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.
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.