Blood in Grandpont Page 13

  As far as Francesca Willis was concerned, Dominic didn’t go missing. He just never arrived. She turned up for her Saturday stint at D.R. Antiquities at 10.15 a.m., nearly three-quarters of an hour late. In truth, she had already been running a bit late when she picked up her handbag and let herself out of her front door in the village of Marsh Baldon, but late became later when she discovered the front nearside tyre of her Mini was flat. By the time her husband had put the spare on, and she had returned the favour by chasing their twin sons off their X-Boxes and into their football kit, she was getting late enough to ring D.R. Antiquities to warn her boss she would definitely be in. But there had been no reply.

  When she got to work there was no one there. This was not unprecedented. Dominic Russell was somewhat unreliable in his timekeeping, so she unlocked and made her way to the office without concern. When she found a hand-written note, ‘Out on business. Back later. D’, on the desk, she shrugged, powered up the PC, and went to make herself a mug of tea.

  By the time she had had her first sip of tea, the first of a steady stream of customers had arrived.

  A few of these customers turned out to be silent browsers, not wanting to buy and not wanting to engage in a conversation either. But the majority were either chatty or there on serious business, and by noon Francesca had conducted four pieces of quite substantial business and was feeling rather pleased with herself, if not with her absent boss. At this point she rang Dominic’s mobile, but it went straight to the answerphone service, so she left a message asking when he would be in, and explaining in slightly tetchy tones that she really could do with some assistance.

  An hour and a quarter later, when there was still no sign of him, she broke an unwritten rule and rang his home number. Sarah Russell did not reply, so she left another message. Ten minutes later, Sarah rang back, and after a brief conversation, said she would come in and help.

  ‘What the hell does he think he’s playing at,’ was Sarah’s first reaction on reading the note that Francesca handed to her. ‘Back later! How many hours is back later?’

  ‘Where do you think he is?’ Francesca asked anxiously. She was rather fond of her boss, and it did seem some way beyond his normal bounds of unreliability.

  ‘If I knew that,’ Sarah snapped, ‘I’d not be here, now would I!’

  But there was no more time for Sarah to snarl or for Francesca to worry about Dominic Russell – there were customers to humour and, besides, Francesca was in urgent need of a comfort break. For the next hour and a half, there was little respite for the two women, and it was in fact not until approximately 2.45 p.m. that they had a chance to revisit Dominic’s absence.

  ‘Wherever can he be?’ Francesca asked in urgent undertones.

  This time Sarah responded differently. ‘I think,’ she said unsteadily, ‘I had better make a phone call.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘What is it?’ Holden’s response to the call she received shortly after 3.00 that Saturday afternoon was hardly gracious. But as she soon heard the words ‘I’m sorry to be ringing you at this time, Inspector’, she knew it could be only bad news, that is to say, news that was going to spoil her weekend.

  ‘We thought you’d want to know, Inspector, that Dominic Russell has been reported missing by his wife.’

  Ten minutes later and she was heading across the Donnington Bridge. Had she looked left or right, she would have seen eights, and pairs and single sculls out on the river as enthusiastic students and members of the city rowing club honed their skills, but her mind was focused on the new development in her case, not in her environment. Had Dominic done a runner? Was his wife panicking just because he’d gone off her radar for a while? Or had something worse happened? Time would tell, but for now she’d better go and see Sarah Russell and make a judgement. And fast.

  Approaching the station, she almost ran into Lawson, who lived close by in Temple Road, and was hot-footing it across the Oxford Road. She’d asked control to try and contact her team. So that was one of them, at least. In fact, as she discovered inside the station, that was the only one of them for now. Neither Fox nor Wilson was contactable. ‘I think Wilson’s gone to the Oxford game,’ Lawson told her. ‘Maybe he’ll switch his mobile on at half-time.’ But of Fox’s movements, she had no knowledge.

  ‘No worries. You come with me to see Sarah Russell, and then we’ll take it from there.’

  They made it to D.R. Antiquities in double quick time, taking full advantage of the flashing blue light and the very light traffic on the ring road. As they pulled up outside, Sarah Russell and another woman tumbled out of the front door, both clearly in a state of alarm.

  It took several minutes to calm them down, find out who the other woman was, move them back into the office of the building, and then get them to each tell their story. Though as Holden soon realized, in fact, it was Francesca Willis who was most voluble and was the most distressed of the two, and by some way. Initially, Holden made little attempt to interrupt or interfere. It was, she judged, better to let her say what she had to say, and then try and pick up on the missing details afterwards. All that dammed up emotion and anxiety – let it all flood out. Time wasn’t that critical.

  ‘So,’ she said at the end, ‘can I see the note Mr Russell left?’ She looked at both of them as she spoke, but it was Sarah who responded, pushing her hand into her jacket pocket and pulling out a folded note. ‘Here, I didn’t want it to get lost.’

  Holden tried not to look bothered by the contamination of the evidence. She read the note closely, as if examining it for a secret code, before passing it to Lawson. ‘Mrs Russell, are you certain it is your husband’s writing?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I would have said so otherwise, wouldn’t I.’

  Holden ignored the sharpness in her voice. It was only to be expected, and her brief experience of Sarah suggested that her natural mode was sharp. The fact was that the note seemed unexceptional, whereas Dominic’s disappearance was decidedly worrying. Either he didn’t want to be contacted, or it was beyond his control. Holden turned towards Francesca.

  ‘What time do you normally open up here, Francesca?’

  ‘I only work here on a Saturday. We officially open at 9.30, but I try to get here a bit earlier, because more than once I’ve arrived and found people peering through windows, and if they make the effort you don’t want to lose their business, do you.’

  Holden turned back to the other woman. ‘Sarah, was it unusual for Dominic to leave home quite so early?’

  ‘He said he had a lot of paperwork to catch up on. You know how it is. If the office is empty and no one is bothering you, you can get on with things.’

  ‘Yes,’ Holden replied calmly. She didn’t like Sarah, but she knew she mustn’t let that get in the way. ‘I do understand, Sarah, but I don’t think you’ve quite answered my question. Did Dominic usually leave for work at 7.30 a.m. on a Saturday?’

  Sarah Russell looked back at Holden, as if weighing up her options. For a woman whose husband had gone missing, she seemed to Holden to be remarkably unflustered. ‘Not usually, no,’ she admitted finally.

  ‘So typically, what time did he leave home on a Saturday? Because I can’t imagine that it would take very long on a Saturday morning to get here.’

  ‘Any time. I don’t monitor him and I sure as hell don’t get up specially to wave him off to work. I work too, as you may recall, and Saturday is my chance of a lie-in.’

  Holden turned back to Francesca Willis. She might be a more cooperative witness. Not to mention more truthful.

  ‘Francesca, you normally get in a little before 9.30. Was Dominic usually here when you arrived?’

  ‘Sometimes, but sometimes not. In fact, he told me more than once that he liked the fact that I was always here in plenty of time. I think he felt it meant he didn’t have to worry if he was running a bit late.’

  ‘Look, what is this all about?’ Sarah Russell was angry now. ‘He lef
t early today. He said he had paperwork to catch up on. I’ve told you. So why all the bloody questions?’

  ‘If you spend Saturday mornings lying in, Mrs Russell, how come you can be so sure your husband left at 7.30 this morning?’ Holden too was getting angry, and she wasn’t convinced that Sarah Russell was being straight with them.

  ‘God, you do ask a lot of questions!’ came the snarled reply. ‘He dropped a bloody glass in the bathroom, when he was doing his teeth, and he shouted when he did it, so I had to get up and see if he was all right.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘He was. The glass wasn’t. Mind you, it was his bloody fault. I’ve told him not to take glasses in there.’

  Holden nodded. ‘Can you tell me the registration of his car?’

  There was a sign of irritation. ‘No, it’s not the sort of information I carry in my head, but all his documents will be in the desk at home, in his study.’

  ‘Thank you, we need it now, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ It was Francesca Willis. ‘Actually, there’s a copy of his car insurance here, just in case he had an accident.’

  ‘Even better.’

  Lawson, taking notes and watching from the sidelines, wondered if there wasn’t some friction between the two women. Francesca was mid thirties, and attractive enough without having the sort of face that might launch a thousand ships. But from Sarah’s point of view, she might be seen as a rival. She certainly had a better figure.

  ‘Can we have his mobile number too?’ Holden was talking to Sarah Russell again. A tactful move, Lawson decided. No doubt Francesca had that too – in fact she’d already told them she’d rung his mobile, so she must have got it – but there was no reason for Holden to provoke Sarah unnecessarily.

  ‘Of course. Mind you, it’s turned off, so I doubt it’ll be much use. Anyway, what are you going to do?’ Sarah demanded.

  ‘For, a start, we can check what calls he made with his mobile since he left home.’

  ‘And the car?’ Anger and bitterness, or a very good impersonation of the two, were evident in every clipped syllable that issued from Sarah’s mouth. ‘You think he’s done a runner?’

  Holden didn’t reply immediately. It was the question she had tried hard not to frame or even hint at. What had happened to Dominic? Was he dead or on the run? Why did Sarah think the latter? Was it because it was easier to think your husband had buggered off, rather than face the possibility that he had been murdered too? Or did she know, and was she playing games? ‘I try not to speculate without good evidence,’ Holden said. ‘Whatever has happened, there is a good chance that his car was caught on CCTV somewhere. Unfortunately there’s quite a wide time-frame during which he might have left here and driven off. And then, of course, there are several ways he could have gone from here. On to the A34 heading north or south, or the A40 towards Witney, or back round the northern ring road, towards London, or even under the A34 and off on the Eynsham road, or into Kidlington. Or if he wanted to avoid detection, maybe he used the lanes, through Wolvercote and Wytham. The chances are that he’ll turn up somewhere on CCTV, but you can see our difficulties.’

  ‘Here’s one of Dominic’s office cards,’ Francesca Willis said, holding out her hand. ‘It’s got his mobile and the office phone number on it, and I’ve written his car registration on the back. It’s a silver Renault Scenic, by the way.’

  ‘A Grand Scenic, actually,’ Sarah corrected.

  If looks could kill, Lawson reckoned Francesca Willis’s brains would have been spattered all over the magnolia office wall.

  Holden and Lawson pulled into the station just after 5.00 p.m. and bumped into Fox in the corridor, near the hot drinks machine. ‘Sorry, Guv, I left my mobile at home,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Five minutes in my office. And mine’s a black coffee, thanks.’ Holden disappeared into the ladies.

  ‘White tea, no sugar, if you don’t mind, Sarge,’ Lawson added, taking her chance, and then rapidly following her boss through the nondescript lime-green door.

  Fox muttered ungraciously in response as she disappeared, and pressed the button for a black coffee.

  The two women and Fox had barely sat down together before hurrying steps in the corridor announced the arrival of Detective Constable Wilson.

  ‘Sorry, Guv.’ His face was flushed, and his voice slightly hoarse. ‘I was at the game. Had my mobile turned off.’

  ‘Well, we won’t hold that against you. Did we win?’ The word ‘we’ popped out automatically. Holden had only ever been to watch Oxford United once, when they had beaten Swindon in the FA Cup, and she doubted she ever would do so again, but as a resident of Oxford she felt nevertheless it was her team. She had occasionally read a match report in the Oxford Mail or Times, in the hope that this might somehow offer her an insight into what drove people like Wilson and a number of otherwise sane people of her acquaintance to troop along on wet and cold Saturday afternoons to watch such a fatuous pastime, but enlightenment had failed to come.

  Wilson, excitement still evident, was answering her question. ‘Just. One nil. Last-minute goal. But three points for us, that’s what matters.’

  ‘Good!’ Holden said firmly. ‘Very good!’ The football conversation was over. ‘Sorry to drag you in on a Saturday, but Dominic Russell has disappeared.’

  ‘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.