Hold My Hand

by M. J. Ford

  Jo rehearsed her lines as they walked up to the front door, seeking just the right balance between professional formality and friendliness. Ferman smiled warmly. When Sally opened the door, she was wearing a pair of marigolds. The left side of her face was one large bruise.

  ‘Oh my goodness. What happened?’ Jo’s first thought was the goons in the clown masks, her brother’s car and the missing iPad.

  Sally waved a hand dismissively. ‘My own stupid fault,’ she said. ‘I slipped on the blasted runner in the hall.’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’ asked Jo.

  ‘What’s the point?’ said Sally, with another. ‘I know what they’ll say. I’m not going into a home.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m not listening!’ said Sally, with another wave. ‘Now, did you enjoy that pie?’

  ‘It was lovely,’ said Jo. She’d get back to the bruise afterwards. ‘Sally, this is my colleague, Detective Ferman. Can we have a chat?’

  Sally flinched. ‘It’s a bit of a mess …’

  ‘We won’t take much of your time.’

  Sally looked back into the hallway. ‘Well, come in then,’ she said.

  She turned and walked stiffly towards the living room. Ferman gestured for Jo to go before him, and she did so. In the living room, her eyes were drawn straight to the piano, the keys concealed under the lid. There was little sign of any mess that Jo could see, but there was a cat perched on the sofa arm. Ferman reached out a hand, but it hissed at him and he drew back.

  ‘You managed to get him inside then?’ said Jo.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Sally. She bent to the carpet, where a bucket sat on the floor. Taking a cloth, she began to scrub at a patch. ‘He’s decided he’s not house-trained any more though.’

  ‘Can I help with that?’ asked Ferman, moving closer.

  ‘There!’ said Sally. ‘Done. But thank you for offering, Mr Ferman.’

  He took her arm and helped her to stand, which she did with a grimace.

  ‘So what can I do for you both?’

  ‘We wanted to talk about Dylan Jones,’ said Jo, coming straight to the point.

  Sally’s thin eyebrows rose half an inch. ‘Yes, I saw that was on the news and wondered if you were involved. Didn’t want to pry, you know.’ She pulled off the gloves awkwardly. ‘He was a lovely young man. Fine pianist too. I knew from his first lesson that he had promise.’

  ‘So you remember when he went missing?’ said Jo.

  ‘Of course! It was all over the news. Good parents too. Must have been so, so hard for them.’

  ‘Can I ask you about your husband?’ said Jo.

  For the first time, Sally’s demeanour changed, and Jo was sure a seasoned detective like Ferman would have spotted it too. Her eyes gave a furtive jerk, an animal sensing danger.

  ‘You didn’t say what this was about?’

  ‘Maybe we should all sit down?’ said Ferman, gesturing towards the sofa.

  ‘I might look like a senile old thing,’ said Sally, ‘but I don’t like being treated like one. How is Stephen possibly connected with the Jones boy?’

  ‘He probably isn’t,’ said Jo. ‘But we’ve looked into the files, and it seems there was an oversight. The police at the time intended to question Mr Carruthers and never did.’

  ‘They’ll have a job now,’ said Sally, frostily.

  Jo smiled, hoping to take some of the tension out of the room. Sally was wringing her hands.

  ‘This is really just a formality,’ said Jo, even though she was beginning to suspect it wasn’t.

  ‘Is it now?’ said Sally. ‘Because it looks to me like you’re forcing your way into my house, telling me my late husband is suspected of some sort of crime.’

  ‘You let us in, Mrs Carruthers,’ said Jo.

  ‘So it’s Mrs Carruthers now, is it?’

  ‘Sally, please. You’re not in any trouble.’

  ‘I want you to leave.’ She stood by the door. ‘I want you both to go now.’

  Jo remained where she was, and glanced at Ferman. She’d seen enough.

  ‘Sally, I’m going to have to ask you to come with us to the station. These questions are important.’

  ‘You’re arresting me?’

  ‘No. No one wants that. We’d like you to come of your own accord. We can drive you, and bring you straight back.’

  Sally Carruthers huffed. If she refused, Jo didn’t know if she would have arrested her or not.

  ‘I hope you’re ashamed of yourself,’ said Sally.

  And Jo was. Even though every instinct told her that Sally Carruthers was hiding something.

  Chapter 21

  Luckily, Stratton was absent, and it was Andy Carrick who came from the back to greet them at the gate while Sally waited at the front desk reception.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘You two are a sneaky pair, aren’t you? Does the chief inspector know?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Jo. ‘Look, we just need room.’

  ‘Jo – this is very irregular. You know the witness. Stratton’s on edge already about all the press stuff.’

  ‘This isn’t connected,’ said Ferman.

  Carrick shook his head. ‘Did you put her up to this?’

  ‘Andrew, I think she might have a breakthrough.’

  ‘If I’m right, this could be one in the win column on Dylan Jones too,’ said Jo. ‘An hour, tops.’

  ‘I’d better not regret this,’ said Carrick. ‘Stratton’s out for another couple of hours over in Kidlington. Take IR1.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jo. ‘Is Ben about?’

  ‘Not sure where he’s got to,’ said Carrick.

  ‘Can you give him a call? He was in touch with the building contractor who worked on the Bradford site. Could be relevant.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Ferman made Sally a cup of tea. In the stark light of the interview room, the bruising on her face was a lurid purple blotch.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?’ said Jo, as she settled in the seat opposite.

  ‘I really just want to go home,’ said Sally. She’d lost the steeliness from her tone and looked tiny in the chair. Fragile. The rooms weren’t designed to make people comfortable.

  ‘Are you warm enough?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Sally. She cupped the mug in her frail hands. ‘I’m sorry if you thought I was being rude. I know you’re just doing your job.’

  ‘We’ve just got a few questions,’ said Jo. ‘Shall we start?’

  ‘Please do. I want to help.’

  ‘How would you feel if we recorded the interview?’ said Jo.

  Sally sipped her drink. ‘Go ahead.’

  Jo switched on the equipment, introduced them all for the tape, then began.

  ‘Your husband, Stephen Carruthers. When did he pass away?’

  ‘About two years back now.’

  When the note was sent …

  ‘And you mentioned to me once before that it was difficult towards the end of his life …’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You said he wasn’t a nice man sometimes.’

  ‘Yes, he suffered dementia for the last few years. He could lash out a bit.’

  ‘But before that, was he ever violent?’

  Sally paused before answering. ‘No. Not really.’

  Jo didn’t miss a beat. ‘You mean, he was violent sometimes?’

  ‘Never with me.’

  ‘With others, then?’

  ‘He had a temper,’ said Sally. ‘Got in a few fist-fights, when he was younger. He came from an army family. Had a tough upbringing.’

  ‘Did Stephen ever have any contact with Dylan Jones, your piano student?’ asked Ferman.

  Sally glowered. ‘What do you mean by contact?’

  ‘Forgive me. Did they ever meet, at your house?’

  ‘I’m sure they might have. Stephen would have been out working, most of the time. But there may have been occasions when he was home at the same time as Dylan�
�s lessons.’

  ‘And on those occasions, would they ever have been alone?’ asked Ferman.

  Sally shook her head angrily. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting—’

  ‘We’re not suggesting anything,’ Jo interrupted. ‘We’re simply trying to establish the prior contact your late husband may have had with Dylan Jones.’

  Sally pushed her tea away. ‘Well, the answer is no. Dylan came for piano lessons. I would have been with him from when he arrived to when he left. Stephen – my husband – he wasn’t musical.’

  It struck Jo as an odd answer, but she could see what Ferman was doing, trying to deflect Sally’s hostility towards himself with a prurient line of questioning.

  ‘What was it your husband did for a living?’ asked Jo.

  ‘He could turn his hand to anything,’ said Sally, her eyes flashing with pride. ‘Did odd-jobs for people. Strong as an ox – he liked physical stuff.’

  Jo noted it down, but her mind was already racing. Ferman hadn’t reacted, but there was no way he could have missed the electricity in the air. He tapped his pen on the paper.

  ‘Such as construction? Gardening?’

  ‘That sort of thing,’ said Sally.

  ‘And did he have a regular employer?’ asked Jo.

  ‘He worked for lots of people over the years.’

  ‘In the late eighties?’ asked Ferman.

  Sally snorted. ‘That’s thirty years ago. What were you doing?’

  ‘I was looking for Dylan Jones,’ said Ferman with an edge Jo hadn’t seen before.

  There was a knock at the door, and Ben looked in with Andy Carrick. ‘I hope you don’t mind me interrupting,’ he said. ‘A word, please?’

  Jo excused herself, and she and Ferman left Sally Carruthers alone.

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ Ben said to Jo. ‘Want to bring me up to speed on my case?’

  There was no real irritation in his tone, just a bemusement as he gazed towards Ferman. Jo went over the developments, from what she’d learned from the order of service and her conversation with the Joneses. She expected him to react angrily – but instead he took out his pocketbook, grinning.

  ‘Stephen Carruthers, you say?’

  ‘Something promising?’ said Jo.

  ‘Pool chap gave us the names he could remember.’

  He flipped open his pocketbook, and pointed to the page. There were six Christian names, and the fifth was ‘Steve? Stephen?’

  ‘You think it’s Carruthers?’ asked Carrick.

  ‘Don’t you?’ asked Ben. ‘Jo, can you go back in and keep her talking while I make a call?’ He glanced over at Ferman. ‘Thanks for your help, Detective Ferman,’ he said brusquely. ‘But I think we can take it from here.’

  Ferman suddenly looked like an actor who’d stumbled out onto the wrong stage. ‘Right you are,’ he muttered.

  Jo gave him her best apologetic glance, then returned to the interview room while she waited for Ben. She left the recorder off while it was just the two of them.

  ‘Can I go now?’ asked Sally meekly.

  ‘Soon,’ said Jo.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Sally – there are some leads we have to follow up,’ said Jo.

  Sally nodded, as if the act of bobbing her head imparted some resolve. ‘They sent me an invitation, you know – Dylan’s parents. There was a service.’

  Jo saw no reason to lie. ‘I was there,’ she said. ‘It was rather nice. There was some Chopin. If I’d known about your connection, we could have travelled together.’

  Sally looked sad. ‘I’d have liked that.’

  Jo was about to ask why she hadn’t attended, when Ben came back in. From the bounce in his step, she knew it was good news. He started the tape, introduced himself, and began seamlessly.

  ‘You were talking with my colleagues about your husband’s work,’ he said.

  Sally, still looking wistful, replied simply, ‘Yes.’

  Ben beamed. ‘You might or might not be aware that Dylan Jones’ remains were discovered in the garden of a house some sixty-five miles from Oxford,’ he said. ‘We’ve spoken to the building contractor who was working there at the time.’ He looked at his pocketbook. ‘A Mr Henshaw – and he’s confirmed that your husband – Stephen Carruthers – was in charge of landscaping a section of the garden beside the pool.’

  Sally didn’t answer. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. Jo was silent too.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Mrs Carruthers?’ asked Ben. ‘We think your husband buried Dylan’s body at his place of work.’

  Sally’s hands crept to her face. ‘What? No! Why would he?’

  ‘You tell us,’ said Ben.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ asked Sally, her eyes welling up. ‘Why are you saying these things? My husband didn’t kill Dylan … he just wouldn’t.’

  ‘You said he was violent sometimes,’ Jo muttered.

  ‘The odd bust-up,’ said Sally. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a child. He was a good …’ She stopped herself. ‘Have you interviewed Dylan’s father? He used to hit him, you know?’

  Jo couldn’t tell if she was just playing for time. ‘We’re aware of that.’

  ‘Poor lad could hardly sit down sometimes. He was terrified of the old brute.’

  ‘Lots of parents smacked their children thirty years ago,’ said Ben. ‘It doesn’t make them murderers.’

  ‘So why would my Stephen kill Dylan?’ said Sally, more forthright. ‘Answer me that!’

  ‘Mrs Carruthers,’ said Ben. ‘The motive – whether it was sexual, or related to some other pathology – is irrelevant at the moment. The condition of Dylan’s remains is such that discerning the cause of death is likely impossible. I know this will be hard for you to understand, but we’ve seen it hundreds of times before. We don’t know what people are capable of, even those closest to us. All we can do as investigators is follow the prima facie evidence – what happened, where it happened – which in this case suggests your husband first met Dylan at your address, then later kidnapped him. Subsequent to that, Dylan died at an unknown location. We can’t say for sure that he was murdered, or why, but that would be our assumption.’

  ‘No …’ said Sally. ‘No, no, no …’

  ‘Mrs Carruthers,’ said Ben, ‘at this stage, you’re not under arrest, but we may choose to arrest you at a later point as more evidence comes to light. Do you understand?’

  Sally looked at Jo. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  Jo leant across the table and took the old woman’s hands in her own.

  ‘Interview terminated,’ said Ben, and stopped the tape.

  Jo sat with Sally for the next half-hour, passing her tissues, and trying to reassure her that she wasn’t in trouble herself. Several times her old neighbour muttered, ‘It’s not true’, and Jo didn’t know what to say. In a case that seemed riven with coincidences, the fact of Dylan’s piano lessons and the discovery of his body at Stephen Carruthers’ place of work was one too many. Her only regret was that they could never question him. While the disparate fragments of the case were coming together, Sally’s life was in pieces. Stephen Carruthers had a lot to answer for. And he never would.

  And of course, it somewhat blew any connection between Dylan and Niall, the theory of the two clowns, out of the water. Stephen Carruthers was dead, confirmed by the register office, so he could never have been at RAF Bampton three days earlier.

  In her pocket, her phone began to ring. Salisbury. She answered.

  ‘Detective Masters speaking.’

  ‘Hi Jo.’ It was Dr Mike Wilson, the senior lab technician – Jo had known him on and off for eight years. ‘I was trying to get Detective Coombs, but he didn’t pick up.’

  ‘He’s on another call, I think,’ said Jo. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Detective Coombs wanted us to check back, as soon as the DNA came through.’

  Jo was still catching up. Dylan Jones. The samples.

  ‘Can you h
old for just a sec?’ she said. She placed her hand over the microphone, and muttered to Sally, ‘Excuse me a moment. I need to take this outside.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked the old woman tremulously.

  ‘I’ll be back in a mo. We’ll get you home soon.’

  She felt terrible shutting the door to the IR on the broken face.

  Jo couldn’t see Ben anywhere in CID. Carrick was at his desk, chatting with Harry Ferman. She was glad he hadn’t been bullied into leaving by Ben, but she wondered why he was still here.

  ‘Go ahead, Mike,’ she said. ‘We’ve actually identified a prime suspect.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well I hope this doesn’t throw a spanner in the works.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘There was no match between the DNA from the remains and that of Mrs Jones.’

  ‘Pardon? You’re saying it’s not Dylan?’

  ‘Strictly, I suppose, we’re saying the boy isn’t the biological offspring of Mr and Mrs Jones,’ said Wilson. ‘You’d be surprised at what turns up in these tests. Adoption. Infidelity.’

  He sounded quite jovial. Jo was still struggling to take the info on board. The fact that there were people in the world not dealing with something life-shattering seemed somehow unreal.

  ‘We’re still running the B samples, but given the other preliminary findings, I think we’re on the surer ground here.’

  ‘What preliminary findings? You said it was a boy, right age roughly. What’s changed?’

  ‘A pity we didn’t have dentals – would have been able to give a definitive within twenty-four hours. No, I’m talking about the defects in the spinal column.’

  ‘You’ll have to explain.’

  ‘So we found significant distortions in the bones of the lower spine. A pre-mortem condition – a severe dorsal arthritis. Without a full set of remains it’s hard to determine with much more certainty. Do you know if Dylan suffered with such a condition?’

  She thought about the boy kicking the football at the carnival. Sitting up at the piano stool in the still image from the order of service.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, it’s the DNA that’s important,’ said Wilson. ‘Hope we’ve been a help. You want the report copied to you?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Jo.