Blood in Grandpont (DI Susan Holden 2)

‘What do you mean by disappeared?’ Fox asked.

‘He left for work at 7.30 this morning and hasn’t been seen since. His wife was sufficiently worried to ring us, though not until three o’clock this afternoon. He had left a note at work saying he’d be back later. His assistant, Francesca Willis, found it when she arrived late, round about 10.15. His mobile is turned off. So what I want you to do is get a list of any calls to or from his mobile in the last couple of days. And were there any calls to his office early this morning? Second, we need to see if we can track down any CCTV images of his car after he left his office this morning. This might have been any time from 7.45 until 10.15.’

‘Do you reckon he’s the killer, Guv, and done a runner?’ The adrenalin from the football had still not entirely dissipated in Wilson’s body.

Holden made a face. ‘Wilson,’ she said, ‘what I reckon is that we need some evidence of Mr Russell’s movements. And then maybe, just maybe, we can start to draw some conclusions. So do me a favour and get on with it.’

Sarah Russell liked a drink. It wasn’t that she had a drink problem, but she liked to have a sherry or a gin and tonic at six o’clock in the evening. And then a glass or two of wine over supper. There was nothing abnormal in that, she told herself, and there was nothing abnormal in having one just a little bit early tonight. After all, she’d had one hell of a day, so when she got back home just after half past five, there seemed no point in waiting for the magic hour of six, that sun-over-the-yard-arm hour that had so dominated her father’s life. Hell, what difference did half an hour make?

She poured herself a generous portion of gin, added the obligatory ice and slice of lemon, and topped it up with slim-line tonic. And then she took a sip, and then another. God, it tasted good!

The phone rang, and she jumped, the clear cold liquid in her glass lurching wildly with her, and splashing down her blouse. She swore, put the glass down with a bang on the table, and reached for the handset.

‘Who is it?’ she demanded.

‘It’s me.’ There was a brief silence. ‘Have you had a bad day?’

‘Dominic has gone missing.’

‘Gone missing?’ There was a stifled laugh down the phone line. ‘You mean he’s left you?’

‘I didn’t say that. But who knows. Maybe.’

‘I bet you’re hoping he has!’ Again there was a laugh.

Sarah Russell picked up the glass, and took another deep slug from it.

‘Are you listening?’ the caller demanded.

Of course she was listening. Not that she needed to. She knew damn well what the little bastard was going to say, and she kne

w how she ought to react. She had discussed it with Geraldine. At length. But after the day she had had, what the hell.

‘No,’ she spat back. ‘I haven’t the slightest interest in listening to you, you little shit. In fact, you’re the one who’s going to listen now. This is the last time you ring me. Never, ever do it again. Because as far as I am concerned, our nasty little relationship is over. And if I get so much as a look from anyone at college that indicates to me that you have been gossiping about me, I’ll come after you, so help me God! And you’ll regret the day you ever tangled with me.’

With that, she terminated the call, drained the rest of her gin and tonic, and for the second time in three days hurled her glass across the room so that it smashed extravagantly against the marble fireplace. She smiled. That felt good.

The phone rang again. She glared at it, and after a second ring, as if it could sense her hostility, it stopped. A fly on the wall, if it had been so minded, would have seen the tension in her face dissipate, and the fury give way to relief. She picked up the handset, punched in a number, and waited.

‘Hi,’ she said as soon her call was answered. ‘I’m so glad you rang.’

While Detective Sergeant Fox began the search for CCTV coverage of the roads around the northern end of Oxford, Detective Constables Wilson and Lawson took on the more immediate task of sifting through the phone calls. The calls to the office phone proved to be the simplest task. There were only two of them before 10.15 a.m., one just before ten o’clock and one just after. Lawson rang both numbers, and both claimed to be customers; a Mrs Jane Railton had rung to check the opening times of D.R. Antiquities, as she lived in Witney and didn’t want to make a wasted trip; and the other was a Mr Keith Nelson, who had wanted to ask if they had got any new stained glass in. ‘Well, not new,’ he had giggled, ‘old of course, but new stock. When I called a couple of weeks ago, the girl behind the desk had said they were expecting some in soon. Nice girl, but her English was rather French, if you know what I mean.’ Again there was a snort down the lines. Lawson smiled to herself. He was a bit like her Uncle Simon. Thought he was a bit of a card.

Wilson meanwhile was going methodically through the calls to and from Dominic Russell’s mobile. An emailed list from the mobile company revealed that he had received only one call in the critical period that morning, at 8.16 from what turned out to be a pay-as-you-go mobile. The call had lasted two minutes and twenty seconds. The next one had been a call from his office number which had gone straight to his answering service – that must have been Francesca’s call just after noon – and then another one from his home number about 1.20 p.m., presumably Sarah ringing to see if she could get hold of him after Francesca had rung her. That all tied up. As for the previous day, there had been only two calls to his mobile, one from his wife and one from his solicitor, James Turley. Wilson scanned further back through the list of calls, but nowhere could he see a call from that pay-as-you-go mobile. So that, surely, was the key one.

Holden listened carefully to the reports of her two constables, but she recognized, as they had, that there was nothing they could get their teeth into. Someone, someone who didn’t want the call to be traced, had rung him, and very likely it was that call that had led to Dominic leaving D.R. Antiquities, but beyond that there was nothing. A big blank dead end. Holden sniffed. She thought maybe she was coming down with a cold. ‘You’d better go and give Fox a hand,’ she said with a wave of her hand. ‘His car has got to be there somewhere on the CCTV.’

Holden was right, but nearly three hours passed before they finally located it. It had had to stop at the lights on the A40 at Cassington at 8.41 that morning.

‘Where was he going?’

It was the obvious question, but there was no obvious answer.

‘Not the Channel, and not any of the obvious airports,’ Fox said. There were several airports that an Oxford resident might use if he or she wanted to go abroad – Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, Birmingham, even Stansted – but none of them was in that direction.

‘Which suggests,’ Lawson suggested, ‘that he is more likely have been going to meet someone. Presumably whoever it was that called from the pay-as-you-go mobile.’

Holden nodded. ‘I agree. The question is where did he go after Cassington. To Burford, to Cheltenham? Or maybe on to the M5 and then north or south from there?’