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

Art swallowed, lip trembling. ‘I was scared, all right?’ He began to cry. ‘I wanted to. He had a knife. Fuck – Niall looked so fucking scared.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Jo. ‘I’d be scared too.’ She pointed at a tree stump. ‘Wait there.’

She walked up the lane, torch lighting the way ahead. Arthur Price might be lying to her, but she thought not. He’d probably sprinted back to his mates as fast as his legs would carry him. And part of her was glad. At least they weren’t dealing with a kid dead from a knife wound.

About fifty yards up she found a layby, with a gate to a field that was locked. If the kidnapper had a car, this was where he must have parked. A brief inspection showed nothing, but forensics could comb it. She went to the gate and climbed a few rungs to look over the hedges. The lights of houses twinkled about a quarter of a mile away. It might be worth talking to the owners. The road couldn’t get a lot of traffic and someone might have seen something.

As she was getting down, she saw a tiny speck of red on the end gatepost, which had buckled slightly. Maybe a piece of poor manoeuvring?

Jo turned back, mind playing over the possibilities. If it was a dealer, this wasn’t a bad place to park up. Out of sight, easy access. But that didn’t really add up with the overgrown path. You couldn’t stumble on it. Whoever used it knew the area very well, and Port Meadow didn’t scream gang territory.

If you were a planning a kidnap, however, it made perfect sense. Quick exit, no witnesses.

She headed back, uneasy.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_005ddff5-b2c0-5a38-ab3c-e02b57599b54)

Jo had never been in St Aldates police station before, but when she arrived it was exactly like every other city station at eleven p.m. on a Friday night. A squad vehicle in the car park, unloading a couple of drunks, one clutching a bloody tissue to his mouth. A steady flow of uniformed pairs coming in and out of the back exit. The waiting room was full, the custody sergeant looked harassed and someone was banging on a cell door demanding to be let out.

She showed her badge, signed in, and followed the sergeant’s directions through the communal area, down a corridor to the CID office. A slight, Asian officer in plain clothes had a phone clamped between her shoulder and ear while tapping on a keyboard, and a swarthy athletic-looking man in cycling gear emerged from a side room with a bicycle helmet over his arm and two mugs of tea in his hands.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Jo Masters, Avon and Somerset,’ said Jo, holding out her hand. ‘I’m helping on the McDonagh case.’

The cyclist put down the two mugs and shook her hand. ‘George Dimitriou. Call me Dimi. They dragged me in too. Seems like an overreaction.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said the Asian woman, coming off the phone. ‘Heidi Tan. Nice to meet you face to face.’

Jo had already spoken to Tan on the way over about the paint chips on the gate and the houses up the road from the crime scene.

‘Is Detective Carrick here?’ asked Jo. ‘I’m supposed to co-ordinate with him.’

Tan had taken a mug and gestured to an interview room with it before sipping. ‘He’s got the parents in Room 2.’

‘May I?’ said Jo, heading over.

‘Knock yourself out,’ said Tan.

Jo knocked and entered. Carrick was sitting across from two understandably worried-looking forty-somethings. The man was pacing back and forth, and the woman clutched a handkerchief like it was the only thing keeping her sane. Both well-dressed – Mr McDonagh had a corduroy jacket and a knitted green tie over a checked shirt. Greying at the temples, his hair was a luxuriantly artful sweep. He was clean-shaven, with a small cleft in his chin. He looked like Richard Burton. Two untouched mugs of coffee sat in front of them, and an assortment of photos lay on the table, some still in picture frames.

‘Can’t you track his phone?’ said Mr McDonagh. ‘He’s never off the bloody thing.’

‘We’re working on that,’ said Carrick. ‘What we need from you now is a list of family members who live locally. And any adults that Niall regularly comes into contact with.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘This is Detective Masters. She’s been drafted in from another force to help with the search as well. Jo – this is Professor Anthony McDonagh and his wife, Brigitte.’

The man stopped pacing and stood with his arms akimbo before coming forward and offering his hand. He towered over her, and she received the impression of a former sportsman – a rower, or a rugby player. They shook hands – his were massive, the skin rough.

Jo offered a hand to his wife as well. ‘Mrs McDonagh.’

‘Doctor, actually,’ said the woman. On closer inspection, she looked to be in her early fifties – she must have had her children late – with blonde hair turning to grey in the bouffant style of an eighties news anchor, slightly misshapen as though she’d been woken from sleep. She wore a stylish long cardigan and tailored trousers. Her mascara was smudged around the eyes, and Jo wondered if she’d applied it just to come to the station.

Jo registered the correction with a smile. ‘Apologies. You’re both academics at the university?’

‘Gloucester College,’ said Mr McDonagh.

Jo passed a glance over the other photographs they’d brought. Family gatherings, a school uniform shot, one with an older boy who might have been the brother. Niall looked a little different in every one, but the large soulful eyes were a common thread – luminous and innocent.

‘I just don’t understand why anyone would take Niall,’ said Mrs McDonagh. She dabbed her eyes. ‘He’s just a little boy. What do they want with him?’

‘And you have another son?’ said Jo.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs McDonagh. ‘Kieran’s fifteen. He’s not well – glandular fever.’

‘Want to bring me up to speed, boss?’ said Jo.

‘I’ve been over the basic facts as we know them,’ said Carrick. ‘It’s very early to form any conclusions, and at this stage our priority – all our resources – are simply focused on locating Niall.’

‘What resources are those?’ said Mr McDonagh, waving a hand at the door. ‘There’s a chap out there making tea looking like he’s about to start the Tour de France.’

‘Tony, they’re doing everything they can,’ said Mrs McDonagh. Mr McDonagh grunted and began to pace again.

Jo leaned in, speaking softly. ‘I’m sure you’ve been over this already, but did Niall have any enemies?’

‘He’s eleven, detective,’ said Mr McDonagh. ‘When you have enemies at that age, they tend not to kidnap you.’

‘Darling, Detective Masters is just trying to help,’ said his wife.

Jo felt Carrick watching her. She guessed he hadn’t mentioned the drug angle at all, but she wasn’t going to beat around the bush.

‘Did your son owe anyone money?’

Anthony McDonagh snorted. ‘This has something to do with Arthur, doesn’t it? I knew it. Where is that little brat, anyway? Have you rung Simon and Penelope?’

‘They’re his parents?’ said Carrick.

‘Nominally,’ said Niall’s father. ‘Not that they do much actual parenting.’

‘Arthur Price is friends with your eldest?’ said Jo.

‘Despite our best efforts. We never should have let Niall go out.’

‘Is that something you would normally do?’ asked Jo.

‘What are you suggesting?’ said Mrs McDonagh. ‘That this is somehow our fault?’

‘Not at all,’ said Jo. ‘I’m just trying to get a feel for his lifestyle.’

Anthony McDonagh reached over and laid a hand on the table, as if to placate the room.