the chaos was familiar enough; the lack of basic sanitation, the items of value sold long ago in a vain effort to score. The shell of a life once lived but now losing its grip on humanity as it hollowed to a banal routine of addiction. Pryce looked vaguely sickened at it all. They heard the toilet flush and water running, then feet moving upstairs. Less than ten minutes later, Susan Palmer entered the room, looking transformed. She was dressed in clean clothes, her hair brushed and tied back, her eyes bright. Whether it was chemical or not, Jo was impressed. In Susan’s face was a shadow of the woman she must have once been. The news she’d come to deliver suddenly weighed more heavily on her tongue.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ asked Susan.

  Jo appreciated the politeness but at the same time recalled the kitchen. ‘We’re fine, thanks. Ms Palmer, I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news.’

  Natalie’s mother wrung her hands. ‘She’s dead, is she?’

  Jo nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Susan was speechless for a moment, eyes downcast to the corner of the room, as if accessing a memory. ‘Right,’ she muttered.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised,’ said Pryce. His tone was tinged with curiosity.

  ‘Where?’ asked Susan.

  ‘We found Natalie about two miles from the city, near a village called Little Baldon,’ said Jo. ‘It’s too early to tell for certain, but it looks like she may have been hit by a car.’

  Susan sat on the arm of the sofa, hands in her lap.

  ‘Do you know why she might have been out that way?’ asked Jo. ‘Did she have … friends there?’

  The mother shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I knew something was wrong. Normally she’d call me if she was going to be back late.’

  Jo took out her pocket book. ‘When did you last see your daughter?’

  ‘I … don’t know,’ said Susan. ‘Maybe last week.’

  ‘Have a think. Today is Thursday.’

  ‘She had a job somewhere.’

  ‘We believe she worked at Jesus College,’ said Jo.

  Susan shrugged. ‘Rings a bell.’

  ‘So she kept in touch by phone?’ asked Pryce.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Susan. ‘When she had credit. Where did this happen again?’

  ‘Near Little Baldon,’ Jo repeated. ‘Did Natalie have a car of her own?’

  Susan laughed bitterly.

  Jo waited a moment, before asking, ‘Is that Natalie’s room upstairs?’ Susan nodded. ‘Would it be okay to have a look inside?’

  ‘She keeps it locked.’

  The Mortice key in evidence would likely fit. They could break the door down, but that seemed unnecessary without the pressing suspicion of evidence inside, and the house was dilapidated enough already. It could wait.

  Pryce leant forward. ‘Ms Palmer, did your daughter have any history of sex work?’

  The insensitivity of the question took Jo by surprise, and Susan looked up sharply. ‘Shame on you.’

  ‘I apologise, we need to know,’ said Pryce. ‘It seems odd she was in a remote location, so understanding why and how she went there might help us work out what happened.’

  ‘She wasn’t a prostitute,’ said Susan, and she lifted her hand to her face as she began to cry. ‘She was my little girl.’

  ‘I think we’ve got what we need here,’ said Jo, putting her pad away and giving Pryce a hard look. ‘We’re sorry for your loss. There’s one more thing, though. I know it will be very difficult, but do you think you’d be able to carry out a formal identification for us in the coming day or two?’

  ‘See her, you mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jo. ‘An officer would take you to the morgue, and you’d have to look at Natalie’s face to confirm it’s her.’

  Susan nodded. ‘I can manage that.’

  Jo glanced at Pryce. She wasn’t sure about leaving Susan Palmer alone. ‘Is there anyone who can come over?’ she said. ‘Family or friends nearby?’

  Susan shook her head. ‘No … it was just us.’

  Chapter 8

  With Susan unable to give them anything useful, the next obvious line of enquiry was her daughter’s place of work. They drove down the narrow lanes to get to Broad Street, one of the main tourist thoroughfares, past the looming Bodleian Library and the grave stone heads atop the railings outside the Sheldonian Theatre. All the parking spaces were full, so Jo pulled up on the pavement, right outside the arched entrance to Jesus College on Turl Street. The front door was locked, but there was a buzzer.

  ‘How can I help you?’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘Thames Valley Police,’ said Jo.

  ‘Hold on a moment.’

  They waited, heard footsteps on stone inside, then the door opened. A forty-something man with sandy hair and a lazy left eye, wearing a college sweater peered out. Jo showed her warrant card. ‘I wonder if there’s someone we could speak with about a member of staff – Natalie Palmer.’

  The man paused, then moved aside. ‘Come in. I’ll see who I can find.’

  They waited in a vaulted stone vestibule outside a small office as the porter retreated inside and made a phone call. Shortly another man arrived, fractionally younger, and suited, with a college tie. ‘I’m Gavin Maxwell,’ he said. ‘Facilities manager. I’m afraid the majority of our staff are away this time of year. You’re looking for someone?’

  Jo showed him the picture of Natalie. ‘We believe this young lady worked at the college,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to say that she’s been found dead, in suspicious circumstances. We’re wondering if there’s anyone we could talk to – a colleague perhaps?’

  Maxwell’s eyes widened. ‘Goodness, that’s terrible. I’m afraid I don’t recognise her. Are you sure it was this college?’

  ‘Her body was found with a lanyard indicating she worked here,’ said Jo. ‘Perhaps as a cleaner.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Maxwell. ‘Well, that might explain things. There’s often a quick turnover. One minute.’ He went into the office with the s
andy-haired doorman, spoke for a few moments. The other man went off around the quad.

  ‘Porter’s gone to find another of the cleaning staff,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t be long.’

  It wasn’t. Soon the doorman returned and with him, wearing blue cleaning overalls, was a nervous-looking young woman.

  ‘This is Heather Braddock,’ said Maxwell. ‘A colleague of Natalie’s.’

  ‘Esther Braddock,’ said the woman, without umbrage. ‘Is it true? You found Natalie? She’s … dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Jo.

  Esther covered her mouth. ‘How?’

  ‘We’re not certain, but it might have been a hit and run. I’ll be honest, we’ve got very little to go on at the moment, so we’re just trying to paint a picture of what Natalie might have been doing in her final hours. When did you last see her?’

  ‘Tuesday,’ Braddock said quickly. ‘We had lunch together after our morning shift, in the back of the college kitchen. She didn’t show up for work either yesterday or today.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘Very. She was normally very punctual. This job was important to her.’

  ‘Can I ask,’ said Pryce, ‘did Natalie have a narcotics problem?’

  The facilities manager reeled back. ‘Surely not! We have a very strict policy on hiring staff at—’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Pryce, ‘but sometimes these things aren’t obvious. Functioning addicts can conceal their habits very effectively. Did you know her mother has a drug problem?’

  ‘That’s really not college business, is it?’ said Maxwell.

  Jo focused on Braddock. ‘Can you shed any light for us, Esther? Anything that might help?’

  Braddock looked a little frightened to be the centre of attention. ‘I never saw her doing drugs,’ she said. ‘She seemed, well, normal I guess. But …’ Her eyes shifted sideways towards the facilities manager briefly.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Jo.

  ‘It’s probably nothing, but there was someone here, about two weeks ago, looking for Natalie. A guy. She seemed scared of him.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He said he was her boyfriend, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t true.’