looked confused for a moment, as if the abbreviation should be in common currency. ‘Middle Common Room. It’s how we refer to postgraduate students.’
‘Was it you who reported the disappearance?’
‘That’s right. Malin’s fellow student, a girl called Anna Mull, was supposed to meet Malin this morning for a coffee. When she didn’t show up and didn’t answer calls, Anna went to her room. Curtains were still drawn, which wasn’t like Malin, so Anna came to find a member of staff. We knocked several times, then entered using our own key. When we saw what was inside, I called the police.’
Williams led her towards a door behind police tape. Stationed beside it was Oliver Pinker. Squat, ginger-haired and affable, he was often paired with Williams, though the sight of the two together was strangely disconcerting, like a double act about to break into some mysterious dramatic display. He handed her polythene booties and gloves, and she stepped under the tape into a sterile linoleum corridor with several dorm rooms and a fire door at the end. The Vice Provost attempted to follow, but Williams placed a hand on her arm. ‘Best if you stay off the crime scene, ma’am,’ she said.
‘Crime scene?’ said Frampton-Keys. ‘Has that been established?’
Jo smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as possible.’
The second internal door was open, and Pryce emerged, on the phone, wearing gloves too. Almost as tall as Andrea Williams, with doe-like dark eyes and floppy, black hair, he’d turned a few heads when he’d first arrived at St Aldates three months ago. Even Jo, normally immune to such things, hadn’t failed to notice. The most disconcerting thing was the more than passing resemblance he bore to Ben. If you took away all the anger, passion, and the hint of danger from her former boyfriend, Pryce was a fair approximation of what might remain. His background was in computer forensics, and he’d been fast-tracked into investigative work from the private sector without ever serving time on the beat – a new kind of professional rather than vocational police officer. He remained essentially naïve, in an almost endearing way, but he proved himself more than able to pull his weight, arriving early and leaving late but without ever drawing attention to the fact. Indeed, Heidi had had to convince him to accurately record his overtime. His paperwork, as Stratton never ceased to extol, was exemplary. He nodded to Jo as he spoke.
‘… very sorry I can’t give you more specifics over the phone. If you could relay this to Mr Cranleigh as a matter of urgency. They can reach me on this number, or through the Thames Valley switchboard … Pryce. Jack Pryce … Of course … Goodbye.’ He hung up, and flashed his gaze back to Jo. ‘Boss,’ he said, nodding. ‘Just chatting to the father’s office. He’s in a meeting.’
‘We can notify Mr Cranleigh,’ called Frampton-Keys from outside. ‘He’s a close friend.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ said Jo. ‘Let us handle it, please.’
‘Want to look?’ said Pryce, gesturing to the door.
He let her enter first. Once over the threshold, Jo was immediately back at her own student digs in Brighton, twenty years before. The single bed, utility shelves loaded with books, 2-star hotel curtains, office chair, scuff-marks on the walls. The college might have looked glamorous on the postcards, but student rooms were the same everywhere. Malin Sigurdsson had tried to improve it – there were pot-plants, and some rather fetching black-and-white photos of seascapes on the walls. A musical instrument case stood beside a music stand. Jo guessed a flute. But she was confused. ‘Carrick said there were signs of a struggle.’
‘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.’
