Читать книгу Hold My Hand: The addictive new crime thriller that you won’t be able to put down in 2018 - M.J. Ford, M.J. Ford - Страница 7

The sign for the Hanover Homes development loomed large over the hedgerows at the side of the B3109. The space promised 240 units, ‘built to house the local community’, whatever that was supposed to mean, here in the middle of nowhere. The road was spattered with mud from the procession of vehicles using the site, and when Jo turned into the entrance, her small car rocked and bounced over the hard ruts in the ground. It hadn’t rained for weeks, and the weather forecasters were saying it was already the driest summer on record.

She passed a couple of temporary cabins, several stacks of scaffold and a concrete truck. A squad car was parked up alongside her boss Rob Bridges’ scarlet Volvo, along with a battered Discovery, a Toyota and a police-issue Vauxhall. DCI Bridges, in plain clothes, was talking to a woman in a hard hat, making notes in his book.

Jo killed the engine and climbed out.

‘Can I see?’ she said straight away.

‘Who’s this?’ said an older, silver-haired man whose grey pallor suggested he was at least one heart attack down. His suit looked thick, maybe woollen, and completely wrong for July. Jo frowned; there was something familiar about him.

‘Detective Jo Masters, meet Harry Ferman,’ said Bridges. ‘There’s a DS from Thames Valley round the back already.’

The older man held out a massive, paw-like hand, and Jo shook it.

‘Follow me,’ he said. His teeth seemed a little too big for his mouth, and she guessed they were dentures.

As he led her under the secondary perimeter police tape and around a bend between overgrown hedges, Jo wondered who he was. He had police written all over him, but he had to be at least sixty.

A substantial Georgian house came into view at the end of the drive. Though the stone was still pale in places, a lot of it was stained by sooty streaks, darker above the paneless window arches. The roof was a mess of exposed joists, many collapsed already. A uniformed officer took their details at a second line of tape by the side of the house and gestured them through.

‘Who found the remains?’ said Jo.

Ferman was wheezing a little. ‘Skull came up in the claw of the digger when they were excavating round the pool. Must have been a hell of shock.’

It is a shame it’s been disturbed, thought Jo.

At the side of the house, what had been a set of French doors opened onto a wide terrace with stone balustrades and steps leading down to the old pool. On the left-hand side, a two-person forensics team was already at work, erecting a white awning over the site. Jo greeted them, and they nodded back from behind their masks. A slight man, just a few years older than her, with dark, sharp features, was crouching nearby.

‘You must be Masters,’ he said, standing up.

‘Call me Jo,’ she replied.

The man straightened. ‘Detective Sergeant Andy Carrick, Thames Valley. Pleased to meet you.’

Jo looked behind him. The bones were dark, clotted with mud, but still recognisably in the shape of a body. She could see a small skull. They lay there, half-wrapped in a piece of semi-transparent plastic, which, she thought, was probably what had preserved the clothing too – a scrap of dirty red material. The forensics team had an open case and Jo fished for a glove and booties from the dispensers. She donned the gear, then edged closer to the body to check the yellow lettering on the front of the shirt: ‘Crown Paints’ – and a Liverpool FC crest.

‘You really think it’s Dylan Jones?’ she asked, peering at the bones. It was impossible to say much at all, but pathology wasn’t her field. When it was all cleaned up, they’d get more answers.

‘Looks about right,’ said Ferman. ‘You’re familiar with the case then?’

Jo glanced at him, wondering what he was doing here. He didn’t look at all well, and she’d guess he was way past retirement. But she was sure their paths had crossed before.

‘Sort of,’ she said.

‘You look too young,’ said Ferman. ‘It was over thirty years ago.’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere,’ said Jo. ‘I was a witness to the kidnapping. I was eight.’

‘You serious?’ said Carrick. Jo nodded, and he whistled. ‘I’m not normally suspicious, but that’s a coincidence and a half.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Ferman. ‘I remember you!’

His face had lifted, and the years fell off. And then Jo realised where she’d seen him.

‘You were there, that day,’ she said.

Ferman nodded. ‘I was still training for CID. Came with my gaffer.’

Jo edged back as one of the forensics team approached with a camera. ‘My brother made the call,’ she said. ‘Someone had cut the temporary line from the circus. He had to run to the nearest farmhouse. You came to my house and took a statement.’

‘You couldn’t stop crying.’

‘I thought it was my fault.’

It was my fault.

Ferman came closer, moving with difficulty down the steps, until he was standing beside Jo and Carrick, looking at the remains.

‘You were the only witness,’ he said. ‘And pretty reliable for a young girl. Still, it wasn’t much to go on.’ Though he was staring in the direction of the skeleton, he had a faraway look in his eyes. ‘We interviewed over forty people,’ he said. ‘Didn’t get a damn thing.’

Jo heard the scuffle of footsteps and looked up to see DCI Bridges.

‘We’ve got an address for the parents, Jo,’ he said.

‘Still the place off the Banbury Road?’ asked Ferman.

Bridges looked impressed. ‘That’s right. I think we owe them a visit.’

‘Bit premature, guv?’ said Jo. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for a positive ID?’ She glanced at the child’s skull. ‘Dental comparison?’

‘Dylan was seven,’ said Ferman. ‘I doubt there were any records. At least, I don’t remember any at the time.’

‘Ben’s got Carter looking into when the pool was built,’ said Bridges. ‘We’ll need some swabs from the parents.’

‘And you want me to do it?’ asked Jo.

‘Given your connection with the case, I think there’s a sort of poetry to it, don’t you?’ said Carrick. He sounded pleased to be rid of the cold case.

‘What connection’s that?’ said Bridges.

Jo explained, briefly, staring at the remains. Nothing poetic there. It was a dead kid.

‘Gosh – isn’t that uncanny?’ he said.

‘Want a lift back to Oxford?’ Carrick asked Ferman.

‘I’ll accompany Detective Masters to the parents’ house,’ said Ferman. ‘If she doesn’t mind, that is.’

‘No problem,’ said Jo. The thought of such a steady presence was comforting.

As Ferman and the others went to sign themselves out of the crime scene, Jo remained for a few moments. One of the forensics team was photographing the site from every possible angle, and Jo knew they wouldn’t be done here until it was dark, would spend hours scouring the earth for any extra material. The body might get moved tomorrow, and they’d likely have it bagged and driven to Salisbury for the coroner to take samples and try to discern the cause of death. Jo stared at the skeleton, trying to imagine it as the little boy from the circus that day.

In truth, she could barely remember Dylan Jones, other than his red hair and the look of pure gratitude he’d given her when she’d let him take her final kick on the football game. In the weeks following the summer holidays had taken over, and then it was school again. Life had moved on, and though she’d occasionally thought of Dylan after, it was only ever fleeting, and mostly with an uneasy sense of guilt. She guessed her mum and dad would have done their best to keep her away from the unfolding investigation, moving any lurid headlines out of reach, switching over the channel if it came on the news. It would be next to impossible these days, but in the era of four TV stations and no internet, sheltering your kids wouldn’t have been all that hard.

There’d been a bit of teasing at school, but kids could be pretty brutal without really meaning it. She wondered about the last time she’d seen Dylan, hand-in-hand with his abductor. Had there been fear on his face, or had he been struggling? She didn’t think so.

Soon, she’d learnt the whole episode was like a bruise – if she didn’t press it, it didn’t hurt at all. The bullies had found other victims, other causes, and she was left alone.

She peeled off the gloves and boots as she went back round the house. Andy Carrick was already pulling away in the Toyota.

Bridges was sitting on the bonnet of his car, drinking tea from a Thermos cup. He handed her a piece of paper with an address on the north side of Oxford. There was a blue Audi parked across the road now, and a young woman sitting in the front seat on her phone.

‘Vultures are circling,’ he said.

‘Already?’ said Jo. ‘Who tipped them off?’

‘Probably one of the builders,’ said Bridges. ‘The official line is that we’ve found a body, but there’s no indication of foul play. Ben wants to keep it all under wraps, and I agree.’

‘Ben’s leading?’

‘Sure,’ said Bridges, smiling. ‘Got my best team on it.’ He tossed the remains of the tea across the ground, and dropped the cup into the skip. ‘Let me know how it goes with Mr and Mrs Jones.’

‘Can you send me the original case files?’ said Jo.

‘I’ll get Thames Valley to push it all over,’ said Bridges. ‘It’ll take a while to dig out.’

Then he was in his car and reversing out of the site entrance.

Jo folded the address and climbed into her own car, which had grown stuffy in the brief time she’d been on the crime scene. She switched on the air con. As Ferman lowered himself into the passenger seat, the car dipped noticeably.

‘You don’t like this Ben fella?’ he said.

Jo’s eyes were on the mirrors as she manoeuvred out. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said.

* * *

They joined the M4, skirted Swindon, and approached Oxford from the south-west. With so much on her mind, Jo would have been comfortable with silence, but Ferman was the chatty sort. And though his tone was conversational, Jo couldn’t escape the feeling he was analysing everything she said, like she was a witness all over again.

‘You worked for Avon and Somerset long?’

‘I was at Reading after training,’ she said. ‘Moved across a couple of years ago.’

‘But you’re from Oxford originally.’

‘That’s right,’ she said.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as she drove, carrying out her own appraisal. The suit he was wearing was way out of date, and though spotlessly clean, it was slightly worn on the knees. She wondered if it had come out of a dry-cleaning bag that morning. Shoes polished, but showing scuffs. His left hand (no wedding ring, but perhaps a patch of slightly paler skin where one would sit) clutched the roof handle the whole way, and she wondered if he’d not been in a car for a while. His right hand was yellowed at the fingertips, but she couldn’t smell any smoke on his clothes, and he showed no inkling of wanting a fag now. There was a shaving cut under his jowls.

‘What station are you with, sir?’ she asked, as they came off the bypass.

He chuckled. ‘You mean, what’s an old fart like me doing on your crime scene?’

She smiled. ‘Something like that.’

‘Professional courtesy,’ said Ferman. ‘Retired a few years back. My name was on the file, I suppose. And I’m not “sir” – I retired as a DS.’

‘You live locally?’

‘Aye.’ He didn’t elaborate.

‘Kids?’

‘Not any more.’

She decided not to push. He wouldn’t be the first police officer with unhappy family circumstances.

‘What can you tell me about the original case?’ said Jo. She remembered dimly that there’d been a suspect.

Ferman tried to stretch his legs, but there wasn’t room.

‘There’s a seat adjustment thing at the side,’ Jo said.

After a couple of goes he found it, and edged the seat back.

‘Ah. That’s better. Well, not much to say, really. There was zero physical evidence. We combed the fields down below the circus site – a few scuffed prints, but the grass was long down there and it was a well-known fly-tipping spot. Nothing biological we could use. We knew it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. Like you said, someone had cut the phone line – they knew the police wouldn’t get there and start tracking for at least twenty minutes. Must have had a car parked nearby, and loaded Dylan in. We drew up a profile that night. The kidnapper was male, probably local and knew the area, must have had a car, and had probably scouted the place in the preceding days.’

‘The parents give you anything? Grudges?’

‘Nowt. It looked completely random. We wasted some time going after dad – neighbours told us he could get a bit handy with Dylan, but there was nothing in it. And why kidnap your own child?’

‘Though it would make sense that Dylan went with him.’

‘That was our thinking. Alibi was cast-iron though. He was at a rugby match. The guy who ran the carnival – McTavish, I think he was called – wasn’t very helpful at all. He couldn’t even give us a definitive list of employees, because a lot of the workers were off the books. And thousands had been in and out, because the circus had been there for a week. The clown thing threw us – you were the only witness to the costume, and the other staff said they’d have known if a different clown was hanging around. We figured the suspect must have put on the disguise at the site.’ Ferman laughed. ‘The gaffer had us empty out the chemical toilets – you can imagine how that went down. We found a bag with make-up – lipstick and face paint, the like. High-street stuff, and no way to trace it.’

‘Sex offenders?’

‘We did the rounds, but it was pre-’97, so no proper records of those sorts of crimes. We went on local intelligence back then.’

‘But you made an arrest?’

‘Oh, aye. We thought we had him too. Clement Matthews – lived less than a mile away. Previous convictions for indecent exposure. No alibi worth speaking of for the day in question. Said he’d never been to the circus, or near it, but when we flashed his picture to McTavish, he was sure he’d seen the fella. We stripped his place to the joists, took his car to bits, looking for anything to tie him to Dylan.’

‘And nothing?’

‘Not a bean, apart from some vids. But even they were borderline – the sort of thing you can find with a couple of clicks these days. Hard to determine the age of the participants. To be honest, I felt from the start he wasn’t a good fit – he just seemed out of his depth. But the high-ups were on us like a rash to charge someone.’ Ferman sighed. ‘We went at him pretty hard, and in the end he admitted he’d driven past the circus a couple of times. We threw the book at him.’

Jo hadn’t remembered any of this. She guessed her parents had done their best to keep the unsavoury details from her.

‘It went to court?’

‘I wish it hadn’t. We really only had McTavish to put Matthews at the scene,’ said Ferman. ‘Bastard turned up half-cut just after lunch, slurred his way through his evidence and fell to bits under cross-examination. It was embarrassing for everyone.’

‘So Matthews walked free.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. The papers got hold of it. Called him “The Killer Clown”. The locals didn’t take kindly to finding out there was a perv living next door.’

‘I can imagine.’

She remembered now, some of the specifics of that term at school following the kidnap. ‘Clown’s coming for you!’ was the taunt of choice. To her shame, she’d even used it herself once or twice. Maybe it was just a way to process what had happened, but she felt a sudden rush of disgust.

‘He was rehoused in the end, I think,’ said Ferman. ‘Taxpayer’s expense.’

‘Is it worth picking him up again?’

‘He was mid-forties then and hardly in great nick,’ said Ferman. ‘He’s probably popped his clogs.’

Jo focused on the road as they came off the bypass and towards the city. She wondered how deep Ben was in the case files. If Matthews was still around, Ben would sniff him out like a bloodhound. For all his personal faults, as a police officer he was tenacious.

Coming back into Oxford always left Jo with a feeling of unease. Despite the wide spaces and the grand buildings – the bloody ‘dreaming spires’, as people insisted on calling them – it had always felt claustrophobic.

They drove on in silence, past the looming 1930s residences north of the city, the Arts and Crafts cottages with their leafy gardens and 4x4s parked in the drives. The satnav took them into a small housing estate of 1970s bungalows, and they found 94 Curlew Close. There was a small electric car in the drive. Ferman looked a little tense, gnarled old hands resting on his thighs.

‘You want to do the talking?’ asked Jo. ‘You know the family.’

Ferman shook his head. ‘I’ll just observe, if you don’t mind.’

Jo would have rather he took over, but given she was the serving officer, she didn’t quibble. It had been a year or so since she’d served a notice of death to the next of kin. The last time was a drowning accident. The parents had thought their teenage daughter was at a friend’s studying for her GCSE chemistry, when actually she was drinking cheap cider by the local reservoir and decided to strip off and have a dip. This felt not a little different, given the time that had elapsed and the fact it was still conjecture that the body was even Dylan.

They walked up to the front door. There was a boot-scraper by the mat in the shape of a dog. Jo rang the bell, and a yappy barking started up at once. She composed herself, taking out her warrant card.

The woman who came to the door was tall, athletic-looking and stylish, with cropped, grey hair, baggy linen trousers and a matching shawl over a blouse. She wore open-toed sandals, and had a multitude of bangles down both arms plus a necklace of amber beads. Her fingers were slender, with a touch of dirt under the nails. At her ankles sat a Westie, wagging its stubby tail.

‘Mrs Jones?’ said Jo, wondering if this could be the same woman she’d seen rushing around the carnival ground screaming her son’s name.

The woman nodded. ‘Yes?’ Then her eyes latched onto Ferman and a hand rose to her throat. ‘Oh my God. You’ve found him, haven’t you?’

Jo showed her badge.

‘My name is Detective Masters, and I believe you’ve met Harry Ferman before. We need to speak with you. Can we come in?’

Mrs Jones backed into the hallway. ‘Of course.’

Jo went first, with Ferman at her back, and Mrs Jones led them through to a conservatory at the back of the house. A man – Mr Jones, presumably – was sitting in a wicker chair, doing a crossword on a folded newspaper. He put it down as they entered.

‘These people are police officers,’ said his wife. ‘Do you remember Constable Ferman?’

The years had not been as kind to Mr Jones as to his wife. He was stout, his face and scalp liver-spotted, and wore a pair of green corduroy trousers and a plaid shirt. He stood up, gathering himself, and extended a hand to Ferman, who shook it briefly.

‘I remember,’ he said.

Jo didn’t get a handshake, and didn’t let it bother her. ‘I’m Detective Masters,’ she said again. ‘I’ve come to tell you that we have uncovered the remains of a body, and though we don’t have confirmation at this stage, we have circumstantial evidence that suggests it’s your son, Dylan Jones, who was reported missing a little over thirty-one years ago.’ She paused, wondering if she’d struck the right tone, then added, ‘I’m sorry to have to deliver this news to you.’

Mr Jones moved to his wife’s side and took her arm. ‘You’re sorry?’ he said.

Jo struggled to discern his tone. It sounded like a genuine question, so she forged on.

‘We are carrying out enquiries and the coroner will be examining the remains.’

‘Can we see him?’ said Mrs Jones.

‘Sheila …’ said her husband.

‘Mrs Jones,’ said Jo, trying to be as delicate as possible. ‘The body is in an advanced state of decomposition. It really is little more than a partial skeleton.’

She saw Mr Jones flinch, and small dots of purple appeared under each cheek. ‘Then why in God’s name do you think it’s Dylan? Where was he found?’

Ferman spoke up for the first time. ‘Apologies, Mr Jones, I’m very sorry we’re breaking this news to you. But you remember what Dylan was wearing the day he disappeared?’

‘The day he was taken, you mean?’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘His football shirt?’ said Mrs Jones.

‘That’s right,’ said Jo. ‘The body was found with a similar shirt. The remains were discovered in Bradford-on-Avon, but we’re not sure at the moment if … where the victim might have died.’

The way the middle-aged woman’s face collapsed in front of her took Jo right back to the day at the circus. She felt as if she was deceiving them by not mentioning her connection to the case, but now definitely wasn’t the time to bring it up. Mrs Jones buried her face into her husband’s shoulder, and he hugged her tightly, glaring at Jo all the while.

‘Is there anything else we need to do?’ he said.

‘As part of the process of identification, we’ll carry out DNA tests,’ said Jo, pleased to be focusing on the procedural aspects. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, we will need to take a biological sample from both of you. It’s a quick and simple enough procedure that involves taking hair follicles and cheek swabs. That can either be done here, in your home, or at your local station. I’ll ask them to contact you directly, if that’s all right.’ Jo fished her card out and placed it on the table beside the newspaper. ‘If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call me.’

‘So that’s it?’ said Mr Jones, nostrils flaring.

‘Until the body is formally identified through biological methods, we’ll be following up a number of leads.’

Mrs Jones nodded, clinging to her husband.

‘We’ll be going then,’ said Ferman, glancing at Jo. ‘Once again, Mr and Mrs Jones – you have our condolences.’

He led the way back into the hallway, Jo following with the Westie trotting at her side. They’d reached the door when Mrs Jones caught up. She was wiping her eyes with a tissue.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We appreciate everything you’re doing.’

‘Just our job, ma’am,’ said Jo.

They walked back down the drive, and Jo was glad to turn her back on the house. What a strange day the Joneses must be having. Contented retirees one moment; the past rearing its head like a spectre the next.

‘Well, that went as well as could be expected,’ she said when they were back in the car.

‘Did it?’ said Ferman. His eyes betrayed a hint of bemusement.

‘You think I was too … brusque?’

Ferman shrugged. ‘What do I know?’

‘Can I take you back to the station?’

‘I file my reports at The Three Crowns on Canterbury Road these days,’ said Ferman.

It took Jo half a second to register what he meant, but she didn’t bat an eyelid.

‘You got it.’

* * *

She dropped Ferman at the pub, turning down his offer to buy her a drink. Not only because drinking on duty was generally frowned upon, but because she still had to pick up a present for Paul.

She found a milliner’s just off Turl Street, and drove right into town before realising she had no cash for the meter. She parked on double yellows a hundred yards from the shop and hurried in. Amelia had texted her Paul’s size, and she selected a brown homburg without properly looking at the price. When the owner told her, she baulked, but paid out of embarrassment. It was a pittance to her brother, but she’d have to cut a corner somewhere else if she was going to make her monthly payments to Bright Futures.

When she got back to the car, a traffic warden was just taking a shot of her number plate.

‘Oh, come on!’ said Jo. ‘I was two minutes!’

The warden shrugged, made a few more notes, and stuck the ticket to her window wordlessly. She’d been in the same situation with Ben once, years ago, and he’d used the badge, but that wasn’t her way. Instead, she tore off the notice and threw it into the car like any other civilian.

Driving back out of the city, she went through some of her options. She knew she was overdrawn, but she still had credit. The immediate problem was this month’s rent though. If she wrote a cheque and the landlord tried to cash it straight away, it would bounce. As for the Bright Futures payments …

A bike swerved out in front of her and she slammed the brake and the horn at the same time. The young man riding, wearing a student’s gown, turned and smiled sheepishly.

Fuck Ben.

She told herself to calm down. If she took this into the station, it would only end badly. She attempted to breathe deeply, and tried not to think of the almighty shithole she was in danger of falling into.

Thirty-nine years old, renting a one-bed flat, and up to your eyeballs in debt.

She put on Classic FM to calm herself down, but it just reminded her of her mum, so she switched to some mindless pop instead.

It took an hour to get back to Bath, and as she parked up and climbed out, Ben was emerging from the station with DC Rhani Aziz close at his side. Rhani had been with them only a few months, but she was settling in well. Both were laughing.

‘Oh, hi, sarge,’ said the pretty young constable.

‘Hi,’ said Jo.

‘How’d it go with the parents?’ asked Ben. He was professional as always. Quite the actor. Even his eyes didn’t give anything away.

‘As well as can be expected, sir,’ said Jo. ‘They were shocked.’

‘I’ll bet,’ Rhani said. ‘Not often we get a lead after three decades.’

‘Constable Aziz here managed to track down the former suspect. Chap by the name of—’

‘Matthews,’ said Jo, cutting him off. ‘I know.’

‘No flies on you,’ said Ben, smiling in a way that made Jo want to kick him in the balls.

‘Detective Ferman was pretty sure he wasn’t involved,’ she said.

Ben snorted through his nose. ‘Is that the dinosaur who tagged along? Did he bring his magnifying glass and truncheon too?’

He was talking towards Jo, but looking at Rhani as he spoke. She duly obliged with a laugh, but Jo didn’t want to give him any satisfaction. Was he actually trying to make her jealous somehow?

‘Not quite – he just said Matthews didn’t fit the bill. The case stank from the start.’

Ben straightened a bit, into exactly the same mixture of outrage and hurt he’d shown whenever she’d questioned him about his other dubious calls.

‘Well, this is a new case,’ he said. ‘And it would be remiss if we didn’t pursue all avenues of enquiry.’

‘Very well, sir,’ said Jo.

Rhani and Ben continued to a marked car. Jo thought about suggesting they take Ben’s Jag, given the heat Matthews might get, but she suspected he wouldn’t take any more advice kindly. As it happened, it was Ben himself who called to her.

‘Jo?’ he said.

She faced him.

‘There’s a journalist from the Oxford Times. I don’t know how she’s got wind, but don’t give her anything, okay?’

Of course I won’t, you condescending arsehole.

‘Right, sir,’ she said.

She greeted the front desk clerk and several other uniforms on the way to the CID room. DC Kevin Carter was playing some sort of golf game on his computer, which he promptly closed when Jo cleared her throat. The guy really was fifty years’ worth of useless flesh, with two failed marriages and three kids he rarely saw. She’d actually come across his profile on Tinder about two months back, and going by the age of the picture he’d used, she could have done him for fraud.

‘Anything on when the pool was put in?’ she asked.

‘Not yet,’ said Carter. She saw him start the game up again with his mouse.

DCI Bridges was back in his office, on the phone, and a stack of papers lay in front of him. Jo wondered if her results were in the pile. It had been a fortnight since she’d undergone the half-day assessment for a Detective Inspector position, and she knew she’d done pretty well in the role play and interview board sections. It would likely come down to the written test result, and that was harder to judge. Bridges maybe knew already, and was just waiting for the right moment to tell her.

Jo checked her emails. Some phone records had come through in relation to a drug-trafficking investigation they were doing in Snow Hill, as well as a few CCTV files on a burglary carried out on a machine-hire warehouse out west. She saw someone called Heidi Tan from Thames Valley had already started forwarding her the entire contents of the Dylan Jones file in batches of scans, and added her to the distribution list on the case. Efficient.

Jo opened up the first few in no particular order. Most of it was clearly written on a typewriter, but there were some handwritten pages also. Witness statements, photos of Dylan, of Matthews, interviews. There was a recording of the original 999 call. She placed on her headphones.

‘What’s the nature of your emergency?’

‘A boy’s gone missing. From the circus. I think he was kidnapped.’

Hearing her brother’s voice, raw and inflected with the accent of their youth, was shocking.

‘You’re calling from Home Farm, Yarnton, is that correct?’

‘Er, yeah, I think so?’

‘And can I take your name?’

‘Paul Masters … I ran here. Can you send someone?’

‘A car has already been dispatched. The boy who’s disappeared – can you tell me where he was last seen?’

‘I don’t know. At the circus. My sister—’

‘Detective?’

Jo looked up. Bridges was standing over her.

‘Can I have a word?’

‘Doesn’t sound good,’ said Jo.

Bridges wasn’t giving anything away.

‘In my office in five?’

Not good at all.

‘Sure.’

She took a deep breath. Rob Bridges was a good bloke, and she trusted him to be straight with her whatever. He was an odd one in the force, having had a career in finance before making the switch to law enforcement. Somehow he’d risen fast, and now, mid-forties, had moved across from the economic unit into CID. It was he who’d suggested she go for the promotion in the first place, and she knew that if it came down to it, he personally would vouch for her. Though if she’d failed the test, no amount of senior support would push her past the post.

She turned back to the files, opening up the arrest details for Clement Matthews. The mugshot showed a pudgy man with curly dark hair. Clean-shaven. He looked bored, sleepy, with an edge of defiance in the way he stared down the lens. Jo resisted searching for her eight-year-old self’s statement in the interview files. There was a picture of a Liverpool football shirt, said to be the equivalent of the one Dylan was wearing, a 1987 season with the Crown Paints logo in yellow. Jo felt a wave of sadness at the thought of the rag holding together the remains, caked in soil and other debris that would probably never be washed out. The shirt was what she remembered most about Dylan, the thing that had caught her envious eye that day at the fair.

Jo was about to close the picture when a thought arose.

Why leave just the shirt? Why not the other clothes? Underwear, socks, trousers? If you were covering your tracks, why not get rid of everything? She fired a quick email to the Salisbury lab, copying Ben, to see if they’d found anything else. It might simply be that the other clothes had become separated with the decomposition.

She left the computer and crossed the banks of desks towards Bridges’ office. He’d left the door open and she knocked, then went inside.

‘You may as well close it,’ he said.

Jo did so, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Definitely bad news. She braced herself.

‘Is everything all right between you and DI Coombs?’ said Bridges.

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘Humour me,’ said Bridges. ‘I let the relationship slide, because it hasn’t affected your work, and to be honest, I don’t want to stick my nose in. But if your personal life affects operations here, that becomes a problem.’

‘Has he said something?’ asked Jo, aware that she was being evasive.

‘No,’ said Bridges. ‘And I haven’t asked him yet. But I’m beginning to think I should.’

‘We’re not together any more,’ said Jo, as flatly as she could manage, and she felt suddenly angry not just towards Ben, but towards Bridges too. Why should I be saying all this? Ben’s the lying sack of shit who got us into this mess. He’s the one who flushed our entire fucking future down the drain.

Bridges steepled his fingers. ‘I thought as much. Okay, Jo, I’m taking you off the Dylan Jones case from this moment.’

‘But, boss …’

‘Surely you can see why. We’re going to get a lot of attention on this. I can’t let the investigation be compromised.’

‘It won’t be. Look, talk to Ben. He’ll tell you—’

‘The decision is made, sergeant. Follow up on the Thompson gang surveillance. Pass anything on Dylan Jones to Ben.’

‘This is—’

‘A done deal. Thanks Jo.’

Jo returned to her desk, fuming. She should have been grateful. The chances of identifying a suspect would be small, and in every likelihood whoever buried Dylan was dead anyway. It was the injustice that burned. The sense of powerlessness. She’d done nothing wrong.

And, in the back of her mind, there was disappointment. She wasn’t sure about there being a poetry to her involvement, but she couldn’t argue there was a kind of circularity. Ben and Bridges had taken away any chance she had to see the case through. To make amends.

The emails were still coming in from Thames Valley. She hovered the mouse over the delete button, ready to consign the case files to her Trash. So much for making amends.

Then her phone rang. An Oxford number.

She answered.

‘What did you tell them?’ said a man’s angry voice.

‘I’m sorry, who is this?’

‘She was here, just now. You must have told them!’

In the background, Jo heard another voice. ‘Calm down, Gordon. Please.’

Mrs Jones.

‘I’ll be making a formal complaint,’ said Mr Jones. ‘You come round here, pretending to be on our side. Dropping your little bomb and leaving us to pick up the pieces. This might just be a game to you …’

‘Please, Mr Jones,’ said Jo. ‘Tell me what’s happened. Has someone visited you?’

‘A journalist. A fucking hack!’ he said.

‘Gordon!’ came his wife’s distant exclamation.

‘Mr Jones, we didn’t contact any journalists,’ said Jo. ‘Please, believe me. We’re not sure how they’ve gotten hold of the news about Dylan.’

‘Well, you’re a detective, aren’t you? How about you find out?’

The phone went dead.

Bridges, who’d obviously overheard, was standing in the doorway to his office.

‘That sounded unpleasant.’

Jo rubbed her temples. Maybe she was better off out of the case after all. The fucking hack had to be the same woman who was at the building site. She’d thought it might have been one of the construction workers who’d sold the info for a few quid, but how had they made the link to Dylan Jones?

‘I think we need to put out a statement to the press,’ she said. ‘The Joneses got doorstepped by a journo.’

Bridges nodded. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘You’re on the Thompson gang, remember?’