by M. J. Ford
They drove on in silence, and Jo wondered if Ferman felt the same weight of dread growing in the pit of his stomach as the first signs came up for the pathology lab.
‘So are you heading back to Bath soon?’ he asked.
‘For a while,’ said Jo. ‘I’ve put in a transfer request for Thames Valley. Oxford hopefully.’
‘All this hasn’t put you off then?’
‘DCI Stratton’s actually put me up for a commendation.’
Ferman scoffed. ‘I’d say congratulations, but that fella blows with the wind.’
‘Things like this make you appreciate family too. I don’t see them enough as it is.’
She didn’t mention her mother, because she still hadn’t quite decided what she’d do there. She’d gone as far as buying some geraniums, Mum’s favourite, and rung the place for visiting hours, but whether she’d actually go was another thing.
She took the last exit off the final roundabout and pulled up by the mortuary building. Andy Carrick’s car was there already.
‘Ready?’ she said.
‘I suppose so,’ said Ferman.
They went inside and found Mr and Mrs Jones waiting with Carrick in the reception area. Both were dressed smartly.
Mr Jones stood up. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, shaking their hands in turn. Mrs Jones had a handkerchief clasped in hers.
‘I’ve explained what will happen,’ said Carrick. ‘If you change your mind at any time, that’s quite all right.’
‘Let’s get this over with,’ said Mr Jones. He held out a hand and helped his wife to her feet.
Carrick led the way down the white corridor, with Jo and Ferman following at the rear.
Jo had been through the process several times, but this was different. It had been made clear to Mr and Mrs Jones by the liaison officer that a formal identification wasn’t required in light of DNA confirmation, and she knew Carrick would have tried to persuade them, understandably, not to come. But they’d insisted, and from the way Mrs Jones took the lead, Jo guessed it was more the mother’s decision than the father’s.
They reached the mortuary suite, and through a glass viewing window, Jo saw the gurney in the centre of the room. A white sheet covered the body. A lab-coated woman was sitting at a desk, and she stood up when she saw them. Carrick opened the door.
‘Doctor, Mr and Mrs Jones are here.’ He moved aside. ‘Dr Dubrovski will take you through things,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait outside.’
Mrs Jones was staring into the room. For a moment, Jo thought she’d have second thoughts and turn back. But with a deep breath, she went inside. Carrick let the door close behind the parents. Jo watched as the doctor spoke to Mr and Mrs Jones, just a few words. They took a position about a metre from the gurney. Mr Jones’ chest was visibly heaving, but his wife appeared rather calm. She wiped her eyes a final time, then replied with a single word, ‘Yes.’
The doctor took hold of two corners of the sheet, and slowly folded it back to reveal Dylan Jones’ face. His eyes and mouth were closed, and his head had been shaved. Jo found herself relieved, because there was nothing of the horror she’d witnessed in the barn. His skin was still pale, but he was just a dead man in the bleak, artificial light of the mortuary room.
She knew it was fatuous, but at least he looked at peace.
I’m sorry, she told him. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I’m sorry I let him take you away.
Mr Jones took only the briefest of glances, jaw clenched, but Mrs Jones broke away from him, approaching closer, transfixed. She asked the doctor something and received a nod.
Reaching out, Dylan’s mother touched his cheek lightly with her fingers, then stroked his brow. Then she leant forward and kissed his forehead. It was much the same spot as Sally had placed her lips in the barn. Jo swallowed, and realised that beside her Ferman was trembling. She looked across and saw he was fighting back tears.
After they said goodbye to the parents afterwards, and Ferman was getting back into the car, Carrick called Jo over.
‘Thanks for that, Jo. It must have been tough.’
‘It’s no problem.’
‘Listen, are you going to Detective Coombs’ funeral tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
She hadn’t wanted to. Ben hadn’t told his parents or the rest of his family anything about the split, so she’d had to do so herself. She’d said she’d understand if they didn’t want her there. But they had asked her to come.
The exact circumstances of his death were becoming clearer. Dylan had entered through the open doors to the orangery, the doors Jo had opened. Fingerprints on the neck of the wine bottle belonged to Dylan and to Ben, but it wasn’t clear if Ben had tried to use it first and been disarmed, or Dylan had taken him by surprise. The argument overheard by the neighbour had been excised from all but the official police statements, so it wasn’t hard to paint his murder as tragic heroism. He would likely have fought – of course he would – and Jo knew if he hadn’t been there that night, it might have been her on that kitchen floor.
‘We found something, on Rebekah Fitzwilliam’s phone,’ said Carrick. ‘We’re not one hundred per cent sure at the moment, but it looks like it might have been Ben leaking to the press.’
Jo let the information sink in, surprised it didn’t have all that much impact.
‘Right.’
‘They were in regular contact, since a couple of months or so before the Bradford-on-Avon exhumation. He called her the day she was killed, just after Sally Carruthers was at St Aldates. We’ve no way of knowing the contents of the conversation, but given Fitzwilliam ended up where she did, it looks likely he tipped her off about Sally.’ The information should have shocked Jo more than it did, but after everything that had happened, she absorbed it like a punch-drunk pugilist.
Carrick went on, ‘The good news is that neither Thames Valley or Avon and Somerset have a lot of appetite to investigate further. Both parties are deceased, so it’s low priority. And let’s face it, we could do without the embarrassment.’
She’d wondered where Ben was getting his money from and this explained things. You stupid, stupid bastard, she thought, but it wasn’t with any conviction. She’d found it hard, until they split, to accept he was an addict – that really there was a side to him she would never truly understand. Carrick’s news only proved that Ben had been in the grip of pathologies he couldn’t control. If he was willing to gamble away their future, was playing such a high-risk game with his career any worse? He’d been desperate. Saunders had been ambitious. Both of them had paid a price, and it had been too high. She wondered if there was anything she could have done to stop him; if there was a point somewhere in their past when they both could have taken a different route, where they’d be living happily in Bath, trying again to start a family.
You could torture yourself with this stuff. People made decisions, there were consequences.
‘Just thought you’d want to know,’ said Carrick.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, absently lost in her own thoughts.
* * *
The Three Crowns was twice as busy as the previous time she’d come, meaning there were two people at the bar, and as Ferman went to his usual table, Jo ordered the drinks – vodka for herself and brandy for him.
‘Better make them doubles,’ she said, then carried them over.
‘You all right?’ she asked.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that, my getting upset back at the mortuary.’
‘No need to apologise,’ she said. ‘It’s a difficult case.’
He took a sip of his drink. ‘It wasn’t that,’ he said. ‘Not only that, anyhow.’ He sipped again, eyes distant. ‘They told you, I suppose, about me. My daughter.’
Jo took a drink herself, and relished the burn. ‘Andy said she died.’
‘Car accident,’ he said. ‘Sort of thing you attend all the time. Ruins your day, but you move on. Have to, don’t you?’ He looked at her, very directly. �
��She was twenty-two, coming back from uni, car stuffed to the gills. Jess – my wife – she’d cooked a big meal for dinner …’
He blew out his cheeks, eyes misting up again as he glanced up at the beer mats on the ceiling.
‘We were expecting her at two-ish. No mobiles then, of course. Some silly fella, insurance sales, driving too fast after a boozy lunch. He came round a corner on the wrong side …’
He stopped talking, took a determined gulp and held it in his mouth for a second before his Adam’s apple bobbed.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jo.
‘She was trapped, after. They tried to cut her out, but she was losing blood. She managed to tell them our number. Too late by then. Wouldn’t let us see her until the morgue.’
‘God,’ said Jo. ‘Harry, you should have said. You didn’t have to come today.’
‘You know, it didn’t really hit me until we got there. Lindsay, that was her name. It was the anniversary, a couple of days ago. I thought I should tell you, in case you thought I was being rude. I get a bit grumpy this time of year.’
‘There’s no need to apologise, but thank you,’ said Jo. He’d almost finished his brandy. ‘You having another?’ she asked.
‘Better not,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to be hanging round with a miserable old codger all day.’
She grinned. ‘I like miserable old codgers.’ She swallowed the rest of her drink. ‘Your round though – make mine a single. I’ve just got to nip out and make a call.’
‘If you insist,’ he said.
Sitting on a bench outside, Jo scrolled through her numbers and pressed call, taking out her diary and placing it on her lap.
‘Bright Futures. How can I help you?’
‘It’s Josephine Masters,’ she said. ‘I was in about ten days ago. I need to sort out a date for a hormone infusion. I’ve got a pretty empty schedule for the next few days.’
The receptionist took her through it, with the same sleek professionalism as she’d encountered on that first consultation, like Jo was the same person she’d met that day. Which she was, of course, in the most obvious ways.
Jo went through the details, arranging that she’d go in on the Thursday following.
Back inside, Ferman was placing the drinks on the table.
‘You look a bit more cheerful,’ he said.
‘Do I?’ she said. ‘Must be the booze.’
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank, first and foremost, my family: my wife Rebecca for her infinite patience, support, and for making me take a break when I was quite literally losing the plot; Martha (6) and William (2) for their frequent interruptions and sense of perspective – the sound of little footsteps outside the study door is always welcome, even when there’s a chapter to finish.
Though the process of writing a novel can be quite solitary, publishing one is anything but. All the team at Avon have been wonderful. When I came blinking into the light out of the first-draft cave, their words of encouragement lifted me enormously. A special mention to my editor – Phoebe Morgan – for her wisdom, industry, and calm under pressure; and to Oli Malcolm for taking a punt on a debut, and for his generous support thereafter.
And thanks to my friend and agent, the magnificent Julia Churchill of AM Heath, who’s stuck with me through years of never actually finishing any book I said I’d started, and for throwing more opportunities my way than a hack ever deserved.
Finally, my gratitude to Detective Constable James Wilson of Greater Manchester Police, for his guidance on elements of police procedure. Anything that smacks of authenticity is down to him. Any errors in that regard are my own, whether they arise through misunderstanding or lazy research (or ‘plotting expediency’, as we writers like to call it).
About the Author
M.J. Ford lives with his wife and family on the edge of the Peak District in the north of England. He has worked as an editor and writer of children’s fiction for many years. Hold My Hand is his first novel for adults.
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