Praise for M.J. Ford

‘Superb, gritty and realistic.’

Mel Sherratt, million-copy bestseller

‘Well written and sizzling with tension. A cracking debut.’

James Nally, author of Games With the Dead

‘A fabulous, page-turning thriller.’

Jacqui Rose, author of Toxic

‘I absolutely loved this well written, riveting debut mystery and would have happily given it far more than five stars. I really hope this is the first book in a new series and look forward to reading more books by this author in the future.’

Goodreads reviewer

‘Hold My Hand is an absolutely brilliant debut novel from a very talented author. It has an elaborate plot which is both convincing and exciting, with twists and turns, an unbelievably scary and thrilling conclusion … in fact, everything I want from a crime thriller.’

NetGalley reviewer

‘A unique plot and storyline – I enjoyed the book immensely. It really makes you think.’

Goodreads reviewer

‘Spectacularly assured.’

Amazon reviewer

‘Excellent, and incredibly compelling. I didn’t want to put it down!’Amazon reviewer

‘A belter of a crime novel!’

Amazon reviewer

‘Very atmospheric, with acute observations, and full of twists and turns. Great characterisation.’

Amazon reviewer

Keep Her Close
M.J. FORD

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © M.J. Ford 2019

Cover design © Charlotte Abrams-Simpson 2019

Cover [photograph/illustration] © Millennium Images

M.J. Ford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008293772

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008293789

Version: 2019-02-13

Dedication

For Mum and Dad.

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for M.J. Ford

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

About the Author

Keep Reading …

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1
WEDNESDAY

Dr Forster kept a box of tissues on the table, and for the last five weeks Detective Jo Masters had managed not to reach for a single one. It had become a point of principle during their sessions, a way of telling herself she was above all this. So she’d remained stubbornly dry-eyed through all five sixty-minute meetings, even though they’d touched on plenty of painful subjects, personal and professional – her relationships with her parents, her brother, her colleagues, her aspirations, and her fears. And Ben, of course. Lots of Ben. The psychologist was surgical at times, probing with questions that slipped almost unfelt, like a scalpel blade into the deepest recesses of her past, exposing places, incidents, and people she hadn’t thought about for years.

People like Frank Tyndle. It was just another anecdote, an incident early in her relationship with Ben – and she’d managed to deflect the conversation the first time he’d come up. She wasn’t sure why Dr Forster was returning to it now, so near the end of their allotted time together. It was almost like she knew there was a weakness there, something to be excised.

‘I thought we’d covered Tyndle already,’ said Jo, nonchalantly.

‘Not really,’ said Dr Forster. She checked back through the pad of notes on her lap. ‘You mentioned him, in our first session, when we were discussing your miscarriage. You said something about karma, but we ran out of time. Do you believe in karma?’

The counsellor looked up, her expression quizzical. Jo was ninety per cent sure Dr Forster’s brown frizzy hair was a wig, maybe as a result of cancer treatment. What was certain was that she’d drawn her eyebrows on a fraction too high, making her look perpetually curious.

‘It’s just something people say, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Dr Forster. ‘Is it?’

Jo sneaked a look at the minimalist clock-face on the wall. Twelve-forty. They had twenty minutes left, and so far Dr Forster had shown herself to be assiduous with her time-keeping.

‘Tyndle was a nasty piece of work,’ she began. A wrong’un from the start, as her friend Harry Ferman would have said. ‘He ran the largest drug gang in Kent, and he was untouchable. The investigating team had bugs on all his known locations, but he was careful. Mostly. Had a temper, though. We got a break when one of his lieutenants, a guy called Jon Ruffell, nicknamed Rusty, tried to take over and failed. Tyndle went ballistic, and the listening device picked up that he was going to shoot the kneecaps off Rusty’s sister. We knew he had access to firearms, so it was credible.’

‘Go on,’ said Forster.

Jo took a sip of water. ‘The problem was the investigating team didn’t have an address for Jon Ruffell’s sister. The tribunal later said that was a failure of intelligence, but that’s easy with hindsight. Ben and I were just back-up, so the plan was for us to follow Tyndle and direct the firearms to come to us. We knew it was going to be a close call.’ Christ, she’d been scared. She’d thought Ben was too, but he hadn’t shown it and would never admit it. He could be like that in an argument too. Just switch off. ‘Our orders from the co-ordinating officer were clear. We were observing and tracking only. Now there was a gun in the equation, anything more was deemed an unnecessary risk. Ben knew it too. He didn’t believe in heroes.’

It came back to her in spikes of adrenalin that made her skin tingle. From the moment they’d been in pursuit, she’d been thinking about the end game. What would they do if the firearms didn’t get there in time? If Tyndle reached Joanne Ruffell’s address first? How could they stop him?

‘Tyndle must’ve made us for police, even in plain clothes, because suddenly he detoured. Pulled a U-turn through traffic, and sped off the other way. We followed. I was all for calling it off, discontinuing pursuit, but Ben had that look in his eyes. He said Tyndle was armed and that now he knew he was busted, he was too dangerous to leave on the street.’

‘And did you agree?’ Dr Forster’s interruption made Jo focus on her.

‘Ben was my superior.’

‘That isn’t what I asked,’ said Dr Forster. Jo had noticed the counsellor liked to have her questions answered. She could be steely like that.

‘I tossed it up the chain,’ said Jo. ‘And it came back in the affirmative. We were to stay in pursuit, blues on, in the hope Tyndle would think again. They just didn’t want that gun on the streets, in Tyndle’s hands, under any circumstances. They’d found the sister’s address, but the armed response was re-routing to us. Parameters hadn’t changed. We weren’t to engage directly with Tyndle.’

Jo wondered if the doctor actually had access to the hearing papers and this was some sort of test. It was all in there, in the transcripts and statements. They only told half the story though. Such operational tactics looked fine on paper, but on the ground it could get … complicated. There were split-second decisions to be made.

‘I remember we were doing close to ninety on an urban A-road, cutting through traffic. I trusted Ben behind the wheel. That was part of the training. And he was good. Then the lights went red ahead. The junction wasn’t busy. And Tyndle wasn’t braking. I shouted for Ben to stop. I think I did. But I can’t blame him for not listening. If I’d outranked him, maybe he would have. He was single-minded. Tyndle was armed, and we couldn’t let an armed suspect escape.’ She paused, her mouth dry, and drained the rest of the water from her glass. The next bit was the hardest part to relive, and she’d never spelled it out to anyone before. ‘The ambulance was suddenly there, right in front of us. It apparently had its sirens on, but I didn’t hear it. There was no way Tyndle could’ve swerved. His bonnet caught the rear end of the ambulance, spun it round and up onto two wheels. Then it went over. Metal ripping. Sparks everywhere. Like something out of an action film, but a lot more real. Horrible, really. It slid up a bank, hit a tree.’

She remembered Ben pulling over, looking at her, and asking if she was okay. She’d thought that was odd, because she was fine.

‘Training took over. I called an ambulance – another one. We got out of the car. I saw Tyndle in the road. No seatbelt, it seemed, so he’d gone straight through the windscreen. Ben told me to leave him. To prioritise. While he went to secure the firearm, I made my way to the ambulance. The paramedic was climbing out through the driver’s window.’ He’d been bleeding, and obviously dazed, dragging a leg with the foot kinked up at the wrong angle, enough to make her retch. ‘The poor guy just said, “In the back”. I left Ben with him and circled to the rear doors. I couldn’t hear anything inside. The mechanism must’ve got stuck in the collision, because I couldn’t get the fucking thing open. In the end, a guy came out from the pub across the junction. He brought a fireman’s axe – Christ knows where he got it – and together we managed to use the head to lever the doors.’

She tried to drink again, but there was nothing in the glass.

‘Would you like some more water?’ asked Dr Forster.

Jo shook her head. She wished she’d never started the story, but she knew she couldn’t leave it hanging. In her mind, the images were fresh.

‘The other paramedic must’ve been travelling with the patient,’ she continued quietly. ‘He was on the floor, unconscious. The patient – a woman – she was pressed against the wall, still strapped into the stretcher which had gone over.’ Jo remembered her face. The utter disbelief. ‘She was talking … well, mumbling really. She was in a night-dress, hitched up around her waist. I … I got inside, trying to work out what to do. Who to help first. There was so much blood. My shoes were slipping in it. I mean, fucking pints of it. More than you’d think a person could lose, you know? I went to her, and then I realised what it was she was saying, over and over again, gripping her stomach. She was saying “My baby … my baby … my baby”, like her brain was stuck on some kind of short circuit.’

Jo fell silent, so lost in the memories of almost ten years before that she didn’t even realise Dr Forster had stood up to offer her a tissue. Jo took it, and wiped her eyes.

‘She miscarried the foetus?’ asked the counsellor, sitting back once more.

In any other person, Jo would have deemed the tone insensitive, but she’d grown accustomed to the psychologist’s sometimes blunt questioning and exact use of language. Indeed, when everyone else around Jo spoke in euphemisms and platitudes about her last case – your ordeal, the incident, that night – it was actually refreshing to have a dose of the psychiatrist’s candour. She’d have made a good detective, Jo thought. No bullshit.

‘Yes,’ she said, screwing up the tissue. ‘They rushed her to hospital and tried to deliver by emergency C-section, but nothing could be done.’

Dr Forster leant forward slightly. ‘That must have been very upsetting.’

Jo glanced at the clock again. Officially there were seven minutes remaining of their designated hour together.

‘Of course,’ she said. For a long time, she’d blamed herself. Nightmares, insomnia, anxiety. It had been Ben who helped her heal.

‘And what happened to Frank Tyndle?’

‘He got eighteen years for the drugs and firearms offences.’

‘And for the death of the foetus in utero?’

Jo shook her head. She hadn’t been in court – by then she’d been moved on to Hertfordshire, for the start of her investigative training on the road to becoming a detective. ‘The woman had been on the way to hospital because of breach complications anyway. Hence the dash with the blues on. The prosecution couldn’t prove the baby would have survived in normal circumstances, so they couldn’t pin the death on Tyndle.’

‘What did Ben think of that?’

He’d been spitting feathers, she remembered, and it had kindled a long and almost personal hatred of defence barristers.

‘With eighteen years, there was a chance Tyndle could be out in half the time,’ said Jo. ‘Not that he was in much of a state to enjoy life. Going through the windscreen took most of his face off. Severe lacerations to the bone.’

Dr Forster cocked her head, completely unfazed. You wouldn’t be if you’d seen him …

‘Karma, perhaps?’ said the counsellor.

‘Ben thought so,’ muttered Jo. ‘Said he deserved everything he got.’

Neither of them spoke for at least thirty seconds. Jo looked at the screwed-up tissue in her hands. So much for holding it together …

Dr Forster put aside her writing pad, and placed her hands on her knees, looking at Jo like she was a rare specimen.

‘Do you blame yourself for what happened to Ben later?’ she asked.

With four minutes until the session ended, the question took Jo by surprise, telescoping time from the earliest days of her relationship with Ben to the final, terrible day when he was killed. It wasn’t like she hadn’t asked herself the same thing, or a version of it, a thousand times though. What if they hadn’t argued that night? What if she hadn’t left him alone and headed upstairs? What if she’d made the connections and arrested a suspect more quickly? Any number of minor actions on her part and he would still be alive.

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I blame Dylan Jones.’

With the words came the memories: Ben, collapsed on her brother’s kitchen floor, eyes still open but pupils dilated; the jagged edge of a broken wine bottle buried in his neck.

‘What about Dylan, then?’ asked the psychologist. ‘Did he deserve his fate?’

What sort of a question was that? Dylan was abducted as a shy little boy and turned into a monster through neglect. He’d committed terrible, terrible acts, but they all came as a consequence of his mistreatment. There was no karma there. No justice at all, cosmic, legal, or otherwise.

‘I think he was better off dead, after everything that had happened to him,’ said Jo.

‘A mercy killing?’ said Dr Forster. This time the surprise on her face looked real as well as painted on.

‘Maybe,’ said Jo, meeting her eye. In the end, there’d been no choice. Dylan had tried to kill Jo. It had been him or her.

One minute to go until she could leave. Dr Forster saw her glance at the clock.

‘It must be hard in your job,’ the psychologist said.

It was not a question but a comment, and such a vague one that Jo wondered if she was supposed to respond. What did it even mean, anyway? Being a woman in a predominantly man’s world?

‘Lots of jobs are hard. Isn’t yours?’

Dr Forster gave a rare smile. ‘It has challenges. Challenging patients. But you must see the worst in human nature. Awful things.’

‘That’s why we do it,’ said Jo. ‘To make awful things better. To deliver justice.’

‘And when you can’t – how does that make you feel?’

‘Part of the role,’ said Jo. ‘You move on. Do better next time.’

‘Sounds simple.’ The tone wasn’t exactly sarcastic, but there was a degree of challenge there that Jo didn’t entirely like.

The clock chimed.

‘I guess that’s it, then,’ said Jo, standing up.

Chapter 2

As Jo took her winter coat from the stand in the vestibule, Dr Forster emerged from the consulting room. She really was a tiny woman, little more than five feet tall, and away from her chair she looked quite fragile.

‘Detective Masters,’ she said, ‘the Welfare Unit mandated six hours as a minimum, but I’d be keen for you to continue. I feel there’s quite a lot more for us to talk about.’

Jo wasn’t sure that she agreed. Really, she felt she’d spent plenty of time in the past.

‘But it’s my choice?’

‘Thames Valley Police will ask me for a recommendation, but ultimately it is your decision,’ She paused. ‘But … Jo, don’t play down what you went through. And don’t underestimate the impact it could have on you psychologically.’

Jo started to put on her coat, trying to hold back the mental images from the previous case assailing her. Ben’s dead body, his throat slashed. Her nephew William’s terrified screams as he was snatched from his bed. The pale, distorted form of Dylan Jones as he tried to strangle her.

‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘This has been really helpful, but I just want to get back to work properly.’

‘I understand that,’ said Dr Forster. ‘How are you faring with the anxiety medication?’

‘I stopped taking it,’ Jo said. There was no reason to lie.

‘Fair enough,’ said Forster. ‘Are you doing anything nice for your birthday?’

Jo glanced up sharply. It wasn’t for a few days, but she was sure she’d never mentioned it. ‘How did you know?’

‘On your file,’ said Dr Forster. ‘I’ve an eye for detail.’

‘The answer is not much,’ said Jo. ‘Thirty-nine is hardly a big one, is it?’

‘After the year you’ve had, that’s a questionable assertion,’ said Dr Forster. ‘Goodbye, Detective Masters. Look after yourself.’

* * *

The grand Georgian house where Dr Forster had her practice rooms was in the leafiest part of north Oxford, between the Woodstock and Banbury roads. It didn’t take much detective work to establish that the sleek Mercedes coupé parked outside belonged to her, as the number plate read F0RST3R. That level of narcissism seemed rather out of character for the diminutive psychologist, and Jo assumed therefore it had been an ill-conceived gift, perhaps from a partner.

As she wrapped her scarf around her neck against a freezing wind, Jo felt the vibration near her hip. She reached a gloved hand into her purse for her phone. The text was from her brother.

Would you mind heading to the house? Estate agent has lost key! Viewing at 1.30. P x

It was twenty to already.

No probs, she texted back. How’s the beach?

Her brother had decided the family needed some time away, and Jo got that. For all the shit she’d been through that year, her nephew Will had suffered worse, and his school hadn’t put up a great fight about the absence. Not that ten days of winter sun would go far to erase the mental scars of being taken from his bed by Dylan Jones, a man raised in isolation and depravity, who looked like something from a horror movie.

Her phone pinged as a picture message came through. It was a selfie of Paul, tanned and healthy, seated at some poolside bar with what looked like a strawberry daiquiri, ornately garnished with a pineapple slice and a Jamaican flag.

Not jealous, she replied, pocketing her phone and pulling on her gloves.

And really, she wasn’t. Much. Though the thought of the sun on her face was appealing. It was quite some time since she’d had a proper break. In fact, the last prolonged period of annual leave had been Padua with Ben, about fifteen months ago. A top-floor apartment overlooking some piazza or other, a warm Mediterranean breeze tickling the blinds, the muffled chatter of the restaurant customers below. Afterwards, they’d calculated it was during the holiday that she’d conceived. Ben had even suggested that Padua would be an acceptable name if it turned out to be a girl.

‘Enough, Josephine,’ she muttered to herself.

She drove back out of Oxford towards Horton, the village where she’d grown up and where Paul, until recently, had occupied the family home with his wife and two children. Maybe she needed to talk to Lucas about going away. They’d been together almost six months, so a holiday wasn’t moving too fast. Somewhere hot preferably. Sandy. Cocktails (virgin for teetotal Lucas, obviously). Somewhere free from the bloody footprints of the dead. Lucas preferred winter sports, but surely he could be coaxed onto a windsurfing board. The estate agents selling her brother’s house – The Rookery – were under strict instructions to drive potential viewers in from the other end of the crescent. It seemed a rather pointless subterfuge to Jo – they’d find out soon enough what had happened nearby at Sally Carruthers’ ‘House of Horrors’, as the papers had called it.

Jo pulled up outside to find the estate agent and a couple already waiting. She climbed out of her car and apologised, then scrambled for the key to let them in.

‘It’s a beautiful house,’ said the young woman.

‘Oh – it’s not mine,’ said Jo quickly, as they walked inside. ‘My brother’s on holiday.’ She let the estate agent past as well, then turned to go. ‘I’ll leave you to it?’

‘Do you have to rush off?’ he said. ‘I’m sure Mr and Mrs Daley might have some questions.’

‘Oh … sure,’ said Jo, with little enthusiasm. She followed them in. The house was immaculate inside – Amelia had hired professional cleaners to keep on top of things while they rented in central Oxford. Most of the furniture had been moved out already. There’d never really been any question of them staying here, not after what had happened just a stone’s throw from the end of the back garden. The heating was on, but Jo resisted taking off her coat. The sooner she could be on her way again, the better.

‘I’ll take you upstairs first,’ said the estate agent. ‘Save the best parts until the end!’

Jo waited in the entrance hall while the estate agent led the Daleys to the first floor. She heard various exclamations of surprise and delight as they inspected the bedrooms, the family bathroom, and as they came downstairs, both were smiling. They checked the living room, the study, and the under-stairs cupboard before going to the kitchen.

‘Oh wow!’ said the woman.

Jo drifted in behind them. From the slight tension in the estate agent’s face, Jo guessed he’d been fully briefed on the background to the marketing of The Rookery. The brutal murder of Detective Ben Coombs, not ten feet from where they all stood. The kidnapping of William Masters, her six-year-old nephew, from the upstairs bedroom by a psychopath. With a vague smile pasted across her features, Jo found her eyes drifting to the island, wondering if the cleaners had missed even the tiniest spot of blood. Dylan had plunged the broken bottle right through Ben’s carotid. The coroner said he’d probably lost consciousness in a matter of seconds. He’d have known that was it, thought Jo, and it brought the sudden threat of tears to her eyes, which she surreptitiously blinked away.

The Daleys, though, were oblivious. ‘The light in here is amazing!’ said the man, gazing up at the glass panes of the orangerie-style extension.

‘And those bi-folds open right onto the garden,’ said the woman. She touched her stomach as she said it, and Jo wondered if she was pregnant, imagining her children gambolling in and out of the kitchen in a scene of domestic bliss. Or maybe they already had kids. A house this size didn’t make sense for a couple.

Jo looked briefly out of the back herself. The branches of the trees at the bottom of the garden were bare, giving a view out towards the fields. Sally Carruthers’ barn, where she and her husband had kept Dylan Jones for three decades, had been levelled, leaving a bare patch of earth. She looked at her watch. An hour until her shift started.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really must be going.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Mrs Daley. ‘I think we might do another circuit.’ She looked to her husband, who nodded happily.

‘Shall I draw up the paperwork now then?’ asked the agent, with a cocky smile. ‘Only kidding … take some time to think about it.’

‘Have you had many other viewings?’ asked the young man.

The briefest pause. ‘A few, yes. But I happen to know the vendors would entertain any offers, even if under the guide price.’

You bet they would, thought Jo. She wondered about the logic of not being completely honest with the potential buyers. These days, even though the survey wouldn’t explicitly say ‘Someone was murdered in the kitchen six months ago’, a perfunctory search of the address online would bring up a host of news stories laying out the gory details. She even considered telling them herself. Imagine if they moved in, then found out …

The estate agent was giving her a wary look as if he could read her discomfort. Offloading The Rookery would probably garner some serious kudos in the sales office. Three per cent well earned.

‘Nice to meet you both,’ she said.

The woman frowned. ‘Sorry, do I know you from somewhere?’ she asked.

Maybe the front pages of the Oxford Times and most of the national press? She’d been variously described as a ‘Hero Detective’, ‘Brave Policewoman’, and in one of the tabloids, ‘The Clown Killer’. Thames Valley Police had insisted on a photo shoot, much to Jo’s dismay. Another attempt to polish her up for public consumption. To ‘control the message’, as the media officer had said repeatedly.

Jo shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’ She bid the Daleys goodbye, and breathed a sigh of relief to be back at the front door. She decided then and there that she’d never visit the house again.

‘You can keep my key,’ she called to the estate agent.

She drove away, taking the longer route to avoid Sally’s bungalow.

She wondered about dropping in to see her mother at the nursing home. It had been only a couple of days since her last visit, and that hadn’t gone brilliantly. Mrs Masters had made accusations that staff had helped themselves to some money she had squirrelled away at the back of a drawer. She had insisted that Jo find the culprit, which left her with the unenviable task of mediating between the staff and her mother. In the end a compromise had been reached. From then on, all of Jo’s mum’s petty cash would be documented, and stored in the home’s safe.

Jo took the bypass out towards Wheatley. The issue with the money was a minor awkwardness, because otherwise, reconnection with her mum had been an unexpected joy. In her lucid moments, they talked about Dad and happier times. Madeleine Masters had no idea of the ordeal her family had undergone that year. It wasn’t even a conscious decision not to tell her, more a tacit understanding that the news would unlikely penetrate the thick fog of dementia anyway. There’d been some worry that Will himself might bring it up – after all, he was only six, and could hardly be expected to maintain the family subterfuge – but so far he hadn’t. Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t keen to relive any of that night. Even with his trauma therapist, he was apparently silent on the subject, preferring to focus discussions on his latest passion: astronauts.

Jo reached the home – Evergreen Lodge – and pulled in along the tree-lined drive. She normally brought flowers or chocolates, but she didn’t think her mum would care. Most the sweets went in a cupboard, to be dished out to staff anyway, and the flowers always wilted in the overheated atmosphere of the residents’ rooms. At the door, she was about to press the buzzer when her phone rang. It was St Aldates station.

‘What’s up?’ she answered.

‘You busy?’ said DI Andy Carrick.

Jo looked through the reinforced glass panel. Mrs Deekins was sitting in her normal spot in the corridor, staring at the opposite wall. She could almost smell the place already. Overcooked food, disinfectant, sadness. Radiators cranked to max.

‘Not especially.’

‘Head over to Oriel College,’ said Carrick.

‘What is it?’ asked Jo.

‘Missing person,’ said Carrick. ‘Signs of a struggle. A student called …’ he paused, and Jo guessed he was checking his notes, ‘Malin Sigurdsson.’

‘You there already?’

‘Division meeting,’ sighed Carrick. ‘Pryce is on his way though.’

‘Course he is,’ said Jo with a smile. ‘I’ll be about fifteen minutes.’

She returned to the car, wondering what awaited at Oriel. Missing people were reported several times a week. Most showed up within forty-eight hours, and unless it was a minor, the police rarely got involved. But indications of violence escalated the case to another level.

She appreciated Carrick giving her the call. Despite being the toast of the town in the summer, she’d sensed the Detective Chief Inspector, Phil Stratton, keeping her at arm’s length for the last few months. There’d been a couple of murders, one a straightforward domestic, the second drug-related, but she’d been sidelined on both cases in favour of Dimitriou and the new kid taking over from the mother-to-be Heidi Tan, Detective Constable Jack Pryce. Sure, they were both competent investigators, but Jo knew she was being treated with kid gloves. Indeed, when she’d asked for a quiet word with Stratton, he’d said as much, though he’d used words like ‘operational sensitivity’ and ‘workplace welfare’. The simple fact was, no one higher up seemed to understand what was going on in Jo’s head. How had she been affected by what had happened? Was she a liability? Perhaps Dr Forster could give an answer in her report. What had she meant that she’d ‘support’ more sessions, anyway – that Jo was still fucked up in the head somehow?

Jo only had herself to blame. She’d rushed back to work a few days after Ben’s funeral, too soon even by her own admission. It was before she’d started seeing Lucas properly, and she’d felt more alone and isolated than ever, drinking too much and missing sleep. She wasn’t really sure what had happened, but Heidi had found her in the toilets at the St Aldates station, mirror smashed and knuckles bleeding. The scary thing was, Jo didn’t really remember actually lashing out. Heidi had done her best to keep it a secret, but the lacerations had bled enough to need proper medical attention, and the mirror came out of the departmental budget. No one bought Jo’s explanation that it was an accident.

She flexed her knuckles now across the steering wheel – there were still a few scars. After that, Jo had agreed to the counselling, and then to medication. She told herself it was just to keep Stratton of her back, but she knew she was scared too. She’d seen plenty of PTSD in her career already – officers attendant on scenes of terror attacks particularly, or disturbing child cases – and it wasn’t a road she wanted to follow.

The problem was that even with Dylan dead, and Sally Carruthers in psychiatric care, the case hadn’t gone away for the Thames Valley Police either. The standards committee had come down hard on Stratton because of the mistakes he’d made in command. Quite rightly, Heidi had said – his eagerness to close the case at any cost had led to poor conclusions. In turn, Jo suspected, he’d decided she was to blame. And she got that, to an extent. She’d been the nexus of the case. Dylan was her childhood acquaintance, the crimes had taken place within a hundred yards of her childhood bedroom. It hadn’t helped either that the internal inquiry reported a day after she received her medal for bravery in the line of duty. Talk about a kick in the teeth for her DCI.

But maybe this misper was a way to put all that to bed. A couple of solid cases would show him and her colleagues that she was the same Jo Masters as before. Prove it to herself as well. Then she could really bury Dylan Jones for good.

Chapter 3

Oriel College was nestled in the cobbled streets between the High Street and Christ Church College. Not Jo’s natural milieu by any means, though she couldn’t help but admire the gothic architecture of the entranceway, and the resplendent, perfectly mown quadrangle of grass inside, still coated on the shaded side with the silvery remains of a lingering frost. A sign read ‘Open to visitors’ – term had ended a week or so before, so the majority of students would have left. The city itself was noticeably quieter, enjoying a brief lull before the panic of Christmas shopping really set in.

PC Andrea Williams was waiting just to one side of the quad. As ever, the constable’s height made Jo give her a second glance. She was at least six-two, possibly the tallest woman Jo had ever met in the flesh, and her dreadlocks gave her the appearance of being a couple of inches taller still. Dimitriou called her Andre the Giant, which only he found funny, and which had earned him a verbal warning when Stratton heard him say it. Dimitriou protested that Heidi had once called him George Michael’s less talented, uglier sibling, on the basis of their shared Greek heritage, and the fact that he had murdered a rendition of ‘Club Tropicana’ on a work karaoke night.

‘And I dare you to say it to Andrea’s face,’ Heidi had added. Jo would have liked to see that, because she knew that Williams had been an accomplished judoka before joining the force, only missing out on the national team through injury. She could probably have tossed Dimitriou’s gangly frame from one side of a holding cell to the other.

‘Morning, Andrea,’ said Jo.

‘Ma’am,’ said Williams. ‘Follow me.’

They proceeded under a sort of covered walkway (Williams had to stoop), into another quad surrounded by nineteenth-century terraces, then down a set of stairs into a more modern section of housing. Jo had somewhat lost her bearings – these colleges had been reconstructed so many times over the centuries, to no obvious plan, that it was easy to get lost. A set of clipped heels fell into step beside them.

‘You’re the other detective?’ said a slightly cadaverous-looking fifty-something woman in a plaid suit, holding out a hand. Jo shook it as she slowed.

‘Jo Masters,’ she said.

‘Belinda Frampton-Keys. I’m the Vice Provost. I do hope you can get to the bottom of this. Malin is such a promising member of the MCR.’

‘The MCR?’

Frampton-Keys looked confused for a moment, as if the abbreviation should be in common currency. ‘Middle Common Room. It’s how we refer to postgraduate students.’

‘Was it you who reported the disappearance?’

‘That’s right. Malin’s fellow student, a girl called Anna Mull, was supposed to meet Malin this morning for a coffee. When she didn’t show up and didn’t answer calls, Anna went to her room. Curtains were still drawn, which wasn’t like Malin, so Anna came to find a member of staff. We knocked several times, then entered using our own key. When we saw what was inside, I called the police.’

Williams led her towards a door behind police tape. Stationed beside it was Oliver Pinker. Squat, ginger-haired and affable, he was often paired with Williams, though the sight of the two together was strangely disconcerting, like a double act about to break into some mysterious dramatic display. He handed her polythene booties and gloves, and she stepped under the tape into a sterile linoleum corridor with several dorm rooms and a fire door at the end. The Vice Provost attempted to follow, but Williams placed a hand on her arm. ‘Best if you stay off the crime scene, ma’am,’ she said.

‘Crime scene?’ said Frampton-Keys. ‘Has that been established?’

Jo smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as possible.’

The second internal door was open, and Pryce emerged, on the phone, wearing gloves too. Almost as tall as Andrea Williams, with doe-like dark eyes and floppy, black hair, he’d turned a few heads when he’d first arrived at St Aldates three months ago. Even Jo, normally immune to such things, hadn’t failed to notice. The most disconcerting thing was the more than passing resemblance he bore to Ben. If you took away all the anger, passion, and the hint of danger from her former boyfriend, Pryce was a fair approximation of what might remain. His background was in computer forensics, and he’d been fast-tracked into investigative work from the private sector without ever serving time on the beat – a new kind of professional rather than vocational police officer. He remained essentially naïve, in an almost endearing way, but he proved himself more than able to pull his weight, arriving early and leaving late but without ever drawing attention to the fact. Indeed, Heidi had had to convince him to accurately record his overtime. His paperwork, as Stratton never ceased to extol, was exemplary. He nodded to Jo as he spoke.

‘… very sorry I can’t give you more specifics over the phone. If you could relay this to Mr Cranleigh as a matter of urgency. They can reach me on this number, or through the Thames Valley switchboard … Pryce. Jack Pryce … Of course … Goodbye.’ He hung up, and flashed his gaze back to Jo. ‘Boss,’ he said, nodding. ‘Just chatting to the father’s office. He’s in a meeting.’

‘We can notify Mr Cranleigh,’ called Frampton-Keys from outside. ‘He’s a close friend.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ said Jo. ‘Let us handle it, please.’

‘Want to look?’ said Pryce, gesturing to the door.

He let her enter first. Once over the threshold, Jo was immediately back at her own student digs in Brighton, twenty years before. The single bed, utility shelves loaded with books, 2-star hotel curtains, office chair, scuff-marks on the walls. The college might have looked glamorous on the postcards, but student rooms were the same everywhere. Malin Sigurdsson had tried to improve it – there were pot-plants, and some rather fetching black-and-white photos of seascapes on the walls. A musical instrument case stood beside a music stand. Jo guessed a flute. But she was confused. ‘Carrick said there were signs of a struggle.’

‘In the bathroom,’ said Pryce.

He moved aside, and Jo realised his body had been obscuring another door. She pushed it open.

Blood. Not a lot, but a patch on the wall above the bath, a smeared handprint across the sink, and a few drops on the floor. Like someone had hit their head, then stumbled around. There were several bottles of expensive cosmetics scattered around the sink, a few had rolled off.

‘Anyone in the other rooms?’

Pryce shook his head. ‘Not according to the Vice Provost. Most students have gone home, even the postgrads. Malin’s the last resident in this dorm block.’

‘Sorry, you said the father was called Cranleigh?’

‘Sigurdsson is the mother’s name.’

‘So they’re separated?

‘Yep. Dad’s in Parliament. MP for Witney. Using the mother’s name could just be a security thing, I suppose.’

Jo’s mind went automatically to kidnap, but she checked herself. Until a ransom demand came through, there was no point in jumping to conclusions.

‘Been in touch with the hospitals?’

‘Nothing yet,’ said Pryce. ‘Her description is circulating.’

‘Vehicle?’

‘She doesn’t even hold a licence.’

They backed out again into the bedroom. Jo went to look at the photos above the desk. There were several of mixed-sex groups in various happy poses. But one picture in particular caught Jo’s eye – a striking teenage girl with her arms around the neck of what must have been her mother – the resemblance was undeniable. They both had perfect high cheekbones, piercing green intelligent eyes with more than a hint of defiance, almost imperceptible cleft in the tip of the nose. The older woman’s hair hung straight and tended to silver, though she still wore it long. The younger’s was a natural blonde. If the Scandinavian surname didn’t give their heritage away, the looks would. Perhaps the photographer was particularly talented, but to Jo the pair looked almost otherworldly – their beauty made her think of a race of elves. Jo’s eyes passed back over the other pictures, and there was the same girl in most of them nestled among her friends. In some she looked slightly less ethereal, but in all she was quite stunning. One showed an orchestra, including Malin with a clarinet.

‘That’s our girl then,’ said Jo. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘That she is,’ said Pryce, his pale cheeks reddening as if he’d said something inappropriate.

Jo pretended not to notice. ‘Have you called forensics?’

‘Didn’t want to until you got here, ma’am – strictly it’s the lead investigator’s role to designate and delegate resources.’

Always by the book, thought Jo. Dimitriou said he once saw Pryce raise his hand to go to the toilet, but she was sure it was a joke. Fact was, since Pryce had joined them, he had proved himself diligent and thorough – almost exactly the opposite of George Dimitriou.

‘Well, let’s designate,’ said Jo. ‘Initial thoughts?’

Pryce drew himself up and threw a glance around the room.

‘I’d say it’s someone known to Malin,’ he said. ‘There’s no sign of a forced entry – door’s self-locking on a spring mechanism, with a spy-hole. Implies she let him in. Maybe they argued in the bathroom, it got physical, and Malin got hurt. He panicked and removed her body.’

‘You think she’s dead?’

‘Don’t you? There’s no shower curtain.’

Jo felt her own cheeks flush. She was surprised she’d missed that. It explained why there was no more blood outside the bathroom. Still, the way Pryce had said it, almost matter-of-factly, gave her pause. It was a feature of his personality she’d noticed before – the distance he could keep from things, almost a protective shell. In the brief few months they’d worked together, she’d never seen him lose his temper once. Given the sort of people they had to deal with, that showed some restraint.

‘It’s a good theory,’ she admitted. ‘Let’s get forensics in then.’

‘They’re over in Didcot for the next few hours.’

‘Course they are.’ Since the pooling of resources in the name of cost savings, getting a forensics team in place in a timely manner was increasingly challenging. ‘I’ll draw up a brief back at the station.’

It would all take time to process anyway, and quite possibly be useless. If Frampton-Keys had entered, with goodness knew who else, the integrity of the scene was already compromised. Still, Jo sensed, she needed to do this one by every letter of the book if she was going to keep Stratton happy.

‘And see if we can find out Malin’s recent movements,’ she added, opening the wardrobe. Inside were clothes, neatly sorted, a few nice dresses in dry-cleaning bags and a good collection of shoes. She tipped one over. Designer. Clearly Malin wasn’t short of a few quid.

She went to the desk beside the bed and pulled open the top drawer, finding a box of condoms. She turned to Pryce.

‘Anything on a boyfriend?’

‘Vice Provost said she didn’t know of one,’ said Pryce.

The drawer below had stationery, a lighter, fag papers. A roll of extra-thick foil looked distinctly out of place. She took the drawer out, then the other two, crouching down. There was a plastic bag taped to the underside of the desktop. She detached it, opened it up and sniffed the dark putty-like substance inside. Just weed. She placed the bag on the desk. ‘We should probably try and find her dealer. Small college like this, it shouldn’t be too hard to squeeze it out of someone.’

Though with the holidays, finding someone to squeeze might be tricky.

‘No sign of her phone,’ said Pryce, ‘but we’ve got a computer.’ He tapped the laptop case from the desk with a gloved hand. ‘I can take a look once it’s logged as potential evidence.’

‘See if we can find her phone number too, and talk to Stratton about accessing the phone records. The blood should be plenty enough to convince him.’

Pryce’s own phone began to ring, and he looked at the screen. ‘It’s Cranleigh’s office. You want to take it?’

‘Thanks.’ He handed her the phone. ‘Detective Sergeant Jo Masters.’

‘Something about my daughter?’ The voice was brusque, a little impatient.

‘Mr Cranleigh?’

‘That’s right. Look, if she’s done something silly …’

‘Do you know your daughter’s whereabouts?’

A pause. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Sir, Malin is missing. My colleague and I are at her college now.’

‘Well, where’s she gone?’ He seemed almost belligerent, and Jo, despite herself, was already forming a mental image of him. Tall, balding, fleshy around the face and neck, no longer the man who’d first drawn Malin’s stunning mother.

‘Mr Cranleigh, I’m afraid there are indications Malin might have been hurt.’

‘Okay, I’m coming over. Is Bel there?’

It took Jo a moment to register that he was talking about the Vice Provost.

‘We can come to you, if it’s easier. We’ll need to ask some questions.’

‘Right, fine. Call my secretary – she knows the diary.’ Another pause. ‘No one’s blabbed to the press, have they?’

Jo bit her tongue. ‘No one from my team,’ she said.

‘Let’s keep it that way, eh?’

‘Of course,’ said Jo.

Cranleigh hung up.

‘That was brief,’ said Pryce.

‘He didn’t seem all that surprised,’ said Jo. ‘Has Malin been in trouble before?’

‘Not that I know of. I can get Detective Tan to have a look for priors?’

‘Good.’

Jo looked around the room again, trying to make sense of the contradictions. The Oxford beauty, the weed, the blood, the musical talent. The sooner they really got to know Malin Sigurdsson, the sooner the circumstances of her disappearance would become clearer.

‘Let’s go and speak with the friend,’ she said. On the way out of the room, she told Pinker to keep everything clean until forensics arrived. She walked to the end of the corridor, to the fire door. Pushing the bar at the ends only, so as not to smudge possible prints, she opened it onto a narrow street. On the far side was the tall wall of another college. Not overlooked. She retreated inside and the door closed on its sprung hinges. ‘Maybe get this door processed for prints too. If she was carried out, this seems the obvious route.’

‘But he didn’t come in that way,’ said Pryce. ‘No handle on the street side.’

Well spotted, again. Frampton-Keys was on her phone a few metres from where they’d left her, saying, ‘Don’t worry, Nick. I’m sure the police will do their best … No, of course not. Of course.’ She saw Jo approaching. ‘I’ve got to go.’

She put the phone away. ‘Mr Cranleigh’s very worried,’ she said.

Bel and Nick. Very cosy.

‘He’s a politician, I heard,’ said Jo. ‘Why was he calling you?’

‘We’re good friends,’ said the Vice Provost. ‘Nicholas was an alumnus of this very college.’

‘Is that why Malin is a student here?’ asked Pryce.

Frampton-Keys flinched. ‘She’s here on her own merit.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t suggesting nepotism,’ said Pryce. ‘I was just wondering if it was a family tradition of some sort.’

The Vice Provost pursed her lips, obviously still offended by the unintended slight. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Any idea why she doesn’t use his surname?’

‘Oh, Malin isn’t Mr Cranleigh’s biological daughter,’ said Frampton-Keys.

‘So who’s her real father?’ asked Jo. She foresaw a headache already. They really shouldn’t have been involving anyone but close family about the disappearance.

Frampton-Keys looked bemused. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t feel it’s my place to talk about other people’s private affairs. Her mother lives in Sweden, I believe.’

‘Can we follow up on that, Jack?’ Jo said. She faced the Vice Provost again.

‘We’d like to talk with the friend who came to see her, if that’s all right?’

‘Anna Mull?’ said Frampton-Keys. ‘She’s in the buttery.’

‘Which is what? And where?’ asked Jo. She was trying her best not to dislike the Vice Provost, but every sentence the senior academic uttered seemed designed to confound her and present the clear subtext: This is not your place.

‘This way,’ said Frampton-Keys.

They walked back towards the main quad. As they did, Jo asked, ‘Apart from the fire exit in the corridor, what are the other ways out of the college?’

‘There’s a door out onto Oriel Street,’ said Frampton-Keys. ‘You need a security card to access it – all the students at the college have one.’

‘And staff?’

The Vice Provost nodded. ‘Yes, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

‘Not getting at anything,’ said Jo. ‘But if someone took Malin from her room, they had to get into the college and out again. Are there cameras on the security door?’

‘I’m afraid not. We have a surveillance system at the front of the college, covering the porters’ lodge, but that’s it. Sorry, you think she’s been kidnapped?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

They took a passage past an open door leading into kitchens. A young man wearing whites, with heavily tattooed forearms was unloading pallets of bread and nodded a greeting as they passed, and there were catering staff at work inside.

‘I thought the students had gone home,’ said Pryce.

‘We’ve got a three-day conference coming in later,’ said Frampton-Keys. ‘Ornithologists. We can’t afford to let the college go empty out of term.’

She turned a sharp right angle, then pushed open a heavy, metal-studded door into a cosy wooden-clad room of benches and tables, with a small hatch counter. A young woman with a short, dark pixie-cut and delicate features to match was sitting next to an empty mug and several screwed-up tissues, hands toying with her phone. She stood up sharply. She was wearing jeans, a thick sweater, and what looked like trail shoes. Sensible, in the current weather.

‘Have you found her?’ she asked meekly.

‘Not yet,’ said the Vice Provost. ‘Anna, these visitors are police officers. They need to talk to you.’

Anna looked scared. Her already large, almond-shaped eyes opened wider, and she gave a single nod.

Jo introduced herself and Pryce, then sat down opposite the student. Frampton-Keys was still standing off to one side.

‘Perhaps we could have some privacy?’ asked Jo.

The Vice Provost frowned. ‘I really should be here,’ she said. ‘It’s a student welfare issue.’

Jo smiled tightly. ‘It’s an active police investigation. Anna’s an adult, and we’re only asking a few questions.’

Frampton-Keys’ mouth twitched. ‘Very well. Is that all right with you, Anna? You don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to.’

Jo was close to losing her temper, but Anna said, ‘Yes,’ quietly, and the Vice Provost turned on her heels and left.

‘Thanks for your time, Anna,’ she said. ‘How long have you known Malin?’

Anna looked up. ‘Over three years. We matriculated together, chose to do our MPhil’s here too. We’re the only two doing a History Master’s at Oriel.’

Jo’s ears pricked up. She studied History as an undergrad at Sussex, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

‘So you’re close?’ asked Pryce.

‘I’m probably her best friend,’ said Anna. She didn’t elaborate, so Jo decided to get straight to the point.

‘It looks like she might have had a fight with someone in her room. Have you any idea who that might be?’

Anna didn’t answer straight away. ‘No.’

‘No enemies?’

Anna smiled. ‘Everyone loved Malin.’

‘What about a boyfriend?’

‘Nothing serious.’

‘But she had relationships?’

‘Yes.’

‘And recently?’

Anna shot a look towards the door, as if she thought someone was on the other side. ‘Ross,’ she said. ‘Ross Catskill.’

‘Is he a student at the college?’

Anna laughed, a low chuckle. ‘I doubt Ross even has any GCSEs. Sorry, that sounds awful, doesn’t it? He runs an events company in Oxford – Calibre.’

‘So Malin was seeing Catskill,’ said Pryce. ‘What was the relationship like?’

‘Just an on-off thing,’ said Anna. ‘I don’t know what she saw in him. I mean, I guess he’s sort of good-looking, but that’s about it.’

‘You don’t like him much, then?’ said Pryce. ‘Do you think he might have hurt Malin?’ Anna stared down at her hands, and a few seconds of silence followed.

‘Anna?’ said Pryce. ‘Did you hear the question?’

Anna looked up, at him, directly. ‘You know when you just get a bad feeling about someone?’

Pryce nodded. ‘All the time.’ He turned to Jo. ‘Sounds like we should pay Mr Catskill a visit. Anna, when did you last have contact with Malin?’

‘Last night,’ said Anna. ‘We went for a drink. I left her about 9.50 pm.’

‘That’s very accurate,’ said Pryce.

‘I wanted to watch the ten o’clock news back in my room,’ said Anna.

‘Just the two of you met up?’ asked Jo.

Anna nodded. ‘The King’s Arms. We’d been in the Bodleian Library all day working. We had a meal at the pub too.’

‘Can you remember the top story on the news?’ asked Jo’s colleague.

He asked it in an innocent enough tone, but Anna clearly caught the shift of emphasis in the conversation, and Jo saw something flintier in her gaze as she addressed Pryce.

‘The thing with the royal press secretary leak,’ she said. ‘Then interest rates. I’m afraid I can’t remember much else. I was tired.’

‘And nothing from Malin after 9.50?’ said Jo.

‘No. I went to sleep.’

‘And where’s your room?’

‘I live out now. Shared house on Longwall Street.’

‘But not with your best friend?’ asked Pryce.

Anna blushed. ‘Her mum wanted her in the college, actually. Funnily enough, she thought it was safer.’

Jo felt sorry for the girl. She seemed completely out of her depth. But there was still a difficult subject to broach. ‘Anna, do you know if Malin had a drug problem?’

Anna looked down at her hands. ‘I never saw her take anything.’

‘But you know she did, right? It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.’

‘I know she used to. She went to hospital once, in our second year.’

‘Something she took?’

‘I think so.’

‘And what did the college do about it?’

Anna actually smiled. ‘Nothing. I think Malin’s step-dad might have handled it.’

Maybe I dismissed the nepotism a bit too quickly.

Jo relaxed in her chair, then fished out her card and slid it across the table. ‘My number’s on there if you think of anything else. Are you staying around in Oxford?’

‘For another day,’ said Anna. ‘Then I’m going home for Christmas to my family.’ She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. ‘What do you think happened to her?’

‘Too early to say,’ said Jo, standing up. Pryce did the same. ‘But we’ll get working on it. You’ve been very helpful, Anna.’

Malin’s friend remained seated. ‘She’s a good person, you know.’

Jo wondered what that was supposed to mean.

‘We have no doubt about it,’ said Pryce. ‘And we’ll find her. I promise.’

Jo wished he hadn’t said it. Though he hadn’t specified ‘dead’ or ‘alive’, Jo was pretty sure Anna’s take-away would be the latter. Maybe Pryce was regretting going a bit hard on her. Most missing person cases did get solved, because most of the time the missing didn’t want to stay that way. But this already felt a little different. The bloody handprint in the almost empty college. The almost archetypical angelic face concealing what was looking like a complicated life beneath. They likely would find Malin Sigurdsson, but Jo already had a creeping feeling this wouldn’t be a happy ending.

Chapter 4

They decided to pay Ross Catskill a surprise visit. Calibre Events was over in the new Castle Street development, just across the city centre.

Jo called Carrick on the way. He didn’t answer, so she left a message telling him where they were going. As she was doing so, Pryce’s phone rang, and from what she could gather it was Stratton on the other end. She waited until he came off.

‘Cranleigh’s been onto the gaffer already,’ said Pryce. ‘Wanted an update.’

‘I only spoke to him an hour ago, and he was too busy to have a conversation.’ Even without meeting the MP for Witney, Jo was already forming a positive dislike for the man.

A young woman in business attire walked past and smiled warmly at Pryce.

‘Friend of yours?’ asked Jo after a few seconds.

‘Who?’ he said.

Jo nodded at the woman, who was walking away.

‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘Why?’

Jo grinned. For someone who specialised in digital forensics, going over evidence with a fine-tooth comb, Jo had noticed he often missed some of the more basic social cues. She wondered if he was somewhere on the spectrum. His desk at work was scrupulously neat and spotlessly clean, unlike her own, which was strewn with mugs and Post-it notes. Heidi called him ‘the professor’.

‘So what are your first impressions of Anna?’ Jo asked him. ‘She telling the truth?’

Pryce shrugged. ‘Not all of it,’ he said. ‘She seemed nervous, but that’s only natural. Plus, her friend’s missing.’

‘You think they’re as close as she says? Hardly known each other long.’

Pryce shrugged. ‘Three years? In a college like this, it’s a long time I think.’

The Castle Street Hub, as it was called, was just a collection of the standard chain restaurants around a courtyard, with some business premises above, approached by metal steps. Calibre Events had a glass door and intercom to reception.

‘Calibre Events. How can I help you?’ said a female voice.

‘We’re looking for Ross Catskill,’ said Jo. ‘It’s the police.’

‘Mr Catskill is away on a premises visit at the moment,’ came the reply.

‘Whereabouts?’ asked Jo.

‘I’m afraid I can’t give out that information.’

‘What’s your name please?’ asked Jo.

‘Selina,’ said the receptionist.

Jo took out her warrant card, and held it to the camera. ‘We’re investigating a possible crime, Selina,’ she said. ‘Maybe you could let us in.’

A couple of seconds passed, then the buzzer went and Jo opened the door. They went up a set of backless stairs and into a small atrium where the receptionist sat behind a desk. Jo saw a small boardroom and another door with a WC sign, but that was it. The receptionist smiled, tapping at her keyboard. ‘Mr Catskill will be busy until six-thirty,’ she said. ‘You could wait if you like. He might not come back at all though.’

Jo checked her watch. An hour.

‘Is that his diary on screen?’ asked Jo, leaning over the desk. ‘You could help us actually. Where was Mr Catskill over the last, say, twenty-four hours?’

Selina shifted the monitor’s angle. ‘Is he in trouble?’

Jo wondered about her next move. Really, Selina was under no obligation to share anything.

‘Quite possibly,’ she said. ‘More so if he doesn’t help us in a timely manner.’

‘Okay.’ said the receptionist. ‘Let me call Ross.’

She reached for the phone, but Jo leant across and got there first. ‘Just tell us where he is,’ she said. ‘Pretty please.’

* * *

Jukebox was a nightclub above a supermarket on the edge of the shopping centre. Most people knew it by its nickname, Dirtbox, and Jo remembered it from her own time growing up. Sticky, worn carpets, plastic cups, themed nights that ranged from the cheesiest seventies pop to drum and bass. The sort of place that was dead at ten pm, by midnight was a meat-market of desperate youngsters, and by two boasted toilets like a warzone, awash with various forms of effluence. Though it ran student nights during term, it was more of a ‘town’ than ‘gown’ place – and provided a reliable stream of weekend calls to the emergency services related to post kicking-out time drunken altercations.

At six pm on a Wednesday, the scuffed double security door was closed. There was a letterbox, no signage, and no doorbell or other means of communication, so Jo closed her fist and pounded three times. A couple of shoppers heading back to their cars with full trolleys looked over curiously.

They’d told Selina not to call Catskill, but Jo hardly expected her to listen. If he’d gone already just to avoid them, that might make everything look a little clearer. Jo lifted her hand to bang again, when she heard footsteps from the other side of the door, then a bar mechanism being drawn.

It opened to reveal a man in a pale grey suit, and open-necked white shirt, brogues on his feet. His hair was moulded into tight waves that came just to his collar, and his skin carried the bronze tones of a natural tan. He was clean-shaven and his startling blue eyes latched onto Jo’s.

‘You must be Detectives Masters and Pryce,’ he said. ‘I was in a meeting, but my secretary told me to expect you. Want to come up?’

‘Thank you,’ said Jo. First impressions were that he was cool, affable, and confident. Too suave, maybe? He wore a lightly spiced scent that shouted quality. Jo and Pryce followed him up the stairs and into the empty nightclub. It had undergone some major changes since Jo’s day, which was hardly surprising, and the layout was completely different to how she remembered. There were two bars and banquette seating. The dance floor remained in the same location, but looked less sticky. Maybe it was because it was illuminated by bright lights – it seemed a lot classier than she’d expected. There was another man behind the bar, holding an iPad and drinking a can of energy drink.

‘Can I get you something?’ asked Catskill. ‘Tea? Coffee?’ He waved at the optics. ‘Something stronger?’

Jo shook her head. ‘We need to talk to you about Malin Sigurdsson.’

He looked nonplussed. ‘Mally? Sure. She’s okay, right?’

‘Probably not,’ said Jo. She watched his face for any signs of guilt.

Catskill looked at the other man. ‘Jav, we’re pretty much done. I’ll lock up if you want to go. Just forward the stocklist to my office.’

The man nodded, closed the case of the tablet, and left.

‘This place yours, is it?’ asked Pryce.

Ross sat down opposite them. ‘I have a stake,’ he said. ‘Been supplying it for a few years, and the chance came up to buy out one of the previous owners. It’s a bit of a dump, but it’s kind of a cultural icon in Oxford. Has something happened to Malin?’

‘We’re not sure,’ said Jo. ‘When did you last see her?’

Catskill ran a hand through his locks. ‘Wait, do I need a lawyer?’ He was grinning as he said it.

‘I don’t know,’ said Jo. ‘Do you?’

Catskill steepled his hands, elbows on knees, all seriousness. ‘I haven’t seen her for at least a week.’

‘Can you be more exact?’ said Pryce, making notes in his copybook.

‘Let me think.’ Catskill lifted his hands, fingertips on forehead almost like he was praying. ‘It would have been a couple of Fridays back. She came along to the opening night of a new cocktail place near the station. It’s called Quench.’

‘Anything since then?’ said Jo. ‘What about phone calls? Texts?’

Catskill shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘But you’re her boyfriend?’ asked Pryce.

Catskill smiled, a little coyly. ‘I wouldn’t say that. Malin’s a sweet girl, but we’re not that close.’

‘Your relationship is sexual, though?’ said Jo.

Catskill nodded. ‘Er … it has been.’

‘How old are you?’ asked Jo.

Catskill crossed his legs and leant back. ‘Is that relevant?’

Jo didn’t reply. Let him sweat.

‘I’m forty-two,’ he said at last. ‘How old are you, Detective?’

Jo would have guessed mid-thirties. ‘Quite an age-gap. Must’ve been gratifying to have a young woman like Malin on your arm.’

Catskill looked unimpressed. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s happened?’

‘Soon,’ said Jo. ‘Can you remember where you were last night, between say, ten pm and this morning?’

‘I was in the office until about ten-thirty last night, then I drove home.’

‘Which is where?’ asked Pryce.

‘Goring,’ said Catskill.

Jo was familiar with it. A small village by the Thames, and a good forty minutes away. Stockbroker country. Well-to-do families.

‘Strange place for a bachelor to live,’ said Jo.

Catskill’s right hand moved towards his left, as if fiddling with an imaginary ring. The top of his chest, in the V of his open shirt, flushed.

‘You’re not a bachelor?’ said Jo.

‘Sorry,’ said Catskill. ‘I think I’ve told you everything I can.’

He stood, but Jo remained seated. She was quite enjoying watching him squirm. ‘So is there anyone who can confirm what time you got home last night?’

‘My wife,’ said Catskill quietly. ‘No, wait – she was asleep. Maybe one of the neighbours would have seen me pull in?’ He looked faintly desperate. ‘Really, I don’t want her to be involved in all this. She’ll only worry. And the kids …’

‘I think you need to be straight with us,’ said Jo. ‘Let’s start with when you first met Malin …’

* * *

It had been two years ago, or thereabouts. Malin was looking for a job, which he’d found odd because he could tell from her clothing that she was well-off. He’d hooked her up working as a waitress at one of the college balls that year. Reports came back that she was a good worker, and soon she was a regular at more select bashes. She had a natural grace that let her fit into any sort of social milieu. When he found out later who her parents were, that made sense; step-dad a privately-educated English financier-then-MP, mum a Swedish socialite. She was beautiful, incredibly so, and he never thought she’d be interested in someone like him when she could have had any man she wanted. They first chatted properly after a party at Blenheim Palace. Some sheikh’s kid or other had hired out the grounds, so Catskill was there to ensure things went off without a hitch. Everyone was stressed, so they’d had a drink afterwards to celebrate and one thing led to another. He assumed she’d see it as a mistake, but in the coming weeks they’d met several times. Always in hotels outside the city centre, occasionally at premises he knew would be empty and where they could get together under the pretext of work. He didn’t tell her about his wife, because he assumed it would just fizzle out. But she was paranoid too, about her step-dad, mainly.

‘Why was that?’ asked Jo.

‘His line of work. He was happy not to be involved in her life much, as long as there was no scandal. She used to think he was spying on her.’

Jo recalled Cranleigh’s anxiety about the press. ‘Do you think he was?’

‘I never saw anyone, but like I said, we didn’t see that much of each other.’

Catskill was flattered, he told them. Malin was a student at the university with her whole life ahead of her. A girl who could have done pretty much anything she put her mind to. But eventually, he was the one who had called it off, about a month ago – he felt she was getting too attached.

‘How did she take that?’ Jo asked.

‘Not great,’ Catskill admitted. ‘She said it didn’t have to be serious. But I could see it was. She said she … she threatened to hurt herself.’

Jo thought about the blood in the room. Self-harm? Anna hadn’t mentioned anything like that, but perhaps she had wanted to protect her friend’s privacy.

‘But you haven’t had contact for twelve days?’ asked Pryce.

Catskill shook his head. ‘She’d been calling me at all hours,’ he said. ‘Begging to meet. You can check my phone records if you want. I told her to stay away. To be honest, I was scared she’d get to Emily – that’s my wife. She could be determined, could Mally. Stubborn. She showed up at Quench and made a bit of a scene. I had to throw her out.’

‘Sounds like you used her,’ said Jo. ‘She was a vulnerable girl half your age.’

Catskill looked angry, but it passed quickly. ‘It might look like that, but it really wasn’t. Malin’s a clever girl. She looks like butter wouldn’t melt, but that’s part of her power.’

‘She’s missing,’ said Jo. ‘We think someone might have taken her against her will. Did she have any enemies that you know of?’

‘When you’re that beautiful, I think most women hate you, deep down,’ said Catskill. ‘But maybe she’s just run away? She wasn’t really very happy, I don’t think.’

Jo thought of the pills she herself had stopped taking. Lots of people weren’t happy.

‘I’d like you to come to the station,’ she said.

For the first time, Catskill looked alarmed. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘No,’ said Jo. ‘But we’ll need an official statement, and it would be helpful if we could confirm your alibi and cross-reference those phone records you mentioned.’

‘I’m very busy,’ he said. ‘How long will all this take?’

Jo sensed they had him on the back foot already. Just a little push needed. ‘Not long. If you’re honest with us. We might not even have to involve your wife.’

Catskill seemed to realise he was hardly in a position to negotiate. ‘Let me get my coat.’

* * *

The temperature in town seemed to have dropped another degree as they arrived back at the station. A biting wind whipped up St Aldates and everyone passing by had their heads down, extremities covered. Jo, chin tucked into her thick scarf, just wanted to get inside.

As they entered through the main doors, she could still see her breath. The front desk clerk was wearing gloves and a hat.

‘It’s bloody freezing in here,’ she said.

‘Boiler’s gone,’ said the clerk. ‘They’re saying it could be a couple of days waiting for parts this time of year.’

They booked Catskill in, then took him through to CID, where the air was just as chilly. A man in overalls stood by the door to the rec room, sipping from Dimitriou’s Spurs mug, and inside another man on a small stepladder had the front off the boiler, and was tinkering with a screwdriver.

Pryce escorted Catskill to an interview room to get an official statement of what he’d told them at the club.

In his office, Stratton was talking animatedly to Detective Inspector Andy Carrick, who caught Jo’s eye and waved. Stratton saw her too, then adjusted the blinds to make the glass partition of his office opaque. Charming. Heidi Tan emerged from the stairs, waddling slowly and holding her back. She was in a maternity top, a sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cold.

‘Dimitriou called. He’ll be another twenty. Got a puncture on the way in.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Like a whale,’ said Heidi. She eased herself into her desk chair.

‘Only a week to go,’ said Jo. ‘Then you can swim away.’ She sat opposite. ‘We’ll miss you.’

‘Stop it,’ said Heidi. ‘You’ve got the professor now. I know Stratton prefers him.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Jo, though it was quite true. The Chief Inspector had made no secret of his admiration for Jack Pryce when they were looking for maternity cover. His application was apparently ‘exceptional’ and the team ‘should be grateful to have him’. From what Jo had learned later, Stratton had a point. Pryce’s aptitude scores were off the charts, and he had a proven track record in financial crime. Only Dimitriou failed to be impressed, muttering on several occasions variations of the same criticism, ‘but what’s he going to be like on the street?’ The answer so far was, rather good.

‘You don’t have to lie for my benefit,’ said Heidi. ‘Did Stratton ever invite me to play golf?’

Jo laughed. ‘Count your blessings.’

‘Forensics are on their way to Oriel College now by the way. They had to finish up a scene over in Didcot. You got any paperclips?’

Jo fished in her drawer, pushing aside the gallantry medal, and tossed a box over. She sat down at the computer to put together a brief for the crime scene investigators, including prints from the desk, all of the bathroom, blood samples, hair and anything else from the bed. Catskill said they’d met in hotels, so if they found any traces of him in the room, that could be a break. So far though, Jo’s instincts were cold on the director of Calibre Events.

‘Would you mind contacting Belinda Frampton-Keys, the Vice Provost? We could do with a list of anyone who might have had access to the room.’

She heard the door to Stratton’s office open, but kept her focus on the screen. ‘Who’ve you got in the IR?’ he asked.

She was typing her message to forensics as she spoke. ‘It’s the ex-boyfriend,’ she said. ‘Jack’s checking out his story, but first impressions are that he’s clean. The way he tells it, Malin was quite unstable.’

‘Really?’ Stratton sounded incredulous.

‘Vulnerable, anyway. We’ve got her computer, and forensics are going in shortly to scrape up what they can. I think there may have been drugs involved.’

Stratton looked nervous. ‘What sort of drugs?’

‘We found weed, but heroin is my guess too.’ She told him about the foil.

‘Could’ve been to wrap her sandwiches.’

‘I think students make their own sandwiches these days, sir,’ said Heidi, with a barely concealed smile.

Stratton still seemed uncomfortable, scratching his eyebrow. ‘It’s very early still. Let’s keep the drug stuff on the backburner for the moment.’

‘It’s the most obvious line of enquiry,’ said Jo.

Stratton reddened. ‘So, enquire,’ he replied. ‘Just don’t put all our eggs in that basket.’

The phone in his office rang, and he went to get it.

‘What’s he so worried about?’ asked Heidi.

A few moments later, the front desk clerk buzzed a man into the CID room. Stratton trotted forward to greet him.

‘Nick!’ he said. ‘How are you holding up?’

Jo recognised MP Nicholas Cranleigh, but only vaguely – perhaps from pictures in the paper or something on TV. He wore a long black work coat over a suit. He was not quite as she’d envisaged, with his square, pugnacious face and neatly parted grey hair. She’d have guessed he was ex-military, rather than a banker.

‘Not too bad, Phil,’ he replied, his voice soft, almost unctuous. ‘Have we got anything?’

Jo watched the two men shaking hands, gripping each other’s elbows with a mixture of fondness and understanding. Old mates …

‘We’re making progress,’ said Stratton. ‘Forensics are over at the college, we’re putting together a timeline of Malin’s movements, and drawing up a network of associates. It won’t be long. We’ve contacted Malin’s mother.’

Cranleigh grimaced. ‘I suppose that’s sensible.’ He released Stratton’s arm and hand. ‘So do you think she’s all right?’

Stratton looked a little flummoxed, so Jo stepped in.

‘Excuse me, Mr Cranleigh. I’m Detective Masters, and I’m the lead investigator. We hope so, sir. Maybe it’s best to go somewhere private to discuss this?’

Cranleigh’s eyes narrowed in recognition. ‘Jill Masters, isn’t it? From that awful case in the summer.’

‘Jo,’ she corrected him. ‘I assume you’re talking about the Niall McDonagh kidnap. Yes, it was unpleasant, but happily we got a result.’

‘Stunning work by Jo here,’ said Stratton, like a proud father. Even though you didn’t believe me any step of the way …

‘Team effort,’ said Jo, acknowledging with a nod.

‘You don’t think that Malin’s been kidnapped, do you?’ asked Cranleigh.

‘It’s a possibility,’ said Jo. ‘Is there anyone who might hold a grudge against you?’

‘Plenty,’ said Cranleigh, with a wolfish smile. ‘I’m a politician.’ Jo couldn’t believe he was able to joke at such a time, and maintained a serious expression. He caught on, and added, ‘Honestly, no.’

‘You weren’t having Malin watched, then?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘In a private security capacity, I mean.’

Cranleigh shook his head with a bemused grin. ‘Should I have been? I think you overestimate my means.’ He turned to Stratton. ‘Sorry, Phil, what’s your detective getting at?’

‘I’m not sure at all,’ said Stratton, glaring. ‘But we’ve got everyone working flat out.’

As soon as he’d said it, a voice came from the hallway. ‘It is fucking freezing. Put the heating on before my balls vanish completely.’

Stratton stiffened.

DC George Dimitriou came striding into the CID room, legs clad in Lycra, top half in a windbreaker, plus gloves and a buff. He was carrying his cycle helmet in one hand, a small rucksack in the other. His sweaty face was specked with dirt. Everyone was silent, and Jo tried to catch his eye.

‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘Colder than a morgue in here.’

Stratton grinned, teeth bared. ‘Detective, this is Nicholas Cranleigh. The Right Honourable Nicholas Cranleigh. His daughter is missing.’

Dimitriou placed his helmet carefully on his desk, and wiped a streak of mud from his cheek. Sadly the ground didn’t swallow him up. ‘Ah, right. Nice to meet you, sir.’ Jo almost expected him to bow, but he settled for straightening his shoulders.

Stratton, looking furious still, put a hand on Cranleigh’s shoulder. ‘Would you like to come into my office, Nick?’ he said. ‘Drink?’

‘A coffee would be appreciated, if you’ve nothing stronger?’

Stratton looked from face to face in the CID room. ‘Jo, make Mr Cranleigh a coffee would you?’

So I’m the tea girl now?

‘Two sugars, please,’ said Cranleigh. Jo nodded as the two men went into the office and closed the door.

‘Fuck,’ said Dimitriou under his breath. ‘No one warned me.’

‘I tried,’ said Jo.

‘I hope you weren’t after a hot shower,’ said Heidi. ‘Boiler’s kaput.’

Dimitriou groaned.

Jo fired off her email to forensics, then went to make the coffee. She stopped on the way at the interview room, knocked on the window panel and beckoned to Pryce.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked, as he came to the door.

‘Almost done. Catskill says he’s got email records to show he was logged on in Goring at eleven-fifteen last night, so I can check that easily enough.’

‘There’s still a window,’ said Jo. ‘Think he’ll give us prints and a DNA sample voluntarily?’

‘He’s just very worried we’ll talk to his wife,’ said Pryce. ‘So shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Malin’s father is here,’ said Jo. ‘Probably best they don’t cross paths.’

‘Got it. Any news on forensics?’

‘On their way. I’ll go back to coordinate.’

‘You need help?’

‘I don’t think so. I’ll try and have another chat with the Vice Provost too.’

As he went back inside, Jo saw Ross Catskill sitting upright in the chair. ‘Almost done now,’ she said. ‘You can leave soon.’

He smiled wanly.

Making the drinks, Jo pondered Cranleigh’s reaction. He seemed worried, of course, but almost weary too. They’d have told him about the blood, surely. She tried to put herself in his shoes. If this were her daughter, her step-daughter even …

She placed the cups on the tray. She realised she was thinking like Ben, who always worked on the assumption that everyone was guilty until they could damn well prove themselves innocent to him. There was really no reason to think Cranleigh had anything to do with it, though she made a mental note to check his movements.

As she returned carrying the tray, Carrick was in the office too. She knocked at the door, and entered. She could tell at once that the room was frosty, and it wasn’t just because the radiators weren’t functioning. Carrick looked particularly sheepish, but carried on speaking:

‘Seems she was still using a Swedish-registered phone. It’s probably not going to be a problem, but a warrant takes longer to process.’

‘Bloody EU red tape,’ muttered Cranleigh.

‘Thanks, Jo,’ said Stratton, as she laid down the tray.

‘I’ve been thinking, sir,’ said Jo. ‘Perhaps we should organise an appeal. Press conference. Get Malin’s photo out there. She’s very recognisable.’

‘I’d rather not, actually,’ said Cranleigh.

‘Oh,’ said Jo, placing a cup in front of him.

Cranleigh looked to Stratton. ‘An appeal though – it’s very … public.’

‘That’s rather the point,’ said Jo. ‘You’re aware it’s likely that Malin’s injured? She might need medical attention.’

Cranleigh glanced at her briefly, eyes livid. ‘I’m fully aware,’ he said, ‘that I didn’t ask for your opinion. Whatever trouble my daughter has got herself into, I’d rather not have it splashed across the news. Can’t we handle this discreetly, Phil?’

There it was again – the chumminess. Jo was sorely tempted to mention the drugs, but somehow kept the words in.

Stratton held up his hands to placate the situation. ‘I’m sure we can, yes. Jo, would you excuse us a moment, please?’

She stood her ground, feeling like an idiot waitress. She’d never been great at holding her tongue, so it took an almighty effort of will not to club her boss over the head with the tray. ‘Of course, sir. If you need me, I’ll be back at the college coordinating the forensics team and speaking with the Vice Provost.’

As she turned, Cranleigh coughed.

‘Actually, Detective,’ said Stratton. ‘I’m going to ask Andy Carrick to be the lead on this.’ Jo turned slowly, fingers tight on the tray.

‘May I ask why, sir?’

‘He’s the ranking detective,’ said Stratton. ‘He’ll have Dimitriou as back-up. I hope you understand.’ He stared at her, daring her to challenge his decision. Jo knew where the lines were with Stratton. Cross this one and she’d be in all sorts of trouble.

‘Perfectly, sir,’ she said. So much for a chance to prove herself.

‘Excellent,’ said Stratton, beaming. ‘Besides, your shift’s up. Type up what you’ve got then go home a get some rest. And good work today, Detective.’

With a bob of her head, Jo left his office.

Dimitriou was emerging from downstairs, dressed in work clothes, hair still slightly damp. ‘Well, that was an unpleasant experience,’ he said.

Jo realised he was probably talking about his cold shower.

‘I need to bring you up to speed on this disappearance,’ she said. ‘Stratton wants you and Andy on it.’ She pushed the picture of Malin Sigurdsson across the desk.

‘Wow!’ He glanced towards Stratton’s office, and lowered his voice. ‘She’s a ten, huh?’

Ignoring him, Jo began to type, her fingers stabbing at the keys.

Chapter 5

Jo was thorough, losing herself in the details of the report, and not even looking up as Stratton, Carrick, and Cranleigh emerged from the office and picked up Dimitriou. She knew Carrick would feel terrible, but she was in too much of a foul mood even to give him the chance to show contrition for whipping the case from under her. Afterwards she texted Lucas and told him she’d be over at his place at eight, and could pick up a takeaway if there was anything he fancied. He answered almost immediately that he didn’t mind.

Pryce came through. ‘I’ve told Catskill we don’t need him anymore. I thought you were going back to the college?’ Jo rubbed her cold hands together, and explained she was being sidelined in favour of the boys’ club. ‘It’s just you, Stratton, Carrick and Dimitriou. Think of it like a four-ball.’

Pryce looked bewildered. ‘I don’t think DI Carrick plays golf,’ he replied.

‘It was a joke,’ said Jo. ‘To break the tension and prevent me killing someone.’

She stood up, grabbed her coat, and left. Andy Carrick had texted with a single word, ‘Sorry’, and an unhappy emoticon. She appreciated the gesture and wrote back ‘No hard feelings,’ with a face gritting its teeth in rage. If the last six months had taught her anything, it was that life was too short. She hoped they found Malin quickly, in good health.

Security lights illuminated the car park as she trailed over to her navy Peugeot. It was a dry day, but there was a thin layer of ice on the inside of the windscreen. She got in, started the engine and cranked the heaters. As she grabbed the de-icer, she wondered about getting a new car. Her brother had kindly offered her some money from the sale of the family house, if it ever happened, and her promotion had more than covered the costs of the fertility treatment back in the clinic in Bath. Compared to sixth months ago, in the aftermath of the break-up with Ben, she was comparatively well-off. At the moment, she was still paying for a one-bed flat in Oxford, though spending almost every night at Lucas’s. She’d been meaning to talk with him about it, about moving in properly, but it seemed to be just the opening of a much bigger conversation they needed to have about the future. About family, particularly. When she thought about it, it brought her out in a sweat. Somehow Dr Forster had coaxed it all out of her, like the forensic interviewer she was in just their second session. Lucas was twenty-eight, and there was really no reason at all he should be thinking about kids, but Jo didn’t have that luxury. She’d wasted her best years with Ben, only to be betrayed, and now – just shy of thirty-nine – she felt time slipping between her fingers at accelerated speed. The eggs she’d frozen with the Bright Futures clinic in the autumn would practically keep forever, but she was under no illusions that her chances of being a mother were anything but shrinking. If Lucas wasn’t ‘The One’ – and how she hated that term – then she had to make some difficult decisions soon. Maybe tonight was the night to do it.

She cleared the ice, reversed carefully and drove out onto St Aldates.

There was a Korean place on the route back to Lucas’s flat that they both liked, and she pulled up outside. She ordered a Bulgogi for herself, and veggie Bibimbap for him, and was waiting for the food to come when her phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Detective Masters, it’s Anna Mull, Malin’s friend. Have you found her?’

‘Not yet,’ said Jo. Anna didn’t answer but let out a sigh, so Jo asked, ‘Is there something else you want to tell me?’

‘I don’t know if I should say anything,’ said Anna.

‘Then you probably should,’ said Jo. ‘Even if it doesn’t seem important, it might assist us.’

‘You asked me earlier, about enemies …’ Anna was speaking quietly, and Jo wondered if she was with someone else.

‘And you said not,’ Jo replied.

‘Something happened,’ she said. ‘Last term. I don’t know if it’s important … ’

She’s really nervous.

‘Why don’t you tell me, and we’ll see.’

‘There’s a tutor here – Professor Ronald Myers. Malin made a complaint about him … being inappropriate. Anyway, he’s retired now. I just thought you should know. It’s probably nothing.’

‘You mean sexually inappropriate?’

‘He tried to kiss her,’ said Anna. ‘She told him she wasn’t interested.’

‘And Myers teaches at Oriel?’

‘Not anymore,’ said Anna. ‘He left in the summer.’

‘How old is he?’

‘I don’t know. Sixties, I suppose. I didn’t want to say before – it’s seems quite unlikely …’

Jo’s heart quickened, her chest fluttering. ‘Do you know where we can find Myers now?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t,’ said Anna. ‘Ms Frampton-Keys will be able to tell you. I’d rather you didn’t mention me, though.’

‘No, of course not. Thanks, Anna. Oh, one more thing. We spoke to Ross, and he told us that Malin thought she was being followed recently. Did she ever mention anything like that to you?’

A pause. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t think she did.’

‘It’s something you’d remember, presumably?’

‘Well, yes. I can’t imagine why she’d keep anything like that from me.’

‘Okay – thanks for your time.’

Jo waited by the counter. Maybe she wasn’t being followed at all, and it genuinely was paranoia. It did seem strange that she’d only made the claim to Ross Catskill. Unless he’s lying, to throw us off …

Jo thought about ringing Frampton-Keys for Myers’ address, but thought better of it. She’d shown where her loyalties lay already, and would probably call Professor Myers right after getting off the phone. The college office might help, but the same issue applied. She called Heidi instead, and asked casually for an address check without mentioning the case it related to. In half a minute, she had it.

‘Thanks, Heidi.’

With the Korean food losing heat and filling the car with its scent, Jo turned around and drove to the address in the north east of the city. Her toes still stubbornly refused to warm up. Ronald Myers’ place was a quaint cottage in Marston that opened right onto the narrow pavement. Jo drove past once and, seeing lights on, parked around the corner. She walked between the pools of light from the streetlamps, her breath clouding on the air. She used the heavy brass knocker.

As he opened the door onto a narrow and cosy hallway, Jo’s first impression was that Myers wasn’t all that old. A swarthy black beard covered his lower face; he looked more like a sea captain than a tutor of history. The thick and slightly shapeless jumper he wore only added to that impression, and his broad forearms stuck out through the bottom of the shrunken sleeves. His nails, on his squared fingertips, were thick and yellowing.

Jo introduced herself. ‘We’re investigating the disappearance of a former student of yours – Malin Sigurdsson.’

Myers’ brows contracted around a deep vertical cleft. ‘Has something happened to her?’

‘Maybe I could come in?’ said Jo.

Myers moved aside. ‘Go on through,’ he said.

Jo squeezed past and found herself in a cosy lounge, lined on two sides by floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. A wood-burning stove was blazing and she was too hot at once. On a small table was a set of car keys with a branded Morris Garages keyring.

‘Can I get you anything?’ asked Myers, with his back to her. He crouched, opened the stove and placed on another log.

‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I won’t take up much of your time. When did you last see Malin Sigurdsson?’

Myers straightened, turned to face her and spread his shovel-like hands. Jo wondered how he’d feel about giving fingerprints. ‘I haven’t seen her for weeks,’ he said. ‘Months. Not since I retired. Before the summer break.’

‘So you’ve had no contact since then?’

He sat on a sagging armchair and placed both hands on his knees. ‘Perhaps you could explain what this is about?’

‘Malin’s missing,’ said Jo. ‘We’re following a number of leads to ascertain what might have happened.’

‘I assure you I know nothing of that,’ said Myers.

‘Can you tell me exactly the nature of your relationship with Malin?’

‘I was her tutor.’

‘Until you … retired?’ He nodded. ‘You see, I heard you left under something of a cloud.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Jo. ‘You were attracted to Malin, though?’

‘Is that a crime?’

‘You tried to kiss her and she didn’t like it.’

‘I went through all this with the college,’ he said. ‘I made a mistake, as foolish old men are wont to do.’

‘Sounds like sexual assault to me,’ said Jo.

‘All right – I’d like you to leave,’ said Myers.

‘We haven’t finished talking.’

Myers stood up. ‘Do I need to call your superiors?’ he said. ‘I’m quite aware of my rights.’

Jo stood as well. ‘Don’t worry – we’re on top of things,’ she said. ‘All right if I have a look around?’

She began to walk towards another door. It looked like there was a dining area on the other side, with a set of stairs running right to left. Myers blocked her path.

‘It isn’t,’ he said. ‘This is my home, and I’ve made my wishes clear.’

‘We can come back with a warrant,’ she said.

‘Then do so.’ He gestured towards the door, impatient and resolute. ‘Good evening, detective.’

She showed herself out into the cold street, looking up and down. He was probably watching her from inside. She walked back to her car, drove slowly back past his house, then pulled up in a layby a couple of streets away. The fact he hadn’t consented to a search didn’t mean much, in her experience.

The food would be stone cold. She texted Lucas to let him know she’d been delayed. It wouldn’t be the first time work had got in the way of sustenance.

After five minutes, the headlights of a car emerged from the side street beside Myers’ house. They reflected in her mirrors. Jo pressed herself down in her seat. An MG sports car passed, indicated left and turned out of sight. Jo started her engine and followed.

‘Where are you off to, Ron?’ she muttered.

They hit the A40, joining traffic and heading south. Jo stayed a couple of cars back. After less than a mile, Myers drifted across to the exit for Barton. Jo copied his signals. Her stomach felt light with nerves. He’d looked surprisingly strong for his age. If it came to it, she had a police-issue telescopic baton in the car, and CS gas spray.

He slowed as he drove past a small parade of shops, pulling into the car park. There were a few people around, and he reversed into a space. Jo felt the tension dip as she stopped on the road opposite. Maybe he was just coming out for a pint of milk. Was this the closest shop? When he got out, he was carrying a plastic bag. He walked away from the shop though, down a path between an illuminated launderette and a closed chip shop. Jo tucked the baton into her inner coat pocket, got out and crossed the road in pursuit.

There was a sign saying ‘Recreation ground’ pointing up the alley.

Jo wondered for a moment if she’d lost him when she reached a set of traffic lights at a smaller road. Behind a low fence opposite was a large open space lined with trees. Netting suspended between several trunks told her it was probably a cricket ground in the summer months. She saw a movement further up the pavement, as Myers dipped in through a gate. He was walking more quickly. She went across herself, and vaulted the fence, staying under the trees. She was breathing hard, but it was only nervousness making her heart pump faster. Myers walked towards a bench with a bin beside it. She knew what he was going to do, before he did it. He peered into the bin, then placed the bag inside. Jo smiled grimly, waited for him to leave, then hurried across to the bench herself, taking her pocket-torch from her handbag. The bin was empty but for the bag. She used a tissue between her fingers to fish it out. It wasn’t heavy, but several items jostled inside.

She crouched and carefully tipped them onto the frost-covered grass. Four objects. The first three – a toothbrush, a pot of expensive face cream, a hairbrush – might feasibly have belonged to Myers himself. The last – a flimsy silk camisole nightdress – sealed it.

Got you, you fucker.

Jo wanted nothing more than to apprehend Myers herself, but she fought the urge. No rush. She bagged up the things, and walked calmly back towards her car, dialling Andy Carrick on the way. She could feel the lightness of her breath as she filled him in and the adrenalin of the pursuit seeped from her veins. As ever, he listened patiently without interrupting until she’d finished.

‘Where are you now?’

‘Following on foot. My guess is he’ll head straight home.’

‘Good work, Jo. Stay back and observe. We’re on our way.’

Jo hung up, thrilled with the triumph, trying to imagine the look on DCI Stratton’s face when they brought Myers in. There’s no way you can keep me out now …

* * *

In the end, Myers did stop at the shop, and Carrick was already at his house with two squad cars by the time he returned. The retired tutor didn’t try to run, and Jo walked over to hear Carrick asking him to come to the station to answer questions relating to the possible murder of Malin Sigurdsson.

‘You think I killed her?’

‘Did you?’ asked Carrick.

‘Of course I bloody didn’t,’ said Myers.

‘Then you won’t mind helping us with our enquiries.’

‘I don’t see how I can,’ said Myers.

Jo watched as they took him across to the squad car.

‘Mind if I join you inside?’ she said. ‘In a purely observational capacity, of course.’

‘Be my guest,’ said Carrick. ‘And again, sorry about earlier.’

‘It’s academic now,’ said Jo.

Dimitriou was organising uniforms laying out the cordon.

‘You’re making us look bad,’ he said, as Jo entered the house again.

She walked straight through to the pantry-style kitchen. A washing machine was running, and she switched it off at the wall. Then she went up a set of spiral stairs with a wrought-iron balustrade. The house was a two-up, two-down, with a small extension at the rear over both storeys. The room at the front had more books, and was given over to stacked storage crates; the rear one was Myers’ bedroom with an en-suite. The bed was stripped. The pictures on the walls were tasteful watercolours. She checked the wardrobe, the linen basket, and any cupboards she could find.

Carrick was out in the garden, looking in the shed.

They met back downstairs.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

Dimitriou joined them. ‘The shopping bag is full of cleaning products – bleach, clothes, rubber gloves, brushes. He was trying to cover his tracks.’

‘He’s washed his bedsheets,’ said Jo.

Carrick was frowning.

‘You’re wondering why he took the toothbrush and the face cream,’ she said. ‘Trophies?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe, but there was a toothbrush in her college room as well. I’ve just come from there.’ Jo cast her mind back. She didn’t remember seeing one, but Carrick’s nickname was Nikon, because of his freakishly photographic memory.

One of the uniforms came in. ‘Excuse me, sir. We’ve done a preliminary search. Pretty sure the girl isn’t here.’

She was at one point though, thought Jo. So where’s he put her?

‘Thanks,’ said Carrick. He looked at the books on the shelves, as if one of them might contain the answers they needed. ‘Dimi, stay here and coordinate. Knock on the neighbours, see if they can give us anything. Comings and goings, noises, suspicious behaviours.’

‘What about me?’ asked Jo.

‘You’re off shift, aren’t you?’ said Carrick.

‘Stop winding me up, Andy,’ said Jo. ‘Let me come with you and have a crack at Myers.’

‘The Chief won’t be happy. But, well …’

‘Fuck him?’ said Jo.

Carrick grimaced. In the seven months since Jo had first met him, she’d never heard him use a single expletive.

‘I agree with the sentiment,’ he said, ‘if not the manner of expression.’

Chapter 6

They had to call him though, and DCI Stratton arrived back at the station just before nine pm, as Jo and Carrick were getting ready to speak to Ronald Myers in IR1. Carrick had obviously briefed him on Jo’s involvement, because he didn’t say anything other than a mumbled, ‘Great work, Detective Masters.’

‘What’s the old bastard done with her?’ he said next.

‘Dimi’s standing by at the property,’ said Carrick. ‘Let’s talk to Myers first before we rip the place up.’

‘I’ll be watching on the monitor,’ said Stratton. ‘And hold fire on communicating with Nick Cranleigh until we’ve got something concrete.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Carrick.

He and Jo entered the interview room, and Myers started talking at once. ‘I hope you’ve seen sense.’ His lawyer sat beside him, a man of about the same age, but plump and florid, with badly-dyed blond hair.

Carrick started the tape and introduced Myers, himself and Jo for the record, then asked the counsel to state his name.

‘Freddie Allgreave,’ said the man. ‘For the record, my client denies having anything material to do with the disappearance of Malin Sigurdsson.’

‘We’re investigating her death, now,’ said Carrick.

‘That as well,’ said Myers. ‘For God’s sake, this is preposterous. You have no evidence.’

‘Care to tell us why you were disposing of Malin’s property a mile from your home?’ asked Jo.

Myers glanced briefly at his lawyer, who nodded.

‘I panicked. You seemed to think I was guilty of something, wanting to snoop around. So I tried to get rid of her things.’

‘Why did you have those things in the first place?’ asked Jo.

‘That’s none of your business,’ said Myers.

‘Did you steal them from her, maybe?’ asked Jo. ‘We know you liked her. You told us that before. Wanted something to sniff?’

Myers looked horrified. ‘I’m not a pervert.’

Jo fought back her laughter. You’re a lot worse than that.

‘If you tell us where she is, right now, it’s going to reflect a lot better on you when it comes to sentencing. Mr Allgreave will confirm that.’

The brief leant across and whispered something in his client’s ear.

‘I don’t know where she is,’ said Myers. ‘I want to help.’

Jo took a breath. She didn’t think he’d hold out long. Her vague theory was that he’d done something in a fit of temper, and all she needed to do was play on the same short fuse in the IR and he’d crack again. She was almost looking forward to it. ‘Tell us about Malin,’ she said. ‘What was she like as a student?’

Myers pouted, as if he expected a trick. ‘She was gifted,’ he said. ‘Our tutorials were stimulating.’

‘I bet,’ said Jo. ‘And the one where you tried to stick your tongue down her throat. Did she find that stimulating?’

‘I said before – it was a misunderstanding.’

‘And dealt with internally at the college,’ said Allgreave.

‘Swept under the carpet, more like,’ said Jo. Carrick was sitting back and listening carefully, letting her take the lead. She wondered in the back of her mind how Stratton, watching from the AV suite, would take the line of questioning. Not that she cared. She’d always scored highly in interrogation test scenarios.

‘It was the friend who sent you on this wild goose chase, wasn’t it?’ said Myers.

Jo folded her arms. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied.

‘You know why the complaint was dropped, don’t you?’ said Myers. ‘Because she never wanted to make it in the first place. It was that little minx Anna Mull who put her up to it. She’s hated me ever since I told her to buck up her game.’

Jo didn’t let her face betray her surprise. It might not even be true, but now wasn’t the time to start digging. Carrick’s phone, on the table in front of them, beeped. He turned it over and looked at the message, before showing it to Jo. It was from Dimitriou. ‘Neighbours opposite report seeing blonde girl arriving with Myers three days ago by car. Leaving next morning.’

What the hell did that mean?

‘Time to be open with us, Ron,’ said Jo. ‘Because we’re this close to turning your house upside down. When did you last see Malin Sigurdsson?’

Myers’ lips were sealed.

‘Come on, Mr Myers,’ said Carrick. ‘If you didn’t take her, that means someone else did. The quickest way to eliminate yourself from our enquiries is to tell the truth. We can still charge you with obstruction of justice for the unauthorised disposal of her possessions.’

Allgreave put a hand on Myers’ arm. ‘I’m sure my client will do his best to help you. He’s an innocent man.’

Myers nodded gratefully. ‘I saw her on Monday,’ he said.

Three days ago …

‘For what?’ said Carrick.

Myers folded his arms. ‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘Extra tutoring?’ said Carrick.

‘We enjoyed each other’s company,’ said Myers.

‘You had sexual intercourse?’ said Jo.

‘And it was entirely our private right to do so,’ said the professor.

‘You and Malin Sigurdsson?’ said Jo.

Myers looked at her with utter disdain.

‘So you say you haven’t seen her since Monday,’ asked Carrick. ‘Any contact at all? An argument, perhaps?’

‘No,’ said Myers. ‘We parted … amicably.’

‘And you didn’t visit her in college?’

‘I think I’ve answered that.’

‘Answer again.’

‘No, I didn’t visit her in college. I don’t even have a security pass anymore, and you can check with the porter’s lodge to see if I signed in.’

‘We’ll need to take your fingerprints.’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘No.’

Jo suspended the interview, and was glad to be out of the room with Carrick.

‘Are you buying it, guv?’

Stratton joined them.

‘We’ll need to confirm the visitor was her,’ said Carrick, ‘but the days matched. Maybe Anna Mull can clarify. Sounds like she wasn’t particularly fond of Myers.’

‘I hope I’m not being shallow,’ said Jo, ‘but can you really see Malin Sigurdsson going for a bloke like that?’

Stratton cut in. ‘If there’s one thing this job has taught me, it’s not to make assumptions about women.’

Jo guessed from his smile that it was supposed to be a joke. ‘She accused him of sexual harassment. He lost his job. In my experience, women don’t run to shag their sex pests.’

‘He said the complaint was dropped,’ said Stratton.

‘We’ll check with Frampton-Keys,’ said Carrick. ‘I’m with Jo on this, sir. Even if she dropped the accusation, I’m not sure how it squares with voluntarily spending the night at his house.’

Maybe, thought Jo, we’re not looking at a square.

* * *

They took the prints, and Heidi gave the files a cursory scan before sending them to the lab for a confirmation.

‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure they’re not a match for Malin’s room,’ she said.

Stratton looked aggrieved. ‘I’m not sure we can hold him.’

‘Agreed,’ said Carrick, though Jo saw it pained him to admit it. ‘We checked the evidence manifest from Malin’s room, and it included a toothbrush. Which makes it more likely that the one at Myers’ house was indeed a spare, taken there voluntarily.’

‘We’ve got him on obstruction, though.’

‘Pretty sure his lawyer could argue that was simply panic,’ said Carrick, ‘and he’s not an ongoing material threat.’

‘Are we finished at his house?’ asked the DCI.

‘Almost,’ said Carrick. ‘There’s nothing obvious yet. Certainly no blood.’

‘If he killed her at the college, there wouldn’t be,’ said Jo. ‘He looks strong enough to carry her.’ She knew that didn’t answer the access problem, though.

‘Okay, I want every nook and cranny looked into,’ said Stratton. ‘Find Myers a hotel. Get him what he needs from his house. And advise he doesn’t go on any sudden holidays.’

Carrick did as asked, signing Myers’ belongings back to him. On seeing Myers’ unbelievably smug face as he pocketed his things, Jo couldn’t help herself.

‘Not sure how Mr Cranleigh is going to react when he hears about you and his daughter.’

Myers coloured. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against me, Detective. Did you fail your Oxford entrance exam?’

‘I never fancied the place,’ said Jo. ‘Something about all those one-on-one tutorials made me feel uneasy. Maybe my gut instinct was right.’

She left him in reception.

Back in the CID room, Heidi had shouldered her bag, and switched off her computer. ‘That’s me done.’

‘You should go home too, Jo,’ said Carrick. ‘Jack’s finishing up at the college.’

‘Anything new?’

He shook his head. ‘Oh, apparently Hana Sigurdsson is landing in the morning.’

‘You want me here to liaise?’

Carrick shot a glance towards Stratton’s closed door. ‘Better not, for now,’ he said, and Jo got it. There were times to push the DCI, and times to give. This was the latter.

* * *

Her car stank of the Korean food, which would have cooled to the point of inedibility. She opened the window, despite the cold outside, and let the wintry wind blast the smell away.

Lucas’s flat was in the Northcote area of Abingdon, a quarter-hour from the station. It wasn’t much – a two-bed on the upper floor of a small nineties block – but it was well kept, with Lucas himself taking care of the communal gardens on behalf of the residents. Jo parked up beside his beat-up Land Rover. It was the only car not covered in a fine sheen of frost, and touching the bonnet there was still a hint of warmth. He must have nipped out. She dropped the takeaway into the outdoor bin, and as she approached the front door, the security light blinked on.

She took the stairs, and let herself into the dark apartment. Turning on the light, she saw his work boots by the door and his coat hanging on the peg. Jo made her way through to the open-plan kitchen-lounge. The bedroom door was closed. She opened the fridge, but it was scarce pickings. A pineapple, several condiments, some milk and cheese. Half a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet. So she settled for an impromptu midnight feast of pineapple chunks and a glass of cold wine while sitting at the small dining table. When she’d first learned Lucas didn’t indulge in alcohol, she’d been reticent to drink at his flat, but he’d insisted it was okay. She knew already she’d have trouble sleeping without it tonight. There was a torn brown envelope on the floor by the table leg. HMRC. Probably another tax return reminder. Though he worked for the college, he was a freelance contractor.

‘Hey, stranger,’ said a voice.

Jo almost jumped out of her skin, dropping the piece of paper.

Lucas stood in the doorway of the bedroom, one arm resting on the frame, his blond surfer’s hair tousled, squinting a little into the light. He wore just a pair of shorts, his muscular torso on display, and padded towards her on bare feet.

‘You scared the shit out of me,’ said Jo.

He folded his arms around her, and kissed the underside of her neck. ‘Sorry. I thought you were a burglar.’

His stubble brushed her cheek, and though there was still a hint of the soap he used, his hair carried the scent of burned wood.

‘You smell funny,’ she said.

He leant past her and stabbed at a piece of pineapple, popping it in her mouth.

‘Bonfire,’ he said. ‘You want me to shower?’

‘We’ll have to wash the sheets,’ she said.

‘Guess so.’ He went to the fridge and took out a carton of milk. Tipping it back, he took several gulps. ‘Busy day, huh?’

‘Complicated,’ she answered.

He replaced the milk. ‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Not much to talk about at the moment. You go out somewhere?’

‘Huh?’

‘Car’s warm,’ she said.

‘Just the shops, Sherlock,’ he said.

He took himself off to the bathroom. She heard the shower start up.

In the first weeks of their relationship, her work was all he’d wanted to ask about, but he’d cottoned on quickly that Jo would rather talk about anything else and now he was much better at gauging her mood. She found his own work much more fascinating. Gardening wasn’t a topic she’d ever thought about much before, but Lucas had been working across the colleges for around eight years, and his tales of collegiate politics, student high jinks, and academic malfeasance were as rich as any case she’d worked on. It helped that he was a naturally gifted mimic. He had an eye for humour, an open disposition, and, compared with most people Jo came across, a sometimes charming innocence. She almost didn’t want to share the things she came across day to day – the banality of deaths, the lies and desperation, the lives shattered and inconsequential in the fringes of society – for fear it would drain some of that positivity from him.

Of his own history, she knew little. He’d grown up in Somerset, and the accent remained. His parents, who had separated when he was seven, were both dead. He had a sister, in New Zealand now, with whom he spoke a handful of times a year. His friends in Oxford were mostly in the same line of work. He wanted, ultimately, to own his own landscaping company, but he was in no rush. At twenty-eight, Jo hadn’t been either.

She wondered, in moments of self-doubt, what he thought of her. Over a decade older, weighed down by the pressures of work, one seriously failed romantic life behind her. She hadn’t told him about the counselling, not because she was ashamed of it, but because it might have meant talking more about what had happened that night in Sally Carruthers’ barn. Anyone with eyes and ears to take in the news was aware of the basics, of course. She and Lucas had met during the case – he’d been a helpful witness in the search for a suspect. But it hadn’t been until four weeks after, and the bruises had faded, that he’d left a message through the front desk, that his offer of a drink was still open. Dimitriou had overheard, and found it hilarious. And though every instinct had screamed at Jo that it was a bad time, she had taken him up on it, having run a thorough criminal record check, of course. She couldn’t help herself. Besides, Lucas was as clean as they came. The fact he looked like a Greek God cast away on a sun-kissed desert island helped.

She finished her wine and put the glass by the sink with the empty bowl of pineapple. Peeling off her clothes in the bedroom, which smelled faintly of smoke too, she walked naked to the bathroom door. It was thick with steam inside, but she could make out the shape of Lucas in the shower. For a moment, she remembered Malin’s bloody handprint across her mirror.

Pulling back the shower curtain, she climbed in behind him stealthily, then threaded a hand over his rib cage and taut stomach, making him jump.

‘Now you’re scaring me,’ he said, turning and pulling her towards him, into the flow of hot water.

She ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed him tenderly, glad to be free of her thoughts – for a little while, at least.

Chapter 7
THURSDAY

The phone woke her from a deep and dreamless slumber. Lucas groaned slightly as she prised herself from under his arm, reaching into the darkness. She found the phone and answered. It was almost three am.

‘Jo Masters.’

‘Sorry it’s late, Serge. Williams here.’

‘Andrea.’

‘We’ve got a body, ma’am,’ said the PC.

The fog lifted in an instant and Jo sat up in bed. The room was cold, and the skin across her upper body broke into gooseflesh at once.

‘Malin Sigurdsson?’

‘Hard to tell, ma’am. It’s submerged.’

‘What’s up?’ asked Lucas sleepily.

‘Nothing,’ said Jo, swinging her legs out of bed. ‘Just work.’

With one hand still on the phone, she manoeuvred her dressing gown off the hook. ‘Location?’

‘Near Little Baldon,’ said Williams. ‘Just down from where the main road crosses the river.’

Jo moved into the hall. ‘Who called it in?’

‘Truck driver. He’s still here.’

‘Keep him there. I’ll be over in twenty minutes.’

She hung up and dressed quickly, feeling guilty for the excitement that quickened her heart, even though it might well be the young girl she was looking for.

Outside, the car was iced over again, and she gave it a cursory scrape before setting off into the deserted back roads that crisscross the farmland south of Oxford. The heaters took a while to get going and her hands were freezing as they clutched the wheel. Her headlights picked up a badger, the odd rabbit, their peaceful night’s ramblings disturbed by her progress through small villages at close to the speed limit. A patch of black ice took her by surprise, and the car slid nauseatingly for a moment before traction took hold. Slow down, Jo. She’s not going anywhere.

She phoned Pryce. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but he’d always been clear he kept strange hours, and unlike Carrick, he wasn’t a family man. Plus, there was something about the empty roads, with the grey spectres of sleeping houses, that made her long for his steady company. He answered almost right away, and after she’d filled him in, asked, ‘Where’s Little Baldon?’

‘Nowhere near Myers’ place,’ said Jo, and gave him directions.

‘On my way.’

* * *

It was a lonely place to die, if indeed the death had occurred here; empty farmland, weather-blasted hedgerows, with the occasional house set well back from the road. There was a dilapidated and disused petrol garage a couple of hundred metres from the bridge and the overhanging trees had been stripped back by the cross-country progress of lorries. Jo saw the spinning lights of a squad car pulled up in a layby by woodland, and a truck a few metres on bearing the name ‘CoolFlo Logistics’.

The driver was sitting in his cab on his phone, smoking a roll-up. Constable Andrea Williams sat in the passenger seat, notebook in hand. Jo pulled up on the grass verge opposite, put on her hazards, climbed out and crossed the road. Williams climbed down to talk.

‘Hi, boss,’ she said. ‘We’re doing shifts.’ She pointed to the bridge. ‘Olly Pinker’s down there now. You’d better be careful – there’s no path and it’s pretty slippery.’

‘Got it. Trucker okay?’

‘Just wants to get moving,’ said Williams. ‘He’s on a three-day haul to Hungary. Got to get to Portsmouth by seven.’

‘How did he find her?’

‘Stopped to take a shit. Worked his way into the bushes to be clear of the road. Saw her. It sounds feasible. His English isn’t great.’

‘Speak to his employer if you can. Explain things. We’ll need his details. Plus his movements over the last twenty-four hours,’ she said. ‘If it checks out, take a statement here and cut him loose.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Jo looked towards the lorry. Killers coming back to the site of their crimes was a documented phenomenon. Sometimes they were even the ones to find the body, despite the inherent risk of being caught. But Williams was right – this didn’t feel like that. The call of nature in a secluded area made more sense on the surface. And killers tended not to call in their own misdeeds.

The river was about twelve feet wide, with trees on each side. It was still flowing a little in the centre, but around the banks it had frozen solid after the days of zero or sub-zero temperatures. The bridge was stone on one side of the road, but the other was metal fencing. Jo saw the way down, a small cutting by the more modern side, through thick foliage. She peered over. Torchlight shone in her face then dipped away.

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ hollered Pinker. ‘Careful how you come down.’

Jo tucked her own small torch into her pocket, gripped the uppermost stanchion of the bridge and placed her foot with care, supporting her weight as she lowered herself. She had to let go, and half walked, half scrambled on hands and feet to get to the bottom. There might have been a path down here once, but it was overgrown long ago. She picked her way through the scrubby grass and dotted bushes to where the PC was standing further down the bank.

The woman’s body was face-down, lodged almost entirely in ice a foot from shore. She was clothed, in jeans, and some sort of pale puffer jacket. Straight away it felt wrong to Jo. The hair was hard to make out, but it looked too dark to be Malin Sigurdsson’s.

‘Crime scene are on their way,’ said Pinker. ‘Maybe thirty minutes.’

Jo crouched closer, looking up and down the bank, then back to the bridge. It seemed unlikely the woman could have fallen in by accident from the road. There was no pavement at the top, and it was hardly the place for a stroll.

Pryce arrived shortly after at the top of the slope. He made it a couple of steps, before his feet went from beneath him. With a cry he slid to the bottom, before exclaiming, ‘Fuck’s sake!’

Straightening his long grey coat, he walked over to them. ‘Is it our missing person?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Jo. ‘Can’t be sure though.’

Pryce shone his torch at the body. ‘How the hell did she end up here?’

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