Keep Her Close. M.J. Ford
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.
Jo was thorough, losing herself in the details of the report, and not even looking up as Stratton, Carrick, and Cranleigh emerged