M.J. Ford - Keep Her Close

‘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.