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

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       Chapter 5

      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 СКАЧАТЬ