by M. J. Ford
‘I’m afraid so. I haven’t touched a keyboard for years.’
‘I’m much the same, though not through choice,’ said Sally Carruthers. She held up her twig-like fingers. The joints were swollen and misshaped. ‘I can barely manage my own buttons these days.’
Jo wondered exactly how old Mrs Carruthers was. Pushing eighty, in all likelihood.
‘Would you like to come and say hello to Paul?’ she said on the spur of the moment. ‘I’m sure he’d like to see you.’
As soon as she said it, she realised it would be next to impossible for the bent old woman to make it over the fence and back up the garden path.
‘Ha!’ said Sally. ‘I’m too old for parties now. But you must drop in and see me. I’m in most of the time. Just find me in the phone book.’
‘I will!’ said Jo, and she meant it. Though she’d have to locate a phone book first. There was probably one in a drawer somewhere at the station.
‘Right, I must go and dispose of this,’ said Sally, brandishing the can.
‘Okay – see you soon,’ said Jo.
She watched the old woman walk up the rutted path towards her house. Jo headed the other way, back through the garden, feeling lighter in her heart than she had for days. If she closed her eyes, she knew she’d be able to remember the exact lavender scent of the morning room in Cherry Tree Cottage as she played the piano under her tutor’s watchful eye.
She didn’t go back into the kitchen, but instead took the side gate again, climbing into her car. Perhaps leaving without saying goodbye was childish, but they wouldn’t miss her. The music inside was louder, and she really didn’t want to see Paul’s dancing. She was starting the engine when her phone rang. Bridges. She grinned, for some reason sure it was about the promotion. Maybe he felt bad about taking her off the Jones case earlier. There was no other reason for the late-night call and she wasn’t due on shift for another three days.
‘Are you still in Oxford?’ he said straight away.
‘Yes, just leaving actually.’
‘Well, don’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had a call about a possible kidnap.’
‘In Oxford?’
‘From a circus in Port Meadow. A kid’s been snatched.’
The mention of a circus gave her a moment’s pause, but she regained her composure quickly. ‘Okay, I’m close.’
‘Jo – you’re not going to believe this.’ Bridges sounded much more animated than normal. ‘It was a clown.’
Chapter 4
Jo drove quickly, trying to stay focused on the task in hand. But memories kept rearing up unbidden – the same roads she’d cycled along as a girl, past the houses once occupied by her friends, the pubs she’d drunk in on fake IDs, the alleyway off Walton Street where she’d had a forgettable encounter with Dave Philips. Or was it Mark Philips? Not that it mattered now. In front of the University Press, she heard her first siren, and a car sped past going in the same direction. Then another. Drinkers gathered outside the bars watching the blue lights streak by.
There were signs for the circus too – in town for one night only. Jo knew where she was going without them, and took a left on the way out of Jericho, past the tall student townhouses, over the canal. Port Meadow was a large expanse of farmland spreading right out to the city’s limits, and bisected by a tributary of the River Thames. The first set of gates had been opened up to allow for parking. Two police cars were stationed either side, lights spinning, with officers stopping the queue of exiting vehicles. Jo pulled up just across the bridge, and a uniform came up to the window with a torch angled right in her face. Jo wound the window down.
‘You’ll have to go back,’ he said. ‘We’ve got an emergency situation here.’
Jo flashed her badge. ‘I’m Detective Masters from Avon and Somerset,’ she said. ‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ said the uniform, angling the torch away. Out of its dazzle, Jo saw he was really young – maybe not even twenty-five. ‘It’s DCI Stratton from Thames Valley. He’s on site somewhere, talking to the witnesses.’
‘And DS Carrick? Is he here?’
‘He’s about, yes. I’m afraid I don’t know where.’
Jo climbed out and locked up, then started towards the meadow. Beyond the cars she could see the garish lights of the circus rides.
It’s just a coincidence. Has to be.
‘We’ve got checks on all the exit roads,’ said the uniform, ‘Wolvercote, Binsey, Godstow, the canal towpath, and the bridges that cross the river.’
Jo greeted the other uniforms on the gates. They were opening the boot of an estate car, with two excited-looking kids in the back.
It’s too late for that now, thought Jo.
She showed her ID again to the uniforms, and went through the gates. Carrick was talking to some men in high-vis jackets from a company called Securitex, who looked like they hadn’t signed up for anything like this.
‘… no detail is insignificant.’ He handed them cards. ‘I’ll need a full list of personnel from your supervisor. You got that?’
He saw Jo, registered surprise, and beckoned her over.
‘I was only in Horton,’ she said. ‘My gaffer said the suspect was dressed as a clown.’
‘Weird, isn’t it?’
‘I guess so,’ she said non-committally. ‘What’s the timeline?’
Carrick took out his notebook. ‘We got the call at 9.43 p.m. Witnesses estimate the boy was taken at 8.30.’
‘What took them so long to make the call?’
‘Beats me.’
‘You said witnesses plural?’
‘Stratton’s got them in a temporary office,’ said Carrick, pointing across the site to a cabin a couple of hundred yards away. ‘Kids. Hard to get much sense out of them. Looks like there was some sort of altercation. A lad called Niall McDonagh, eleven years old, got taken from somewhere over by the water at knifepoint. One of his friends was assaulted.’
‘How bad?’
‘Walking wounded.’
‘And the suspect?’
‘We’re putting together a profile. The kids are all pretty spooked, as you can imagine. Doesn’t help that they’ve been smoking weed. Most of them think he was middle-aged at least, from the voice and posture. But he was wearing a mask and wig, so we don’t have much to go on.’
‘You think he worked here?’
‘Who knows? He was in jeans and a fleece.’
‘Image of the missing kid?’
Carrick took out his phone. ‘It’s been shared electronically from one of his friends with all officers in Thames Valley and other agencies.’
Jo peered at the screen, which showed what looked like a selfie of a boy wearing a green rugby shirt with the collar up. He had spiky dark hair, a button nose and owl-like brown eyes and was staring moodily into the camera.
‘He’s only eleven?’ said Jo. ‘Looks older.’
‘We’ll be getting more images from the parents. Car’s gone to pick them up and take them to the station.’
As Jo left Carrick and headed across to the office, she found she was quite calm. A dozen explanations were swimming through her head, but none of them involved a clown from three decades before, miraculously making a reappearance the very day his former victim was unearthed. The most likely seemed to be a low-level drug deal that had gone south. Maybe Niall and his friend tried to take the product without paying, or maybe someone else had stumbled on the transaction and things had gotten out of hand. The fact the suspect was in a mask, not made-up, suggested someone just trying to stay incognito, rather than an actual clown. Not that any of these circumstances made the situation trivial. The first hour after an abduction was always the most crucial, and that window had been and gone. Every second that passed made the outcome less promising.
The circus site was almost entirely emptied out, with a few workers standing around idly or picking up rubbish. Jo was surprised Stratton was letting that happen – who knew what evidence might be gett
ing dumped along with the drinks cans and sweet wrappers. There were plenty of coppers too, moving between the rides and checking underneath or round the back.
Beyond the fairground was the river, but metal fencing had been set up along the banks. Across the other side, Jo knew, were miles of fields, crisscrossed by the odd country lane and footpath. If it was a genuine kidnap, there were a dozen places a car could have been parked and driven away. The roadblocks and checkpoints were probably useless by now.
The door to the office was open, with another uniform at the bottom of a set of metal steps. Jo showed her badge and asked to speak to Stratton, then waited while the officer went inside. He waved her in a moment later.
The place stank of marijuana, and three sorry-looking teenagers – two girls and a boy – were sitting side by side on a sofa. A fourth, another male, perhaps fifteen years old – was seated on a desk chair, wrapped in a silver thermal blanket while a paramedic bandaged his head. Jo took them in quickly with a sweep of the eyes. Expensively dressed – labels on clothes and shoes. Three white, one Asian. The older of the girls had her hair swept up in an artfully blonde mess, the other wore some sort of beanie. She had a flush across her cheekbones that suggested she’d spent the day in the sunshine. The other girl was in tears.
Chief Inspector Stratton was in uniform, still wearing a cap. His face wore an impatient scowl.
On the table, between Stratton and the kids, was a mobile phone, and everyone, apart from the paramedic, was looking at it.
‘Sir,’ said Jo. ‘DS Masters, Avon and Somerset. DCI Bridges sent me over.’
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. Stratton glanced across at her. ‘We’ve put in a request with the network to track Niall’s phone. They should be back with us in the next few minutes.’
‘Any more contact?’
‘We had three messages altogether.’
‘From Niall?’
Stratton nodded, and Jo gestured to the phone. ‘May I?’
‘Go ahead.’
Jo picked up the phone – a newer model than her own. It was locked, but the boy getting his head looked at mumbled, ‘Ten twelve zero four’, and Jo typed in the numbers. The texts were right there.
He’s got me. Shit. In his car.
U serious? Call police.
He’ll hear. Scared.
Ive called police. Mate?
M8?
We’ve stopped.
Where are u?
M8?
Ny?
Jo checked the time of the last message – half an hour ago. She placed the phone back down on the table.
‘Where did the assault happen?’ she asked.
The bandaged boy hugged the blanket around himself. ‘Down by the river path. There’s a boathouse.’
He was well spoken. Privately schooled, she’d have bet. Face like the member of a boy-band she couldn’t recall the name of – handsome, square-jawed and unblemished. These weren’t your usual townie delinquents. As a girl, Jo would have found them intimidating. Oddly, despite her age, part of her still did.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Art.’
Was he being difficult on purpose? ‘Your full name.’
‘Arthur Price.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened, Arthur.’
‘I’ve already told three of you,’ said the boy. ‘Shouldn’t you be out looking for him?’
‘You haven’t told me.’
The boy looked at her, a look she’d seen a thousand times, and from kids even younger than this one. Contempt.
‘We went over the bridge, me and Ny.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
Jo was looking at him, but she could feel the others were suddenly more alert.
‘Okay, Art. And then what happened?’
The boy shrugged. ‘This guy comes up, dressed in a mask. He asks us for a fag. I say no. He hits me, and then pulls a knife. He tells Niall to come with him.’
‘And you didn’t know him? Never met him before?’
Art shook his head.
‘You seem very sure. Skunk’s terrible for the memory, you know.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, you all saw him, right? That’s what you told my colleague. Did you all go over the bridge?’
Art blushed. ‘Who said that?’
Jo smiled. ‘Listen, Art. All of you. Your friend’s gone missing, and if you’re telling even half the truth, he could be in danger.’ She sat on the table and focused on the girl who’d finally stopped crying. ‘If there’s more to this, now is the time to let us know. We don’t care what you were doing—’
‘We weren’t doing anything,’ said Art.
‘So how come it took you over an hour to call us?’
They shot furtive glances at one another, but it was Art who spoke up. ‘We weren’t doing anything.’
‘And we don’t care,’ repeated Jo. ‘But it sounds like Niall’s in a lot of trouble at the moment. I think you know more about this clown than you’re letting on.’
The crying girl caught her eye and looked away quickly.
‘If Niall ends up being hurt, and we find that you’ve lied to us now, it could be worse for you. Isn’t that right, guv?’
Stratton, his arms folded, nodded.
The kids were all quiet.
‘Okay, gang,’ said Jo, standing up. ‘We’ll need numbers for all your parents or guardians. They’ll be picking you up from the station and you’ll all be cautioned for possession of a Class C drug—’
‘No!’ said the boy sandwiched between the girls. ‘You can’t!’
‘Doing my job,’ said Jo. She took out a notebook, and pen. ‘You first.’
‘Please, don’t!’ said the tear-streaked English rose. ‘Art, just tell her!’
‘Shut the fuck up, Eve.’
‘Tell her or I will.’
Art was stony-faced.
Jo reached out and touched Eve’s hand. Cold fingers, chipped aquamarine nails.‘Help us,’ she said, ‘so we can help Niall.’
Eve sniffed. ‘He said he had some pills,’ she said quietly.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
‘The man in the mask?’ interrupted Stratton.
Eve nodded. ‘Niall and Art went with him.’
Art was shaking his head, but Jo stood up and walked across the room towards him. He flinched back in the chair.
‘This really is your last chance,’ said Jo. ‘Tell me exactly what happened, or I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice as well, and it’ll be a lot more than a slap on the wrists.’
Art’s eyes were everywhere but on her. ‘He took us round a boatyard. Said the stuff was in his car.’
‘You saw his car?’
‘No. I was on the ground.’
‘But you saw him take Niall away?’
Art nodded, his breathing a little panicked. ‘He had a knife, a little one, under Niall’s neck. They just walked off.’
Jo let it sink in. It didn’t make a lot of sense to her.
‘Did you try to steal something from him – take his pills without paying?’
Art shook his head.
‘Did he take your money?’
‘Niall had it,’ said Art. ‘In his sock.’
A knock on the door, and Carrick stuck his head in. ‘Parents are on the way to the station,’ he said. ‘Ten minutes out.’
Stratton picked up his coat from the back of the chair and Jo went with him to the door. Outside, they spoke in low voices.
‘Andy, go back to the station. I’ll stay here and co-ordinate. Jo, good work in there. See if you can get anything else out of them. Anything relevant, keep in touch.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Carrick.
‘Sure thing,’ said Jo.
Carrick stalked off towards the exit, past the snaking queue of cars. The vehicle searches would take hours.
‘First impressions?’ asked Stratton.
‘Drug deal went s
outh,’ said Jo. ‘They know the perp, and they owe money. They didn’t call the police straight away because they were scared. Can you dig around and find out who might be dealing here?’
‘I’ll get Heidi Tan on it,’ said Stratton. ‘That’s her world. Can you stick around? Till this is done, we could do with all hands on deck.’
Jo wondered what she could really do. She had the Thompson gang intelligence to sift through back in Bath. Plus, she wanted to be close to the Dylan Jones investigation, even if not formally involved, and she was sure this wasn’t connected, despite the surface similarity.
‘Not sure what my gaffer will say,’ she said.
‘It’s Rob Bridges, right? Let me talk to him – we got some history.’
‘Yes, sir. I might take a look at the boatyard, if that’s all right? Take the kid with me?’
‘Go ahead.’
Stratton went back towards the main gates and Jo put her head back in the door of the office.
‘Can I borrow Art?’ she asked the paramedic.
‘He’s taken a knock,’ replied the young man, slightly disdainfully. ‘We can’t rule out—’
‘Up you get,’ said Jo, beckoning Art over. ‘I need you to go over exactly what happened.’
Art pushed himself to his feet and followed her.
They crossed the site towards the river and the bridge. Jo flicked on her pocket torch.
‘Have you known Niall long?’ said Jo, keeping the tone light.
‘He’s my mate’s little brother,’ said Art. ‘Our parents are friends.’
‘And this sort of thing is out of character?’
‘Getting kidnapped?’ deadpanned Art. ‘Yeah, I reckon.’
‘The drugs, smart-arse,’ said Jo.
‘Dunno.’ They crossed a bridge, passed a couple more uniformed officers with torches, and Art pointed right along a path. ‘That way.’
‘I don’t really care what you were up to,’ said Jo. ‘I just need to know what’s really going on here.’