Lock Me In. Kate Simants

      ‘I’m going to assume you’re joking,’ he said, before remembering something. ‘You’d be wasting your time anyway.’

      ‘Because?’

      ‘It was something Lucy Arden told us – Jodie’s mum,’ he explained. ‘Apparently Jodie had asked him for copies of his research, a few weeks before she disappeared. He had transcripts done from the audio recordings of Ellie’s sessions, all her medical notes, loads of data, but he lost it.’

      Eyebrows up, incredulous. ‘Lost it? How did he manage that?’

      ‘Apparently. He was still using floppies. Useless things. Lost your data all the time.’

      Kit retracted her chin. ‘What the hell is a floppy?’

      Mae rolled his eyes in reply. Kids. He turned back to his screen.

      Kit was staring ahead now, through him.

      ‘What?’ Mae asked.

      She shook herself and looked at him. ‘Just doesn’t … I don’t know.’ She mimed cogs with her fingers, not quite meshing. ‘Doesn’t fit. He spends all that time with her, recording her, everything, then the whole lot disappears? It’s fishy.’

      ‘Be that as it may. It’s her own business, not our remit.’

      Kit dropped her hands, reddening very slightly.

      ‘I know. I’m just interested.’ She cleared her throat. ‘You going to get that?’ she asked him, raising a finger towards the desk phone.

      Mae laughed and shook his head, then took the call he could see was from the switchboard.

      ‘DS Mae, Mr Jupp on the line. Says he’s returning your call about visiting a boatyard.’

       15.

       Mae

      Jupp’s boatyard was only a couple of miles away, so Mae borrowed one of the force pushbikes. It was late afternoon, the light was sparse through a heavy ceiling of cloud. Spotting the marina entrance, he swung a leg over the crossbar and sailed it standing on one pedal, then hopped down and secured it in a single practised movement against a lamppost.

      Mae had discovered the wharf earlier that summer, when he’d talked Bear into a walk along the towpath. He’d pointed out where he’d dealt with a burglary at one of the warehouses that backed straight onto the river, and he’d seen the boats on the towpath that extended from the yard. That was back when it had been warm enough for the residents to still be sitting out on their decks as the sun went down, drinking and barbequing. Different story now, at the arse-end of November. He smelled the smoke of the little log burners they used, the diesel emissions. There was the rumble of generators, punctuated by the honking of a pair of Canada geese. Scraps of laughter from outside a nearby pub lifted and cracked in the air.

      He took the steps built into the sloping wall down to where a shabby prefab cube of an office sat precariously levelled on bricks. He knocked and went in. Cheap, functional furniture was laden with papers, notes scribbled on envelopes, and a jumble of polystyrene cups. Behind the desk, a fat guy in a shirt made for a thinner one.

      Mae put out a hand. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mae. We spoke on the phone.’

      ‘Jupp,’ the man said. He was puffy and goutish, the kind of clean-shaver who should have considered a beard. Waving a hand vaguely behind him, he said, ‘My yard.’ Strong Bristol accent. He didn’t get up, and only shook the hand reluctantly when it became clear Mae wasn’t going to put it away unshaken.

      Jupp listened while Mae gave him the basics, then rummaged in a drawer and brought out a key. ‘Take you down to his boat, shall I?’

      Standing, Jupp was short enough for Mae to see the shiny top of his head, lit up with the reflection of the flickering single-bar strip light. Then again, everyone was short, to Mae.

      Outside, a half-hearted drizzle had started to fall, blown across them by a brisk wind. A tang of lager and used nappies was emanating from three overfilled wheelie bins. They stopped at a gate where Jupp paused to key in the code, angling his thickly padded shoulders to block Mae’s view of the keypad. Mae saw it anyway: 2580, all four numbers in a vertical line down the middle. Nice one, Mae thought: unbreakable. The gate buzzed and clunked open.

      They went down the sloping pontoon towards the water, Jupp confirming on the way that he hadn’t seen Matt since the morning of the day before.

      ‘Said he was going to go down to the pump-out.’

      ‘Where’s that?’

      ‘Mile or so.’ Jupp indicated with his arm: downriver, east.

      ‘Did you see him go?’

      Jupp shrugged. ‘Nope. But he came back, didn’t he? Must have come back last night on the big tide. Boat was in place when I did my patrol.’

      ‘But you haven’t seen him today?’

      ‘It’s not a prison.’ Jupp eyed Mae with obvious dislike as they approached the bottom of the slope. ‘They come and go as they please. Lot of us boaters just want leaving alone, tell the truth, not so keen on people coming round, poking their noses—’

      ‘Left or right?’ Mae asked with a smile, aware that life was short and he wasn’t getting any younger.

      Jupp sniffed and turned, leading Mae left along the metal gridding.

      ‘How does it work then, mooring here?’ Mae asked. ‘Your tenants pay in advance?’

      ‘Invoice them on the twentieth, payment due first of the month. Month’s notice either way.’

      The first of the month was coming up in a few days. ‘People rent these boats then, or own them?’

      ‘Bit of both. Matt rents his off my brother.’

      Mae followed Jupp along a floating pontoon stretching maybe thirty, forty metres along the river. The walkway dipped and bounced as they moved along it, their footsteps causing the sections to clank together.

      ‘Watch your step, boy,’ Jupp said, glancing at Mae. ‘Dangerous if you’re used to nice safe driveways.’

      ‘Don’t worry about me. Spent my childhood fishing.’

      Jupp frowned. ‘Din’t know your lot fished.’

      ‘Police?’

      ‘Chinese.’

      Mae blinked. ‘Korean.’

      He shrugged. ‘Same difference. Thought it was snooker. Gambling.’

      ‘OK, yeah. We’re all ninjas, too.’

      Jupp frowned, but Mae raised a hand to dismiss it. Just could not be arsed.

      The pontoon bouncing under their feet, they passed an assortment of boats. Traditional narrowboats; flimsy-looking fibreglass cruisers; wide, curvy-bottomed things with wheelhouses and Dutch-sounding names painted along their bows. Twee Gebroeders, Derkje, Ziet Op U Zelve.

      ‘Mr Corsham been here long? Regular with the rent? Any problems?’

      ‘Moved down from Scotland somewhere a few months ago. Pays on time.’

      ‘No wild parties, anything out of the usual?’

      Jupp cast a look over his shoulder. ‘People call us gypsies, you get that? Pikies, river scum.’

      Mae waited, unsure where this was going.

      ‘We get it in the neck, is what I’m saying. Brick brigade making their judgements. So we stick together, yeah? You’re not going to get