Hold My Hand

by M. J. Ford

  ‘You’re right – I can’t really talk about it,’ she said. ‘It’s too early to say what happened exactly. But if you hear anything, Emma, anything at all, please come and find me. Doesn’t matter if it’s day or night.’

  Emma nodded. ‘I will. Sleep well, Auntie Jo.’

  ‘Just Jo,’ she replied. ‘Auntie makes me feel sixty years old.’

  Emma grinned. ‘Okay.’ At the door, she paused. ‘Oh, we’re going to see Gran tomorrow, if you want to come?’

  Mum. The home was in Kidlington, maybe twenty minutes away, and Jo hadn’t been for longer than she liked to admit. Last time hadn’t ended well.

  ‘What time?’ she said, stalling.

  ‘Mid-morning.’ Emma grinned. ‘Depending on Dad’s hangover.’

  ‘Em, I think I’ll be too busy.’ It was – conveniently – true.

  ‘Okay, no problem. Just thought I’d ask.’

  After she’d gone, Jo finished unpacking. She was about to undress when she realised the curtains were still open, staring blackly at her. She first closed the sash with a creak and a bang. Looking out over the garden, the only lights came from the back of Sally Carruthers’ house, beyond the orchard in the distance.

  Mum had always been a little funny with her piano teacher, and now Jo thought about it, perhaps it was because Jo had shown such obvious pleasure in going over to their neighbour’s house. Mrs Carruthers was everything her own mother wasn’t. Warm, open, musical. Maternal. After the lessons, Jo had often returned home with something Mrs Carruthers had baked for her. Sausage rolls, apricot tarts, apple turnovers. But searching her memory, Jo couldn’t remember her mother ever actually trying any of them. And when Jo had finally chosen to forgo the piano lessons, it had been their father who tried to dissuade her. Her mother had accepted the decision without protest.

  She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw the old woman’s silhouette moving inside the house. She lifted her hand in a half wave, before realising it was extremely unlikely that Mrs Carruthers could even see her from such a distance. But the figure did stop, looking out.

  I really should make the effort, she thought. It must be terrible, being there alone, though almost as soon as she thought that, she realised her own situation wasn’t so completely different. Two lonely women, staring into the dark night.

  And at least Sally Carruthers has a cat …

  She closed the curtains, checked her work phone for any news, and saw none.

  Niall was still out there, somewhere. Six hours had passed since he went missing. And despite the money in the sock, the pills and the weed, his mother was right.

  He was just a little boy.

  Chapter 6

  SATURDAY

  In the dawn light, Oxford appeared slightly bare and post-apocalyptic. Jo felt bruised, and exhausted, having woken at intervals throughout the night to check her phone for updates. There was nothing and she wondered if, somewhere, Niall was awake too. Terrified. Missing his parents and praying they’d come to find him.

  The street-cleaners were hard at work, sweeping up the detritus from the night before. No one had been awake at her brother’s house, so Jo had washed, dressed and left without a word, making the bed as though she’d never even been there. In the kitchen, strewn with bottles and glasses and the smell of stale alcohol, she had quietly made a piece of toast and chosen to eat it in the car. The hat she’d bought Paul lay half-crushed and resting on top of a yucca tree by the bifold doors. She’d straightened it and left it on the counter.

  She needed coffee, and found a mobile stall opening up just off George Street. Parking outside, she ordered an Americano. Normally she didn’t take sugar, but she had a craving today, so poured in two sachets. As she was stirring it into the cup, her eyes fell on a stack of bound local papers outside the newsagents next door. Her hand froze at the headline.

  KILLER CLOWN’S VICTIM UNEARTHED.

  What the fuck? Already?

  ‘Do you have any scissors?’ she asked the man who’d made her coffee.

  He looked at her like she was mad. Drink in hand, she went to the bundle, and crouched. In her ankle strap, she carried a utility knife, a gift from Ben on her thirtieth birthday. She slid the blade under the bindings and cut through, unfolding the top copy of the Oxford Times. The byline was someone called Rebekah Fitzwilliam – and though the name wasn’t familiar, the image stirred her memory. The main picture of the article was the smiling school photo of Dylan Jones, the colours muted, as well as a smaller inset of a Liverpool FC shirt.

  Jo took a reflexive sip of her coffee, scalding her mouth. Dammit. She felt sick inside. The story would hit the national press, surely. It couldn’t be long before Dylan’s parents found out about it.

  As she got into the car, she called DCI Bridges back in Bath.

  ‘To be expected, I guess. We’re fielding calls, and working up a statement to play it down. It’ll make the tabloids tomorrow, but hopefully not front page.’

  ‘Any confirmation from forensics?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Not so far – there might be usable DNA, but it’s too soon to tell. The age seems about right though. They’re saying six to eight based on bone density and teeth.’

  ‘And dental records?’

  ‘Not yet. Family practice closed years ago. Files were probably destroyed.’ He paused. ‘Listen, I’ve got another call. Phil Stratton says he could use you until this kid turns up, so no need to check in here. You’re Thames Valley for the time being.’

  Jo wasn’t sure she liked his tone. It sounded a lot like a criticism.

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  As Bridges hung up, Jo wondered what Ben had said about the split. He and Rob had never been close, but they’d played golf together a couple of times. If it came to keeping one of them on, Ben was senior, so it wasn’t going to be her. So much for the promotion prospects. She slammed the car door closed.

  The station at St Aldates was quiet now too. The board said that only one cell remained occupied. The custody shift had changed over, so Jo had to identify herself to a new, tired-looking sergeant. Tan had gone, but Dimitriou was now dressed in trousers and a shirt, shaving with an electric trimmer over the bin at his desk, with a small mirror. There was a uniformed constable standing by the printer. She wished them both good morning, before asking, ‘Any leads?’

  ‘Nothing concrete,’ said Dimitriou, going up and down under his chin. ‘Bloke in one of those houses saw a car driving slowly past about eight. Reckons it was red, or burgundy. An old model. He couldn’t give us more.’

  ‘Better than nothing. The mark on the gates was red too.’

  ‘Carrick has arranged to get an official statement from Arthur Price, at his house. He’s the best hope at the moment.’ He switched off the razor and turned his head from side to side, inspecting his work. ‘Oh, and we’ve got a sketch artist working with the kids, trying to get a visual on the suspect.’

  ‘We’re looking for Ronald McDonald,’ said the uniform by the printer, before stabbing a button hard. ‘Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with this thing?’

  ‘The clown mask might be useful,’ said Jo. ‘The perp went out of his way to disguise himself. We might be able to track down where he bought it.’

  ‘If he bought it recently,’ said Dimitriou.

  It was a good point. Jo had to remind herself this wasn’t connected to Dylan Jones. The clown mask was surely a co-incidence. Probably meant to scare the kids as much as keep him hidden.

  Dimitriou must have taken her silence for being offended.

  ‘But hey – let’s find a list of costume shops. We could head out together if you want?’

  ‘Is there a computer I can get on first? I need to look something up. Mine takes forever to get going.’

  ‘Sure. Use mine.’ He scooted back his chair, and Jo moved another across. In a few clicks, she navigated onto her Facebook page and found what she wanted.

  ‘Sexy bloody Saunders.’

  Dimitriou loo
ked across. ‘Hey, we have internet guidelines,’ he said. ‘When I said you could borrow my computer …’

  Jo was looking at a picture of Rebekah Fitzwilliam (née Saunders) that seemed to have been taken in a nightclub. Easy enough to find – they had several mutual friends on Facebook. No wonder she’d known the face.

  ‘I went to school with her,’ said Jo.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A problem,’ said Jo. She remembered vaguely that Saunders had been captain on the netball team and had once made her cry, though she couldn’t recall the exact cause. ‘She was sniffing around the case I was on in Bath.’

  ‘That cold case with the kid from thirty years back?’

  Jo opened up the page for the Oxford Times, with the Dylan Jones leader.

  ‘She was at the burial site, then pestering the parents. I think she might have an internal source.’

  Dimitriou grabbed his jacket, glancing at the screen. ‘She doesn’t look all bad,’ he said, grinning. ‘Shall we head out?’

  Jo treated him to a withering look and closed the Facebook window. ‘Let’s.’

  * * *

  There were four costume shops within a two-mile radius of Oxford city centre, but they drew up a list of all the likely toy shops too. After three hours of fighting through city traffic, of the same questions and answers, Jo was beginning to suspect the search was a futile one. All but one sold clown masks, but without a better description it was hard to pin down what they were really looking for. The shop staff were a mixture of owners and temps, and only one kept a detailed day-by-day inventory of sales by item.

  Between shops, Jo kept her eyes on her phone, expecting at any moment news from the station that Niall had shown up. With every minute that he didn’t, the nausea in the pit of her stomach built. What possible reason would a drug dealer have to keep him this long? The kid was eleven. They must have found whatever money he had on him almost straight away. And it didn’t matter how streetwise Niall McDonagh was – by now he’d be terrified. As for what his parents were going through …

  At 10.45 a.m., it was getting quite warm, and Dimitriou’s five o’clock shadow was already darkening his jawline. They pulled up outside Kidz Costumz, a small, scruffy shopfront in Summertown. There was a coffee place next door, so Jo suggested she pick up a couple while Dimitriou did the routine enquiries in the shop.

  ‘Mine’s a flat white,’ he said.

  They parted ways.

  Jo ordered, paid and was near the door with a cup-carrier when she heard shouts outside, then pounding feet. The next moment, three whooping teenagers ran past the window, all wearing plastic clown masks. What the hell?

  She flung open the door with her free hand, nearly dropping the coffees, and hurried out onto the pavement. The kids almost knocked over an old woman and her wheel-along trolley. She was thinking about giving chase when Dimitriou arrived at her side.

  ‘Apparently they’ve been doing a roaring trade,’ he said.

  ‘Because of last night?’ said Jo.

  ‘Kids have an odd sense of humour. Is that my flat white?’

  Jo nodded, watching the teens round a corner and vanish.

  ‘Anything pertinent?’

  ‘Nope. Owner said there’s a place in the Covered Market though. She’s given me the number of the wholesaler who supplies them both. Might be worth a shout.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Jo was climbing back into the car.

  ‘You don’t sound convinced,’ said Dimitriou as he did the same.

  ‘I can’t help but think we’re grasping at straws.’ She thought how quickly Emma had heard about the kidnap. The kids buying up clown masks just a few hours after the Dylan Jones story hit the papers. ‘We need to bring in a few dealers. If Niall’s found himself in that world, I guarantee dozens of people know about it already.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Let’s visit the Market, then call it quits and head back to the station.’

  * * *

  Oxford’s Covered Market, occupying a block between the High Street and the Cornmarket, had five street entrances. It was a mixture of traditional food stalls, clothes shops and tourist souvenirs, and bustled with footfall. Jo remembered coming in with her dad to buy meat from the butchers. The joke shop was tucked away with a row of tiny booths selling jewellery, scarves and purses. The sickly smell of incense from a neighbouring stall hung over the area, making Jo feel light-headed.

  The owner was a shaven-headed, stocky woman wearing looping earrings and a vest. When she saw Jo and Dimitriou approaching, she gave a cackle.

  ‘If there was ever a couple in need of a smile …’

  Jo raised her badge briefly. ‘A few questions,’ she said. There were several masks hanging on the back wall. Frankenstein, Dracula, the US President …

  The woman’s cheerful face dropped. ‘What’s he done now?’ she said, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Who?’ said Dimitriou.

  ‘This is about my Elton, I’m guessing?’

  ‘Sorry, not sure what you mean,’ said Jo. ‘We’re making enquiries in relation to a missing child.’

  ‘Who’s Elton?’ asked Dimitriou.

  ‘My ex,’ the woman said. ‘Never mind. Here, let’s have another look at that badge.’

  Jo showed it again. ‘Do you sell clown masks?’

  ‘You as well? Afraid I’m all out. Hey, is this about that kid got snatched on Port Meadow?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jo. ‘And we don’t want to buy one. We’re interested in a person who might have purchased one recently.’

  ‘Sold six or seven just this morning,’ said the woman. ‘Kids, y’know.’

  ‘Further back than that,’ said Jo. ‘Say in the last two weeks.’

  ‘Y’know what, there was a fella,’ said the woman. Jo perked up. ‘I wouldn’t normally have noticed, but he was a bit older than my regular clientele. I said as much.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Jo. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Maybe five or six days ago.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Actually, I can tell you exactly. It was Tuesday, because I was unpacking some new stock I’d picked up Monday night.’

  Jo took out her pocketbook and started making notes. Chances were it was nothing, but it was something in a day of absolutely nothing.

  ‘So Tuesday a.m.?’

  ‘Yeah, early,’ said the woman. ‘Would’ve been first thing, before ten anyway.’

  ‘And can you describe the man?’ she said, scribbling.

  The woman blew out her cheeks, and her earrings shook. ‘You’re putting me on the spot there.’

  ‘Any detail at all might prove crucial,’ said Dimitriou. He was glancing up and down at the ceiling, no doubt looking for CCTV. Jo had already spotted the camera at the far end. Please, please, be working. In her experience, one in three were unoperational – a deterrent rather than a recording device.

  ‘He wasn’t tall,’ she said. ‘I remember that. Maybe not much bigger than me, and I’m five-five.’

  Jo immediately thought of the kids’ description of the man at the circus. They’d said his posture had suggested someone middle-aged.

  ‘How old, would you estimate?’

  ‘Fifty, maybe a bit older? He had grey hair.’

  Jo’s handwriting was untidy because of her excitement. She forced herself to calm down. In all likelihood this was a grandfather buying a present.

  ‘Clothing?’

  ‘Definitely.’ She cackled again. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember. I wasn’t paying attention.’

  ‘But the clown mask in question? Can you describe it?’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ said the woman, proudly. She bent down, rummaging under the counter, and when she came up she was holding a catalogue. She licked her index finger and flicked through several pages, before flipping it over and pointing to a listing. ‘That’s the one.’

  There was a small picture of a clown mask – a leering oversized bright scarlet mouth filled with gleaming, wrinkled skin and black daubs around t
he mouth. A wig of frizzy red hair.

  Jo took it, glancing at Dimitriou, who wore a small, satisfied smile.

  They asked more questions. Which way had the customer left? (She didn’t know). His accent (maybe local, maybe not), distinguishing characteristics (nothing memorable). Jo sensed the helpful woman was losing interest, so decided to wrap things up and took her details.

  ‘Can we keep this?’ Dimitriou asked, holding up the catalogue.

  ‘S’pose so,’ said the owner, before gesturing with a hand at her wares. ‘Maybe I can interest you in something for your children too?’

  ‘I’ve escaped that trap so far,’ said Dimitriou. ‘Jo? You have any sprogs at home?’

  She smiled as best as she could. ‘’Fraid not.’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Suit yourselves.’ She looked Jo up and down, as if evaluating her fertility. ‘Don’t leave it too late though. They might be a pain in the backside, but they’re worth it in the long run.’

  I’ll bear that in mind, thought Jo.

  Afterwards, they took a turn of the Market, noting the location of all the other cameras. There were only two more, which was a disappointment, and Jo found a plate on one of the main doors listing the security company that looked after the building. The name gave her pause, but only for a moment. Securitex, same as the group at the Port Meadow circus. They were one of the bigger operations locally.

  She put in a call to the number listed on the main entrance as soon as they were out. She got an automated switchboard, followed through several increasingly frustrating options, then the line went to an answerphone. She hung up and tried again, and this time managed to get to a message saying, ‘If your situation is an emergency, please contact the police.’ With a growl of frustration, she went back to the answerphone and left a message asking for a callback. She reckoned Carrick would have a direct line, for sure.

  At the car, Dimitriou was grinning from ear to ear. ‘You want to see something?’ he said, flashing his phone at her. ‘Composite sketch based on witness descriptions.’

  She found herself looking at a pencil drawing filling the screen. It showed a clown’s face, and was as close as dammit to the image in the catalogue.