Hold My Hand: The addictive new crime thriller that you won’t be able to put down in 2018. M.J. Ford
with officers stopping the queue of exiting vehicles. Jo pulled up just across the bridge, and a uniform came up to the window with a torch angled right in her face. Jo wound the window down.
‘You’ll have to go back,’ he said. ‘We’ve got an emergency situation here.’
Jo flashed her badge. ‘I’m Detective Masters from Avon and Somerset,’ she said. ‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ said the uniform, angling the torch away. Out of its dazzle, Jo saw he was really young – maybe not even twenty-five. ‘It’s DCI Stratton from Thames Valley. He’s on site somewhere, talking to the witnesses.’
‘And DS Carrick? Is he here?’
‘He’s about, yes. I’m afraid I don’t know where.’
Jo climbed out and locked up, then started towards the meadow. Beyond the cars she could see the garish lights of the circus rides.
It’s just a coincidence. Has to be.
‘We’ve got checks on all the exit roads,’ said the uniform, ‘Wolvercote, Binsey, Godstow, the canal towpath, and the bridges that cross the river.’
Jo greeted the other uniforms on the gates. They were opening the boot of an estate car, with two excited-looking kids in the back.
It’s too late for that now, thought Jo.
She showed her ID again to the uniforms, and went through the gates. Carrick was talking to some men in high-vis jackets from a company called Securitex, who looked like they hadn’t signed up for anything like this.
‘… no detail is insignificant.’ He handed them cards. ‘I’ll need a full list of personnel from your supervisor. You got that?’
He saw Jo, registered surprise, and beckoned her over.
‘I was only in Horton,’ she said. ‘My gaffer said the suspect was dressed as a clown.’
‘Weird, isn’t it?’
‘I guess so,’ she said non-committally. ‘What’s the timeline?’
Carrick took out his notebook. ‘We got the call at 9.43 p.m. Witnesses estimate the boy was taken at 8.30.’
‘What took them so long to make the call?’
‘Beats me.’
‘You said witnesses plural?’
‘Stratton’s got them in a temporary office,’ said Carrick, pointing across the site to a cabin a couple of hundred yards away. ‘Kids. Hard to get much sense out of them. Looks like there was some sort of altercation. A lad called Niall McDonagh, eleven years old, got taken from somewhere over by the water at knifepoint. One of his friends was assaulted.’
‘How bad?’
‘Walking wounded.’
‘And the suspect?’
‘We’re putting together a profile. The kids are all pretty spooked, as you can imagine. Doesn’t help that they’ve been smoking weed. Most of them think he was middle-aged at least, from the voice and posture. But he was wearing a mask and wig, so we don’t have much to go on.’
‘You think he worked here?’
‘Who knows? He was in jeans and a fleece.’
‘Image of the missing kid?’
Carrick took out his phone. ‘It’s been shared electronically from one of his friends with all officers in Thames Valley and other agencies.’
Jo peered at the screen, which showed what looked like a selfie of a boy wearing a green rugby shirt with the collar up. He had spiky dark hair, a button nose and owl-like brown eyes and was staring moodily into the camera.
‘He’s only eleven?’ said Jo. ‘Looks older.’
‘We’ll be getting more images from the parents. Car’s gone to pick them up and take them to the station.’
As Jo left Carrick and headed across to the office, she found she was quite calm. A dozen explanations were swimming through her head, but none of them involved a clown from three decades before, miraculously making a reappearance the very day his former victim was unearthed. The most likely seemed to be a low-level drug deal that had gone south. Maybe Niall and his friend tried to take the product without paying, or maybe someone else had stumbled on the transaction and things had gotten out of hand. The fact the suspect was in a mask, not made-up, suggested someone just trying to stay incognito, rather than an actual clown. Not that any of these circumstances made the situation trivial. The first hour after an abduction was always the most crucial, and that window had been and gone. Every second that passed made the outcome less promising.
The circus site was almost entirely emptied out, with a few workers standing around idly or picking up rubbish. Jo was surprised Stratton was letting that happen – who knew what evidence might be getting dumped along with the drinks cans and sweet wrappers. There were plenty of coppers too, moving between the rides and checking underneath or round the back.
Beyond the fairground was the river, but metal fencing had been set up along the banks. Across the other side, Jo knew, were miles of fields, crisscrossed by the odd country lane and footpath. If it was a genuine kidnap, there were a dozen places a car could have been parked and driven away. The roadblocks and checkpoints were probably useless by now.
The door to the office was open, with another uniform at the bottom of a set of metal steps. Jo showed her badge and asked to speak to Stratton, then waited while the officer went inside. He waved her in a moment later.
The place stank of marijuana, and three sorry-looking teenagers – two girls and a boy – were sitting side by side on a sofa. A fourth, another male, perhaps fifteen years old – was seated on a desk chair, wrapped in a silver thermal blanket while a paramedic bandaged his head. Jo took them in quickly with a sweep of the eyes. Expensively dressed – labels on clothes and shoes. Three white, one Asian. The older of the girls had her hair swept up in an artfully blonde mess, the other wore some sort of beanie. She had a flush across her cheekbones that suggested she’d spent the day in the sunshine. The other girl was in tears.
Chief Inspector Stratton was in uniform, still wearing a cap. His face wore an impatient scowl.
On the table, between Stratton and the kids, was a mobile phone, and everyone, apart from the paramedic, was looking at it.
‘Sir,’ said Jo. ‘DS Masters, Avon and Somerset. DCI Bridges sent me over.’
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. Stratton glanced across at her. ‘We’ve put in a request with the network to track Niall’s phone. They should be back with us in the next few minutes.’
‘Any more contact?’
‘We had three messages altogether.’
‘From Niall?’
Stratton nodded, and Jo gestured to the phone. ‘May I?’
‘Go ahead.’
Jo picked up the phone – a newer model than her own. It was locked, but the boy getting his head looked at mumbled, ‘Ten twelve zero four’, and Jo typed in the numbers. The texts were right there.
He’s got me. Shit. In his car.
U serious? Call police.
He’ll hear. Scared.
Ive called police. Mate?
M8?
We’ve stopped.
Where are u?
M8?
Ny?
Jo checked the time