M.J. Ford - Keep Her Close

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.