Watch Over You

by M. J. Ford

  ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ he said. He smiled as he spoke, half-turning to a slim and attractive natural blonde behind him. ‘Ali, meet the mighty Jo Masters.’ As ever with Dimitriou, there was a hint of mockery. She was technically his superior, but he never spoke as though that occurred to him. Most of the time, she didn’t mind, and the two of them had a lightly combative relationship that just about worked.

  The woman shook Jo’s hand firmly. ‘Alice Reeves,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you at last.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Jo. ‘Looking forward to working together.’

  Inside the briefing room, Heidi Tan and Andy Carrick were talking but broke apart when they saw Jo. Andy waved her in.

  ‘We can catch up in a minute,’ Jo said to Dimitriou. ‘But don’t try and tap me up for sponsorship.’

  ‘Huh?’ he said.

  ‘For the novelty facial hair.’

  Alice smiled, and Dimitriou blushed. ‘Ha-bloody-ha.’

  Leaving them, Jo walked across to the others. On the screen immediately behind them was a montage of several pictures of a young man in the front seat of a car – a white BMW. From one angle, he looked asleep, but another showed a significant wound that had mangled the left side of his face.

  ‘Welcome back,’ said Carrick. ‘Theo okay?’

  ‘I think I’m taking the separation worse,’ said Jo. ‘How are yours?’

  ‘The older one’s worked out how to bypass the parental controls on his phone,’ said Carrick. ‘I’m fighting a losing battle.’

  Andy had two kids, on the way to being teenagers, and managed to carry off the balance of perfect family man and professional police officer with more grace and aplomb than she’d ever achieve.

  ‘Got that to look forward to,’ said Jo.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Heidi. ‘By the time ours hit ten, the phones will be implanted somewhere.’

  Jo turned to the photos again. The man looked Japanese, or Korean. ‘This the local shooting?’ she said. It had been in the paper, and though she’d normally have taken great interest, it had coincided with the fallout from the accident outside the minimarket, and thus had made limited impact on her consciousness.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Carrick. ‘Five days ago – the twelfth – at the old BT building.’

  Jo knew the location – five floors of abandoned offices off the Cowley Road. Popular with graffiti artists. There wouldn’t be any security cameras, because the building held nothing of value.

  ‘Xan Do,’ said Heidi. ‘Twenty-one years old. Private school educated, an undergrad here who dropped out after a year. He wasn’t on our radar, but one of Dimi’s informants seemed to think he was connected to the Matthis family.’

  Jo nodded in acknowledgement. The surname was a common one from their case files. The Matthis family had been notorious, mid-level drug dealers in the South Oxford area since before she joined Thames Valley, though things had quietened down in recent times. ‘They’re inside, aren’t they?’

  ‘The dad is. Plus his eldest boy, Riley. There’s another son, though – Blake. He’s sixteen. Our theory is that Do was taking care of the dirty work, with Blake acting as a contact with his father.’

  ‘So this was a deal that went south?’ said Jo.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Heidi. She fished through a pile of papers and came up with a photo of several small baggies of pills. ‘These were still under the seat though – a couple of grand’s worth. Phone and wallet left untouched too. We’re having the call and GPS data extracted.’

  ‘Maybe a rival then,’ said Jo. ‘Or a third-party professional. Ballistics?’

  ‘Single round, fired point blank through the window, which remained largely intact. It entered under his cheekbone and exited, well, all over the place. They’re saying it’s a Makarov, probably reactivated.’

  ‘Xan Do’s parents own a successful Asian food wholesaler on the edge of town,’ said Carrick. ‘They consented to a search, but it came up empty. George is pissed. He and Alice are about to head out to talk to Blake Matthis, see if we can shake the tree.’

  ‘Great – I’ll tag along.’

  Carrick smiled. ‘You don’t want a cup of tea or something first? Catch up?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ said Jo. ‘I need to get my sea legs back.’

  * * *

  Jo caught up with Reeves and Dimitriou as they were pulling out of the car park and waved them to stop. He wound down the window.

  ‘Wait up,’ she said. ‘I’m coming too.’

  Dimitriou flinched. ‘We don’t need hand-holding.’

  ‘Don’t be a spoilsport.’

  The younger woman began to climb out of the passenger side to make room in the front.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Jo, though the show of deference impressed her. ‘I’m just observing.’

  ‘Sure thing, ma’am,’ said Reeves.

  As they drove, Dimitriou filled Jo in on their suspect – Blake Matthis had been picked up numerous times in the last five years for possession, assault, and threatening behaviour. Currently registered as living at home with his mother, Tracy Grimshaw, he was known to visit his sibling and father in prison once a fortnight. Enough time to pass on info and receive instructions about the family business. He was also seventeen, as of that morning.

  ‘You’re going to ruin his birthday,’ said Jo. Her eyes were still drawn to Dimitriou’s moustache, and he seemed to realise.

  ‘Can you stop that?’ he said. ‘You’re making me self-conscious.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jo. ‘It’s … nice. You think Blake will give us anything?’

  ‘Probably not, but no harm in rattling cages. If Xan was executed on their patch, they must have an idea who did it.’

  ‘Might have been the Matthis family themselves. Maybe Xan was screwing them.’

  ‘The thought had occurred,’ said Dimitriou. ‘Despite the low level trouble-making, Blake’s managed to keep his nose clean so far. I doubt he pulled the trigger.’

  Jo turned her attention to Reeves. ‘So how are you finding it?’

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘Tell Jo about the OD,’ said Dimi.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Jo.

  ‘I’d rather forget it,’ said Reeves.

  ‘A squat in Abingdon,’ said Dimitriou. ‘Girl had been dead for a while. Let’s just say they had a rodent problem. It was nasty. Mel Cropper was licking his lips.’

  Jo smiled. Cropper headed up the crime scene team. He had a taste for the macabre and apparently no sense of smell.

  ‘Carrick’s a great gaffer,’ said Reeves, as if keen to change the subject.

  ‘A definite improvement on his predecessor,’ Jo agreed.

  ‘Yeah, I heard he gave you a hard time,’ said Reeves.

  Jo wondered what exactly Reeves had been told about her, by Dimitriou and the others. Since moving to Thames Valley, she’d worked two cases that yielded positive results, but made national headlines, and required some serious public relations handling. In both, lengthy inquiries had absolved her of wrongdoing, but the notoriety lingered. Phil Stratton, her former DCI, hadn’t been so lucky. From her perspective, he’d hampered the investigations, refusing to listen to his officers, and she only guessed the rest of team had put the boot in too when giving their own evidence. In the end, just as she went on maternity leave, he’d been unceremoniously shown the door. Ostensibly it was an early retirement, but he and everyone else knew that was a weasel way of saying he was surplus to requirements. He was only forty-eight, and he hadn’t even been given time to clear his desk and say farewell. Jo had actually bumped into him in the supermarket while pushing Theo around, about a fortnight after the C-section. He’d insisted, with slightly too much enthusiasm, that he was enjoying some time away. The microwave meals for one, and the two bottles of whisky in his basket, suggested otherwise.

  * * *

  The Matthis house, a sixties semi, was on the edge of Blackbird Leys Park, in the centre of a sprawling esta
te south of the city. Mostly built as social housing, it had had a reputation for many years as a high-crime area, but things were improving. It still accounted, however, for a significant proportion of low-level call-outs, like anti-social behaviour, petty theft, and domestics.

  They parked a few doors down, and attracted a few sullen stares from some local teenagers hanging around outside a shopping parade opposite. One took out his phone. The fact Jo and her colleagues weren’t wearing uniforms hardly mattered. Their sort could smell police a mile away.

  As Dimitriou and Reeves led the way, Jo couldn’t help but admire the latter’s attire. It helped she had the confidence and shape to make it work, but the suit was no off-the-rail number like her own. Jo thought they were probably about the same height in socks, but Reeves’ heels boosted her stature considerably. She obviously hadn’t dressed expecting any sort of foot-chase, and Jo wondered how much beat work she’d done previously.

  They reached the front of the house. The TV was on inside and Dimitriou rang the doorbell. A dog barked within, and through the marbled pane beside the door Jo saw it hurtling towards them, before its paws began clubbing and clawing at the inside.

  They waited for half a minute before Dimitriou rang again, this time banging the door with the fleshy part of his fist as the dog continued to go nuts. ‘Ms Grimshaw, it’s the police. We’d like a word, please.’

  Jo looked around, checking their surroundings. At the shops, one of the youths was still speaking into his phone, watching them.

  Another shape appeared through the marbled pane, and the door opened. A morbidly obese woman, maybe not quite forty, stood there. She held the short lead of the equally rotund Staffordshire bull terrier, head like an anvil, tail held stiff as a car aerial. Dimitriou held his ground and Jo was glad to be a few steps back: she’d never got on with dogs.

  ‘What do you want?’ Tracy was breathing hard, and her cheeks were red, as if they’d interrupted a workout, though it seemed more likely it was just the exertion of getting to the door.

  ‘We were hoping to speak to Blake,’ said Dimitriou.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said.

  ‘Any idea when he’ll be back?’

  ‘No.’

  She began to shut the door, but Dimitriou put his foot over the threshold and blocked it. Tracy Grimshaw’s features went from bored to lethal in a blink. ‘Be careful where you put that,’ she said. ‘Niko here likes bacon.’

  Dimitriou left his foot in place while he fished out a card, and offered it to her. ‘If Blake puts in an appearance, we’d love to have a chat.’

  Grimshaw looked at the card but didn’t take it. After a second or two, Dimitriou withdrew his foot. The door slammed in their faces.

  ‘I think that could be the start of something beautiful,’ said Jo.

  Dimitriou posted the card into the letterbox, where Niko promptly set about attacking it, and they turned back towards the car.

  As they were getting in, Jo noticed that the boy who’d been on his phone outside the shops was slipping between parked cars towards an archway leading under the parade. He was still looking her way. It might be nothing, but …

  ‘Hey, I’m just going to talk to those kids,’ said Jo.

  Reeves nodded. Dimitriou remained by his open door. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Jo crossed the street towards the shops. ‘What’s up?’ said one of the kids – he looked about ten or eleven, slouched on an oversized mountain bike and sucking on a cigarette. Jo ignored him, and followed the route taken by the boy with the phone. The back of the shops opened up on a large block of flats, buttressed by external stairwells at intervals, leading up to three tiers of identical front doors. Jo couldn’t see the kid at first and was thinking about turning back when she heard a metal screech coming from her left. It was another passageway, underneath the main block of flats, which she guessed led to the main estate artery, Brook Street, on the other side. She quickened her feet towards the opening, and stepped into a darker passage. It was about fifty metres long, with narrow garages, more like lock-ups, on either side. The boy she’d followed was standing by the door of one at the end. He clocked Jo at once, then turned and ran, shouting, ‘Cops!’

  Jo trotted a little more quickly, calling after him. ‘Hey, I just want to talk!’

  The lock-up door squealed open fully as she approached, and Jo heard the growl of an engine inside. As she drew level, a red and white dirt bike lurched out, carrying a young man wearing a baseball cap. She tried to leap out of the way, but the back end of the bike skidded around the slammed into her lower half. All she could do was throw out her arms as she was sent sprawling across the ground. The boy – and she was almost certain it was Blake Matthis – gave her a half-sympathetic look, before smoke clouded the air and he shot away in the same direction the other lad had fled.

  Jo winced as she used the wall to haul herself to her feet. Her left leg was completely dead from the impact, but she managed to get on her radio.

  ‘Dimi, he’s here,’ she said. ‘Exited the flats on to Brook Street. He’s on a bike.’ She managed to stagger out too, but her leg still wasn’t co-ordinating with the rest of her body, and it dragged behind her. The bike, which had no plates, was already a hundred metres away, and now the other boy was on the back of it as well. ‘He’s heading south.’

  Dimitriou said they’d come to her, and they arrived on foot a minute later.

  ‘You sure it was him?’ asked her colleague.

  Jo nodded, and pointed back to the lock-up. ‘He was in there.’

  ‘You get the tag?’

  ‘Bike didn’t have one,’ said Jo. ‘It was just a 50cc thing. Red and white.’

  ‘Call it in.’ It was practically an order, but she didn’t quibble.

  Dimi didn’t seem to have noticed she was hobbling, but Reeves asked if she was okay. The feeling was coming back into her leg, in waves of a deep throbbing ache. Jo explained what had happened with the bike.

  Dimitriou was peering into the lock-up. ‘Looks like he’s been holed up in here a while.’ His face screwed up and he lifted his sleeve to his nose. ‘Stinks.’

  Jo, having come off the radio with Traffic, joined him inside. The interior of the garage looked like a delinquent’s bedroom. Sleeping bag on a beat-up sofa, beer cans, a pizza box, as well as a small holdall. There was a mobile phone too. ‘He left in a hurry,’ said Reeves, picking it up. She sniffed at something unpleasant.

  The smell reached Jo’s nose too – it was like a public toilet, and sure enough, a bucket in the corner was a couple of inches deep with what looked like urine. The remains of several roll-ups floated on the surface.

  ‘Why was he living in squalor when his family home is two hundred metres up the road?’ asked Dimitriou.

  ‘Maybe he was expecting us,’ said Reeves.

  Jo shrugged. ‘Kids like Blake Matthis aren’t scared of us,’ she said. ‘Probably learned his rights before he learned to read.’ She thought of the bike. ‘He was ready to run though.’

  ‘All the more likely he had something to do with Xan Do,’ said Dimitriou. He looked into the holdall, but all Jo could see were clothes. ‘Let’s do a search and take a look at the phone. He’s not going to get far.’

  * * *

  There was no great urgency to bring Blake in, and for the remainder of the afternoon Jo settled back into work in a leisurely fashion, with briefings from Heidi on some of the latest stats, and an update from Andy Carrick on some of the personnel changes among the uniformed officers and operational frameworks. As the hours wore on though, she found her mind turning towards Theo with increasing regularity, like bursts of static. By four o’clock it was almost constant and she was struggling to concentrate on anything else. Dimitriou and Alice suggested an after-work drink to welcome her back, which she declined. George did not look terribly disappointed.

  In the car, she flexed her leg before setting off. She didn’t need to inspect under her trousers to know a hell of a bruise was
coming through. Though she was pretty sure he hadn’t ridden at her on purpose, an ABH charge would await Blake if Carrick was feeling vindictive.

  Despite the pain, a glance in the rear-view mirror surprised Jo – she was practically beaming. And as she closed in on Little Steps, thoughts of seeing Theo and holding him made her almost giddy. Was this how it was going to be now, every time they were separated for a few hours?

  She was driving past the university parks when a call came through on the emergency services network. Attendance required at a serious incident on Canterbury Road. An injured elderly IC1 male. Ambulance was already on its way. Jo suffered a moment of confusion.

  That’s Harry Ferman’s road.

  She wasn’t far away. It would be a fifteen-minute detour, if that. Canterbury Road was maybe thirty houses, and she guessed most contained Caucasian residents over fifty. The chances of it being anything to do with Harry, at number 21, were slim.

  A uniform responded they were en route, asking for more details.

  ‘Neighbour reported the sound of a disturbance,’ said the dispatcher, ‘and found the elderly man next door with a head injury.’

  ‘What house number?’

  A brief pause.

  ‘Twenty-one. That’s two, one.’

  Jo swallowed, and pushed the respond button. ‘DS Masters attending,’ she said.

  She checked her mirrors, indicated, and swung a U-turn.

  Chapter 3

  Harry Ferman’s front door was open, and three civilians were standing on the pavement outside. There were no emergency vehicles yet. Jo pulled up, and climbed out, not bothering to close the door. ‘Is Harry in there?’

  An elderly woman – ashen-faced – nodded. ‘I saw him through the window.’

  Jo entered, struck by the familiarity of the place. The front door opened onto a narrow hallway, with a coat hanging from a peg, a small umbrella stand and a runner over a threadbare, heavily patterned carpet of faded russet and gold. She entered a lounge stuffed with plush furniture and an old cathode-ray TV. The walls were crowded with small paintings and photographs, and a dresser dominated one corner, lined with ornaments, including the paperweight she’d purchased for him the previous year in Edinburgh.