distance he could keep from things, almost a protective shell. In the brief few months they’d worked together, she’d never seen him lose his temper once. Given the sort of people they had to deal with, that showed some restraint.
‘It’s a good theory,’ she admitted. ‘Let’s get forensics in then.’
‘They’re over in Didcot for the next few hours.’
‘Course they are.’ Since the pooling of resources in the name of cost savings, getting a forensics team in place in a timely manner was increasingly challenging. ‘I’ll draw up a brief back at the station.’
It would all take time to process anyway, and quite possibly be useless. If Frampton-Keys had entered, with goodness knew who else, the integrity of the scene was already compromised. Still, Jo sensed, she needed to do this one by every letter of the book if she was going to keep Stratton happy.
‘And see if we can find out Malin’s recent movements,’ she added, opening the wardrobe. Inside were clothes, neatly sorted, a few nice dresses in dry-cleaning bags and a good collection of shoes. She tipped one over. Designer. Clearly Malin wasn’t short of a few quid.
She went to the desk beside the bed and pulled open the top drawer, finding a box of condoms. She turned to Pryce.
‘Anything on a boyfriend?’
‘Vice Provost said she didn’t know of one,’ said Pryce.
The drawer below had stationery, a lighter, fag papers. A roll of extra-thick foil looked distinctly out of place. She took the drawer out, then the other two, crouching down. There was a plastic bag taped to the underside of the desktop. She detached it, opened it up and sniffed the dark putty-like substance inside. Just weed. She placed the bag on the desk. ‘We should probably try and find her dealer. Small college like this, it shouldn’t be too hard to squeeze it out of someone.’
Though with the holidays, finding someone to squeeze might be tricky.
‘No sign of her phone,’ said Pryce, ‘but we’ve got a computer.’ He tapped the laptop case from the desk with a gloved hand. ‘I can take a look once it’s logged as potential evidence.’
‘See if we can find her phone number too, and talk to Stratton about accessing the phone records. The blood should be plenty enough to convince him.’
Pryce’s own phone began to ring, and he looked at the screen. ‘It’s Cranleigh’s office. You want to take it?’
‘Thanks.’ He handed her the phone. ‘Detective Sergeant Jo Masters.’
‘Something about my daughter?’ The voice was brusque, a little impatient.
‘Mr Cranleigh?’
‘That’s right. Look, if she’s done something silly …’
‘Do you know your daughter’s whereabouts?’
A pause. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Sir, Malin is missing. My colleague and I are at her college now.’
‘Well, where’s she gone?’ He seemed almost belligerent, and Jo, despite herself, was already forming a mental image of him. Tall, balding, fleshy around the face and neck, no longer the man who’d first drawn Malin’s stunning mother.
‘Mr Cranleigh, I’m afraid there are indications Malin might have been hurt.’
‘Okay, I’m coming over. Is Bel there?’
It took Jo a moment to register that he was talking about the Vice Provost.
‘We can come to you, if it’s easier. We’ll need to ask some questions.’
‘Right, fine. Call my secretary – she knows the diary.’ Another pause. ‘No one’s blabbed to the press, have they?’
Jo bit her tongue. ‘No one from my team,’ she said.
‘Let’s keep it that way, eh?’
‘Of course,’ said Jo.
Cranleigh hung up.
‘That was brief,’ said Pryce.
‘He didn’t seem all that surprised,’ said Jo. ‘Has Malin been in trouble before?’
‘Not that I know of. I can get Detective Tan to have a look for priors?’
‘Good.’
Jo looked around the room again, trying to make sense of the contradictions. The Oxford beauty, the weed, the blood, the musical talent. The sooner they really got to know Malin Sigurdsson, the sooner the circumstances of her disappearance would become clearer.
‘Let’s go and speak with the friend,’ she said. On the way out of the room, she told Pinker to keep everything clean until forensics arrived. She walked to the end of the corridor, to the fire door. Pushing the bar at the ends only, so as not to smudge possible prints, she opened it onto a narrow street. On the far side was the tall wall of another college. Not overlooked. She retreated inside and the door closed on its sprung hinges. ‘Maybe get this door processed for prints too. If she was carried out, this seems the obvious route.’
‘But he didn’t come in that way,’ said Pryce. ‘No handle on the street side.’
Well spotted, again. Frampton-Keys was on her phone a few metres from where they’d left her, saying, ‘Don’t worry, Nick. I’m sure the police will do their best … No, of course not. Of course.’ She saw Jo approaching. ‘I’ve got to go.’
She put the phone away. ‘Mr Cranleigh’s very worried,’ she said.
Bel and Nick. Very cosy.
‘He’s a politician, I heard,’ said Jo. ‘Why was he calling you?’
‘We’re good friends,’ said the Vice Provost. ‘Nicholas was an alumnus of this very college.’
‘Is that why Malin is a student here?’ asked Pryce.
Frampton-Keys flinched. ‘She’s here on her own merit.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t suggesting nepotism,’ said Pryce. ‘I was just wondering if it was a family tradition of some sort.’
The Vice Provost pursed her lips, obviously still offended by the unintended slight. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Any idea why she doesn’t use his surname?’
‘Oh, Malin isn’t Mr Cranleigh’s biological daughter,’ said Frampton-Keys.
‘So who’s her real father?’ asked Jo. She foresaw a headache already. They really shouldn’t have been involving anyone but close family about the disappearance.
Frampton-Keys looked bemused. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t feel it’s my place to talk about other people’s private affairs. Her mother lives in Sweden, I believe.’
‘Can
