Hold My Hand: The addictive new crime thriller that you won’t be able to put down in 2018. M.J. Ford
who’d obviously overheard, was standing in the doorway to his office.
‘That sounded unpleasant.’
Jo rubbed her temples. Maybe she was better off out of the case after all. The fucking hack had to be the same woman who was at the building site. She’d thought it might have been one of the construction workers who’d sold the info for a few quid, but how had they made the link to Dylan Jones?
‘I think we need to put out a statement to the press,’ she said. ‘The Joneses got doorstepped by a journo.’
Bridges nodded. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘You’re on the Thompson gang, remember?’
Jo spent the next couple of hours piecing together the movements of the gang, cross-referencing the GPS from phone records with on-the-ground surveillance reports from an undercover they had staying in the Snow Hill flats.
She had a voicemail from Bright Futures, and recognised the receptionist’s discreet tones before she remembered the name. They wanted to know, politely, if she’d be able to call back in to amend some paperwork, because there was a problem with her bank details. Jo saved the message for later.
The Thompsons were three brothers, all with lengthy records for theft, drugs and minor violence, but they never ended up doing more than a few months at a time inside. It was thought their network of mules, distributors and money men stretched to about forty individuals, involving a complex series of drop-offs and safe houses across the south of the city.
If Jo was honest, there wouldn’t have been so much appetite for the investigation if it weren’t for a couple of deaths three months earlier – two teens found stabbed in a burned-out car, one of them a cousin of the Thompson brothers and the other a known member of a rival gang. It looked like there might be fractures in the family, and that meant a turf war was on the cards.
The intelligence was painstaking and boring beyond belief, but if they were ever going to build a case, it was completely essential. Most of the phones were anonymous burners, tossed every few days. The general consensus was that this was a case of identifying one of the middle rankers and bringing them in. Then, when they turned, everything above should fall like a game of Jenga. They didn’t really care about the footmen – as Ben put it, they’d always find ways to get arrested another day. Eighty per cent of CID business came back to drugs, one way or another.
At about four p.m., Ben and Rhani came in. Through the glass, Jo saw them booking in an untidily dressed pensioner wearing low-slung tracksuit bottoms and a striped T-shirt that revealed his abdomen and had sweat patches under the armpits. His thinning wisps of hair were matted to his head, and from the droop in the left half of his face and a badly slanting shoulder, Jo guessed he’d suffered a stroke at some point. He was grotesquely fat, the years adding more folds under his neck and blubbery upper arms, but the disinterested, almost vacant way he surveyed the room gave him away as Clement Matthews.
They led him across to one of the interview rooms, before Rhani emerged again a couple of minutes later, making for the small kitchenette area and switching on the kettle.
‘He saying much?’ asked Jo.
‘Wants a brief, sarge,’ said Rhani. ‘And a tea with four sugars.’
She made it quickly and carried it in.
Half an hour later, Samantha Gore, one of the duty solicitors, arrived and the clerk from the front desk showed her in too.
Jo waited a moment before heading to the AV suite where she could monitor the live feed to the interview room. Bridges had headed off for the day – some sort of meeting with the Local Authority. His instructions about getting involved had been clear, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Matthews cut a sorry figure, slouched in his chair. Sam Gore finished introducing herself for the tape, then Ben showed Matthews the photo of Dylan.
‘I’m sure you remember this boy.’
Clement Matthews peered over and nodded.
‘Can you speak up?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was slightly slurred. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘You tell us,’ said Ben.
Clement looked across at him with watery eyes, then at Sam, then shrugged. ‘I’m not under arrest, am I? I can go if I want?’
‘You’re not under arrest at the moment, but how you co-operate now will affect our decision whether or not to re-arrest you at a future point.’
Ben next turned over a photo of the derelict house, and another of the drained pool.
‘Recognise this place?’
Clement glanced down. ‘Means nothing to me.’
‘Have a closer look.’
The old man’s eyes flicked down. ‘Still nope.’
‘Perhaps you could help my client with some more guidance as to what these images show,’ Sam interjected.
Ben pointed to the second photo. ‘That’s where we found the body of Dylan Jones.’
Matthews seemed to wake up. ‘You found him?’
‘I’m afraid so. You should have buried him deeper.’
Clement Matthews chuckled. ‘Is that all you’ve got? Jesus wept.’
He folded his arms and sat back.
‘We’ve got forensics crawling all over the place,’ said Ben. ‘If there’s even a hair there, we’ll find it.’
‘But at the moment?’ said Matthews.
A pause.
‘I should say,’ said Sam, ‘I’m failing to see any compelling evidence of Mr Matthews’ involvement. He was acquitted of the abduction. The case collapsed. He came here today of his own free will.’
And from the way Ben clasped his hands on the table, almost in prayer, Jo knew he felt exactly the same way. He looked defeated, like the story he’d built was crumbling around him, and it was a gesture she was only too familiar with.
* * *
She’d found out by accident. Ben had been behaving weirdly for days. Not sleeping, drinking more heavily than usual. She’d thought it was work, stupidly, but then she’d checked the savings account and seen the truth. They’d been putting a bit away each month for three years to get the deposit together. Nearly thirty grand. And when she checked, the account was empty. Well, not quite. The balance was two quid something. She logged out and in again, but it was the same. Had to be a mistake. But when she viewed the recent transactions, her whole world dropped away. There were regular payments to a stock-trading website, a few thousand at a time. The last one was six days before.
Heart beating fast and fingertips tingling, she put the computer aside and tried to stay calm. All their money gone. Or maybe not. Perhaps it was sitting in another account still. He couldn’t have lost it all. He wouldn’t do that to her.
Ben had always been a recreational gambler. Fruit machines in the pub, sports events. It had been cool in the early days because he often won, and sometimes he won big. And when he did, he was generous with it. In their late twenties, two grand on a football accumulator had gone straight on a blow-out weekend in Copenhagen. Of course, the wins were easy to remember. They’d had one or two arguments, no more than squabbles really, when she thought he’d gone too far. It was normally after a loss, when he’d sulk for a few days, then she’d learn he’d placed another bet to try and recoup. She didn’t get that – it reeked of desperation. And when she found a betting app on his phone, she’d put her foot down and demanded he delete it. He did so, but she’d suspected