Dead Scared

THE DARK-BLUE SALOON car pulled up and the passenger door opened as if by itself. Joesbury climbed inside. The driver was dressed in the uniform of a porter from the college of St John.

‘Thanks, mate,’ said Joesbury. ‘What’s happening?’

George indicated and pulled out into traffic, causing the driver behind to jump on his brakes and throw both hands in the air.

‘Hammond’s been on to the local chief constable requesting immediate uniform back-up,’ replied George. ‘Locals aren’t happy but they’re going along for now. We’ve put warrants out on Nick Bell and Scott Thornton but no sign of either of them yet. Our application for a warrant on Megan Prince was turned down on the grounds that she died last night. Accident at home, according to the CID report. Fell down the cottage stairs with three-quarters of a bottle of red wine inside her. Interestingly, though, her boyfriend is a fairly senior member of the local CID himself. Bloke called John Castell, another Cambridge graduate. Ring any bells?’

‘Can’t say it does but you’re right, that is interesting. Anything suspicious about Prince’s death?’

‘Not according to initial reports, but it makes you think, doesn’t it?’

Joesbury agreed that it did, indeed, make you think. ‘So they still have us on the run?’ he said.

‘The only one we’ve picked up is Jim Notley, DC Flint’s psycho farmer. He’s in the local nick now, insisting he did nothing more than rent out a piece of land, that he knows nothing about anything and he wants a solicitor. He could be telling the truth. To be honest, he doesn’t seem that bright. We have cars outside 108 St Clement’s Road, Notley’s farm and Dr Oliver’s house. They can’t go in until the warrants are signed. Same at the industrial estate and Bell’s farm. We’ve also got a call out on Talaith Robinson, DC Flint’s room-mate.’

The sharp sideways glance sent a spasm of pain through Joesbury’s head.

‘Your car was ambushed less than an hour after you turned up at college claiming to be related to Flint,’ said George. ‘Who else saw you together?’

‘Jesus, she’s just a kid.’

‘She’s twenty-six, Sir, older than she looks. And she wasn’t born Talaith Robinson, either. She was born Talaith Thomas. Robinson was her stepfather’s name. Her own father blew his brains out when she was three. She and her elder brother, the Iestyn Thomas you asked us to trace, found the body.’

‘You’re going to have to tell me about Lacey sometime,’ said Joesbury, and her name seemed to cling to the inside of his mouth.

George took his eyes off the road for the first time. ‘Her car’s still parked in the Backs,’ he replied. ‘No sign of her anywhere in college, but her car keys and bag are in her room.’

The traffic lights in front of them changed to amber. George pressed the accelerator and the car shot through as they flashed to red.

‘No one’s seen her since this morning,’ George continued, turning the corner and picking up speed. A wave of nausea washed over Joesbury. He closed his eyes, opened them and focused on the night sky rather than the headlights speeding towards them. The moon was low and a pale orange, almost full.

‘She wasn’t well, according to a couple of the girls on her corridor,’ said George. ‘About half past nine, a doctor turned up at her door – off her own bat, as far as we can judge, nobody called her – and they had to wake Lacey up. The doctor was young and female, in a wheelchair, so we can assume it was Evi Oliver. They both went over to the Buttery for breakfast and we lose track of them after that. Dr Oliver hasn’t been seen at the clinic she works at, or in her college rooms. Her colleagues have been trying to contact her all day and she isn’t answering the door at her house.’

Joesbury’s brain felt like an engine in need of a major overhaul. He wasn’t taking this in fast enough.

‘DC Flint and Dr Oliver could be together,’ continued George. ‘Hiding out somewhere.’

‘Lacey’s with Bell,’ said Joesbury. ‘We need to get into that farm. Where’s your phone?’

‘In the glove compartment, if you must, Sir. But with respect, if she is in there and we go in half-cocked, we could put her in more danger. DCI Phillips has requested hostage liaison.’

Detective Constable Richards of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary was sitting in his unmarked police car outside Evi’s house. He’d been there for forty minutes when the roar of a motor-bike engine startled him out of the daydream he’d been having about a recent skiing holiday, a chalet maid from Blackburn and a Jacuzzi in the snow. The large performance bike pulled up behind his car and he watched in his rear mirror as the rider switched off his headlight, climbed off and marched up the path. He was hammering on the door before Richards was out of his vehicle.