The food would be stone cold. She texted Lucas to let him know she’d been delayed. It wouldn’t be the first time work had got in the way of sustenance.
After five minutes, the headlights of a car emerged from the side street beside Myers’ house. They reflected in her mirrors. Jo pressed herself down in her seat. An MG sports car passed, indicated left and turned out of sight. Jo started her engine and followed.
‘Where are you off to, Ron?’ she muttered.
They hit the A40, joining traffic and heading south. Jo stayed a couple of cars back. After less than a mile, Myers drifted across to the exit for Barton. Jo copied his signals. Her stomach felt light with nerves. He’d looked surprisingly strong for his age. If it came to it, she had a police-issue telescopic baton in the car, and CS gas spray.
He slowed as he drove past a small parade of shops, pulling into the car park. There were a few people around, and he reversed into a space. Jo felt the tension dip as she stopped on the road opposite. Maybe he was just coming out for a pint of milk. Was this the closest shop? When he got out, he was carrying a plastic bag. He walked away from the shop though, down a path between an illuminated launderette and a closed chip shop. Jo tucked the baton into her inner coat pocket, got out and crossed the road in pursuit.
There was a sign saying ‘Recreation ground’ pointing up the alley.
Jo wondered for a moment if she’d lost him when she reached a set of traffic lights at a smaller road. Behind a low fence opposite was a large open space lined with trees. Netting suspended between several trunks told her it was probably a cricket ground in the summer months. She saw a movement further up the pavement, as Myers dipped in through a gate. He was walking more quickly. She went across herself, and vaulted the fence, staying under the trees. She was breathing hard, but it was only nervousness making her heart pump faster. Myers walked towards a bench with a bin beside it. She knew what he was going to do, before he did it. He peered into the bin, then placed the bag inside. Jo smiled grimly, waited for him to leave, then hurried across to the bench herself, taking her pocket-torch from her handbag. The bin was empty but for the bag. She used a tissue between her fingers to fish it out. It wasn’t heavy, but several items jostled inside.
She crouched and carefully tipped them onto the frost-covered grass. Four objects. The first three – a toothbrush, a pot of expensive face cream, a hairbrush – might feasibly have belonged to Myers himself. The last – a flimsy silk camisole nightdress – sealed it.
Got you, you fucker.
Jo wanted nothing more than to apprehend Myers herself, but she fought the urge. No rush. She bagged up the things, and walked calmly back towards her car, dialling Andy Carrick on the way. She could feel the lightness of her breath as she filled him in and the adrenalin of the pursuit seeped from her veins. As ever, he listened patiently without interrupting until she’d finished.
‘Where are you now?’
‘Following on foot. My guess is he’ll head straight home.’
‘Good work, Jo. Stay back and observe. We’re on our way.’
Jo hung up, thrilled with the triumph, trying to imagine the look on DCI Stratton’s face when they brought Myers in. There’s no way you can keep me out now …
* * *
In the end, Myers did stop at the shop, and Carrick was already at his house with two squad cars by the time he returned. The retired tutor didn’t try to run, and Jo walked over to hear Carrick asking him to come to the station to answer questions relating to the possible murder of Malin Sigurdsson.
‘You think I killed her?’
‘Did you?’ asked Carrick.
‘Of course I bloody didn’t,’ said Myers.
‘Then you won’t mind helping us with our enquiries.’
‘I don’t see how I can,’ said Myers.
Jo watched as they took him across to the squad car.
‘Mind if I join you inside?’ she said. ‘In a purely observational capacity, of course.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Carrick. ‘And again, sorry about earlier.’
‘It’s academic now,’ said Jo.
Dimitriou was organising uniforms laying out the cordon.
‘You’re making us look bad,’ he said, as Jo entered the house again.
She walked straight through to the pantry-style kitchen. A washing machine was running, and she switched it off at the wall. Then she went up a set of spiral stairs with a wrought-iron balustrade. The house was a two-up, two-down, with a small extension at the rear over both storeys. The room at the front had more books, and was given over to stacked storage crates; the rear one was Myers’ bedroom with an en-suite. The bed was stripped. The pictures on the walls were tasteful watercolours. She checked the wardrobe, the linen basket, and any cupboards she could find.
Carrick was out in the garden, looking in the shed.
They met back downstairs.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
Dimitriou joined them. ‘The shopping bag is full of cleaning products – bleach, clothes, rubber gloves, brushes. He was trying to cover his tracks.’
‘He’s washed his bedsheets,’ said Jo.
Carrick was frowning.
‘You’re wondering why he took the toothbrush and the face cream,’ she said. ‘Trophies?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe, but there was a toothbrush in her college room as well. I’ve just come from there.’ Jo cast her mind back. She didn’t remember seeing one, but Carrick’s nickname was Nikon, because of his freakishly photographic memory.
One of the uniforms came in. ‘Excuse me, sir. We’ve done a preliminary search. Pretty sure the girl isn’t here.’
She was at one point though, thought Jo. So where’s he put her?
‘Thanks,’ said Carrick. He looked at the books on the shelves, as if one of them might contain the answers they needed. ‘Dimi, stay here and coordinate. Knock on the neighbours, see if they can give us anything. Comings and goings, noises, suspicious behaviours.’
‘What about me?’ asked Jo.
‘You’re off shift, aren’t you?’ said Carrick.
‘Stop winding me up, Andy,’ said Jo. ‘Let me come with you and have a crack at Myers.’
‘The Chief won’t be happy. But, well …’
‘Fuck him?’ said Jo.
Carrick grimaced. In the seven months since Jo had first met him, she’d never heard him use a single expletive.
‘I agree with the sentiment,’ he said, ‘if not the manner of expression.’
