Hold My Hand: The addictive new crime thriller that you won’t be able to put down in 2018

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 getting 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.’