Shallow Ground (Detective Ford)

by Andy Maslen

  A murder would have been his first choice. It was a grim truth, but coppers in Major Crimes were never happier than when they had a juicy murder to investigate. It was what they did. What they were born to do, some reckoned.

  But five? Five! He felt he was drowning in paperwork. Every action – and there were now hundreds – had to be noted, rationalised and duplicated, with top copies to the designated officer and the original for his policy book.

  There were tips coming in from the call handlers at all times of the day and night. Some well meant, others the work of cranks and fantasists. Still others were malicious: angry neighbours or envious colleagues, ex-lovers or disaffected spouses. All out to cause mischief, and bugger the waste of police time. And every single, mother-loving one of them had to be followed up, documented and entered into HOLMES.

  To top it all, Sandy had told him the PTBs wanted him replaced.

  His phone rang. He unwound a crick in his neck and put it on speaker.

  ‘Henry, it’s Georgina. I have something odd for you.’

  His pulse ticked up a notch. Georgina had a way of underemphasising things she found interesting. ‘Odd’ promised much. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ll spare you the maths, but your latest victim was missing a litre of blood.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘OK, I won’t spare you the maths. The human body is seven per cent blood. Aimee Cragg should have been dabbling her feet in three point six litres of her own blood. We recovered two point six.’

  ‘You’re certain? None was splashed about or lost in transit?’

  ‘I’ll assign your apparent doubt in my professionalism to investigative rigour. No mistake. None lost in transit. She was missing a litre.’

  Ford sat back and stared at the ceiling. Saw in his mind’s eye a patch of blood like the one that had appeared on the Gregorys’ kitchen ceiling.

  ‘Are you drinking it, after all?’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘Is who drinking what, after all?’

  He straightened. Hannah was standing in the doorway to his office.

  ‘Georgina Eustace just called me. Aimee Cragg was missing a litre of blood. But you said before that he wouldn’t be drinking it.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘We found no vomit at the latest scene?’

  ‘No. Nor at any of the others.’

  The others. He had an idea. ‘Hannah, is there any way you could estimate the volume of blood found at any of the other scenes?’

  She took the seat facing him across the desk. ‘Marcus Anderson’s was too decomposed and dried out. Angie Halpern was on a vinyl floor, but some of her blood had leaked away through a crack into the floorspace,’ she added, looking upwards, as Ford had been doing earlier. ‘But Paul Eadon might be easier. His blood was reasonably fresh and contained.’

  ‘Could you try it?’

  ‘Of course. I have a contact in the FBI who wrote the book on blood-spatter analysis,’ she said. ‘Literally. Because he wrote a book called Blood Spatter Analysis.’

  ‘Talk to Georgina, too. She may be able to help.’

  Hannah rose from her chair. ‘On it. Guv,’ she said, smiling nervously. ‘Was that OK?’ she said immediately. ‘I heard one of the DCs call you that.’

  ‘It’s fine. Though I like it better when you call me Henry.’

  ‘OK. Henry.’

  ‘Was there something you wanted?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You came to me, remember?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do remember.’

  She was blushing. Which was odd, because he’d only seen that reaction when she was in a stressful situation.

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Fine! It’s fine. I’ll start work on the calculations.’

  She turned on her heel and was gone. He watched her navigate the open-plan office, noticing how she picked a circuitous route that allowed her to avoid getting too close to other people.

  DAY FOURTEEN, 9.30 A.M.

  Ford leaned against the doorjamb to his office and scanned the incident room. He saw Jools at her desk and called out, ‘Hey, Jools, got a minute?’

  She hurried over. ‘Guv?’

  ‘I need someone to bounce ideas around with. Got time for a walk?’

  ‘You’re saving me from paperwork. What do you think?’

  They headed across the city to the Town Path, a raised pedestrian walkway across the water meadows bordering the Cathedral Close. They stopped at a gate into a field inhabited by a couple of hundred sheep. Water-filled channels criss-crossed the tussocky grass.

  A man in waders approached the gate from the other end of the path and nodded to Ford as he arrived. He carried a worn iron crank.

  ‘Morning,’ he said. He glanced at Ford’s ID on its lanyard. ‘You detectives, then?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ford said.

  ‘You’ll be investigating them murders?’

  ‘Right again.’ Ford glanced at the crank. ‘Changing a wheel?’

  The man smiled and pointed into the water meadow. ‘Got to raise a sluice gate, haven’t I? Cathedral’s getting a bit low.’

  Ford frowned. ‘Low? Sorry, what do you mean?’

  ‘No foundations, are there? Ground’s too soggy. So it rests on a six-foot-thick gravel pad filled with water from the meadows. We manage the water level so the gravel doesn’t dry out.’

  ‘What would happen if it did?’

  The man pointed at the spire. ‘That’d come down, for a start,’ he said, winking. ‘Every morning, the clerk of the works gives me a little tinkle and says what he needs. I might let a little in, or let a little out. Keep it level and everyone’s happy.’

  The man unlocked the gate and walked into the field. He turned. ‘It’s not just the cathedral, mind. Whole city’s practically afloat. Five rivers run through it, don’t they? Like arteries.’

  He waved and strode away.

  ‘He took a litre of blood from Aimee Cragg,’ Ford said, watching the man ratchet up the sluice gate.

  ‘Shit! Did he drink it?’

  Ford shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Hannah says you’d vomit if you tried to drink that much.’

  She nudged him in the ribs and grinned up at him. ‘Oh, Hannah says, does she?’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean, DC Harper?’

  She put a hand, fingers splayed, over her chest, and popped her eyes wide in a show of innocence. The grin widened, though. ‘Nothing. No, nothing at all. Absolutely not one thing.’

  ‘Good. As I was saying—’

  ‘—before I so rudely interrupted you, talking about Hannah.’

  ‘The blood, Jools. Please?’

  ‘Did he take a litre from the other victims?’

  ‘Is the right question. Hannah,’ he continued, glaring at her, daring her to say anything, ‘is working on it. But let’s assume he did.’

  ‘If he’s not drinking it, is he keeping it? Is that his trophy?’

  ‘It looks like it, doesn’t it?’

  She shuddered. ‘I can just see it. A home blood bank with typed labels and him having a wank right in the middle of it.’

  ‘Thanks for that charming image.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘If Olly’s right, he’s got two more kills planned. So what I’m wondering is, why six? Why would he want six? Why not seven, or ten, or a hundred?’

  ‘How much blood is there in a body?’

  ‘None, in our cases.’

  ‘No, I mean how much blood does the average human being have?’

  ‘I don’t know. We were taught it was eight pints at school.’

  Jools wrinkled her nose. ‘Surely it depends on the size. I mean, look at us. You’re six foot in your socks and what, thirteen stone?’

  ‘Something like that, if I don’t hit the beer and curry too hard.’

  ‘I’m five foot six and eight one, ditto. We can’t both have the same amount of blood. Never mind some of those people you see lumbering
about the market square on a Saturday.’

  Ford took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘Jools, you’re a genius.’

  ‘Thanks, guv. Er . . . why?’

  ‘Georgina told me the human body is seven per cent blood, right? That’s the formula. So if I’m thirteen stone, I’ve got seven per cent of that in blood and if you’re, sorry—’

  ‘Eight one.’

  ‘—then you’ve got seven per cent of that.’

  ‘Sorry, guv. You’ve lost me.’

  ‘He’s planning on taking six litres of blood, one from each of his victims, yes?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘What if that’s how much blood he’s got? In him, I mean.’

  Her eyes widened as the import of his words hit her. ‘Then we can calculate his weight.’

  Ford pulled out his phone and spoke aloud as he tapped numbers into the calculator.

  ‘Six litres equals seven per cent of the killer’s body weight.’ Tap. ‘How much does a litre of blood weigh?’

  Jools looked it up on her phone. ‘Just under a kilo. Nought point nine four, to be exact.’

  ‘OK, so seven per cent of the killer’s body weight equals six times nought point nine four, which equals’ – he paused, tapping some more – ‘five point seven-six kilos. Help me out, Jools. How do I get from seven per cent to a hundred percent?’

  ‘Divide five point seven-six by seven and multiply by a hundred.’

  ‘Eighty-two point three kilos,’ he said.

  ‘Hold on, let’s just do a quick online conversion,’ she said. ‘That comes out to thirteen stone, near enough.’

  ‘So, if our assumption about the six litres is correct, we’re looking for a thirteen-stone man.’

  ‘I think we can say more than that.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s fit, right?’ she asked. ‘He manhandled Aimee’s dead weight over the lip of the tub and supported her while he tied the clothes line round the top of the window.’

  ‘So you’re saying it’s thirteen stone of mainly muscle, not fat?’

  ‘Which means that he’s going to have a strong build. Plus, the pathologist has already given his height as five ten or taller.’

  ‘Like Abbott,’ Ford said.

  She frowned. ‘Who has an alibi. Like Matty Kyte.’

  ‘Who also has one. Bloody hell, Jools, it has to be one of them. I’m sure of it.’

  She nodded. ‘Then let’s find out which one it is and get him in an interview room.’

  Back at Bourne Hill, Ford and Jools took the stairs to the fourth floor.

  At the door to Major Crimes, he turned to her. ‘Can you run all our interview lists against that body type? Deprioritise anyone of the wrong weight or build.’

  Jools smiled, nodded and returned to her desk. He liked that about her. No dumbass questions like ‘Why?’ and ‘Can’t you get someone else to do it?’, like Olly. She just got on with it.

  He believed in giving the younger detectives on his team a bigger share of the grunt-work; after all, he’d done it, and you needed to break them in properly. But if they knuckled down to it uncomplainingly, he’d make sure he rewarded them with something juicier to keep them keen and to develop their skills.

  He went straight to his desk, and the collated findings from Georgina’s post-mortems. All four adult victims had been exsanguinated, which had killed them. Kai Halpern had been given a lethal dose of fentanyl. Ford was just as sad for the little boy as his mother, but had to conclude that from the killer’s perspective, Kai was just an obstacle to his getaway. No sexual assault at any of the crime scenes.

  I have to stop him.

  He picked up his phone and called Abbott, who sighed when Ford introduced himself.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘How much do you weigh, Mr Abbott?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Your weight, Mr Abbott. What is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, how is this relevant?’

  ‘Please. Your weight?’

  Ford waited the consultant out. Three strikes and you’re out. I’ll bring you in and stand you on the scales myself.

  He counted to seven before Abbott answered.

  ‘Twelve stone, ten pounds, not that it’s any of your business. Is that all, or did you want my inside-leg measurement, too?’

  Ford smiled at Jan, who stopped at his open office door and made a T with her two index fingers. Ford nodded and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That’s all for now. Thank you. You’ve been a great help.’

  Later, Ford made his way to Forensics.

  Hannah was bent over a microscope. He cleared his throat.

  ‘You can get lozenges for that,’ she said, without looking away from the eyepiece.

  ‘I was trying to get your attention.’

  Now she did turn away from her kit. ‘Joke! I know. People clear their throats for two reasons. One, to loosen phlegm. Two, to make their presence known to somebody without using their name.’

  He grinned. Her sense of humour was completely off-kilter, but it still made him smile. ‘I’m looking at ways to get under Abbott’s skin.’

  ‘And you want me to help?’

  ‘You mentioned you taught at Quantico. The psychology of lying, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. There are many aspects of lying, from facial expression to the use of contractions in speech, that we can use to determine levels of truthfulness.’

  ‘Do you think our killer’s a good liar?’

  ‘I haven’t met him, so I can’t answer that. But organised, in-control serial killers are often marked out by high levels of intelligence and/or cunning. The latter demands skills in dissembling, even if the former doesn’t.’

  ‘That’s a yes, then?’

  She frowned. ‘I just said that, didn’t I?’

  ‘How do you fancy some fieldwork later on?’

  ‘Fieldwork?’

  ‘A chat with the god of haematology himself.’

  Her dimples appeared. ‘Sounds like my kind of evening.’

  Ford returned to Major Crimes and wandered over to Olly’s desk. The young DC looked up, as eager as a puppy whose master appears with a ball.

  ‘Yes, guv?’

  ‘Can you work up some background for me on Charles Abbott?’

  Olly appeared at Ford’s office door two hours later with a sheaf of paper. Ford beckoned him in, and the DC spread out the papers on the desk.

  ‘Looks like a straight arrow. Did his medical training in London, worked up there at a couple of teaching hospitals and transferred down here about five years ago,’ he said.

  ‘What are these?’ Ford asked, picking up a stapled set of papers.

  ‘He’s written loads of articles. The magazines have these weird titles. My favourite one is just called “Blood”.’

  ‘What about outside of work?’

  Olly riffled through the documents, unearthing a series of montages of colour photos. In each, pairs or small groups of people holding glasses of wine were mugging for the camera.

  ‘I got these from all the local society mags. You know, Salisbury Life, Wiltshire Society. That’s Abbott,’ he said, stabbing a long finger at one picture showing the man in a dinner suit and a woman in a short cocktail dress of a startling kingfisher blue with a plunging neckline. ‘His wife’s a bit tasty, don’t you think, guv?’

  Ford took in the images of Charles and Lucinda Abbott rubbing shoulders, sometimes literally, with the great and the good of the city. Quite the local power couple, he mused.

  ‘Thanks, Olly. Good work.’

  Olly beamed. The puppy praised.

  DAY FOURTEEN, 6.50 P.M.

  Ford and Hannah drove to Britford straight from Bourne Hill. Most of the houses were built of brick that glowed golden in the evening sunlight. They drew up outside a converted barn. Two cartwheels leaned against the black-painted clapboard wall; a stone well and an old horse-drawn plough repainted in scarlet flanked the iron-b
anded oak front door.

  Hannah cocked her head towards the triple garage next to the house. ‘Nice car.’

  Ford followed her gaze and saw the sleek profile of a metallic-grey Aston Martin resting on the gravel beneath the branches of a hazel tree.

  ‘And look at the other two. A top-end Merc and a Range Rover. That’s the thick end of three hundred grand, right there,’ he said.

  ‘I wonder if he paid cash for them?’

  ‘You think he’s in debt?’

  ‘It’s been shown to be a major stressor.’

  ‘Let’s go and see how stressed he is by a visit from the cops. I’ll do the talking, OK?’

  Hannah nodded. Ford scanned the upper windows as they approached the front door, saw something and made a mental note. He leaned on the bell push and took a step back, straightening his tie.

  The door swung inwards, revealing the master of the house. Abbott wore a floor-length cotton robe printed with characters in a language Ford fancied might be Thai, or Khmer. Lots of loops, anyway.

  Abbott offered a ghost of a smile. ‘Well, well. If it isn’t Salisbury’s answer to Sherlock Holmes,’ he said, before glancing at Hannah. ‘And I see you’ve brought Dr Watson with you.’

  ‘May we come in?’ Ford said.

  Abbott looked over Ford’s shoulder, then up and down the street. ‘Do I have a choice?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course!’ Ford said. ‘You’re not under arrest, Mr Abbott. No need to call your friend the chief constable.’ Though if I decide you’re our prime suspect, you’ll have a pair of Quik-Cuffs round your wrists faster than you can say ‘haemoglobin’.

  ‘We’re in the garden,’ Abbott said as he stood aside. ‘Lucinda and I, that is.’

  He led them through an immense kitchen packed with oiled timber units Ford imagined were advertised as being ‘hand-built by craftsmen’. A six-burner range cooker jostled for space with a duck-egg-blue fridge large enough to conceal at least one body, if not two. Ford resisted the urge to open it and see whether it contained a neat row of blood bags.

  Ford dismissed the word ‘garden’ as being wholly inadequate for the vista that opened up as they walked through a set of French doors.