Читать книгу Keep Her Close - M.J. Ford - Страница 10

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.