Keep Her Close

by M. J. Ford

  ‘You know this man’s name?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Not tall – maybe five foot six or seven. But really big, muscular. He was wearing a vest, even though it was cold. And sweating a bit too, like he’d just come from the gym. Spiky hair.’

  ‘Ethnicity?’

  ‘White. But, like, very tanned. I remember thinking he must spend a lot of time on sunbeds.’

  ‘And what did they talk about?’

  ‘I don’t know. Natalie told me not to get involved, and afterwards she wouldn’t talk about it. They were arguing, though. It was right outside the front gates, in the street.’

  ‘Did he assault her?’

  ‘Nothing like that. But … well, he looked like he would have, if they were alone. She left with him.’

  ‘In a vehicle?’

  ‘You can’t park here, so I don’t know. They walked off together, towards the High Street.’

  ‘And this was about a fortnight ago?’ said Pryce. Esther nodded. ‘But when she didn’t turn up yesterday, you weren’t worried.’

  ‘A little, I just didn’t think …’ Esther’s lip trembled. ‘If I’d known …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Jo. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Do you think you could come to the station and look through a few pictures for us?’

  ‘I finish here at midday,’ said Esther. ‘Then I have work at a supermarket in the afternoon.’

  ‘It shouldn’t take long,’ said Jo. ‘Perhaps your boss could spare you for an hour?’ Maxwell didn’t look especially keen, so Jo added, ‘The sooner we rule out any drug connections to the college the better, I think.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the facilities manager smarmily. ‘Take all the time you need, Esther.’

  * * *

  Back at her desk, Jo brought up all known violent offenders in the area, with a maximum height of five foot eight, and with a muscular build. A collection of mugshots flicked across the screen. Esther gave them all diligent attention, but shook her head at each picture. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said afterwards. ‘He was really big. You know, like a body builder.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Jo. She wondered about doing a trawl of the gyms in town, but there’d be so many, and the chances of stumbling across their man was tiny. If he even was their man. There were a couple of CCTV cameras on the High Street that might show their guy with Natalie, and though Esther was able to give them a pretty accurate time for the altercation, between ten and half past in the morning, she wasn’t sure on the actual day. That didn’t deter Pryce though, who set off alone to gather what he could from the most obvious cameras where Turl Street met the High Street.

  Jo admired his optimism. To her, the row outside Jesus College was hardly conclusive of anything. It wasn’t even on the day of Natalie’s disappearance, and there didn’t seem any obvious connection to Little Baldon either.

  Jo thanked Esther for her time and led her out. As she was exchanging details, a taxi pulled up outside the front of the St Aldates station building. The woman who emerged looked like a movie star, in a long coat lined with fur, her grey hair expensively styled. She walked up the steps and inside the building. Jo followed, just in time to hear the front desk clerk speaking with DCI Stratton on the internal phone.

  ‘He’s coming right out, Ms Sigurdsson. If you’d like to take a seat.’

  Jo walked over and introduced herself. ‘I can take you through, if you’d like. I’m Detective Masters.’

  ‘Are you working on my daughter’s case?’ asked the woman. She was older than she had been in the only picture Jo had seen, with obvious lines on her face, and a brittle demeanour like fine porcelain, though her posture was erect. On her fingers were several chunky gold rings. She was looking around the room in a curious way, and Jo guessed this might be her first time in the surroundings of a British police station, with its utilitarian furniture, and collection of grim, vaguely threatening posters pinned to the noticeboard.

  ‘Sort of,’ said Jo.

  As they passed the security gate, Stratton came jogging the other way. He saw Jo, then held out a hand to Hana Sigurdsson. ‘Philip Stratton. I’m the Detective Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘We didn’t realise you were coming by.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you,’ said Hana. ‘I hope it’s not a problem.’

  ‘Of course not!’ said Stratton. ‘I’ve been keeping Malin’s step-father abreast of the situation. I don’t know what he’s told you.’

  ‘We haven’t spoken directly for two years,’ said Hana. ‘And he isn’t her step-father anymore. We’re divorced.’

  Stratton blushed. ‘Right.’

  They reached the CID room, where Hana Sigurdsson looked utterly incongruous against the drab surroundings.

  ‘Sorry it’s so cold in here,’ said Jo’s boss. ‘We’re having the central heating looked at.’

  ‘I was born in Tore,’ said Hana. ‘A fraction south of the Arctic Circle. We would call this mild.’

  She didn’t smile, so it wasn’t clear if she was making a joke or a criticism. The confusion battled on Stratton’s face as he tried to work out which.

  Jo came to his rescue. ‘Shall I give Ms Sigurdsson an update, sir?’

  ‘That would be appreciated, thank you,’ said Malin’s mother.

  ‘Detective Carrick is leading the case,’ said Stratton. He turned around, and spoke in a tone of borderline panic. ‘Does anyone know where Andy’s got to?’

  ‘He’s following up at … the house,’ said Jo. It didn’t seem the right time to divulge the recent discoveries about Ronald Myers. ‘But I know all the relevant details. I can take Ms Sigurdsson through things.’

  ‘Really, we should call Detective Carrick,’ said Stratton. ‘I’m sure he’ll—’

  ‘I’m rather tired,’ said Hana. ‘It’s been a troubling few hours. Detective Masters here can share the necessary details.’ Jo was impressed she’d taken in her name. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as disengaged as she appeared.

  Silenced, Stratton nodded.

  ‘Come this way, please,’ said Jo. ‘Can I get you a drink of something?’

  ‘A martini would be wonderful,’ said Hana.

  ‘I’m afraid we can stretch to tea or coffee or water,’ said Jo.

  ‘Water, then, please.’ For the first time since entering, Hana Sigurdsson appeared slightly meek, as if the aloofness until that point was a façade she could no longer maintain.

  In the visitor suite, Jo took her through the basics of the case so far, including the blood found in the bathroom, but didn’t mention Catskill or Myers. She left them out deliberately, not because she felt inclined to conceal Malin’s sexual activity from her mother, but because she still wasn’t sure of their relevance herself. Both relationships to her looked odd, then again it wasn’t her role to judge the peccadilloes and sexual proclivities of other women. Hana, listening patiently, nodded as Jo covered the salient points, and then at the end, asked a simple question.

  ‘Do you think she’s alive, Detective?’

  Jo took a moment. In truth, on the balance of probabilities, it seemed more likely than ever that Malin was dead. They’d not heard a word since the disappearance. And looking into her mother’s startling green eyes, she thought Hana suspected the same. ‘We’re working on the assumption that she is,’ said Jo. ‘You might still catch her friend Anna at the college. She’s leaving today I think.’

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘Anna Mull,’ said Jo. ‘It was she who first realised Malin was missing.’

  ‘Oh, I know who she is,’ said Hana, ‘but I thought they’d drifted apart some time ago. At least, that’s the impression Malin gave.’

  ‘An argument?’ said Jo.

  ‘Oh, no, nothing like that,’ said Hana. ‘Just the ebbs and flows of friendship, I’m sure.’

  The door opened and Andy Carrick came in, with Stratton at his back. He apologised for his absence, then beg
an to recap the same information.

  Hana stood up. ‘Forgive me, Detective – your colleague has already been very thorough. It sounds as though, at the moment, you really know very little. This is disappointing, but I don’t want to take up any more of the time that could be employed actually looking for my daughter.’ She held out her hand to Jo, who shook it. ‘You have my details, Detective Masters. I’ll be staying at the Randolph for the coming days. Do you know it?’

  ‘Of course,’ interrupted Stratton. It was the most prestigious hotel in Oxford. ‘Let me show you out.’ Jo half expected him to curtsey.

  When he’d left, Jo turned to Carrick.

  ‘I know it’s none of my business, but I think it might be worth chatting to Anna Mull again.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Carrick. ‘I never met the girl.’

  ‘Something doesn’t quite add up there. Did you ever check up on her story about she and Malin having dinner together Tuesday night?’

  Carrick nodded. ‘Landlord at the King’s Arms remembered them. Malin anyway. She was with one other friend – a girl. Do you think she’s lying to us?’

  ‘I think she might be smarter than she let on. She implicated Catskill. And then she pointed the finger towards Myers. She claims to be Malin’s friend, but doesn’t live with her, and her mum doesn’t seem to think they’re close.’

  Carrick cocked his head. ‘When you put it like that …’

  * * *

  Jo logged on just after midday. A brief email from Vera Coyne in the pathology lab had come through, with some appended images of Natalie Palmer’s anatomy. Jo skimmed the list of findings. Severe contusions to right hip, right elbow. Fractures to the right fingers and hands and a broken left wrist. Fractured skull. The pictures showed close-ups. The cause of death wasn’t listed, but in the email Coyne said she suspected drowning.

  Jo called her, and she answered after two rings. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jo Masters. Just wanted to thank you for the quick work.’

  ‘No problem. I’ve got you on speaker, by the way. Hands full. Literally. Cirrhotic liver. Life advice: don’t drink.’

  Bit late for that …

  ‘So could it still be a hit and run?’ said Jo.

  She heard the rattle of equipment. ‘Possible,’ said Coyne. ‘I’d have expected some more blunt force trauma on the lower body from vehicle impact, but it might just have clipped her.’

  ‘And then she fell into the water?’

  ‘Not my call,’ said Coyne. ‘But looking back at the scene-of-death photos, I personally think it would have been very hard to fall over the side of the bridge, especially with her injuries. But there’s water in the lungs so she was alive before she entered. Still a slight question mark over whether it’s river water or not, but that seems the most obvious interpretation prior to more comprehensive analysis.’

  ‘Time of death?’ said Jo.

  ‘Can’t give you much there,’ said Coyne. ‘There was little indication of putrefaction, but the water temp would severely retard the process. Mel Cropper tested her body temp at the scene, and even with the accelerated cooling due to conditions, I think well over twenty-four hours, but really she could have gone in several days ago. Stomach contents included undigested pasta. It’ll be a few hours before we get toxicology.’

  ‘Sexual activity?’

  ‘No obvious indications,’ said Coyne.

  ‘Thanks again,’ said Jo. ‘Are you releasing the body? We need the mum to formally ID.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Coyne. ‘Full report should be with you tomorrow. Call if you need more.’

  Afterwards, Jo rang Natalie’s cleaning colleague Esther Braddock and confirmed that Natalie had indeed eaten a homemade pasta salad when they shared lunch. That narrowed the window somewhat to Tuesday itself, but it didn’t answer why or how Natalie had found her way out to Little Baldon.

  Jo called across the desk to Tan. ‘Heidi, can we put out an appeal to motorists and general witnesses. Social media channels, local radio, and boards on both sides of the Little Baldon road. Might get nothing, but it’s worth a shot. Looks like Natalie was killed some time on Tuesday after two pm.’

  ‘On it,’ said Heidi.

  Stratton came jogging over. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘Coroner agrees it was probably a hit and run,’ she said.

  ‘Probably?’ said Stratton. ‘She couldn’t have hurt herself falling in?’

  She knew where the DCI was coming from. The chances of solving a random hit and run were small, and would affect his stats, but if the death could be chalked up to an accident under the influence of narcotics, no one would care less. ‘There were skid marks on the road too,’ she said. ‘I think we have to pursue it as a suspicious death at least.’

  Stratton sighed. ‘Bloody marvellous. Jack was saying the victim’s bedroom was locked.’

  ‘Key’s in evidence, sir.’

  ‘Probably worth a look, don’t you think?’

  ‘I doubt it. I’m guessing Natalie locked it to keep her mum from flogging her stuff.’

  ‘Indeed. Still, cover all bases, eh?’

  ‘Is that an order, sir?’

  Stratton flashed his most unfriendly smile. ‘Consider it a request from your commanding officer.’

  * * *

  Pryce arrived back after she’d signed the key out of evidence. After much wrangling with the manager of a restaurant to get CCTV, it had come back empty. It looked like Natalie and her mystery muscleman had taken one of the other warren of medieval streets near Jesus college. ‘Stratton wants us to look at Natalie’s room,’ she explained.

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Pryce.

  ‘It sounds like a waste of time,’ said Jo, ‘but your enthusiasm is noted for your next performance review.’

  He left to warm up the car, and Jo found Carrick back at his desk, clicking through his emails.

  ‘How’d it go at Myers’ house?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Some pornography, hard copy, but very vanilla.’

  ‘A computer?’

  ‘Would you believe, he doesn’t even own one?’ He rubbed his tired eyes. ‘We went over his car. No blood in the boot or the backseat. A couple of hairs in the front that look probable, but he admitted they’d been for a drive together.’

  Jo could imagine it. If she’d seen them out she’d have assumed they were father and daughter.

  Carrick’s eyes widened a fraction as he looked at his screen. ‘Hello. This might be something.’

  She scooted her chair across.

  The screen showed bank records for Malin Sigurdsson, and the tabs went back several months. Jo scanned the figures. Money came in from two sources – a Coutts bank account of N. Cranleigh, and a Norwegian Nordea account in her mother’s name. In total, about four grand every month between them.

  ‘She was doing all right,’ said Jo. The payments stopped in June though.

  ‘Yeah, and check out the outgoings. Notice anything?’

  At first it looked like the normal things. Regular debit payments for small amounts at bookshops, cafes, a stationer’s, the college bar, mobile phone charges. Then Jo saw what Carrick was getting at. There were an awful lot of cash withdrawals. Large amounts, including several at the maximum of £250.

  ‘Maybe she ate out a lot,’ said Carrick.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Jo, ‘but who pays for meals out with cash these days?’

  Her phone rang through from the front desk.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Got a call for you. Mrs Plumley.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Says she lives in the flat beneath you.’

  Jo realised he was talking about Deidre the octogenarian on the first floor of Lucas’s block. She was a sweet old thing, with a family who rarely visited. Jo felt suddenly cold. Had something happened to Lucas?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, once the call had been connected.

  ‘Oh, Josie, thank goodness!’ came the tremulous voice. ‘T
here’s water coming through the ceiling. I tried calling Luke, but he’s not answering. I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I didn’t know who to call.’

  ‘Have you tried the building manager?’

  ‘I’ve not got their number.’

  Jo tried to think. She didn’t know it either. She wondered how much water there was. She wasn’t sure where the stopcock was for the block, but Lucas would. He was working at Gloucester College, as far as she knew.

  ‘Hold on, Mrs Plumley. I’ll call back in a minute.’

  She dialled Lucas straight away, but he didn’t pick up, so she left a message asking him to call her, then began to gather her things.

  ‘Something up?’ asked Pryce, as she went outside.

  She told him about the water leak. ‘It’s probably a burst pipe. Back soon. Do you think you could go to Susan Palmer’s place solo?’

  He looked disappointed. ‘Er … yeah. Sure.’

  ‘And see if you can get anything else from her about Little Baldon. There must be a link somewhere.’

  She called Lucas repeatedly as she drove, but he still wasn’t answering. It wasn’t unusual for him not to pick up – a lot of the time he had his hands full at work. She pulled up at the college, and as she was hurrying into the visitor’s lodge, her phone rang. It was him.

  ‘Where are you?’ she said.

  ‘I got your message. I’m on my way back to the flat now.’ He was breathing hard. The doorman in the lodge was waiting patiently. Jo held up a hand to apologise, and signalled two minutes with her fingers.

  ‘Oh, good. Deidre’s in a state. She couldn’t get hold of you.’

  ‘I was shifting logs with Bob,’ he said. ‘Hey, you okay? You left early this morning.’

  ‘Just work,’ she replied. ‘I’ll see you later, all right?’

  Jo hung up after he said goodbye. ‘Sorry false alarm,’ she said to the porter. As she left, she saw Bob, the Head Gardener at the college, rolling a cigarette just by the edge of the quadrangle inside. She didn’t know him well. They’d spent no more than an hour together at the pub, one time in the late summer when she’d got out of work at a reasonable time. He was a sweet guy.

  ‘Hello, Josie,’ he said. ‘How’s tricks?’