Hold My Hand

by M. J. Ford

  Jo killed the light and turned, following the others out. She was about to shut the door when she thought she heard the faintest of sounds. She flicked it back on.

  ‘Niall?’ she yelled.

  And there it was again. A human cry, indistinct but desperate, pleading – a muffled wail.

  Holy fucking Christ …

  ‘He’s in here somewhere!’ she said.

  They bundled back in, picking up anything from the floor and tossing it aside. With the hut’s strange resonance, it was hard to tell where the muted sound had come from. Jo’s eyes fell on the trolley. It was big, twice the base of a shopping cart.

  ‘Under there!’ she said. She dropped the torch and gripped the edges of the trolley. The thing weighed a tonne. Ben joined her, and together they managed to shift it on ruined castors. There was a hatch, three feet wide, beneath.

  ‘We’re coming, Niall,’ she shouted. ‘Don’t worry – we’re coming!’

  She got her fingertips under the hatch, and it came up easily, opening onto a metal ladder. She saw Dimitriou gag, and then the smell of faeces, pungent and stomach-twisting, hit her too.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ said Ben, and before she could object he was swinging himself down.

  She grabbed the torch again and hurried after him.

  ‘Niall!’ Ben called, and the same muffled cry came back. This time it was closer.

  Jo’s feet hit the ground, and she shone the torch up and down a concrete corridor, bare but for lead pipework along the one wall. The air was thick, and warm, and the stench made her eyes water. She pushed past Ben, splashing through a puddle. The ceiling dipped, and she had to duck her head too. The world had shrunk to the arc of light and the sound of the footsteps at her back. And the all-pervading smell of shit and terror.

  At a T-junction, one tunnel was blocked by a pile of what looked like the carcasses of typewriters, so old they made her think of film props. In the other direction, the pipework came to a junction of complex bolts and sprocket heads, matted with cobwebs. And there was a metal door, with tiny slats and a single bolt across it. When the torchlight found the gaps, she saw movement on the other side – the flash of an eye.

  Jo tore the bolt aside and flung open the door.

  Niall McDonagh lay on his side, barefoot but otherwise clothed, curled in the foetal position, ankles and wrists tightly bound with gaffer tape. There was more wrapped around his mouth, pressing into his cheeks. As he saw them, he wriggled and shrank away, pressing his body into the corner of the room. His hair was matted, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat, and one eye was swollen grotesquely shut.

  But the other eye gleamed wildly, right into the torchlight, fixing them with a stare that didn’t belong on the face of a child. A stare that said he had looked on death, made his peace with it, and now couldn’t quite believe he was alive.

  Chapter 13

  ‘Give him some space,’ said Jo, handing Tan the torch. She redirected the light, throwing everything into deep shadow.

  ‘Niall, it’s all right,’ said Jo. ‘My name is Josie. I’m a police officer. You’re safe now.’

  He stared at her and no sound came from his taped lips.

  ‘Niall, we’re going to get you out of here, back to your mum and dad.’

  Whether it was a deliberate or unconscious choice, a tacit recognition of what Niall may well have gone through at the hands of Alan Trent, the male detectives retreated while Heidi Tan and Jo stayed with Niall. He pushed himself against the wall. He’d claw through it if his hands were free, Jo thought.

  She reached out, gingerly, and he let her touch his hand.

  ‘I’m going to get this tape off you,’ she said. ‘I’ll use a small penknife.’ She crouched to reach for the utility knife at her ankle, then extended the blade slowly. All the time, she reassured him. Kept talking. She wasn’t sure if he was really listening. What he heard.

  He froze as she cut through the tape, and even when his wrists and ankles were free, he remained balled up.

  ‘No one will hurt you any more.’

  Up above, she heard Carrick on the phone for an ambulance, giving the address details carefully.

  She thought Niall would complain as they eased the tape off his mouth, but he didn’t say a word. God, he looked so young.

  Once he was free, she quickly checked him over for injuries. It was almost impossible in the dark to inspect him closely. His knuckles were badly scuffed, and from the extensive bruising spreading around the swollen eye, she wondered if the socket was fractured. There’d be a proper examination later, by trained professionals, and Jo tried not to dwell on what they might discover.

  ‘Can you walk?’ she asked.

  Still nothing.

  ‘Let us help you then,’ said Tan.

  Together they eased Niall onto his feet. He was compliant as they helped him shuffle back down the corridor towards the ladder and hatch. Dimitriou waited above, leaning in and extending a hand. Niall shrank back into Jo. She tried not to let his rancid scent enter her nostrils.

  ‘It’s all right. This is George. He’s with us,’ she said.

  Niall put a foot on the bottom rung, and then let Dimitriou hoist him up.

  Back in the Nissen Hut, Niall gazed at the gathered detectives like they were from another planet. He squinted at the main door, daylight showing the bruising up in all its florid technicolour. He began to cry, and his legs buckled.

  Jo caught him. ‘Hold onto me, Niall. I’ve got you.’

  He let her hold him, crying into her shoulder, until the sound of the ambulance siren eased into the group’s consciousness.

  Paramedics helped Niall onto a stretcher, then wheeled him across to the emergency vehicle. Dimitriou drifted to Jo’s side.

  ‘Someone should call the parents,’ she said, glad to be back in the open air.

  ‘Andy’s on it. They’ll meet us at John Radcliffe.’

  Jo looked back towards the hut. Her gaze fell on the broken chain and padlock.

  ‘My bet says that third key of Trent’s is a match,’ said Dimitriou, eyes following hers.

  ‘I was thinking the same,’ she said.

  ‘So why the frown?’

  Jo hadn’t realised she was.

  ‘Why’d he kill himself?’ she said, articulating her thoughts slowly. ‘I mean, Niall’s still alive. I’ve done a couple of murder–suicides, but never a kidnap–suicide. If he felt that guilty, surely he’d release his victim?’

  Dimitriou gave her a pat on the back. ‘You’re overthinking. The parole officer said he was trying to go straight, right? He gives into temptation, can’t live with himself.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe’s good enough for me. We’ve got him for the kidnap, we’ve got him for transporting the body here, and we’ll have him for the padlock too. Everyone’s a winner.’

  Jo nodded towards the ambulance. ‘Not everyone.’

  * * *

  ‘Great work, Jo,’ said Stratton for the fourth or fifth time. He’d been smiling like a Cheshire cat since she returned to the station, fielding calls from the top brass. Andy Carrick was still at the hospital with the parents, and Dimitriou and Tan were on their way back from the former RAF base, where they’d been liaising with the MoD officer regarding the status of the site as a crime scene, and gathering evidence with forensics before it got dark.

  Jo felt like she was in limbo, as the tension of the last twenty-four hours seeped out of her like a slow puncture. However many times she’d washed her hands and face, she could still smell Niall McDonagh’s terrified effluence. No one else seemed to pick it up, though, least of all Ben, who had pulled her into an embrace as soon as she came in through the door, at close to seven p.m. And though for a split-second it felt okay, she had a rush of claustrophobia and stiffened. Perhaps he felt it too, because he let her go quickly.

  ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘The kid’s alive. You know how unlikely that looked two hours ago? You’re a hero.’

  Jo
managed the thinnest of smiles. Ben was right in his own way. The result was the main thing. Maybe she’d have wanted Trent to face his day in court, but the statistics and surveys were pretty clear – more than half the British public would have happily seen a man like that hung anyway. Maybe it was just the detective in her that wanted all the questions answered. She couldn’t accept that some secrets had probably died in that dingy wardrobe on Warwick Close.

  Dimitriou and Tan arrived back, and Stratton clapped the former on the back.

  ‘Great work, George.’

  ‘Any news on the kid?’ asked Tan.

  ‘Only heard from Andy briefly. Parents were over the moon, obviously. Once the docs have finished examining, a specialist counsellor will go in. Lord knows what happened down there.’

  ‘That sick bastard is lucky he’s dead already,’ said Dimitriou. ‘He wouldn’t have lasted two days in prison.’

  Ben nodded enthusiastically, and even Tan didn’t look shocked at the vitriol. Not for the first time, Jo felt like she was out of sync with the room. Had any of them read the Trent file and taken it in? She glanced over at the mugshot still on the board, and tried to marry what she’d read, and seen, with the facts of the case as she knew them. This opportunist who suddenly became a planner, this man trying to put his life back together, then throwing it all away with a kidnap so audacious, so unlikely, so desperately in over his head. The sad, cornered countenance looked back at her.

  But maybe that’s just a mask too.

  ‘Hey, Dimi?’ Dimitriou looked up. ‘You get anywhere with those numbers from Trent’s phone?’

  ‘Nope. They can wait though, right?’

  ‘Mind if I take a look?’

  ‘Sure.’ He took out his pocketbook, flipped a few pages and tore one out. ‘Times and dates are all there.’

  ‘We’re heading out for a drink,’ said Tan. ‘You coming?’

  ‘I’ll join you in a bit,’ said Jo.

  ‘What about you, boss?’ said Dimitriou to Stratton.

  ‘I’ll come for one,’ he said, picking up his jacket. ‘I’m not going to try and keep up with you youngsters though.’

  ‘Phew! I wondered who was paying!’ said Tan.

  She and Dimitriou were first out of the door, and as Stratton followed, Jo went across to him. ‘Sir, can I have a word?’

  ‘Of course, Jo.’

  ‘Sir, I’m not feeling it. About Trent. Does this really stack up?’

  ‘Go on?’

  She was still thinking about the suicide. ‘Even if he did do something to Niall, and even if it was too much for him, why would he leave the kid down there?’

  Stratton sat down on the edge of a desk, and folded his arms. At least he was listening.

  Jo continued. ‘I mean, he must have pushed that trolley back over the trapdoor. He didn’t want Niall to escape. He must have known it was a death sentence. That’s cruel, unbelievably so. It’s hardly the act of someone suffering with guilt.’

  Stratton nodded thoughtfully. ‘Jo, you’re trying to examine a twisted mind with your own logic. Have you thought – perhaps he was planning to go back? I know it’s horrible, but maybe he hadn’t finished with him.’

  ‘So why kill himself at the Singhs’?’

  Stratton spread his hands. ‘I doubt we’ll ever know for sure. Maybe he knew we were on to him.’

  ‘How?’ she pressed.

  The DCI straightened up, and Jo could see from his expression that he’d had enough. ‘Jo, you’ve been great on this, but it’s time to drop it.’

  ‘Sir, I’m just saying. If there’s a chance Trent wasn’t working alone – that someone else knew – we can’t ignore that, can we?’

  Stratton shook his head. ‘No. But there’s no evidence that points that way, is there? And our job is to follow the evidence.’ He let his statement linger, then smiled. ‘You coming for a drink?’

  So that’s it – conversation over.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Be there in a bit.’ He turned to leave and she couldn’t help herself. ‘Maybe we should expedite prints from Bampton though – just to see if anything comes up?’

  He breathed heavily and she feared she’d pushed him too hard. ‘All right. I’ll ask Andy to get on it first thing.’

  When he’d left as well, Jo looked at the call list from Alan Trent’s phone. He’d had a limited social life. Seven numbers in all, four landlines and three mobile numbers. Dimitriou had noted that one of the phones belonged to Whittaker, the head gardener at Gloucester College, the second to Mr Singh of Warwick Close, and the other was as yet unidentified. The landlines were a taxi firm called A2B and the central switchboard for the Buckinghamshire parole board, plus a phone box situated on Pleasant Grove, and a Chinese takeaway.

  He’s dead. Spirit flown. Case closed. No point chasing a ghost.

  And a drink did sound good, sinking into normality among normal people.

  Jo picked up the phone and called the taxi firm.

  ‘A2B taxis? Where you going please?’

  ‘Actually, I’m a police officer. I have some questions.’

  ‘This is the booking line.’

  ‘Is there a supervisor I could talk to?’

  ‘Hang on …’

  After a pause.

  ‘Hello, who is this?’

  Jo introduced herself and her rank. ‘I’m trying to find out about a pick-up,’ she said. She checked Dimitriou’s note. ‘Maybe from Warwick Close, almost two weeks ago. Monday night.’

  ‘Sorry, darlin’. We don’t keep those sorts of records.’

  ‘Maybe you could ask the drivers?’

  ‘Er … sure.’

  Jo gave her name and number again, slowly, and made the supervisor read it back. ‘It’s important,’ she added.

  ‘Got ya,’ said the man, and hung up.

  She rubbed her eyes, knowing with almost complete certainty that the piece of paper in that taxi office with her number on was at that very moment hurtling towards the waste-paper basket in a screwed-up ball.

  * * *

  The pub by the river already looked busy, drinkers crowding the terrace, jugs of Pimm’s on several tables. Lives going on. She spotted her posse on the far side; Ben was laying down a tray filled with glasses. She absently wondered if somehow he was flush again.

  She turned, suddenly dispirited, and walked back to the station car park.

  She drove through the dark streets, back towards Horton, stopping at a drive-through burger place, where she ate too quickly. By the time she pulled up at Paul’s she had a knot of indigestion in her gut.

  ‘We really must give you a spare key,’ said Amelia, as she came to the door.

  ‘Auntie Jo!’ squealed William from the top of the stairs. He was in his pyjamas. ‘Watch this!’ He sat down, rolled over, and slid down in a succession of thuds on his stomach. ‘Ta-da! Can you do that?’

  Jo did her best to look aghast. ‘When I was little, I used to slide down the bannister,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t give the little scamp ideas!’ said her brother. He was, disconcertingly, wearing only his underpants when he appeared from the bathroom door at the top of the stairs, towelling his back. Jo was shocked to see he had the beginnings of a six-pack. ‘Congratulations, by the way!’

  His smile threw her. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The McDonagh kid. You found him.’

  ‘How did you …?’

  ‘I told them,’ said Emma, coming from the kitchen into the hallway, drinking a can of Diet Coke. ‘Kieran told everyone. His parents are at the hospital now.’

  ‘Does he know what happened?’ asked Jo nervously.

  ‘What did happen?’ asked Emma.

  Amelia picked up on the tension. ‘Come on, Billy-O, off to bed.’ She shepherded Jo’s nephew back up the stairs.

  Jo waited until they were out of earshot. ‘Listen, Em, I’m not allowed to talk about it. It’s still an active investigation.’

  ‘Niall’s all right, isn’t he?’ sa
id Emma.

  Jo had a flash of the twisted, swollen face. ‘He’s been through a pretty tough time,’ she said. ‘We’re not really sure at the moment, but he’ll need to be looked after.’ She gestured to the phone. ‘It’s probably best to let the family have some space.’

  ‘The guy who took him is dead though? The Killer Clown?’

  Jo sighed. ‘You shouldn’t call him that. But it does look like he took his own life.’

  ‘Woah! Did you … see it?’

  ‘I attended the scene, yes.’

  ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘I think that’s quite enough!’ said Paul, jogging down the last few stairs, now in his dressing gown. He looked at Jo accusingly. ‘I’m not sure we need the full post-mortem.’

  ‘Dad, I’m old enough to—’ said Emma.

  ‘—Clean your bedroom? Good to hear. Now might be a time to start.’

  ‘But, Dad …’

  ‘Em – give us a moment, will you?’

  Emma sighed and headed upstairs. Paul headed into the kitchen, where his running shoes rested up against the back door. Jo followed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘She asked and I didn’t want to lie.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ said Paul. ‘I sometimes forget she’s not a little girl any more.’

  Jo thought about the smoking and wondered if her brother really didn’t know. ‘She seems to have her head screwed on. More than I did at that age anyway.’

  Paul chuckled, grabbing a beer from the fridge and twisting off the cap. ‘You were a bloody nightmare. You remember that time you went to that party out near Woodstock and tried to walk home?’

  ‘No money for a taxi.’

  ‘Mum and Dad went mental. Had all the neighbours up at two in the morning. I kept telling them you’d be fine, but they made me get on my bike and join the search.’

  ‘I wasn’t fine,’ she said, allowing herself a small grin. ‘I had hypothermia.’

  Amelia came in, and went straight to the fridge too. ‘Glass of wine, Jo? Sounds like you had an eventful day.’

  Whether it was sibling envy at seeing her brother’s physique, guilt at the fast food, or simply because she wasn’t ready to rehash the details of the day, Jo waved her hand in a no.