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

It was my fault.

Ferman came closer, moving with difficulty down the steps, until he was standing beside Jo and Carrick, looking at the remains.

‘You were the only witness,’ he said. ‘And pretty reliable for a young girl. Still, it wasn’t much to go on.’ Though he was staring in the direction of the skeleton, he had a faraway look in his eyes. ‘We interviewed over forty people,’ he said. ‘Didn’t get a damn thing.’

Jo heard the scuffle of footsteps and looked up to see DCI Bridges.

‘We’ve got an address for the parents, Jo,’ he said.

‘Still the place off the Banbury Road?’ asked Ferman.

Bridges looked impressed. ‘That’s right. I think we owe them a visit.’

‘Bit premature, guv?’ said Jo. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for a positive ID?’ She glanced at the child’s skull. ‘Dental comparison?’

‘Dylan was seven,’ said Ferman. ‘I doubt there were any records. At least, I don’t remember any at the time.’

‘Ben’s got Carter looking into when the pool was built,’ said Bridges. ‘We’ll need some swabs from the parents.’

‘And you want me to do it?’ asked Jo.

‘Given your connection with the case, I think there’s a sort of poetry to it, don’t you?’ said Carrick. He sounded pleased to be rid of the cold case.

‘What connection’s that?’ said Bridges.

Jo explained, briefly, staring at the remains. Nothing poetic there. It was a dead kid.

‘Gosh – isn’t that uncanny?’ he said.

‘Want a lift back to Oxford?’ Carrick asked Ferman.

‘I’ll accompany Detective Masters to the parents’ house,’ said Ferman. ‘If she doesn’t mind, that is.’

‘No problem,’ said Jo. The thought of such a steady presence was comforting.

As Ferman and the others went to sign themselves out of the crime scene, Jo remained for a few moments. One of the forensics team was photographing the site from every possible angle, and Jo knew they wouldn’t be done here until it was dark, would spend hours scouring the earth for any extra material. The body might get moved tomorrow, and they’d likely have it bagged and driven to Salisbury for the coroner to take samples and try to discern the cause of death. Jo stared at the skeleton, trying to imagine it as the little boy from the circus that day.

In truth, she could barely remember Dylan Jones, other than his red hair and the look of pure gratitude he’d given her when she’d let him take her final kick on the football game. In the weeks following the summer holidays had taken over, and then it was school again. Life had moved on, and though she’d occasionally thought of Dylan after, it was only ever fleeting, and mostly with an uneasy sense of guilt. She guessed her mum and dad would have done their best to keep her away from the unfolding investigation, moving any lurid headlines out of reach, switching over the channel if it came on the news. It would be next to impossible these days, but in the era of four TV stations and no internet, sheltering your kids wouldn’t have been all that hard.

There’d been a bit of teasing at school, but kids could be pretty brutal without really meaning it. She wondered about the last time she’d seen Dylan, hand-in-hand with his abductor. Had there been fear on his face, or had he been struggling? She didn’t think so.

Soon, she’d learnt the whole episode was like a bruise – if she didn’t press it, it didn’t hurt at all. The bullies had found other victims, other causes, and she was left alone.

She peeled off the gloves and boots as she went back round the house. Andy Carrick was already pulling away in the Toyota.

Bridges was sitting on the bonnet of his car, drinking tea from a Thermos cup. He handed her a piece of paper with an address on the north side of Oxford. There was a blue Audi parked across the road now, and a young woman sitting in the front seat on her phone.

‘Vultures are circling,’ he said.

‘Already?’ said Jo. ‘Who tipped them off?’

‘Probably one of the builders,’ said Bridges. ‘The official line is that we’ve found a body, but there’s no indication of foul play. Ben wants to keep it all under wraps, and I agree.’

‘Ben’s leading?’

‘Sure,’ said Bridges, smiling. ‘Got my best team on it.’ He tossed the remains of the tea across the ground, and dropped the cup into the skip. ‘Let me know how it goes with Mr and Mrs Jones.’

‘Can you send me the original case files?’ said Jo.

‘I’ll get Thames Valley to push it all over,’ said Bridges. ‘It’ll take a while to dig out.’

Then he was in his car and reversing out of the site entrance.

Jo folded the address and climbed into her own car, which had grown stuffy in the brief time she’d been on the crime scene. She switched on the air con. As Ferman lowered himself into the passenger seat, the car dipped noticeably.

‘You don’t like this Ben fella?’ he said.

Jo’s eyes were on the mirrors as she manoeuvred out. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said.

* * *

They joined the M4, skirted Swindon, and approached Oxford from the south-west. With so much on her mind, Jo would have been comfortable with silence, but Ferman was the chatty sort. And though his tone was conversational, Jo couldn’t escape the feeling he was analysing everything she said, like she was a witness all over again.

‘You worked for Avon and Somerset long?’

‘I was at Reading after training,’ she said. ‘Moved across a couple of years ago.’

‘But you’re from Oxford originally.’

‘That’s right,’ she said.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as she drove, carrying out her own appraisal. The suit he was wearing was way out of date, and though spotlessly clean, it was slightly worn on the knees. She wondered if it had come out of a dry-cleaning bag that morning. Shoes polished, but showing scuffs. His left hand (no wedding ring, but perhaps a patch of slightly paler skin where one would sit) clutched the roof handle the whole way, and she wondered if he’d not been in a car for a while. His right hand was yellowed at the fingertips, but she couldn’t smell any smoke on his clothes, and he showed no inkling of wanting a fag now. There was a shaving cut under his jowls.

‘What station are you with, sir?’ she asked, as they came off the bypass.

He chuckled. ‘You mean, what’s an old fart like me doing on your crime scene?’

She smiled. ‘Something like that.’

‘Professional courtesy,’ said Ferman. ‘Retired a few years back. My name was on the file, I suppose. And I’m not “sir” – I retired as a DS.’

‘You live locally?’

‘Aye.’ He didn’t elaborate.

‘Kids?’

‘Not any more.’