Shallow Ground (Detective Ford)

by Andy Maslen

  Hannah sat at her desk, reading through the till receipts issued by the food bank to its customers and marking off items with a freshly sharpened pencil. Her monitor displayed photographs taken at each of the crime scenes.

  Beginning with Angie Halpern’s receipt, she cross-checked each item from the food bank against the hi-res images in front of her. Reaching the end of the list of groceries, she frowned, then began again. After her second pass, she muttered to herself.

  ‘Where’s the Tesco pasta?’

  She made a note, then proceeded to the crime scene photos from Paul Eadon’s drab, badly furnished kitchen. With a dawning sense that she was on to something, she raced through the images, her eyes flicking from the till receipts up to the crime scene photos.

  ‘Waitrose ketchup.’

  Another note, another small smile that crept across her lips.

  She moved on to the images relating to Aimee Cragg. She studied the crime scene photos for longer this time, searching for the discrepancy. She found it.

  ‘Sainsbury’s teabags.’

  The photos from the Marcus Anderson crime scene were next, and last. Ignoring the black pools and spatters, she focused on the shots of the kitchen cupboards. It was hard to tell, but by enlarging sections of the images and flipping back and forth between different shots, she found it.

  ‘Lidl crackers.’

  She found Jools in Major Crimes. Everyone else was out.

  ‘He’s taking items of shopping.’

  Jools looked up from her screen. ‘What?’

  ‘The killer. He’s taken one item from each victim’s most recent shop.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Hundred per cent. Not a joke, by the way.’ She flapped a sheet of paper at Jools.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I’ve diagrammed it. The crime scenes and the missing food items. Pasta, ketchup, teabags and crackers.’

  She watched Jools study her analysis, realised she was holding her breath and let it out in a hiss.

  Jools looked up at her. ‘What about the missing litre of blood?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Hannah said. ‘We know for a fact he took a litre out of Aimee Cragg’s bath. And as far as Georgina and I were able to calculate, it looks as though he did the same with Paul Eadon.’

  ‘Right, and you said he couldn’t be drinking it.’

  ‘Not right there, no. But he could be taking it away and using it some other way.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Painting with it. Cooking with it. Using it in a sexual way. For example—’

  Jools held up a hand. ‘I get it. For the sake of argument, let’s assume the groceries are the trophies and the blood fits into his MO differently. Then what?’

  ‘Find the trophies, find the killer,’ Hannah said, with a note of triumph. ‘Unlike items of underwear, jewellery or body parts, you could stash groceries in plain sight and even an experienced investigator might miss them.’

  Jools was nodding, making notes. ‘Can you make a list of the missing items and circulate them? I’ll tell everyone to find a way to take a quick look in each TIE subject’s kitchen,’ she said. ‘We’re getting close, Hannah. Really close. I’m taking this to Ford.’

  DAY SEVENTEEN, 2.13 P.M.

  Ford took Hannah’s deduction, combined it with his gut feeling about Abbott, and went to see Sandy. As she spoke, he monitored her face for a hint – even a ghost of a hint – as to how she would react to his request. She gave him nothing. Lips as straight as a ruler, eyes neither narrowed nor wide. Relaxed facial muscles. Remind me never to play poker with you, Sandy.

  ‘. . . so I want a search warrant for his house and vehicles,’ he finished.

  Sandy paused before answering. She scratched the side of her nose. Was that a tell, guv?

  ‘It’s all circumstantial,’ she said, finally. ‘Every last bit of it. A professional interest in blood? A sketchy alibi? No magistrate’ll sign a warrant based on that.’

  ‘Yes, they will!’

  Sandy shook her head. ‘I can’t authorise it, Henry. It’s not worth the aggro.’

  ‘Look! You told me the ACC wants to kick me off the case unless I close it. I bring you credible evidence to arrest Abbott and now you’re stonewalling me. Why?’

  ‘You heard what Peterson said. Abbott’s got connections.’

  Ford reared back in his chair. ‘What? This isn’t some sort of Hollywood mafia movie!’ he said, raising his voice, unable to stop himself. ‘I don’t care if Abbott plays golf with Peterson. Hell, I don’t care if he plays hunt the salami with the mayor’s wife. I like him for it.’

  Sandy smiled. ‘I know you do. But are you sure it’s not just because he’s rubbed you up the wrong way somehow? I know what these consultants are like.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he replied, forcing himself to breathe deeply and avoid shouting at his boss a second time. ‘There’s just something off about him. One minute he’s all helpfulness, then he’s cold and haughty, then evasive. He’s lying, I can tell.’

  ‘Then prove it. Bring me one single piece of evidence linking him to any of the murders and we’ll go to the magistrate together. You can even do the talking! And while we’re on the subject of search warrants, why not Kyte as well?’

  ‘It’s not him. I know it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I just do. I’m lead investigator and I set the investigative priorities, and I say, with limited resources, we focus our energies on Abbott.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to play it like that, Henry?’

  Ford caught the warning tone in her voice and relented. ‘I’ll have a team go and see Matty. Pull the old “Can I use your loo?” trick.’

  ‘Do that. But no warrant on Abbott for now.’

  He knew he wasn’t going to get a better offer. He’d argued with his boss, and his mentor, many times in the past and all that had happened was that she’d wrapped a coil or two around him and started to squeeze.

  Ford stopped at Jools’s desk on the way through the incident room. ‘How’s your profile on Matty Kyte going?’

  She looked up and smiled, brushed a stray strand of hair away from her eyes. ‘Got the basics and some background. His volunteering, and his day job, we know about. He’s been assigned to Bodenham Ward for the last six months. They have all the cancer patients.’

  ‘Personal?’

  ‘Married for eight years to Jennifer Elizabeth Kyte. She works in a care home out on the London Road. No kids.’

  ‘Record?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Crap! Anything else?’

  ‘I’ve saved the best till last,’ she said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Guess what car his wife drives?’

  Ford’s pulse bumped up a few notches. ‘Please tell me it’s a grey VW Polo?’

  ‘All right then, guv,’ she said, and cleared her throat. ‘It’s a grey VW Polo.’

  ‘Have you cross-checked with Olly yet?’

  Jools shook her head. ‘Nuh-uh.’

  ‘Do that next. In fact, once you’ve done that, I want you and Olly to go and see him at home. One of you distract him while the other has a quick look round, yes? And if you get the chance to snag something with his DNA on it, take it, OK?’

  ‘OK. How about you, guv?’

  ‘I’m going to try to find a way to shake something loose about Abbott.’

  He hands Tasha the carrier bag with her groceries in it. Takes in her wide-set eyes and freckle-bridged nose.

  ‘There you go,’ he says, with a smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, gaze lowered, not making eye contact.

  ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘would you like a lift home? I’m finishing my shift here and my car’s parked round the back.’

  Now she does look up. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t. I’ll get the bus, it’s no problem.’

  ‘Oh, I know it’s not a problem, but I’d like to. Really,’ he says, turning up the wattage on his
smile. ‘Save you struggling with your bags if you have to go upstairs. Come on,’ he adds, ‘we can go now. Where do you live?’

  She’s powerless. He knows it. She’d feel ungrateful if she refused him again. He’s just packed her bloody free food, for God’s sake.

  ‘Morley Road. Do you know it?’

  ‘Know it? You won’t believe this, but I grew up on Morley Road,’ he says, hand flat against his chest.

  ‘No way,’ she says, smiling now.

  Well, technically, she’s right. It’s a lie. But now she’s relieved to be on safe ground, he can see that. ‘Actually, yes, way!’ He accompanies her out of the front door and leads her to the side road where he’s left the car. ‘Come on, I’m parked over there,’ he says, pointing.

  The car is just a few yards away. He’s walking a half-step behind her. Looking over at her neck. The carotid pulses at him through her translucent skin. He’s not done one there, not yet. Maybe Tasha can be the trailblazer. He’ll have to be careful. It’ll be like pushing a needle into a firehose.

  His stomach is fizzing.

  She’s talkative now. Gabby. He wishes she’d shut up. He pictures the moment when he hits her. He’s brought something for the job this time. After Moore fought back, he’s decided he needs to be more careful. The slim, saggy cosh he made now lies snug in the small of his back, tucked inside his waistband.

  They’re at the car now. He’s opening the boot.

  ‘Nice car!’ she says appreciatively.

  ‘Tasha!’ a woman’s voice calls out.

  He looks round. An older woman is hurrying across the road towards them. Tasha has turned away from him. He’s losing her. No!

  ‘Hi, Lesley,’ she says.

  ‘I was just going to grab a coffee and a cake before work. You got time?’ the woman says. ‘My treat.’

  ‘I was just about to run Tasha home,’ he says, trying to keep his voice light.

  Tasha turns back to him. ‘I think I’ll just grab a coffee with my friend. Lesley, this is . . .’ She frowns. ‘Sorry, I don’t even know your name. How rude!’

  He grimaces. ‘It’s Harvey. Harvey Williams.’

  The woman steps in and shakes his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Harvey.’

  Inside, he’s screaming obscenities. He pictures her dying in a welter of her own blood. Arcs of crimson spraying into a cloudless sky. Like rainbows.

  He watches the two women walk away with the shopping bags, heads bent towards each other. Almost weeping with frustration, he gets into the car and after a long time staring at their retreating forms, starts the engine.

  DAY EIGHTEEN, 9.05 A.M.

  Charles Abbott stood talking with a colleague in the centre of the ward.

  ‘Has that bloody policeman been poking his nose in your business, too?’ Abbott asked his colleague.

  ‘What, Detective Inspector Ford?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he has. One of his team has, anyway. I told her what I could, and I gave her a list of my team’s contact details, for which, incidentally, I have already been reprimanded by the chief operating officer.’

  ‘Bad luck. But at least she only asked you for help. For some reason, the bloody man’s got it in for me.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘About as little as I thought I could get away with.’

  ‘Good for you, Charles. Bloody plods marching in here, thinking they own the place. Don’t they know it’s men like us who are doing the real hard work? We save lives, for God’s sake.’

  Abbott nodded his agreement as a porter approached, pushing a bedding-laden trolley.

  ‘’Scuse me, gents,’ he said cheerily. ‘Hello, Mr Abbott.’

  Abbott glanced at the man bent over the push-rail of the trolley, hairy wrists protruding from his uniform’s shirt-cuffs.

  ‘Good morning, er, Matt, isn’t it?’

  ‘Matty, that’s right,’ the porter answered with a smile before continuing to the end of the ward.

  ‘Fraternising with the lower orders?’ Abbott’s colleague asked, grinning slyly. ‘You’ll be signing people’s leaving cards next.’

  Abbott snorted, and had opened his mouth to answer when a scream shattered the quiet.

  They whirled around, just in time to see an overweight woman slowly collapsing to the ground. The screamer was an elderly lady in the nearest bed. Before anyone else could react, Abbott rushed over to the stricken woman. In a fluid move he scooped her up, arms under her knees and shoulders, and laid her on her bed before standing back as nurses rushed to take over.

  ‘Impressive work there, Charles,’ his colleague said. ‘Be careful now. They’ll start a rumour you care about your patients!’

  Abbott smiled back. ‘Bet you a tenner she’s dead of a coronary within the year.’

  DAY EIGHTEEN, 9.30 A.M.

  Ford shook his head, furious. ‘Thanks, Jools. Tell Olly he’s buying the first round tonight, for the whole team.’

  Grim-faced, Jools nodded and left.

  Apparently, Olly had blown the plan to snoop around Matty’s place, informing Jools it didn’t ‘sit well with my personal and professional ethics’. He’d asked to search quite openly, and Matty had refused point-blank to let them in.

  His phone rang. The Python.

  Sandy looked across her desk at Ford. Her stomach was a ball of iron and her pulse hammered in her chest. A call ten minutes earlier from Martin Peterson was the proximate cause of her spiking blood pressure. But behind it was the mounting sense that Operation Shoreline was destined to be a runner, maybe months or years from resolution. She’d seen good detectives brought low – sometimes to the point of suicide – when large, long-running cases fizzled out. She didn’t want it for Ford. And she definitely didn’t want it for herself.

  ‘Surely you’re making a little progress towards arresting someone, Sandy?’ Peterson had said, in that infuriating manner of his – a pretence at concern only just masking his contempt.

  And now here was Ford, glaring at her, demanding to know why he couldn’t arrest Charles Abbott. Her chest felt tight, like she’d fastened her bra on the wrong hooks.

  ‘We need to do something, Sandy,’ he said. ‘He’s the best lead we have.’

  ‘He’s got an alibi,’ she said, rubbing her left bicep and wondering if she were about to have a heart attack right in front of her new DI.

  No! She wouldn’t suffer the indignity of it. The sheer bloody indignity. She’d worked like a Trojan to get the D/Supt nameplate on her office door. And no PCC or over-eager DI was going to catapult her from her hard-earned space into a bed at the hospital.

  ‘Provided by his wife, for God’s sake!’ Ford was saying. ‘Look at him, Sandy. A blood expert. He’s arrogant, clever, disdainful, manipulative, charming. He’s a basic fit for Lisa Moore’s description.’

  Sandy’s eyes widened. ‘A basic fit? Your report said her attacker had dark hair and a moustache, plus glasses. You showed her photos and she said it wasn’t Abbott, but it might have been Matty Kyte.’

  ‘Come on, Sandy. Please trust me. What more do you want?’

  ‘For a start, a bit more than your prejudice against a toffee-nosed doctor. How about some hard evidence? One piece, Henry. One! A fingerprint. A DNA trace. A fibre that places him at one of the crime scenes. How’re the forensics coming along?’

  ‘Slow. Could be faster if you gave me more money.’

  Sandy sighed, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. Thought of spreadsheets. Contingency funds. Recruitment. Equipment. She opened them again. ‘Come back in an hour with the amount you need. I’ll see what I can do.’

  He jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll be back here in forty-five minutes.’

  ‘No promi—’ she shouted at his retreating back, but the final syllable was cut off as the door closed behind him.

  Maybe an arrest was off the cards, for now. But that didn’t mean Ford couldn’t keep investigating Abbott. And now they had the DNA analys
is from the blood taken from under Lisa Ford’s fingernails, this could be the key.

  He’d asked himself whether his conviction about the man was triggered more by resentment of his abrasive manner than a copper’s feel for a ‘wrong ’un’. Answering himself truthfully was hard, but the circumstantial evidence was strong. And plenty of killers had gone down with no more than that.

  He called the hospital. The receptionist put him through to Abbott’s secretary, and she informed him that ‘Mr Abbott isn’t working today.’

  ‘All right for some,’ Ford said, aiming for a jokey tone.

  ‘Mr Abbott does a lot of charity work. I’m sure he’s at home catching up on his voluntary work as a trustee at the Purcell Foundation,’ she said.

  ‘Was he working the day before yesterday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ford cursed inwardly. ‘At SDH?’ he said.

  ‘In the afternoon, yes. In the morning he was at Revelstoke Hall Hospital in the New Forest, where he sees his private patients.’

  ‘From what time in the afternoon?’

  ‘I’ll have to check. Hold, please.’

  Classical music filled the earpiece. Ford winced and held the receiver away from his ear, then hurriedly brought it back as the music cut out again.

  ‘Here we are,’ the secretary said. ‘He saw his first patient here at two forty-five.’

  Ford rang the bell. He was nervous and wiped his palms on his suit trousers. He’d discarded Sandy’s loyalty and protection to pursue a hunch. If I’m wrong on this, she’ll hang me out to dry. She’ll have to.

  Abbott answered his front door wearing a pair of khaki shorts, scuffed brown leather boat shoes and, incongruously, a long-sleeved dress shirt with the collar open. His shoes and shins were flecked with green. Ford caught the sappy smell of fresh-cut grass.

  Abbott rolled his eyes. ‘Back so soon?’ he said, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘People will start to talk.’

  ‘May I come in, Mr Abbott?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For a chat.’

  ‘I’m in the middle of mowing the lawn.’