Shallow Ground (Detective Ford)

by Andy Maslen

  Questions followed about Lisa Moore’s tentative ID of Matty, trophies, alibis and other LOEs. Ford rebuffed them all.

  ‘I’ve met both men. I’ve looked into their eyes. I’ve profiled the killer and I’ve assessed them both against it. Matty’s a bit of a weirdo, but Abbott’s a wrong ’un. I can feel it.’

  ‘In your gut,’ Mick deadpanned, winking slyly at Jan.

  Ignoring this minor act of treachery, Ford continued. ‘We’ll run checks on Matty, but Abbott is still our focus. Is that clear?’

  A chorus of mumbled, ‘yes, guvs’ greeted his sharp question.

  ‘Why don’t you leave Abbott alone for now and go and see this Kyte character at home?’ Sandy suggested. ‘Maybe get a read on the wife, if she’s all he has.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll go. Hannah, come with me, yes?’

  ‘OK.’

  After closing the meeting, Ford headed back to his office. On the way he tapped Jools on the shoulder. ‘Got a minute?’

  She nodded and rose to follow him.

  ‘What do you think of Matty Kyte?’ he asked her.

  ‘You know what I think. He’s too good to be true.’

  ‘To me he just comes across as a people-pleaser.’

  ‘Maybe. But what about the blood drawing he denied doing? That’s creepy, don’t you think?’

  ‘Creepy, yes. Evidence he’s a serial killer? I don’t know, Jools. I think you’re reaching. Maybe Matty was just acting out.’ Like Sam does. No, because Sam’s a teenager and he had a good reason. What’s Matty’s excuse? ‘He had to clear up the mess when Abbott dropped that blood bag.’

  Her eyes popped wide. ‘Me reaching? What about you, guv? You hate Abbott because he’s educated, rich and posh. I’ve seen you with guys like him before. Yes, he’s a smug arsehole. But where’s the evidence he’s anything more?’

  Ford fought down a sudden desire to tell her how he knew. Why he knew. Takes a killer to know a killer, Jools . . . ? No, never. Then his last words jumped back out at him. He closed his eyes, picturing the moment when Abbott dropped the bag. He visualised it. Capped off, a heat-sealed edge, that weird silky finish to the plastic. Labelled with blood type and quantity and some kind of best-before date. The dark liquid within.

  He opened his eyes. Smiling. Feeling jumpy.

  Jools was frowning at him. ‘Where did you go, guv?’

  ‘Remember in the water meadows when we calculated the killer’s blood volume at six litres?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That old boy with the iron crank. He said the five rivers are like arteries. He said something like, “I let a little in, let a little out.”’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘What if he’s using the blood for transfusions?’

  ‘Into who?’

  ‘Himself, Jools! Think about it,’ he said, counting off points on his fingers. ‘He murders people, and takes a litre of their blood. He transfuses himself with their blood.’

  ‘And he needs six victims—’

  ‘—to harvest six litres.’

  ‘Why?’ Jools asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why would he do that? Transfuse himself with other people’s blood?’

  Ford held his hands wide. ‘How should I know? He’s a bloody serial killer! Why do they do anything?’

  ‘Trophies?’ Jools asked.

  ‘I thought we agreed the missing food-bank items were the trophies.’

  ‘What if the till receipts were wrong? It’s hardly a state-of-the-art system they’re running there.’

  Ford shook his head. ‘Angie was murdered the same afternoon she visited the food bank. All her shopping was there on the table. I reread the pathologist’s report this morning,’ he added. ‘No recently digested food in either Angie or Kai’s stomach, so they hadn’t had an early tea.’

  ‘We need to talk to Matty,’ Jools said at last.

  ‘Yes, but in the meantime, get Charles Abbott’s medical records. Maybe he’s got some rare blood disorder. Haemophilia or something. Maybe that’s why he went into haematology.’

  Once Jools had left, Ford started planning his next move. He realised he had only the haziest notion of how blood transfusions were carried out. And who better to ask than the man he’d been on the point of arresting the previous evening? He called Abbott.

  ‘What now, Inspector? If it’s the list of hotels, I said I’d get it to you, and I will, but I also have a department to run. A great many people are depending on me for life-saving treatment. You’ll just have to be patient, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I understand that, but I have further questions for you. Please remember, you are being interviewed in connection with five murders and one attempted murder.’

  Abbott sighed. ‘Very well. I suppose it can’t wait until later?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Fine. Come and see me now.’

  Before leaving for the hospital, Ford pulled up the medical records of the adult victims and checked their blood types. All were A-positive. He called Lisa Moore and discovered her blood type was the same.

  Ford reached the hospital twelve minutes later. Four minutes after that, he was outside Abbott’s office. He squared his shoulders and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come!’ The voice was loud, confident.

  Abbott smiled at Ford and waved him to a chair.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me again, Mr Abbott.’ Especially as half my team seem to think I’m barking up the wrong tree.

  ‘No thanks needed,’ Abbott said. ‘As we seem to be seeing so much of each other, perhaps you should call me Charles.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d see it that way.’

  ‘Really? Because of your campaign of harassment, threats, prying and intimidation, you mean?’

  Ford replied in kind, hardening his voice. ‘My questions were legitimate ones. If I caused you any embarrassment, I’m sorry, but you’ve not been straight with me.’ A beat. ‘Charles.’

  Abbott’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Embarrassment? No, it wasn’t that,’ he said. ‘But for some strange reason, I resent your accusation that I’m a murderer – a serial murderer, come to that – in my own home. In front of my wife.’

  ‘You said you’d be happy to answer my questions.’

  ‘I know. I lied.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I lied. I just wanted you up here to give you a piece of my mind,’ Abbott said.

  It wasn’t the first threat of this nature thrown Ford’s way, and he supposed it wouldn’t be the last.

  He decided to get his retaliation in first. ‘Yes, you did lie. When you fabricated an alibi,’ he said, matching Abbott’s tone. ‘And as I said before, that makes you and Mrs Abbott guilty of the twin criminal offences of obstruction and wasting police time. The second offence carries a maximum sentence of six months’ imprisonment.’

  ‘What the devil do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, Charles, either you get off your high horse right now or I will arrest you here in your elegantly furnished office, handcuff you and march you out to my car past the disbelieving gazes of your patients and colleagues, charge you and have you in a cell at Bourne Hill nick without your belt or shoelaces inside the hour. I will also issue a press release naming you as a suspect in custody.’

  The colour left Abbott’s face, just as it had done in his house. Only this time it didn’t return. The arrogance left him, too.

  He slumped back in his chair. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in a quiet voice.

  ‘A quick seminar on blood transfusions.’

  Abbott sighed. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Who can have what type of blood in a transfusion?’

  Abbott adopted a scholarly tone, as if addressing a classroom full of medical students. He clasped his hands on the desk. ‘Your ABO blood type can be A, B, AB or O. Clear?’

  ‘Clear.’

  ‘Your Rhesus type can be positive, indicating the presence of the Rhesus, or D, ant
igen, or negative, indicating its absence. Clear?’

  ‘As mud.’

  A frown from Abbott. ‘Thus, one’s blood may be, for example, A-positive, indicating the presence of A and D antigens. Or O-negative, indicating neither A nor B nor D antigens.’

  ‘If you know the blood type of the donor, is it possible to narrow down the blood type of the recipient?’

  ‘That’s a very good question,’ Abbott said with a smile. ‘And the answer is, it depends. For example, a recipient with AB-positive blood can accept donations of any other blood type. We call them the universal recipient. And an O-negative donor can donate to any other blood type, making them the universal donor.’

  ‘Are there tighter pairings?’

  ‘I’ll get you a chart that shows all the possibles,’ Abbott said, pressing a button on the old-fashioned intercom on his desk, and asked his secretary to print off a ‘blood-comp’ chart.

  Ford’s pulse had kicked up a notch. The theory was looking stronger by the second. ‘What blood type are you?’ Ford asked.

  ‘O-positive.’

  ‘Which means you can accept?’

  ‘O-negative or O-positive.’

  ‘I’d like to check that, Charles.’ And your DNA.

  ‘I’m sure you would, Inspector,’ Abbot said smoothly. ‘Have you a warrant?’

  ‘If you’ve nothing to hide, why would you need me to get a warrant?’

  ‘Perhaps the small matter of my rights? Even such a lowly figure as a consultant haematologist enjoys protection from police intrusion into his private life.’

  ‘You could give me a blood sample right now.’

  Abbott laughed. ‘You’re right! Why, I’ll just grab a scalpel and open a vein for you. Got anything to catch the blood in? You could—’ He stopped the sarcastic outburst and fixed Ford with a smile. ‘Actually, you know what? I’m sick and tired of your pursuing me like a common criminal. Come on, we’ll go down to my consulting room now. I’ll even let you watch.’

  Ford watched, mesmerised, as Abbott fastened a black Velcro strap around his upper arm, then swabbed the inside of his elbow with an alcohol-soaked wad of cotton wool. Why had he agreed? And then the answer presented itself. Because he knows he’s innocent! Shit!

  Abbott slid in the hypodermic, then withdrew the plunger with his thumbnail. Dark blood flowed into the syringe. He picked up a transparent plastic tube, squirted in the blood and snapped the green plastic cap shut.

  ‘Hand me a label, would you, Ford?’ he said, jerking his chin in the direction of a cupboard on the other side of his office. ‘There’s a roll of them in that box beside the golf trophy.’

  Ford fetched one, which Abbott then wrote on before peeling off the shiny yellow backing paper and smoothing it on to the small plastic cylinder of blood.

  ‘There! Happy now?’ he said, handing it to Ford. ‘I dare say you’ll want to send it off to a DNA lab, too,’ he added, smirking.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ford said, fighting down the black cloud of depression forming in his head. ‘Tell me, how easy would it be to do a blood transfusion at home?’

  Abbott paused, stroking the side of his nose. ‘At home? Well, it would be unorthodox, but then I don’t suppose serial killers are exactly what you would call conventional people, are they?’

  ‘Not as a rule, no.’

  ‘You’d need a sterile environment. There’s a very real risk of infection,’ he said. ‘As to the equipment, rather simple, to be honest. A tube fitted with a delivery needle and a bag. A stand would make life easier, but you could suspend it from a hat-rack, or even a light fitting.’

  ‘What level of expertise would you need?’

  ‘Not very high. You have to be able to find a vein and insert the needle. After that, it’s just plumbing, really.’

  ‘Could a hospital porter do it?’

  Abbott nodded. ‘Or a healthcare assistant,’ he added breezily. He frowned. ‘Just a minute. A porter? I told you to talk to that dreadful man. Are you following that up? It’s him, isn’t it?’

  Ford stood and offered his hand. ‘Thank you. You’ve been a great help. I’ll collect the blood chart on my way out.’

  ‘Wait!’ Abbott shouted as Ford reached the door. ‘He organised a blood drive.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Kyte! The porter! He badgered me into it one day when we happened to be working together in the warehouse at the Purcell Foundation. Said it would give “his” customers a sense of dignity.’

  Ford made a note. Pieces clicked into place like the tumblers on a cell-door lock. Maybe my gut has been lying to me. Maybe I’ve just got a weak stomach, like Mick thinks.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Abbott was out from behind his desk. ‘We had to blood-type each donor for the labels. Kyte assisted me. He knew – knows – their blood groups, Ford. He knows!’

  Ford bestowed a huge smile on the secretary as she handed him the sheet of A4 paper with the grid of letters, symbols, ticks and crosses. She blushed, which made him smile harder.

  As he strolled back to his car, whistling ‘St James Infirmary Blues’, he checked the blood comp chart. If the blood transfusion hypothesis was correct, then the killer had to have A-positive or AB-positive blood to accept donations from his adult victims. And Abbott had just cheerfully given him a blood sample of what he claimed was his O-positive blood. His good mood evaporated.

  Back at Bourne Hill, he took the blood sample to Alec.

  ‘Abbott just drew this from his arm. I watched him do it. He said he’s O-positive, but I want to know for sure. Can you test it?’

  ‘Of course, dear chap. Couple of minutes short enough for you?’ Alec said, winking.

  ‘It’s acceptable, I suppose.’

  Alec’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Acceptable? It’s a bloody miracle!’

  Ford waited while Alec ran the blood through a handheld gizmo. He felt a leaden sense of his most promising line of enquiry collapsing before his eyes. And he’d been so sure. Maybe Jools, Mick and Sandy were right after all.

  What Alec said next confirmed it. ‘It’s O-positive.’

  Ford’s black mood darkened further. Abbott wasn’t transfusing himself. And he’d even said that Ford should get the blood DNA-profiled. A guilty man simply wouldn’t do that.

  ‘Bugger! Thanks, Alec. Look, just to be doubly sure, can you send it off to the DNA lab for me? Fast-track. We’ll compare the profile against the results from Lisa and then we’ll know one way or another.’

  DAY TWENTY-ONE, 1.19 P.M.

  Jools punched the air, freezing the frame on the video playback on her monitor.

  ‘Guv!’ she yelled at Ford, as she saw him leaving Major Crime.

  He turned and came back to her desk. ‘What is it, Jools?’

  ‘We’ve got him! One of the Traffic guys was on Castle Street when Angie and Kai were murdered. He just called me. This is from his ANPR camera. Look.’ She pointed at the screen.

  In a grainy but still clear shot was the front end of a VW Polo, with the index number visible.

  ‘Whose is it?’

  ‘It’s registered to Matty Kyte’s missus, but it’s him behind the wheel, look.’

  And there he was, in all his glory.

  ‘Great work, Jools.’

  She smiled and added a copy of the image to the file. ‘What about that list of hotels from Abbott?’

  ‘Leave that for now. His blood’s the wrong group. I’ve sent it off for a DNA profile, but it’s looking very unlikely that it’s him.’

  ‘Oh, shit, sorry, guv. I know you liked him for it.’

  ‘It’s fine. Matty Kyte’s now our prime suspect. Listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to see him tonight and I want Hannah there. She’s got experience with psychopaths that none of us has.’

  Jools smiled. ‘No problem. As long as we get him, I’ll be happy.’

  ‘Do me a favour, though. Chase up Abbott’s medical records.’

  ‘B
ecause?’

  ‘Humour me.’

  Hannah watched as Ford crossed Forensics to her desk. Her stomach turned over with anticipation.

  ‘Hi, Henry, what’s up?’

  ‘I’m going to pay a call on Matty Kyte, the Boy Scout hospital porter who just happened to organise a blood drive at the food bank. I want you along.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘No, this evening. I want to catch him at home, get a feel for his domestic set-up and meet his wife.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be taking Jools?’

  ‘I need your expertise. She’s OK with it, and a female presence might distract him, make him careless. Plus, after Olly’s little ethics fit, I want to look for trophies.’ He smiled at her. Her stomach coiled for another flip, then settled. ‘Come to mine for six. We’ll head over together in my car.’

  Back at her desk, Hannah stared at her screen until it faded to black. In its polished surface she could see herself. She was smiling. Was it an attractive smile? She ran one of her plaits through her fingers. She had always enjoyed their knobbly smoothness. Would he?

  ‘Stop it, Hannah!’ she said aloud.

  ‘Stop what?’ one of the other CSIs asked her.

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

  Yes, it does matter. It matters a lot.

  DAY TWENTY-ONE, 7.00 P.M.

  The Kytes lived in a Victorian terraced house on the Devizes Road on the north side of the city. One of thousands in Salisbury, hundreds of thousands in Wiltshire and, for all Ford knew, millions in the country as a whole.

  Would the media dub it a ‘house of horror’ if Kyte were proved to be the killer? Probably, though that was what Ford always found so depressing when he arrested a suspect: the utterly ordinary outward appearance of their lives. They kept koi carp and shoplifted. Built elaborate model railway layouts in their lofts and drove while drunk. Supported football teams and beat their wives. They liked roast beef, avoided lamb, kicked innocent strangers to death behind rough pubs. Ran pub-quiz teams then embezzled money from their employers. Volunteered as Scout leaders and Salvation Army second trumpets and sexually abused children in their care.

  Ford rang the bell. An electronic rendition of the chimes of Big Ben sounded distantly. Beside him, Hannah cleared her throat. He caught a movement as she brought a hand up to her hair.