by M. J. Ford
‘She wanted money,’ he said with a shrug.
‘And you gave her some?’
‘Not at first,’ he said. ‘She’d called me in Cambridge. Claimed she was off the drugs and promised to get out of our lives for good if I helped. I said I wanted to see her, face to face.’
‘So you came to Oxford?’
‘That’s right. We met in town – I can give you the name of the café if you want. Afterwards, I dropped her off at a place she was staying with the old chap.’
Canterbury Road.
‘And did you believe her? About the drugs?’
‘To an extent,’ said Greg. ‘She looked different to when I’d last seen her. But looks can be deceiving, as I’m sure you know.’
‘That isn’t what I meant,’ said Jo. ‘Why did you believe her? Addicts are always saying they’re clean, and they’re almost always lying. Yet you drove all the way from Cambridge.’
Bailey shrugged. ‘I’m an optimist,’ he said.
‘But you did give her money?’
Greg shook his head. ‘I’m not stupid,’ he said. ‘I gave her fifty quid and told her I’d send her more, when I was sure she’d gone.’
‘Have you any idea where she might have disappeared to?’
‘She mentioned up north, but as long as it was far from Oxford, I didn’t care.’
‘So why on earth didn’t you tell us this before?’ said Carrick.
Greg paused, eyes lowered for a moment. ‘It’s her mess. When I saw the stuff about the murder of the old chap, I didn’t want to be connected to any of it, to be honest.’
‘You can understand that, surely?’ said Chalmers.
‘Not really,’ said Jo, though in fact it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. People lied in interview rooms all the time, even when they had nothing major to hide. It was an instinct – a way of maintaining some control in an encounter where no one was sure who they could trust. She thought of the message on her answerphone, still separate from the official police record. Was that a lie by omission too? Perhaps she wasn’t so different from Greg Bailey, if his fib turned out to be as innocent as he claimed.
‘You weren’t worried about her?’ asked Jo, ignoring Bailey’s solicitor. ‘You might not be related by blood, but she’s still your sister.’
Now Greg’s blue eyes latched onto hers. ‘Those are lovely sentiments, sergeant, but with all due respect, you haven’t lived with her. She made my parents’ life hell, and almost wrecked our family. If there was a chance she’d just disappear, it would be better for everyone. With any luck, she’s already overdosed in a train station toilet somewhere.’
There was plenty of spite in his words, but his eyes contained a degree of sadness as he spoke. He looked and sounded convincing enough, but Jo remembered plainly that she’d thought the same the first time she’d met him. There was something of the chameleon about Greg Bailey, adapting himself, and his persona, to the situation.
‘Tell me, Greg – do you know anything about a young man called Xan Do?’
Bailey’s brow creased. She looked for guilt, but couldn’t see any hint. ‘Should I?’
‘He was a drug dealer here in Oxford. We think he had something to do with the narcotics found at your parents’ house. He was having a relationship with Megan.’
‘The name doesn’t mean anything to me at all,’ he said. ‘And I imagine her relationships are many.’
‘That’s odd,’ said Jo. ‘Xan Do was at St Cuthberts at the same time as you.’ She showed Bailey the picture she’d printed of the string quartet.
Bailey gave it a once-over, seemingly unfazed. ‘Sorry, I was more into sports. We didn’t mix with the musical lot.’
‘You don’t think the connection’s interesting?’
‘What exactly are you getting at?’ said Chalmers. ‘Are you implying Gregory has something to do with the drugs?’
‘Do you, Greg?’ Jo asked.
Bailey looked at Chalmers. ‘Do we have to be here?’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Jo. ‘You lied to us before.’
‘We were speaking informally,’ said Chalmers, ‘and Greg was not under caution then. It’s kind of him to help with your enquiries at all at such a difficult time.’
‘Spare me the sanctimony,’ said Jo. She pointed at the picture of Xan Do clutching his violin. ‘You’re denying knowing him?’
‘I am. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t in my year, or the one above.’
‘Isn’t it possible that Megan knew Xan from her own time at the school?’ said Chalmers. ‘It seems she attracted the wrong sorts of people.’
Jo had thought of it, but there were five years between Megan and Xan Do, and just two between him and Greg Bailey. It was hard to see them interacting a great deal in the brief time Megan had been at St Cuthberts. She spoke to Bailey once more.
‘If we were to look at your phone, we wouldn’t find any evidence of contact between you and Xan?’
Greg slipped his hand into his pocket, took out his phone and put it on the table between them. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Now wait a minute,’ said Chalmers, reaching out and placing his own hand over the phone. ‘There’s no need to do that, Greg. They’re speculating here and frankly it’s a little desperate.’
His client shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing to hide. Go on, sergeant, take it.’
It was a power-play, and he thought he had won. ‘We may want to later,’ said Jo, ignoring the phone. She paused the recording. ‘Give us a minute, please.’
‘Take all the time you need,’ said Bailey.
Outside the room, she and Carrick consulted.
‘You believe him?’ said Carrick.
‘No,’ said Jo. ‘He played us the first time at his brief’s office, and I think he’s doing the same now. There might be some truth in what he’s saying, but I don’t buy that he wouldn’t mention this when we questioned him before. He’s not ashamed that he wanted his sister out of life – in fact, he rather seems to revel in the animosity. So why lie about it the first time?’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Let’s get his prints and a swab – that’ll keep him on his toes. Then release him, I suppose. Can’t see him doing a runner.’
* * *
She wasn’t surprised when Greg submitted to the tests without protest, but her heart was still in her mouth while she made a visual comparison between the thumbprints from the mug in Ferman’s kitchen, and those of both Greg Bailey’s hands, double-checking with Heidi and Carrick also. They all agreed there was nothing close to a match. The partial bloody handprint at his parents’ house would take a more specialist analysis, but it looked distinctly unlikely. Greg certainly had no visible injuries that might correspond to a shotgun blast.
‘It was worth a shot,’ said Carrick flatly. ‘We’ll get the swab processed asap and run it through the database.’
Jo didn’t hold much hope of a match. Didn’t hold much hope full stop.
If Greg Bailey was telling even half the truth, Megan could be long gone by now. It wasn’t hard for a girl to disappear, especially if she was resourceful and had some help. Jo saw her own growing despair mirrored in the faces of the others. They had four unsolved murders on the books, and until Megan came out of the woodwork chances of closing any of them were slim.
Jo had an awful feeling that Bailey’s prediction might well turn out to be true, and his sister would be found, weeks or months from now, and what had really happened to Harry Ferman, and her parents, and Xan Do, might die a secret with her.
Chapter 17
With little else to follow up on, Jo left to fetch Theo. She considered popping around to her brother’s house with some sort of peace offering, then changed her mind. Funny enough, it wasn’t the thought of facing either Paul or Amelia that made her decide against it, but the kids. They’d never seen her behave the way she had after lunch the day before. She wasn’t a ‘cool aunt’, but she’d always prided herself on projecting to them her best si
de – the capable, professional woman the public and they could rely on. She remembered fondly that between the ages of seven and eight, Will had said he wanted to join the police himself to be like her – he even had a pretend uniform that he asked his parents to iron, complete with plastic handcuffs. And Emma, just last year, had come to Jo rather than her own mother to ask for advice about the pill. But as they became more worldly, that sort of façade couldn’t last. And her own behaviour hadn’t maintained it terribly well. Now she was the struggling mum who lost her shit and stormed out over the smallest thing. Auntie Jo the fuck-up.
At home, she ran a bath for Theo, donned her dressing gown, and spent a happy quarter-hour entertaining him, topping up the water as it cooled. He loved bath-time, and watched her intently as she blew soap bubbles for him to swat and burst. She wondered though, when the time would come that his needs became more complex than simple games, than food and warmth, and even love. A time when he too came to see her for what she really was, rather than just what he needed her to be? A day when she ceased to be infallible and became a source of embarrassment, or even pain? It would come, and she doubted she’d be ready. As soon as he realised what fathers were, or shortly after, he’d ask about his own. And how could she ever be ready with an answer that wasn’t just another lie, by omission or otherwise?
The bubble mixture ran out. She pulled the plug, and wrapped Theo in a towel as the water sucked through the drain. In the bedroom, his eyes were owlish and wide, like a nocturnal creature entering its element. But as she massaged coconut oil into his perfect skin, his comically long lashes began to flutter. She had to cajole him from sleep to make him finish his milk.
Afterwards, as he slept, she called a number she had avoided for months.
‘Didn’t expect to hear from you,’ Lucas said. His voice wasn’t slurred, but it was utterly without brightness.
‘I’m afraid it’s a professional call,’ she said. ‘I need to ask you about your visit to the Three Crowns last week.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You heard.’
‘I heard.’
‘I think I may have broken a glass or something,’ said Lucas. ‘Cut my hand.’
‘It’s not that I’m worried about,’ said Jo. ‘Did you go to Harry’s house, too?’
‘Did he tell you?’ He sounded morose. ‘I should go and apologise.’
He doesn’t know. How can he not know? Jo’s voice cracked. ‘He’s dead, Luke.’
There was a pause on the line. ‘What?’
‘He was murdered, a few days ago.’
‘I don’t watch the news,’ said Luke. ‘What happened?’
Jo hardly had the energy to explain it all. ‘We don’t know. Someone attacked him in his home.’
Again, it seemed to take him a few seconds to process. ‘He didn’t answer the door,’ said Lucas. ‘I guessed you’d told him not to.’
‘I didn’t even think you’d go around there,’ said Jo. ‘Maybe he wasn’t in.’
‘He was,’ said Lucas. ‘I saw someone moving inside.’ He paused. ‘Are you okay?’
He said it in the way he always had, and she could almost feel the comfort of his thumbs kneading the knots from her neck, as he had on many an evening when they were together.
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Are you in trouble because of me?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s just bad luck.’
‘If you want, I could come by the station tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Clear things up. Maybe we could grab a coffee afterwards.’
There was no mistaking the vain hope in his voice – she knew him too well. On the baby monitor, Theo made a brief distressed cry from his cot. She wondered briefly if babies dreamed, and if so, what neuroses could possibly haunt their sleep?
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ she said.
TUESDAY, 22ND APRIL
‘We’ve got a DNA match, Jo,’ said Carrick. Though he looked shattered, a week’s worth of stubble across his jaw, her boss’s eyes were gleaming. He and Heidi were in the DCI’s office, but there was no sign of Dimitriou or Reeves.
‘For Bailey?’
‘For an unknown,’ said Carrick. ‘The blood from the bedroom floor in Stanton St John matches a profile from an unsolved murder a couple of months ago in Manchester.’
Up north … Jo made the link to where Bailey claimed Megan was heading, then disregarded any significance. Too vague.
‘Another gruesome one,’ said Heidi. ‘Fifty-eight-year-old male, throat cut, but with signs of torture first.’
Jo went to the desk, and looked at the open file where a crime scene photo was displayed. A man, in shorts and a charity sports vest, lying on his side in what looked like a warehouse. His head was curled against his chest, which was soaked through with blood, and it appeared his hands were tied behind his back.
‘Who was he?’
‘Christopher Putman,’ said Carrick. ‘Educational charity worker from Salford. Gay. He went out jogging and never came back. Partner reported him missing.’
‘Where was the body?’
‘In an abandoned industrial building a mile from his house. We’ve been in touch with Greater Manchester Police and the DI on the case is going to brief us.’
‘You want me to head up and speak to him?’
Carrick glanced at her. ‘George and Alice have already set off,’ he said.
Jo felt the news like a punch to the gut. ‘Don’t you want a DS there too?’
‘It’s just intelligence gathering,’ said Carrick. ‘I’d rather you stayed here.’You mean because I’m tied here, thought Jo.
‘We’ve got someone from child services coming in shortly,’ said Heidi. ‘They’re bringing the files on Megan Bailey.’
Jo tried to put her disappointment aside. Carrick was probably right – the reconnaissance trip was unlikely to reveal anything new. Plus, the Stanton St John murders were Dimi’s chance to prove himself.
‘We should look into drug networks with links between Manchester and Oxford,’ she said to Heidi. ‘Maybe start with known associates of the Matthis family.’
‘Got it,’ said Heidi.
At her desk, Jo opened the files from Greater Manchester Police, as well as an online search. The first result appeared to be a follow-up piece in the Manchester Evening News. It was accompanied by an image of Christopher Putman, sitting astride a bike with a number on his chest. The headline was ‘Killing Continues To Mystify Cops’. She read the text below.
Police are appealing again for information relating to the brutal murder of local man Christopher Putman. Mr Putman, 58, from Lark Street, Salford, was found dead by a disused section of the Stretford Canal. According to Mr Matthew Benn, the partner of the deceased, Mr Putman left the home they shared in the early hours of April 16th for a run, but did not return. A search was carried out along Mr Putman’s known running route, yielding nothing, but police dogs working with surveyors on the site found his body the following day in an abandoned building near the channel. Police are keeping an open mind about the motive for the attack, but believe it might have been premeditated, and possibly a homophobic hate crime. They have advised the public to be cautious.
The article ended with a number the public could call anonymously.
Jo turned her attention towards the police files themselves, beginning by watching a recording of an interview with Putman’s partner. It made for harrowing viewing. He was being supported by a woman identified as his sister, and there were frequent pauses as he broke down. They’d been together for seventeen years, and he knew of no reason why anyone would harm his beloved. A keen amateur triathlete, Chris was ‘the kindest man in the world’, who’d never even been in a fight. He had no addiction issues, though suffered from bouts of depression. There were no long-standing grudges, and they were planning to marry that September. There were, Benn said, no money problems – Putman was soon to have retired, having spent the later part of his career as a special needs teacher and t
hen a consultant for an educational advisory charity. Benn himself was still a working paramedic.
The rest of the files, showing DI Sue Southam’s investigation, seemed thorough, and concurred with the picture painted by Benn. Financial records revealed no anomalies, toxicology no adverse findings. The coroner listed death due to blood loss from the carotid artery, but two of the fingers on Putman’s right hand showed nail injuries consistent with a tool like pliers, and one of his kneecaps was shattered. It appeared from bruising on the neck that he might have been partially strangled too.
Jo knew there were some sick people out there, but she found it tough to ascribe the attack to a drug-induced rage, or a mugging gone wrong. The killer hadn’t even taken the watch from Putman’s wrist. A hate crime, or sexual motive was a possibility, but as Heidi pointed out, the victim’s genitals had been untouched. It felt to Jo that there was some method to the torture. The killer had wanted to extract something from his victim.
Her phone rang. An internal call.
‘Jo, you’ve got a visitor,’ said Nigel from the front desk.
God. Not Lucas. Not now. She’d been feeling guilty about the way she’d ended the call the night before.
‘It’s someone from the council,’ added Nigel.
Jo rolled her eyes with relief.
‘Thanks, Nige. Show them through.’
When, shortly after, she saw the face of the woman coming towards her, it took her a moment to place it from five days before, on her own doorstep. She composed herself.
‘Mrs Pritchard, wasn’t it?’ she said.
‘Please, call me Annabelle.’
The handshake was even colder and more limp than the last time. Pritchard looked apprehensive, and Jo guessed she’d recognised her too. She kept hold of the hand. ‘I’m Sergeant Masters. Please, follow me.’
Jo had been planning to carry out the meeting in the comfort of the briefing room, but changed her mind, and led Pritchard instead through to the starkest of the interview rooms at the end of the corridor. She asked her visitor to take a seat, then offered her a drink. Pritchard opted quietly for water.