Shallow Ground (Detective Ford)

by Andy Maslen

  The striped lawn stretched a couple of hundred metres to a river, on which Ford made out the prow of a clinker-built boat nosing out of a smart blue-painted boathouse. He glimpsed a fenced-off tennis court and a single-storey brick building abutting the house, which, he assumed, contained a swimming pool.

  Abbott had turned and was watching Ford. ‘Twenty metres, heated year-round, costs me a bloody fortune, but you know what they say: “If you’ve got it, flaunt it!”’

  The man was unbelievable, crowing over his wealth as he led Ford and Hannah to a set of expensive-looking wooden garden furniture: low-slung recliners that some people called steamer chairs, their brass hinges glittering. And a matching table, on which a jug of something cold, amber-coloured and garnished with mint leaves stood, condensation beading its lower half.

  A long-limbed blonde woman in a high-cut zebra-print swimsuit lay back in one of the steamers, an arm draped over the edge. Ford put her age at late thirties, judging by her skin and muscle tone. She uncurled herself and stood, advancing towards him, one slender arm extended, the wrist jingling with multiple silver bracelets.

  ‘Inspector Ford,’ she purred as they shook hands. ‘Lucinda Abbott. We meet at last.’ She flicked a glance at Hannah. ‘And I see you’ve brought a friend.’

  Hannah held out her right hand. Gave Lucinda Abbott the one-two-three treatment. Ford smiled inwardly at the consternation that flickered across Lucinda’s face.

  She reclined again, bringing one knee up and extending her other leg and folding her arms behind her head, her cornflower-blue eyes holding Ford in a searchlight beam.

  ‘Darling, I think you’re making Inspector Ford uncomfortable,’ Abbott drawled.

  ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘I’m sure the inspector has more pressing issues on his mind.’ She looked up at Ford again. ‘Or were you enjoying the view?’

  ‘Do you own a grey metallic VW Polo?’ Ford asked Abbott, ignoring the provocation. He’d met at least one couple before who clearly found this sort of flirting a turn-on.

  ‘What? You saw our vehicles when you parked, did you not?’

  Interesting. Avoiding a straight answer to the very first question I ask you. Well, now we’re on my territory. My rules.

  ‘I saw three vehicles, yes. Do you own any others?’

  Abbott’s gaze flicked leftwards. ‘I do not.’

  Ford nodded and pursed his lips, as if impressed by this straightforward answer. ‘So, if, purely hypothetically, we were to take a look inside that very impressive garage of yours, we wouldn’t find any more cars? A grey metallic VW Polo, for example.’

  ‘No, you would not. Not that you would be able to, as I doubt you have a search warrant.’ Abbott folded his arms across his chest as he said this, then looked down and unfolded them.

  Ford caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Lucinda Abbott had swung her legs over the side of the steamer and was sitting up, as if she were a spectator at a tennis match.

  ‘Could we go and have a look?’ Ford asked.

  ‘No, we could not,’ Abbott said calmly.

  ‘We believe that the murderer drives one,’ Ford continued.

  ‘How very fascinating for you.’

  Ford changed tack. ‘Your alibis for the dates of the murders?’

  ‘What of them?’

  ‘You claimed you were here each time.’

  ‘I didn’t claim anything,’ Abbott said. ‘I told you where I was, and that was the truth.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s right,’ Lucinda Abbott said with a smile. ‘Charles was here with me.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘Just the two of us.’

  ‘No friends popping round? No unexpected dinner guests?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what sort of social life you lead, but ours is rather dull, I’m afraid. Charles and I were watching television.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember which programmes were on those days?’

  Lucinda grinned, and Ford sensed he had walked into a trap.

  ‘How delightfully old-fashioned of you. We were binge-watching Game of Thrones.’ She turned to her husband, who was bestowing on her a frank stare of admiration. ‘Weren’t we, darling?’

  ‘Yes, darling. Yes, we were.’

  ‘Each time?’ Ford asked.

  ‘Each time,’ Abbott repeated, that superior smirk back in residence.

  ‘Tell me, I noticed a Megadeth poster in one of your upstairs windows. Are there any other people living here with you?’ He paused, unable to resist a quick dig. ‘Or are you the heavy-metal fan, Mr Abbott?’

  ‘That would be Gawain.’

  ‘The knight?’

  Abbott’s lips twitched. ‘My son.’

  ‘My lad’s into that kind of music, too. He favours Metallica, though,’ Ford said, trying to unsettle Abbott with the random change of subject. ‘I don’t know why, sounds like chainsaws being put through a wood-chipper to me. Now, B.B. King, on the other hand—’

  ‘Have you quite finished?’ Abbott burst out.

  ‘I’m sorry, did you have to be somewhere?’

  ‘No. As my wife said, we lead a quiet social life. But I fail to see how my children’s tastes in music are relevant to a serial killer investigation.’

  Ford frowned. He turned to Hannah. ‘Did I mention we were investigating a serial killer?’

  She shook her head.

  He turned back to Abbott. ‘You said children. So more than one?’

  ‘Obviously, children being the plural of child. I would have thought even a police officer could deduce that.’

  Ford smiled, pleased to have rattled the consultant at last. ‘Quite. So, how many more? One, two?’ He looked down at Lucinda Abbott. ‘Three? I must say, Mrs Abbott, you’ve certainly kept your figure.’

  She repaid him with a smile that stopped just this side of a leer. He sensed he was in the presence of two operators, not just one.

  ‘One,’ she said.

  ‘Name? Age?’

  ‘Scheherazade. Seventeen.’

  ‘Gawain and Scheherazade,’ Ford said, face impassive. ‘My lad’s called Sam.’

  ‘Believe me, Inspector,’ Abbott drawled, ‘at the school where they board, those names wouldn’t earn you a second glance, let alone the mockery you seem bent on delivering.’

  Ford shook his head. ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘I was going to compliment you. So many kids nowadays sound like their parents just made something up.’

  Ford’s calculated appeal to the man’s rampant snobbery worked. Abbott took the bait.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘Yes, it’s all Saxona this, Meadow that, Kai the other.’

  Ford had only intended to soften Abbott up, but the last name to leave the man’s lips had his heart racing.

  ‘You do know that was Angie Halpern’s son’s name, don’t you?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, so it was. Forgive my lapse of taste, Inspector. Long day, and all that. Was there anything else?’

  ‘Scheherazade. You said she was seventeen?’

  ‘Yes.’ Abbott drew out the single syllable in a sing-song tone. ‘Because she is.’

  ‘Does she drive?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a simple question. Does she drive?’

  ‘Well, she can drive, if that’s what you mean. She passed her test this March.’

  ‘And, as proud and wealthy parents, did you celebrate by buying her a car?’

  Abbott glared at Ford, his jaw jutting. And then he spoke. ‘I have gone out of my way to be helpful to you and your investigation. I shift meetings. I cut rounds short. I answer all your questions,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘And now you come to my house and, once again, have the temerity to treat me like some common criminal.’

  ‘Not at all. I—’

  Abbott held up his hand, palm out. ‘I think, Inspector, that if you have any further questions for me, or for my family’ – he looked down at his wife, then back at Ford – ‘y
ou should arrest me. At which point I will first introduce you to one of the most expensive lawyers in the south of England, and then have him grease the slope down which you will hurtle all the way to directing traffic on market days. Are we clear?’

  ‘I look forward to it,’ Ford said, leaving Abbott to puzzle out the ambiguity: whether he eagerly anticipated the arrest, or the new job in a high-vis vest.

  DAY FOURTEEN, 8.30 P.M.

  ‘Do you fancy a quick drink?’ Ford asked Hannah when they were sitting beside each other in his Discovery after the interview with Abbott.

  ‘Yes. That would be nice.’

  He drove to a riverside pub and ordered a pint of lime and soda for him and a glass of Sauvignon blanc for Hannah. The last rays of the setting sun cast a warm glow over the garden. They took a picnic bench beneath an old gnarled apple tree at the far end. A pair of ducks waddled through the benches before sliding into the water. Ford watched as they paddled furiously against the current without getting anywhere. He knew the feeling.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, as they clinked glasses.

  ‘Cheers.’

  The lime and soda at least had the virtue of being cold, though as Ford surveyed the other early-evening drinkers, he reflected he’d much rather have been sinking a pint of Wadworth 6X.

  ‘The Abbotts thought they were being clever with their alibi,’ Hannah said.

  That had been Ford’s conclusion, too, but he wanted her take on this apparent power couple. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that by claiming they were binge-watching, there was no need to check they’d got the transmission times right,’ she said. ‘Shows get cancelled or postponed, and that’s your alibi sunk.’

  ‘They lied about their social life, too. According to them, they spend their lives at home doing jigsaws, when Olly’s research showed them at all these swanky parties and launches.’

  She nodded. ‘I think there’s a very good chance Abbott was lying when you asked him about the car.’

  ‘And you say that because . . . ?’

  ‘The January 2002 issue of the Canadian Journal of Behavioural Science carried an article written by a member of the RCMP’s Organized Crime Investigation Division and a forensic linguist. They analysed the speech patterns of suspects found to be lying.’

  ‘What did they discover?’

  ‘When lying, people have to maintain two parallel narratives in their heads—’

  ‘The truth and the fiction.’

  ‘Yes. That effort calls for additional care in speech as they strive not to incriminate themselves, and people tend to drop the use of contractions. They might say “I did not” rather than “I didn’t”, for example.’

  ‘Is that what Abbott was doing?’

  She nodded. ‘On four occasions he used uncontracted verbs, which gave his answers a stilted feel you may have picked up on.’

  ‘What were they?’

  Hannah looked up into the branches of the apple tree as she recited. ‘He said, “did you not?” for “didn’t you?”, “I do not” for “I don’t”, “you would not” for “you wouldn’t” and “you would be able” for “you’d be able”.’

  ‘That could just be his way of speaking. He is rather pompous, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Ford said, grinning.

  Hannah tossed her head back and laughed loudly, drawing a few smiling glances from the occupants of the other benches. ‘Yes, I did notice! But, actually, he uses a lot of contractions. He said “isn’t”, “you’ve” and “we’re” in the first thirty-five seconds.’

  ‘That’s very interesting. Did you notice I didn’t ask Mrs Abbott whether she owned a grey Polo?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  He smiled. ‘That was my way of relaxing him a little, letting him think he’d won that one. I’ll get Olly to check. Or he may have registered one in the name of his daughter. Who has a name to live up to, by the way.’

  Hannah nodded. ‘Poor thing. I wonder what her classmates are called.’

  ‘Artemis?’

  She shook her head. ‘Desdemona?’

  Ford grinned. ‘How about Petronella?’

  ‘No. I’ve got it,’ she said, smiling back at him. ‘Madagascar!’

  ‘Zanzibar!’

  ‘Casablanca!’

  Their laughter erupted wildly.

  When it subsided, Hannah nodded to her left at a young couple. ‘Do you suppose they’re on a date?’ she whispered.

  He shrugged as he took in the fact they were both engrossed in their phones. ‘Could be. You see that more and more these days.’

  ‘If we were on a date, I—’ She hesitated, then smiled shyly, blushing. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

  That caught Ford by surprise. He covered by taking a swig from his lime and soda, promptly choking and coughing a spray of it into the air.

  ‘No?’ he croaked out.

  ‘No. Do you want to know why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re very clever, which I like a lot. You do really well at juggling a senior detective’s role with single parenthood. And’ – her blush deepened and spread down to her neck – ‘you’re very sexy. Especially your eyes, which are the same colour as conkers. And I like this, too,’ she said, stretching out a finger and prodding the scar on his chin.

  Ford put his drink down. Of all the possible outcomes from his trip to see the Abbotts, he hadn’t foreseen fending off romantic overtures from the new deputy chief CSI. Hannah was attractive. And he found her intelligence and directness a relief rather than offputting. But . . .

  ‘Listen, Hannah. I like you, too,’ he added, trying to read her emotions, and failing. ‘But I’m not ready for another relationship.’

  She frowned as he spoke, looking directly at him with those piercing blue eyes. ‘According to a University of Indiana sociologist called George Cale, the average widower remarries two and a half years after his wife dies,’ she said. ‘You’ve been in mourning for over six, which is unusual.’

  ‘What do you want me to say, Hannah? Maybe I’m at the far end of that particular spectrum?’

  She frowned. ‘So it’s not because you don’t fancy me?’

  He had to smile. She was so direct even gentle sarcasm flew miles over her head. And as questions went, it was a killer. A Tier-3 trained interviewer’s question. Answer ‘no’ and it implied he did fancy her. Answer ‘yes’ and it painted him as a weapons-grade shit.

  ‘It’s all still a bit raw,’ he said, dodging the bullet. ‘Lou, I mean. Sam and I, we’re coping, but it’s hard, you know?’

  She took a sip of her wine, then finished the glass in a few convulsive swallows. ‘He’s lucky to have you as a dad. You know that, right?’

  Ford felt relief wash through him as he congratulated himself on deflecting the conversation to a safer path. ‘We rub along, I suppose. I’m just as lucky to have him as a son. He likes you, by the way,’ he said. ‘I can see it in the way he is around you. Normally, he becomes monosyllabic when other adults are around. Not rude, but not exactly forthcoming, either.’

  ‘Is it hard, bringing him up on your own?’

  Always straight to the point, Hannah. ‘It has its moments. But we have some good friends in our road who’ve been there for him – well, us really – since Lou died.’

  ‘Are you still grieving? Is that why you don’t want this to be a date with me?’

  He took the lifeline she’d thrown him. ‘Yeah. I guess I am.’

  The truth was, he didn’t know what he felt. He’d had friends who’d lost a spouse, to cancer, or once a fatal traffic accident – a FATACC. They’d mourned, sunk into depression, but risen again, like Lazarus, still bearing the scars of their grief but able to move on, find new partners and, on one joyous occasion, marry in a country churchyard amid clouds of rose petals and the laughter of grown-up children.

  ‘Then let’s just forget I mentioned it,’ she said. ‘For now. Can I have another drink, please?’

  DAY FIFTEEN, 1.15 P.M.


  Ford had spent the morning reading thousands of documents, looking for something – anything – in the reports, actions and tip-offs that might provide a lead. Yes, Abbott looked iffy, but there was no hard evidence against him. Sandy had made her feelings pretty clear on the subject. Ford wanted to prove Abbott was the killer, but he had to hold on to the investigation in order to do that.

  He focused on the latest murder. Two young women – girls, really – living together. Both food-bank users. But he chose Aimee, not Nina. Why? Aimee was a big girl; Nina was skinny. Was that it? But then, Angie was somewhere between them physically, and Paul Eadon and Marcus Anderson weren’t even the right gender. He gave up.

  After a snatched lunch – a ham sandwich and a takeaway coffee from a nearby café – he was back at his desk. His personal mobile rang. He glanced at the screen. The caller ID read: School. His pulse jacked up.

  Please let him be OK. Not at A&E with a concussion. No gushing blood from a fall through a window. Please, God, let Sam be safe.

  ‘Mr Ford, this is Marion Anthony. We met at the last parents’ evening. I’m head of Middle School?’

  ‘Yes, I remember. What is it, Mrs Anthony? Is Sam all right?’

  He heard her inhale. Prayed harder for his son to be fine.

  ‘Sam has been . . . That is to say’ – the words tumbled out in a rush – ‘I have suspended Sam for a day. He was involved in a fight.’

  ‘What? Sam would never get into a fight. He’s a good boy. He knows the rules.’

  ‘Normally, yes, I agree, Sam is a good boy. But not today. He was caught fighting another boy from Year Ten. In point of fact, he was the aggressor. Could you come and collect him, please? The suspension is effective immediately.’

  ‘Collect him?’

  ‘It’s school policy.’

  ‘He’s fifteen. He can walk home.’

  ‘I’m afraid the rules are quite clear. Where a boy has been suspended he must be collected, in person, by a parent or carer,’ she said primly. ‘We must have the boy discharged from our duty of care. We are, as you know, in loco parentis. That means—’

  ‘I know what it means, but I’m in the middle of a complex murder investigation. You may have read about it. Or seen it: we’re national news.’