by M. J. Ford
‘I’ve told you,’ said Art sulkily.
‘I hope for your sake you have.’
The boatyard was cast in deep shadow as she ran the torch over it. A dilapidated chain-link fence was leaning in sections, and inside were several dinghies covered with tarps, as well as a rack of canoes, plus an ancient Land Rover with a trailer attached. Two large sheds at the back, shuttered with metal grilles.
‘Show me where it happened,’ said Jo.
Art led her past the side of the fence, along a narrow path of caked mud under the shelter of overhanging trees. It was all perfectly hidden from view. At the far side, a tarmac single track led to the boathouse between hedges. Jo calculated the track would emerge in the Marston area. Beyond that, the bypass. Open road.
Art stopped. ‘Right here,’ he said.
There was no light here, and Jo took out her torch, shining it across the ground. Not so much as a scrap of litter. The grassy verge by the road was worn down, presumably where cars turned in front of the boathouse gate.
‘Tell me again what happened.’
Art rubbed the back of his neck. ‘We were walking ahead. He hit me. I fell – here.’ He pointed at the ground.
She looked up the lane. ‘And he took Niall this way?’
Art nodded.
‘Did you hear a car?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And you couldn’t get up – why?’
‘I told you. He hit me.’
‘So how long were you on the ground?’
Art shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Twenty seconds.’
‘And then?’
‘I got up. I went back.’
‘You didn’t go after Niall?’
Art stared at her, hard. ‘No.’
Jo frowned. ‘Why?’
Art swallowed, lip trembling. ‘I was scared, all right?’ He began to cry. ‘I wanted to. He had a knife. Fuck – Niall looked so fucking scared.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Jo. ‘I’d be scared too.’ She pointed at a tree stump. ‘Wait there.’
She walked up the lane, torch lighting the way ahead. Arthur Price might be lying to her, but she thought not. He’d probably sprinted back to his mates as fast as his legs would carry him. And part of her was glad. At least they weren’t dealing with a kid dead from a knife wound.
About fifty yards up she found a layby, with a gate to a field that was locked. If the kidnapper had a car, this was where he must have parked. A brief inspection showed nothing, but forensics could comb it. She went to the gate and climbed a few rungs to look over the hedges. The lights of houses twinkled about a quarter of a mile away. It might be worth talking to the owners. The road couldn’t get a lot of traffic and someone might have seen something.
As she was getting down, she saw a tiny speck of red on the end gatepost, which had buckled slightly. Maybe a piece of poor manoeuvring?
Jo turned back, mind playing over the possibilities. If it was a dealer, this wasn’t a bad place to park up. Out of sight, easy access. But that didn’t really add up with the overgrown path. You couldn’t stumble on it. Whoever used it knew the area very well, and Port Meadow didn’t scream gang territory.
If you were a planning a kidnap, however, it made perfect sense. Quick exit, no witnesses.
She headed back, uneasy.
Chapter 5
Jo had never been in St Aldates police station before, but when she arrived it was exactly like every other city station at eleven p.m. on a Friday night. A squad vehicle in the car park, unloading a couple of drunks, one clutching a bloody tissue to his mouth. A steady flow of uniformed pairs coming in and out of the back exit. The waiting room was full, the custody sergeant looked harassed and someone was banging on a cell door demanding to be let out.
She showed her badge, signed in, and followed the sergeant’s directions through the communal area, down a corridor to the CID office. A slight, Asian officer in plain clothes had a phone clamped between her shoulder and ear while tapping on a keyboard, and a swarthy athletic-looking man in cycling gear emerged from a side room with a bicycle helmet over his arm and two mugs of tea in his hands.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Jo Masters, Avon and Somerset,’ said Jo, holding out her hand. ‘I’m helping on the McDonagh case.’
The cyclist put down the two mugs and shook her hand. ‘George Dimitriou. Call me Dimi. They dragged me in too. Seems like an overreaction.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said the Asian woman, coming off the phone. ‘Heidi Tan. Nice to meet you face to face.’
Jo had already spoken to Tan on the way over about the paint chips on the gate and the houses up the road from the crime scene.
‘Is Detective Carrick here?’ asked Jo. ‘I’m supposed to co-ordinate with him.’
Tan had taken a mug and gestured to an interview room with it before sipping. ‘He’s got the parents in Room 2.’
‘May I?’ said Jo, heading over.
‘Knock yourself out,’ said Tan.
Jo knocked and entered. Carrick was sitting across from two understandably worried-looking forty-somethings. The man was pacing back and forth, and the woman clutched a handkerchief like it was the only thing keeping her sane. Both well-dressed – Mr McDonagh had a corduroy jacket and a knitted green tie over a checked shirt. Greying at the temples, his hair was a luxuriantly artful sweep. He was clean-shaven, with a small cleft in his chin. He looked like Richard Burton. Two untouched mugs of coffee sat in front of them, and an assortment of photos lay on the table, some still in picture frames.
‘Can’t you track his phone?’ said Mr McDonagh. ‘He’s never off the bloody thing.’
‘We’re working on that,’ said Carrick. ‘What we need from you now is a list of family members who live locally. And any adults that Niall regularly comes into contact with.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘This is Detective Masters. She’s been drafted in from another force to help with the search as well. Jo – this is Professor Anthony McDonagh and his wife, Brigitte.’
The man stopped pacing and stood with his arms akimbo before coming forward and offering his hand. He towered over her, and she received the impression of a former sportsman – a rower, or a rugby player. They shook hands – his were massive, the skin rough.
Jo offered a hand to his wife as well. ‘Mrs McDonagh.’
‘Doctor, actually,’ said the woman. On closer inspection, she looked to be in her early fifties – she must have had her children late – with blonde hair turning to grey in the bouffant style of an eighties news anchor, slightly misshapen as though she’d been woken from sleep. She wore a stylish long cardigan and tailored trousers. Her mascara was smudged around the eyes, and Jo wondered if she’d applied it just to come to the station.
Jo registered the correction with a smile. ‘Apologies. You’re both academics at the university?’
‘Gloucester College,’ said Mr McDonagh.
Jo passed a glance over the other photographs they’d brought. Family gatherings, a school uniform shot, one with an older boy who might have been the brother. Niall looked a little different in every one, but the large soulful eyes were a common thread – luminous and innocent.
‘I just don’t understand why anyone would take Niall,’ said Mrs McDonagh. She dabbed her eyes. ‘He’s just a little boy. What do they want with him?’
‘And you have another son?’ said Jo.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs McDonagh. ‘Kieran’s fifteen. He’s not well – glandular fever.’
‘Want to bring me up to speed, boss?’ said Jo.
‘I’ve been over the basic facts as we know them,’ said Carrick. ‘It’s very early to form any conclusions, and at this stage our priority – all our resources – are simply focused on locating Niall.’
‘What resources are those?’ said Mr McDonagh, waving a hand at the door. ‘There’s a chap out there making tea looking like he’s about to start the Tour de France.’
‘Tony, they’re doing everything the
y can,’ said Mrs McDonagh. Mr McDonagh grunted and began to pace again.
Jo leaned in, speaking softly. ‘I’m sure you’ve been over this already, but did Niall have any enemies?’
‘He’s eleven, detective,’ said Mr McDonagh. ‘When you have enemies at that age, they tend not to kidnap you.’
‘Darling, Detective Masters is just trying to help,’ said his wife.
Jo felt Carrick watching her. She guessed he hadn’t mentioned the drug angle at all, but she wasn’t going to beat around the bush.
‘Did your son owe anyone money?’
Anthony McDonagh snorted. ‘This has something to do with Arthur, doesn’t it? I knew it. Where is that little brat, anyway? Have you rung Simon and Penelope?’
‘They’re his parents?’ said Carrick.
‘Nominally,’ said Niall’s father. ‘Not that they do much actual parenting.’
‘Arthur Price is friends with your eldest?’ said Jo.
‘Despite our best efforts. We never should have let Niall go out.’
‘Is that something you would normally do?’ asked Jo.
‘What are you suggesting?’ said Mrs McDonagh. ‘That this is somehow our fault?’
‘Not at all,’ said Jo. ‘I’m just trying to get a feel for his lifestyle.’
Anthony McDonagh reached over and laid a hand on the table, as if to placate the room.
‘We wouldn’t normally have allowed it,’ he said. ‘But we had a departmental dinner. We knew there would be some older, responsible children accompanying him.’
‘Like Arthur Price?’ said Carrick.
Jo glanced at him, surprised he would press like that.
‘Has Arthur been in trouble before?’ asked Jo hurriedly.
‘He’s been expelled from two schools already,’ said Mrs McDonagh. ‘Drugs.’
Now we’re getting somewhere.
‘We think there may be a drug connection to Niall’s disappearance,’ said Jo.
‘Well, slow down,’ said Mr McDonagh. ‘Niall isn’t into anything like that.’
‘Of course not,’ interrupted Carrick. ‘What we’re saying is that it may be he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
And carrying the money, thought Jo.
Mrs McDonagh scrunched the handkerchief more tightly. ‘Oh God. Will they hurt him? They won’t, will they?’
Jo wasn’t sure what to say, but Carrick leant across the table and touched Niall’s mother’s hand.
‘I doubt it very much. We’re exploring every avenue. If this is drug-related, I’d anticipate we’ll get Niall back very soon. It’s a small world, and we have plenty of intelligence about the groups involved.’
‘Thank you, detective,’ muttered Mrs McDonagh. ‘We just want him home.’
‘Call Simon and Penelope,’ said Mr McDonagh. ‘Or get them in here. If that little shit …’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jo. ‘We’ll be talking to Arthur at length. He’s been very helpful already.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting here for a moment,’ said Carrick. ‘I’d like to talk to Detective Masters in private.’
As they left the room together, Anthony McDonagh had both hands on his wife’s shoulders. Once the door was closed, Carrick raised an eyebrow at Jo.
‘They’re in denial, don’t you think?’
‘Isn’t that a survival strategy if you’re a parent? They’re realising that their little angel might have a dark side.’
‘I think we need to push a bit harder on the friends,’ said Carrick. ‘The older boy, especially.’
‘Agreed,’ said Jo. ‘He wasn’t saying much to me, but if we get his parents in the room too, he might open up.’
Heidi Tan came over. ‘We’ve got officers over at Blackbird Leys, Cowley Road and Abingdon. They’re knocking on doors, talking to the usual faces. Plus I’ve put out feelers to the regular crowd. Nothing so far, but someone will talk. We’ve sent uniforms to speak to the owners of the houses near the boatyard, and to cordon off the area. Forensics can’t get there till three a.m.’
Which reminded Jo about the body site near Bradford. It was probably too early for much of an update there, but she wondered how Ben was faring with Clement Matthews.
‘If you don’t need me for anything else right now, I’d like to make a call?’ she said to Carrick.
‘Sure – take yourself off and get some sleep,’ said Carrick. ‘Front desk will help you find a hotel.’
Jo baulked to think how much a city-centre hotel would cost. She could claim it back, but the process took a few days. Of course, there was another option. No cost at all, at least not a financial one.
‘Thanks, boss. I’ll see you first thing.’
On the way back to the car, she called Bath, and got DC Rhani Aziz, who sounded chipper as always. Give her a few more years …
‘Ben’s mad,’ she said. ‘He had to let Matthews go.’
‘I thought it was a long shot. Was there anything at all?’
‘Nope. Either the guy’s an amazing actor, or he’s innocent. He actually fell asleep during questioning.’
‘So what’s next?’
‘Carter’s tried to get hold of Land Registry to find out the owners of the wreck, but they say they can’t get into their offices to find the clients till Monday.’
Jo sighed. ‘And Ben’s okay with that?’
Carter was widely accepted to be the weakest member in the CID. He’d probably even admit it himself. With two ex-wives to support, he was happy to drift towards mandatory retirement.
‘Not really, but he’s been too busy with Matthews to sort it out himself.’
Jo stopped talking for a moment as Andy Carrick led the McDonaghs towards his car. Both of them looked shattered, and why not? It was every parent’s worst night nightmare. Despite Carrick’s calm professionalism, it must have been dawning on them, as the hours passed by, that they might not see their son again.
‘What about the council?’ she asked, once they were out of earshot.
‘Same story. Have you ever known a council worker to put themselves out at the weekend?’
‘Fair point.’
‘Anything on your kidnap? Was it really a clown?’
‘No,’ said Jo, decisively. ‘It was just someone in a mask. We think it’s drug-related, probably just a scare tactic. Ten to one we have the kid back before dawn.’
‘Oh good,’ said Rhani. ‘Bit creepy though, right? I never liked clowns.’
Jo managed a half-hearted laugh, suddenly back in the toilet cubicle at school.
‘Killer Clown’s coming.
What you gonna do?
He’ll drag you into the woods
And cut you in two …’
* * *
The party was winding up when Jo pulled up outside Paul’s house in Horton just after two in the morning and with the clear night the temperature had dropped considerably from the high twenties of the afternoon. What a bloody day! She’d have gone round the back again, but her brother was on the doorstep wishing a noisy farewell to a pair of guests. He was wearing his new hat.
‘Sis!’ he slurred. ‘You’re back!’
Jo took the overnight bag from her boot. She always kept one, just in case she ended up sleeping at the station, something which had happened more than once.
‘Wondered if I could change my mind and take you up on that offer?’ she said.
‘Eh?’
Amelia appeared, looking distinctly more sober than her husband. ‘Of course! The spare room’s made up.’
‘Sorry I had to dash away earlier,’ said Jo. ‘Work.’
‘You missed my dancing,’ said Paul. He gave her a bear hug as she tried to squeeze past through the door. ‘Want a drink? I’m going to have a drink.’
‘I think I’d better just get some sleep,’ said Jo.
‘I think we all should,’ said Amelia, steering Paul back through the door and closing it. ‘Someone’s going to have a sore head in the morning.’
<
br /> Paul reached up, took the brim of the hat, and frisbee’d it across the hallway, clearly unaware of how much it cost. He always was a good-natured drunk, like Dad.
‘Good night, everyone,’ said Jo. As she took herself up the stairs, she crossed the landing, and before she even thought about it, she’d pushed open a bedroom door. Emma squealed and leapt off the bed. Jo caught a flash of underwear and flesh, but nothing more.
‘Oh, God! I’m sorry!’ said Jo, backing out.
A second or two later, her niece opened the door. She was holding a dressing gown in front of her.
‘You could have knocked! I was getting changed!’
‘This used to be my room,’ said Jo. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
‘No worries. Spare room’s down the hall,’ said Emma.
‘Night. Sorry again.’
Jo remembered the guest bedroom well, but it had completely changed. Gone was the huge old porcelain sink in the corner, and the horrible wallpaper and dark curtains. It was cool, the sash window open a crack. Her brother’s wife had redecorated in pale colours. Mum and Dad had used it as a bit of a junk room, but now it was almost empty apart from a bed and bureau. Discreet fitted wardrobes lined the wall. There was an en-suite too, where once a mahogany wardrobe had dominated. Jo placed her bag on the end of the bed and began to unpack.
Two texts came through in quick succession. Both from Ben. You still up? and Can we talk?
Jo ignored them. When was he going to get the message? She took out her wash kit, her nightclothes and her laptop. Someone knocked at the door.
‘Come in.’
She expected Amelia with towels, but it was her niece, now dressed in a hoodie and jogging trousers.
‘Auntie Jo,’ she said. ‘You’re probably not allowed to talk about it, but do you know about a boy going missing tonight?’
Jo noticed the phone clutched in Emma’s hand. News travels fast.
‘Niall McDonagh?’ she said. ‘Yes. You know him?’
‘His brother,’ said Emma. ‘Everyone’s saying he’s been kidnapped. Kieran’s going mental. His parents won’t tell him anything.’
Jo looked at her niece, saw for a moment the infant she remembered like it was only yesterday, excited about the tooth fairy, and realised she didn’t know this young woman at all.
