LITMIR.BIZ

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it. And why kidnap your own child?’

      ‘Though it would make sense that Dylan went with him.’

      ‘That was our thinking. Alibi was cast-iron though. He was at a rugby match. The guy who ran the carnival – McTavish, I think he was called – wasn’t very helpful at all. He couldn’t even give us a definitive list of employees, because a lot of the workers were off the books. And thousands had been in and out, because the circus had been there for a week. The clown thing threw us – you were the only witness to the costume, and the other staff said they’d have known if a different clown was hanging around. We figured the suspect must have put on the disguise at the site.’ Ferman laughed. ‘The gaffer had us empty out the chemical toilets – you can imagine how that went down. We found a bag with make-up – lipstick and face paint, the like. High-street stuff, and no way to trace it.’

      ‘Sex offenders?’

      ‘We did the rounds, but it was pre-’97, so no proper records of those sorts of crimes. We went on local intelligence back then.’

      ‘But you made an arrest?’

      ‘Oh, aye. We thought we had him too. Clement Matthews – lived less than a mile away. Previous convictions for indecent exposure. No alibi worth speaking of for the day in question. Said he’d never been to the circus, or near it, but when we flashed his picture to McTavish, he was sure he’d seen the fella. We stripped his place to the joists, took his car to bits, looking for anything to tie him to Dylan.’

      ‘And nothing?’

      ‘Not a bean, apart from some vids. But even they were borderline – the sort of thing you can find with a couple of clicks these days. Hard to determine the age of the participants. To be honest, I felt from the start he wasn’t a good fit – he just seemed out of his depth. But the high-ups were on us like a rash to charge someone.’ Ferman sighed. ‘We went at him pretty hard, and in the end he admitted he’d driven past the circus a couple of times. We threw the book at him.’

      Jo hadn’t remembered any of this. She guessed her parents had done their best to keep the unsavoury details from her.

      ‘It went to court?’

      ‘I wish it hadn’t. We really only had McTavish to put Matthews at the scene,’ said Ferman. ‘Bastard turned up half-cut just after lunch, slurred his way through his evidence and fell to bits under cross-examination. It was embarrassing for everyone.’

      ‘So Matthews walked free.’

      ‘I wouldn’t go that far. The papers got hold of it. Called him “The Killer Clown”. The locals didn’t take kindly to finding out there was a perv living next door.’

      ‘I can imagine.’

      She remembered now, some of the specifics of that term at school following the kidnap. ‘Clown’s coming for you!’ was the taunt of choice. To her shame, she’d even used it herself once or twice. Maybe it was just a way to process what had happened, but she felt a sudden rush of disgust.

      ‘He was rehoused in the end, I think,’ said Ferman. ‘Taxpayer’s expense.’

      ‘Is it worth picking him up again?’

      ‘He was mid-forties then and hardly in great nick,’ said Ferman. ‘He’s probably popped his clogs.’

      Jo focused on the road as they came off the bypass and towards the city. She wondered how deep Ben was in the case files. If Matthews was still around, Ben would sniff him out like a bloodhound. For all his personal faults, as a police officer he was tenacious.

      Coming back into Oxford always left Jo with a feeling of unease. Despite the wide spaces and the grand buildings – the bloody ‘dreaming spires’, as people insisted on calling them – it had always felt claustrophobic.

      They drove on in silence, past the looming 1930s residences north of the city, the Arts and Crafts cottages with their leafy gardens and 4x4s parked in the drives. The satnav took them into a small housing estate of 1970s bungalows, and they found 94 Curlew Close. There was a small electric car in the drive. Ferman looked a little tense, gnarled old hands resting on his thighs.

      ‘You want to do the talking?’ asked Jo. ‘You know the family.’

      Ferman shook his head. ‘I’ll just observe, if you don’t mind.’

      Jo would have rather he took over, but given she was the serving officer, she didn’t quibble. It had been a year or so since she’d served a notice of death to the next of kin. The last time was a drowning accident. The parents had thought their teenage daughter was at a friend’s studying for her GCSE chemistry, when actually she was drinking cheap cider by the local reservoir and decided to strip off and have a dip. This felt not a little different, given the time that had elapsed and the fact it was still conjecture that the body was even Dylan.

      They walked up to the front door. There was a boot-scraper by the mat in the shape of a dog. Jo rang the bell, and a yappy barking started up at once. She composed herself, taking out her warrant card.

      The woman who came to the door was tall, athletic-looking and stylish, with cropped, grey hair, baggy linen trousers and a matching shawl over a blouse. She wore open-toed sandals, and had a multitude of bangles down both arms plus a necklace of amber beads. Her fingers were slender, with a touch of dirt under the nails. At her ankles sat a Westie, wagging its stubby tail.

      ‘Mrs Jones?’ said Jo, wondering if this could be the same woman she’d seen rushing around the carnival ground screaming her son’s name.

      The woman nodded. ‘Yes?’ Then her eyes latched onto Ferman and a hand rose to her throat. ‘Oh my God. You’ve found him, haven’t you?’

      Jo showed her badge.

      ‘My name is Detective Masters, and I believe you’ve met Harry Ferman before. We need to speak with you. Can we come in?’

      Mrs Jones backed into the hallway. ‘Of course.’

      Jo went first, with Ferman at her back, and Mrs Jones led them through to a conservatory at the back of the house. A man – Mr Jones, presumably – was sitting in a wicker chair, doing a crossword on a folded newspaper. He put it down as they entered.

      ‘These people are police officers,’ said his wife. ‘Do you remember Constable Ferman?’

      The years had not been as kind to Mr Jones as to his wife. He was stout, his face and scalp liver-spotted, and wore a pair of green corduroy trousers and a plaid shirt. He stood up, gathering himself, and extended a hand to Ferman, who shook it briefly.

      ‘I remember,’ he said.

      Jo didn’t get a handshake, and didn’t let it bother her. ‘I’m Detective Masters,’ she said again. ‘I’ve come to tell you that we have uncovered the remains of a body, and though we don’t have confirmation at this stage, we have circumstantial evidence that suggests it’s your son, Dylan Jones, who was reported missing a little over thirty-one years ago.’ She paused, wondering if she’d struck the right tone, then added, ‘I’m sorry to have to deliver this news to you.’

      Mr Jones moved to his wife’s side and took her arm. ‘You’re sorry?’ he said.

      Jo struggled to discern his tone. It sounded like a genuine question, so she forged on.

      ‘We are carrying out enquiries and the coroner will be examining the remains.’

      ‘Can we see him?’ said Mrs Jones.

      ‘Sheila …’ said her husband.

      ‘Mrs Jones,’ said Jo, trying to be as delicate as possible. ‘The body is in an advanced state of decomposition. It really is little more than a partial skeleton.’

      She saw Mr Jones flinch, and small dots of purple appeared under each cheek. ‘Then why in God’s name do you think it’s Dylan? Where was he found?’

      Ferman spoke up for

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