Hold My Hand

by M. J. Ford

‘So you expect us to believe her presence is a coincidence?’ said Saunders.

  The Comms guy was twitching, and Stratton spoke more brusquely. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said, standing up and straightening his uniform.

  Jo and the others followed suit, but Saunders wasn’t giving up, and cameras flashed above the screeching of seats.

  ‘Are you hiding something?’ she asked. ‘The public need to know, chief inspector. Is the real Killer Clown still on the loose? Is there a paedophile on the streets preying on our children?’

  Stratton marched out, and Jo, eyes down, followed.

  ‘What happens when he strikes again?’ came the journalist’s final call.

  Jo really had no time for Saunders’ sensationalism, but it didn’t prevent a twinge of unease. There’s a chance she’s right.

  And maybe it was the way Stratton had dismissed her theories the day before – so perfunctorily, so condescendingly – but as she walked down the stairs, out of the building’s rear exit, she wondered if there might be more to the clown mask after all. It made no sense that Alan was Dylan’s killer. He’d started to plan the kidnap of Niall days before Dylan’s body was even found. But if there was an accomplice …

  If Dylan’s killer was still out there, somewhere – if he’d somehow been involved – the clown mask wasn’t just a sick copycat or a coincidence; it was a modus operandi – the method of a man who’d got away with it once and thought he could again. But this time he’d used someone else, a person he’d coerced, or paid.

  She tried to think logically. It was improbable, for sure. Why use a proxy, with all the risk that entailed? Far simpler to carry out the abduction yourself, and cut out the middle man. But if it was the original kidnapper, he was old. Maybe the thought of carrying out such a crime was too much.

  Stepping out into the busy street, she shook her head to clear it. It wasn’t just improbable. It was really, really, hard to swallow. Why the hell would Alan Trent agree to anything so foolish and likely to fail?

  She watched the faces of the pedestrians going about their business. Any one of them could be carrying a terrible secret, planning a crime, wearing a mask. She could be looking right at murderers and thieves and perverts.

  The problem was, until they slipped up, you never knew.

  Chapter 16

  ‘Well, that went well,’ said Ben. He was waiting for them back at the station, with the small TV still on. Stratton and the Comms rep had disappeared straight into his office and closed the door. Jo couldn’t help but feel she was being blamed in some way, even though she’d never wanted to be there in the first place. The sooner she got back to Avon and Somerset, even with Ben there, the better.

  ‘This came through, by the way,’ said Ben. He looked surprisingly chipper as she handed her an envelope – it was addressed to ‘Detective Ferman’.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Invite to a memorial service on Tuesday,’ said Ben. ‘Dylan’s parents brought it in themselves. They said that we were welcome too.’

  ‘Has the body been released?’ asked Jo.

  ‘No,’ said Ben, ‘and I’ve sent a team back to the site for another look, in case we missed something.’

  ‘Something linking to Trent?’

  Ben nodded. ‘I know you’re not convinced, but that reporter’s got a point. It’s a pretty weird coincidence.’

  ‘They do happen,’ said Jo. ‘You know I went to school with her?’

  ‘Dimi told me last night,’ said Ben. ‘I take your point.’

  It struck her quite suddenly, as they spoke, that some things hadn’t changed at all in their relationship. There was still a part of each of them that existed outside their past – two professionals shooting the breeze.

  ‘The parents just want to put it behind them,’ said Ben. ‘Say a proper goodbye. I suppose they don’t need a body for that.’

  Jo remembered the drugs they’d sent her home with after the miscarriage, with the leaflet about what to expect next – physically as well as emotionally. Not that there had been a body, really. There was a section on grieving too, which she’d been too dazed to read. She wondered if Ben had, and if his memory was, in that moment, playing over the same topic.

  She heard the door open behind her, and Stratton leant out. ‘Masters, could we borrow you a moment?’

  He didn’t wait for a reply, and closed the door again. Though the tone was light, Jo had a bad feeling.

  ‘No fear,’ said Tan, as she walked past.

  The Comms rep was still present, arms folded, and smiled reassuringly as Jo entered.

  ‘Detective Masters, we all want to thank you for the work on the case,’ said the chief inspector, ‘but we think, in light of the rampant press speculation, that it might be best for you to be less obviously involved.’

  ‘You’re taking me off,’ she said flatly.

  ‘The case is closed,’ said Stratton. ‘Ben Coombs can follow up on any potential link to Dylan Jones – there’s no immediate danger to civilians, so I’ll be deploying our resources here back to ongoing investigations.’

  ‘With respect, sir, there’s still a question over whether Trent worked alone.’

  Stratton and the younger man shared a glance, and the latter answered. ‘Unless concrete evidence arises of that, it’s not our official line.’

  Jo forced a smile. ‘Concrete evidence tends not to jump into one’s lap. You have to look for it. Sir, did you ask Andy to chivvy on the print lab?’

  Stratton’s glance told her she was pushing her luck, and the media rep grinned back toothily. Jo wondered if he was actually a lawyer of some sort – it was a look she’d seen before, in cross-examination by barristers just before they sank their claws in.

  ‘This Rebekah Fitzwilliam,’ the Comms rep said. ‘You know her, I believe.’

  It was stated baldly, not as a question.

  ‘I’ve already told the chief inspector, we knew each other, years ago. We have no personal connection now.’

  ‘Yet she appears to have intimate knowledge of the case,’ he added smarmily.

  Jo felt her skin redden. ‘If you have any evidence, anything whatsoever, to suggest that I’ve leaked information, present it to me now. If you haven’t, then I suggest you fuck off and let me do my job.’

  Stratton held up his hands. ‘Things are getting a little heated.’ He looked pained. ‘Jo, nothing personal. We have to deal with the optics on this as well. It just doesn’t look good. Surely you can see that?’

  She wanted to scream, but she bit her lip. She couldn’t even look the Comms rep in the face, so addressed herself to Stratton.

  ‘I see, sir,’ she said. ‘But it would be negligent not to follow up behind the scenes, wouldn’t it? I mean, the optics will be a lot worse if we miss something and it comes back to bite us.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Stratton, ‘but you’re back seat from now on. I want everything run through a superior officer. No more surprises. We’ll work on giving Fitzwilliam something to keep her happy, but you two are to have no more contact.’

  ‘Sir, I haven’t—’

  ‘Detective, if she asks you anything, if she even says hello, it’s a “No comment”.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Can I go, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Dismissed, detective,’ said Stratton, cheerily. ‘And thank you again for all your work.’

  Jo did her very best not to slam the door on the way out.

  Outside, Tan eyed her warily. ‘That looked painful.’

  Ferman’s invite was still on the desk and Jo picked it up.

  ‘I’m going out for a while,’ she said, then made for the door without looking back.

  Ben was in the car park, on the phone near his car. He shot her an inquisitive look, but she mouthed, ‘Got to go,’ then climbed into her own car. Tossing her bag on the passenger seat, she took a few deep breaths, then fished out her phone and searched for Ferman’s number.

  It rang and rang. No machine. She called
again, just in case he needed some encouragement to pick up the phone. She doubted he was still in bed at eleven thirty in the morning. Eventually she killed the call. There was another place she could try.

  * * *

  Canterbury Road was a row of tall Edwardian terraces, and The Three Crowns pub was in the bottom corner. This far from the city centre, she guessed it probably didn’t see much student traffic, and her suspicions were confirmed when she opened the front door and stepped inside. A russet carpet, threadbare in places and marked with countless indeterminable stains, clearly hadn’t been changed since the smoking ban. Her eyes passed over brass ornaments, bar mats glued to the ceiling, a brick-laid fireplace filled with fake flowers. With dark wood furniture, green brush-satin cushions, it was a pub stubbornly stuck in the past, and trying to please nobody. The sort of place her dad used to drink. Jo liked it at once, but she couldn’t see Harry Ferman.

  She stepped over an Alsatian’s tail by a flashing quiz machine. At the bar, a single customer sat nursing a half-filled glass of bitter. Behind the counter, wiping a bottle then reattaching it to the optic, was a fifty-plus buxom woman with dyed blonde hair.

  She turned to Jo. ‘All right, love, what can I get you?’

  Jo was about to decline, then she remembered the look on the Comms Stasi’s face and changed her mind. Plus, work-wise, there was nothing pressing.

  Normally she had red wine in pubs, but her trained eye had already spotted the bottle on the counter, and it was a quarter full. God knows when it had been opened, but she didn’t fancy a glass of vinegary Cabernet Sauvignon.

  ‘Vodka, please,’ she said. ‘No ice.’

  The barmaid took down a glass, inspected its cleanliness, then lifted it to the optic. The single looked pitiful, but a double would make driving questionable. The barmaid didn’t ask for payment as she set it on the bar, and returned to cleaning.

  ‘How much?’ asked Jo.

  The woman waved her cloth off to the left. ‘Harry’s got it.’

  Jo took the glass and turned, seeing Harry Ferman tucked away at a table in the corner, almost completely cast in shadow.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘Well, you caught me.’

  She walked across to him, and sat on a stool. He had two drinks in front of him, a short of amber liquid that she guessed was brandy, and a remaining half-pint of Guinness.

  He lifted the tumbler. ‘Congratulations are in order, I believe.’

  His voice was oddly flat and mirthless, and Jo wondered if he’d been drinking at home before the pub opened.

  She returned the toast, then slid the invite across the table. ‘This came to the station. There’s a service tomorrow, for Dylan.’

  Ferman didn’t touch it, instead taking a sip of his drink. As he tipped his head, a shaft of sunlight penetrated the frosted windows. He looked dreadful, his pale eyes watery.

  ‘If I’ve come at a bad time …’ she said.

  His Adam’s apple sank and rose, then he chuckled, as if she’d said something unintentionally amusing.

  ‘You think this Trent fella did it?’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Almost certainly,’ said Jo. ‘We haven’t spoken to the victim yet, but we’re expecting him to confirm it.’

  ‘I don’t mean McDonagh,’ he said, then tapped the envelope with a thick finger. Nails chewed down. ‘Dylan.’

  ‘No. Do you?’

  Ferman’s finger continued to tap, as though in time with his thoughts. ‘Doesn’t matter what I think,’ he said.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jo. ‘Help me out here. You know the Jones case as well as anyone. Better than anyone, maybe. Trent had a conviction for some lewd behaviour much later. I’m not saying it doesn’t matter, but it’s a long way from kidnapping and murder. The timeline’s weird too. Why come out of the woodwork now, after so long?’

  ‘You want my opinion?’ said Ferman. ‘This world constantly surprises me. If it was Trent, he’s not going to serve time. May as well chalk it in the win column.’

  ‘You can’t really mean that. Surely it matters that the right person is held responsible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So justice is served. And to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  He swallowed the rest of the brandy. ‘It will happen again. And justice doesn’t bring back dead children.’

  Jo wondered if he was always like this, or if the find under the pool in Bradford had stirred some muddy water in his own soul, where other tragedies and unhappiness lurked.

  ‘Do you think you’ll go – to the service?’ she asked.

  ‘Think they really want us there? A reminder of what happened?’

  ‘I suppose we gave them some answers,’ said Jo. She almost said closure, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate the term.

  He was moving his empty glass in circles. Jo hadn’t touched her vodka, and now she really didn’t want it.

  ‘Have a good day, Harry,’ she said. She got up, and walked away, but as she neared the door, he spoke again.

  ‘Tell you what, Masters. I’ll go, if you do too.’

  She hadn’t been planning to, but there was something pleading in his voice. A sense of doomed duty that he had to fulfil.

  ‘You got it,’ she replied.

  Back in the car, she felt deflated. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d wanted from Ferman. Some perspective perhaps, some deeper understanding from the wise old head who’d seen it all before, and who didn’t care about ‘optics’, or departmental wrangling, or the day-to-day of police politics. Someone who simply cared about getting to the truth. But Harry Ferman clearly had his own issues to deal with.

  She had a missed call on her personal phone, from a mobile number she didn’t recognise, and a voicemail.

  ‘Hello. Is this Detective Masters? Emma gave me your number. This is Kieran. Kieran McDonagh. Look, I need to talk to you.’ The voice was clipped, with an urgency to the delivery. ‘Don’t tell Mum and Dad, please. Just give me a call. It’s Kieran. I’m Niall’s brother.’

  Jo saved the message, then listened to it again. Her heart was racing, but she didn’t know why. Jo imagined what Stratton would say. Under absolutely no circumstances.

  But as far as Stratton was concerned, the case was closed. She wasn’t actively interfering, was she? And the call had come through on her personal phone. Personal phone, personal business.

  She called back, feeling light-headed.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Jo Masters. I got your message.’ Keeping it professional. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Daz,’ he said. ‘No, Mum – it’s Dasha …’ After a pause of about ten seconds, he came back on the line. ‘Sorry about that. Mum doesn’t know I’m calling.’

  ‘Are you in some sort of trouble, Kieran?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but I will be if they find out I’m speaking to you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s Niall,’ said Kieran. ‘No one’s listening to him.’

  ‘Your brother is in hospital, isn’t he?’

  ‘They’ve got him doped up,’ he said. ‘But I saw him last night. He won’t stop talking about the clown. He’s so fucking scared. He thinks it’s coming for him again.’

  It was hardly surprising. Being kidnapped and locked in a dark hole for two days was enough to give anyone nightmares.

  ‘The man who took Niall is dead,’ said Jo.

  ‘That’s just it!’ said Kieran. ‘He’s saying it’s not Trent. He says there was someone else down there. This clown.’

  Jo felt a warmth spreading down her neck.

  ‘Trent wore a mask,’ she said, keeping her voice level. ‘A clown mask.’

  ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’ said Kieran. ‘I’m telling you. Niall’s not confused. He keeps telling Mum and Dad. There were two of them down there. Trent and the clown.’

  Jo tried not to let herself get carried away. She knew where that could lead. ‘Kieran, beli
eve me, I’m listening to you. But you have to understand, we don’t know what happened to Niall during the forty-eight hours he was missing.’

  ‘So ask Niall, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ said Jo. ‘Your brother is a minor.’

  ‘Emma said I could trust you,’ said Kieran, ‘but you’re just like the rest of them.’

  ‘Steady on,’ said Jo. ‘I want to help.’

  ‘Then help!’ said Kieran. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

  He hung up.

  Jo sat for a moment, phone in her lap. You’re not even on the bloody case.

  She started the engine, her body moving independently of her mind. She weighed up the possibilities, the chances that this was just a dud lead, that she was getting carried away. There were dozens of examples, both apocryphal and based on real case studies, where confirmation bias had led investigators down rabbit holes of their own imaginings. Just because she wanted it to be true, didn’t mean it had more validity than any other theory. If she got there, and Professor McDonagh was present too, what was the likelihood he’d let her talk to Niall? Slim to non-existent, surely.

  She pulled away from the pub, plotting her route mentally to the hospital.

  Of course, if Stratton did find out, the next meeting in his office would be a lot more painful.

  Chapter 17

  Dr Srai was younger than she expected, a striking Asian woman in her early thirties, with eyes the rich colour of polished horse chestnuts, and a sweep of otter-pelt dark hair in a ponytail. Jo showed her ID, and the doctor took her time inspecting it. Most people didn’t bother, even those with something to hide. Especially those, actually. Handing the badge back, she shook Jo’s hand.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t see Niall just at the moment. His father has nipped out and we’ll need permission.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Jo. ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  ‘Not long, I expect,’ said Srai. ‘He’s gone to find a newsagents. Apparently our shop doesn’t stock the FT.’

  The doctor’s delivery was dry, but Jo caught a hint of disapproval. Srai led her to an elevator. The first was full with an empty trolley and several nurses in uniform.