by M. J. Ford
‘Good thanks,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a hard morning, I hear.’
He shrugged. ‘Not especially. Had to scoop half a dozen carp out of the Provost’s pond. This bloody weather.’
‘I meant the logs,’ said Jo.
Bob put his hand behind his ear. ‘Eh? What’s that?’
‘Never mind,’ said Jo. ‘Just don’t let Lucas make you do all the heavy lifting.’
He still looked confused. ‘Sorry, lass, I’m not following you. He’s got the morning off, hasn’t he?’
She almost pushed it, but something made her cast aside the uneasy feeling in her gut, say ‘Don’t worry’, and wave farewell.
Chapter 9
She opted not to go straight back to the station, but instead walked the short distance to Oriel, and the street behind the college by which Malin was surely taken. Pryce was right about the fire exit. No one could have opened it from the street side, which meant that whoever took Malin from the room must have gained access either through the other entrances, or have been admitted through the fire exit. Her mind circled back to Ronald Myers. If Malin had let him in this way, for some sort of encounter that even now she struggled to envisage, it wouldn’t matter that his security pass had been returned.
But his car hadn’t shown the smallest drop of Malin’s blood, and though she thought he could probably lift Malin, manhandling her body into the back of an MG seemed almost farcical.
But who else? This person Ross Catskill claimed was following Malin? Maybe observing her movements, getting an idea of her routine and that of the college? If someone had planned a kidnap for a long time, it was possible they might work out a way in. The Oxford colleges had a stream of visitors, staff and students, and were hardly renowned for their high-tech security systems. In most, the only door staff monitoring the places were the porters in the lodges at the main entrances. Though many were ex-services, they were mostly in their sixties or older.
Jo grabbed a sandwich from a stall in the covered market, and ate it outside the Radcliffe Camera, the Palladian style library that sat in the square between the Bodleian Library and St Mary’s Church. Even in all her layers, she was cold, but the cold sharpened her thoughts.
She could tell herself that people lied every day, and the reasons weren’t always terrible, so why did the fact that Lucas had done so trouble her as much as it did? Perhaps because of Ben. The lie her ex had told, or rather the chronic gambling problem he’d hidden, had shattered their lives into pieces. The stakes weren’t as high with Lucas, but the feeling of being betrayed was a painful echo, like the ache of an old war wound. But the worst part – the thing that made her hate herself a little bit – was the gnawing sense of her own cowardice. Even though in an interrogation room, she’d never rest until she had smashed through the lies to get to the truth, in her own life it was different. Because sometimes the truth could hurt a great deal.
* * *
When she got back to St Aldates, she was so cold she couldn’t feel her feet. Pryce was there already, loading images onto his computer from a small digital camera. On his screen, Jo saw several photos of a small but tidy bedroom, with lilac curtains and what looked like a child’s bookshelf. Pryce had taken a close-up, and it appeared that Natalie Palmer had a tendency towards romantic fiction. A single bed was neatly made, with a small lamp and a jewellery box on the table beside it.
‘Looks like she had her life pretty together,’ said Jo. ‘How was Susan doing?’
Pryce detached his camera. ‘Oblivious, mostly. I called social services. I’m not sure she’d have been able to ID herself, let alone her daughter.’
‘Can’t blame her.’
Heidi called over across the bank of desks. ‘Guys, we’ve got a potential witness for your hit and run,’ she said. ‘Said they saw a van parked up by that bridge Tuesday evening.’
‘Go on,’ said Jo, moving towards her colleague, while Pryce remained seated.
‘I’ll email over the details, but’ – she read from her notepad – ‘A mum going to pick her daughter up from dance. She said she saw a white transit-style van – no markings that she recalls – stopped in the middle of the road, hazards on. She went around it. She didn’t stop because she was running late, and she didn’t see anybody near the vehicle.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Between 18.20 and 18.25, she thinks.’
‘She thinks?’ said Jo. ‘That’s a narrow window.’
‘Like I said, she picks the daughter up at 18.30, and she left the house at 18.15. It was going to be tight. Sounds promising, right?’
‘Damn right,’ said Jo. ‘If we find that van, and match the tyres. We should check with the ANPR network.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Pryce. ‘I’ll isolate all regs coming south from Oxford on the A4074 between the hours of say, 18.00 and 18.20 and north between 18.30 and 18.50.’
‘The bridge isn’t on the A4074,’ said Heidi.
‘No, but they’re logically the most likely cameras,’ said Pryce. ‘My bet is that van may have been coming in or going out of Oxford prior to the accident.’
‘Yes, professor,’ muttered Heidi, loud enough for Jo to hear. Pryce didn’t notice.
‘Good work,’ said Jo, smiling. She wondered how many white vans there could possibly be within the time-frame. A handful at most. But they’d probably be looking at one with some damage from the impact with Natalie. We’re getting somewhere. Solving the case would be satisfying, of course. Justice for the victim and for Susan Palmer. But it couldn’t fail to go down well with Stratton too.
Jo knew she was getting ahead of herself.
‘Keep me posted,’ she said.
* * *
While Pryce carried out the checks, Jo was pleased to see the full report from Vera Coyne had arrived, because it stopped her thinking about Lucas. Toxicology confirmed there was no alcohol in Natalie’s system, but there were traces of ketamine hydrochloride. Seemed an odd choice of poison while holding down an active job like cleaning, but Coyne couldn’t say when it had been ingested, and there were no symptoms of prolonged or frequent dosages of that or any other narcotics. The water was definitely consistent with that from the river. And though Coyne couldn’t rule out recent sexual activity, there were no indications of sexual violence.
Tests from the road surface had matched the blood residue with the victim also. Coyne had helpfully flagged a few details. The first that caught Jo’s eye was that there was significant bruising on the left upper arm and on the neck. Coyne said this was likely to have been caused prior to the accident, as it would have taken some time to develop pre-mortem.
Jo called Pryce over to ask what he made of it. ‘You think it’s this meathead she was seen with?’
‘Could be. Didn’t the colleague say he was rough with her?’
Stratton emerged from his office, face like thunder.
‘Jo, I know you’re busy, but can you go with Andy to the Randolph?’
‘Sorry, sir?’
He smiled, his words clipped by almost gritted teeth. ‘Seems you made an impression on Hana Sigurdsson. She’s requested you personally. I tried to explain you weren’t on the case …’ I bet you did, ‘… but she’s quite insistent.’
‘I’ll come too,’ said Pryce, pushing his chair back.
Stratton shook his head. ‘Two detectives is probably enough, Jack,’ he said.
Pryce looked a little put out.
‘Stay on the ANPR,’ said Jo. ‘I shouldn’t be long.’
* * *
‘I’m sorry about all this,’ said Carrick, as they drove through town to the hotel.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘This hit and run might actually be going somewhere.’ She told him about the lead on the white van. ‘Pryce is looking through the road camera data.’
‘You like him, don’t you?’
‘Pryce? He’s very thorough. No Heidi, though.’
‘I bet she’s already got the babygros arranged by
age,’ said Carrick.
Jo laughed. It was rare for Andy to make jokes. He wasn’t much of a person for small talk, generally, and she’d never seen him out with the other officers based at St Aldates. He was in his mid-forties now, the sort who kept his nose clean, did his job quietly. A sure-fire replacement for Stratton one day.
‘He likes you,’ said Carrick.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘You sound like Dimi.’
‘I didn’t mean like that,’ said Carrick. ‘I mean, he looks up to you.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Definitely. I never told you before, but I caught him looking at your old case files. Looking for inspiration, no doubt. Oh, and he definitely fancies you, too. Pinker tried to get a book running on when he’s going to ask you out.’
‘I hope you didn’t partake.’
Carrick focused on the road, blushing. ‘Andy …’ she warned.
‘I may have put a fiver on it. But I said before the Christmas party, so you two will have to move fast.’
Jo growled. ‘Anyway, how are the kids?’
Carrick had an eight-year-old and a five-year-old. She and Lucas had bumped into the family one Saturday in the park, and they’d been shockingly polite and precocious, the younger girl regaling Jo with her seven times table. Carrick’s wife, Jasmilla, was quite stunning, though when she’d mentioned it to Lucas that evening, he’d said in a gentlemanly way that he hadn’t noticed. Lying, until recently, had never been his strong suit.
‘They’re good, thanks. You know what kids are like.’
‘Not first-hand,’ she said lightly. He had no idea of her history, but he must have realised the comment was a little bit insensitive, because he quickly moved the subject on. ‘By the way, we’ve had no luck getting in touch with Anna Mull. Her phone’s going straight to voicemail. We got hold of the parents – down in Godalming in Surrey. They say she’s gone to see some friends in London for a couple of days before heading home.’
‘It was probably nothing anyway,’ said Jo. ‘She seemed pretty scared when we interviewed her, which isn’t surprising really. If she knew Malin was doing a lot of whatever, she probably didn’t want to drop her mate in it.’
They pulled up across the road from the hotel, outside the Ashmolean museum. Parking in Oxford was always at a premium, so Carrick switched on the hazards and left his warrant card on the dashboard. It would discourage all but the most determined of traffic wardens.
The Randolph Hotel had been a landmark in Oxford city centre for as long as Jo could remember. Five storeys of late Victorian grandeur, festooned with flags, it had a formidable if slightly faded glory, occupying the corner of Beaumont Street and St Giles. Jo imagined it was the stay of choice for wealthy parents visiting their gifted progeny at the colleges. A doorman in full regalia tipped his hat as she and Carrick stepped off the street and onto the red carpet leading through the front doors into a lobby.
At the front desk, a male, suited receptionist, dark-skinned and well-groomed, with a French accent, asked how he could help. Jo told him they were here to see Hana Sigurdsson. Having phoned through, they were asked to wait in the bar area off to one side. It was manned by a single ancient bartender who looked like he might have been there since the hotel’s inauguration, and they took a seat in the corner looking back towards the door. There were only small circular tables, so to leave space for Hana Sigurdsson, they sat beside each other on the cushioned leather seats.
Malin’s mother glided in a few minutes later. She wore a long pale cardigan. She said something fondly to the elderly barman, then spotted them, and walked over. Carrick stood smartly and shook her hand. ‘Ms Sigurdsson.’
‘Please, call me Hana.’ She gestured to the table. ‘Would you like a drink? Gustav is quite the magician. While the rest of this place declines, he at least remains constant.’ She had a way of speaking as if quoting from a text Jo had never read. The effect was dramatic, and forced, and Jo wondered if the confidence was just a coping mechanism. As if summoned, Gustav carried over what looked like a gin and tonic, laying it down with a wrinkled hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘For your guests?’ he muttered.
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said Jo. As he hobbled off, she turned to Hana. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘My time?’ she said, bemused. ‘Detective Masters, my daughter is missing.’ Jo felt a flush of embarrassment, but seeing her reaction, Hana Sigurdsson reached out, and almost fondly, put her hand on Jo’s. The touch was cool, and it surprised her. ‘Has there been any news?’ she asked.
‘We’re exploring several avenues,’ said Jo. ‘Is there anything you can tell us about Malin that might help?’
‘Such as?’
Carrick cleared his throat. ‘Ms Sigurdsson, Hana – our investigations indicate that Malin was spending quite a lot of money recently.’
‘Really?’
‘Money that was coming into her account from both you and your ex-husband.’
Hana Sigurdsson flinched.
‘Approximately two thousand a month, from each of you, until it stopped last June.’
Hana sipped her drink then smiled distantly. ‘My daughter had some … problems.’
Jo sensed the topic being danced around. ‘You mean with narcotics?’
Hana didn’t reply directly. ‘I always told Nicholas it was a mistake to let her come here, to this place. I wanted her to study in Sweden, where we don’t have the same temptations. But Nicholas insisted. He went to the same college, you see. So did his father. One of your curious British traditions, as if stepping in your parent’s footsteps is something to be proud of. Malin was suspended from her first school, for drinking. We got on top of that, but then it was drugs. Only pot, Nicholas said, as if it was nothing to worry about. And he, the man who happily fulminates about the scourge of drugs to your newspapers. I think it got worse when we divorced. I wanted to keep her in Sweden, but she had friends here, a year into her course. She kept on asking for more money, and I knew. Nicholas knew as well. He was worried it might reflect badly on him. So we put a stop to it. Her allowance. That might seem drastic to you, but we came up with a solution. We arranged for a friend at the college to provide her with money - an old crow quite high up.’ Jo guessed she was referring to Belinda Frampton-Keys. ‘That way we could monitor what was happening. Malin didn’t like it, of course. She accused us of trying to control her, which we were. But over the summer, she got clean. We thought she was still clean.’ She finished her drink in a long gulp, nodded discreetly across towards the bar. ‘What has Nicholas said?’
‘Not much,’ said Jo. When Hana rolled her eyes, she felt emboldened to probe further. ‘You divorced a few years ago, you said?’
‘Sometimes I ask if we were ever truly a couple,’ replied Hana wearily. ‘Nicholas was the primary investor in my first husband, Christoff’s, business. Speculator, might be a more accurate description. He always had a fondness for a bet. It turned out dotcom was a good one in the mid-nineties. We moved production to the UK in 1998. When Christoff died a few years later, it was very hard, for me, and for Malin. But Nicholas was helpful. He took care of everything. He’d never been married before, and when he asked me, I said yes. It lasted five years. We divorced just after Malin’s first year.’
Gustav drifted over with another G&T, deposited it and took away the empty glass.
‘And how did Malin take that?’ asked Jo.
‘Oh, Malin never liked Nicholas. But I always put that down to losing her father so young. It seemed to get worse as the years went on, rather than better.’
‘How did Christoff die, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Heart attack,’ said Hana. ‘He seemed such a strong man, but he worked too hard. It was Nicholas who found him, in his office.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Jo.
‘Don’t be,’ said Hana. ‘Both were selfish men, in their own way.’
Her coldness shook Jo.
‘Is there a
chance, do you think, that Malin might have got herself into trouble over drugs?’
Hana looked mournful. ‘She lived a charmed life, for so long. Nicholas always said it wouldn’t last forever. He said your mistakes always catch up with you.’ She finished her drink. ‘It’s hard to see that when you’re young, isn’t it?’
Jo was taken back, momentarily, to the story she’d told Dr Forster.
‘You’re talking about karma?’
‘Oh no,’ said Hana, flashing her teeth (pristine, considering her age). ‘I’m talking about … sorry, I don’t know the English word. In Swedish, we say hybris.’
‘It’s the same,’ said Carrick. ‘Hubris.’
‘Her father was similar. He thought he was untouchable.’
She looked desperately sad.
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ said Carrick. ‘Will you be staying here the whole time, Ms Sigurdsson, if we need to reach you?’
‘I won’t be going anywhere,’ replied Malin’s mother. ‘And one more thing, detectives.’ Though she spoke to both of them, she looked at Jo. ‘I’ve been completely open with you, and I would appreciate it if the courtesy was returned. If there are any developments, anything at all, please keep me informed.’
She reached out again to touch Jo’s hand, her gaze steely.
Jo felt laden with guilt as they made their way back to the car. ‘You think we should have told her about Myers?’
‘Not yet,’ said Carrick. ‘We don’t know if it’s pertinent to the disappearance. Malin’s entitled to a private life, even if it is unusual.’
‘I think I know why she was seeing him,’ said Jo. ‘They cut off the money six months ago, and that’s when Malin started seeing Catskill. Then he ends things, and she starts up with Ron Myers, a person she once accused of harassment. What’s the through-line?’
‘The drugs,’ said Carrick.
‘She needed money to feed a habit that was out of control. My guess is that Catskill realised that. Whether Myers did or not, I bet he was giving her money.’
‘Only one way to find out,’ said Carrick. ‘We ask him.’
‘Stratton won’t be happy,’ said Jo.