Shallow Ground (Detective Ford)

by Andy Maslen

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Let me do the talking. You just observe. Smile at him if he looks at you for reassurance.’

  A pink shape swam into view behind the moulded foliage of the front-door glass. The door opened. A woman stood there, late twenties or early thirties, five-two, solid build and wearing striking make-up: bright blue eyeshadow, blusher shading her cheeks, wet-look bubblegum-pink lipstick. Thick black hair in an unflattering short style that made her face seem squarer than it was.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, her narrowed eyes switching from Ford to Hannah and back again, her mouth pinched, suspicious. ‘We’re not religious, you know. If you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, you can save yourselves time and bugger off.’

  Ford smiled. His best black suit did give him a missionary air. ‘Jennifer Kyte?’

  ‘That’s me. Who are you?’

  He held out his ID. ‘Detective Inspector Ford. Wiltshire Police. This is my colleague, Dr Hannah Fellows.’

  Scowling, she scrutinised his ID. ‘We’ve already had the police round. What do you want?’

  ‘Could we come in, please?’

  She folded her arms. ‘Why? I’ve got nothing to say more than what I did before.’

  ‘We’d like to talk to you and your husband, Mrs Kyte. It would be much easier if we could do it inside.’

  ‘I’m sure it would. For you. But he’s not here, is he?’

  ‘Where is Matty?’

  She frowned. ‘His name’s Matthew.’

  ‘Where is Matthew? Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  ‘He’s running an errand for one of his patients. Taking her cat to the vet’s. It needs to be put to sleep and the old biddy’s too upset to take it herself. Matthew volunteered.’ She folded her muscular arms across her chest. ‘He’s like that. Kind.’ She gave the final word such force it sounded more like a challenge to the cops than a description of her husband.

  ‘Could we come in and wait? We do have a few questions for you, as well, if you don’t mind.’

  In his occasional informal training sessions with new detectives, Ford called it TRAP: ‘The Relentless Application of Politeness’ – the refusal to be ruffled or antagonised by people making life difficult. They could be hardened gangsters with an expensive lawyer sitting beside them, or snaggle-toothed meth-heads causing problems in one of the city’s many parks. Either way, he’d found over the years that rolling with the punches and coming back to ask yet another softly spoken, well-mannered question produced more results than tough talk, bluster or threats.

  ‘Well?’ Jennifer was asking. ‘Are you coming in or not?’

  He realised she’d stood aside and was, if not inviting, then allowing them into her home.

  They followed her into a sitting room, furnished with a fabric-covered sofa – pink cabbage roses on a yellow background, polished wooden inserts topping the armrests – two matching armchairs and a large flat-screen TV.

  A large painting of a Native American warrior holding a pony by a rope bridle dominated the wall facing the TV. Beneath it, an authentic-looking tomahawk decorated with feathers and red and yellow thongs rested on a low bookshelf.

  To the left of the painting, a rectangular smoked-glass mirror in a black frame reflected Ford and Hannah back to him as they took the sofa. He shot her a brief smile.

  Jennifer Kyte dropped into one of the armchairs and leaned back, elbows cocked, forearms on the shiny wooden armrests. She made no move to speak.

  ‘Mrs Kyte,’ Ford began, ‘did Matthew ask you to confirm where he was on the dates we gave him?’

  ‘Yes, he did. And you must be mad if you think it was him. Matthew wouldn’t hurt a fly. Ask anyone.’

  ‘He told us he was here with you, watching television.’

  ‘That’s because he was,’ she said.

  ‘Every time?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘On one of the dates we specified, your car – you do drive a grey Polo, don’t you?’

  Her eyes flickered to a spot above his head. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You do drive one, though – a car of that make, model and colour?’

  ‘Yes. Needs a new clutch. Matty’ – the word caught in her throat – ‘I mean, Matthew, that’s what he says.’

  Ford rolled his eyes and tutted. ‘Not cheap, are they, clutches? I had mine go on my old Land Rover. Cost me a fortune.’

  ‘We’ll be fine. We’ve got savings.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ford said with an encouraging smile, parking the Polo for now. ‘Matthew told me. You’re saving up for a deposit. This place is rented, is it?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘I just thought, if you were saving . . .’ He let the end of the sentence hang.

  ‘It’s mine. My aunt left it me. We want to invest in a second property, if you must know. Somewhere with loads of students.’

  What had Abbott said about the skills you’d need to do a home blood transfusion? ‘Nurses make good tenants, I’ve heard.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘That what you think, is it? Bloody tarts, most of them. Out half the night boozing or shagging junior doctors.’

  ‘Not got a good opinion of them?’

  ‘Huh!’ she snorted. ‘They look down on the likes of me because we haven’t got the right qualifications. But I’m just as good as them.’

  ‘What job do you do, Jen?’

  If she noticed the switch from the formal ‘Mrs Kyte’ to the informal use of her Christian name, she didn’t show it. ‘I’m a care assistant. At Martin’s Croft on the London Road. Just the elderly. No disableds or nothing. Couldn’t stand that.’

  ‘The nurses there don’t rate you?’

  ‘We don’t have nurses up there, do we? Well, one, Meg, but she’s all right.’

  ‘Then, who—’

  ‘Up at the hospital, of course! Sometimes we have to go up there if one of our residents has a fall or whatever,’ she said. ‘God, the dirty looks they give us. Like it was us what pushed them down the fucking stairs.’ She paused. ‘’Scuse my French.’

  Beside him, Ford caught a sudden stiffening in Hannah’s posture at Jen’s blurted expletive.

  An insight snagged in his brain. ‘Did you ever train to be a nurse?’

  She folded her arms across her chest again. Classic defensive posture. Ford didn’t need an FBI-grade criminal psychologist sitting beside him to know that.

  ‘Started, didn’t I?’

  ‘Started?’

  Her voice became a whine. ‘I did all right in the first year. I was brilliant on the practicals, but the essays were just too hard.’ The complaining tone intensified. ‘I mean, why do I need to be able to write an essay? Changing shitty nightdresses or pus-soaked dressings, well, it don’t exactly call for Albert-bloody-Einstein, does it?’

  Was she aware of the aggression in her voice? He didn’t think so. It sounded like her natural register. ‘So you’ – don’t say ‘dropped out’ – ‘changed direction?’

  ‘Went into caring, didn’t I? It’s basically the same job. Of course, you don’t get the same pay.’

  ‘Lucky you’ve got some money put by for the clutch on the Polo.’

  She frowned and her mouth opened and closed.

  Ford continued, ‘The thing is, Jen, you remember you told us you and Matthew were here watching television on each of the dates when the murders were committed?’

  ‘It’s true!’

  Panicky. Too quick. Time to change up a gear with a small white lie.

  ‘Your car was photographed by an automatic number-plate-recognition camera in a police car on Castle Street, just after the time when Angie and Kai Halpern were murdered. What do you have to say to that?’

  Ford became aware of several sounds as he waited. Hannah’s breathing. The one-tick-per-second of a quartz wall clock to the right of the painting. Cars driving by outside. A key in the front door.

  ‘Babes! It’s me. Get
your knickers off, I’m feeling randy!’

  Matty Kyte’s voice was rough, animal – far from the mild and humble tone the charity volunteer and hospital porter used on the job.

  Jen’s face reddened so that her cheeks matched her blusher. ‘I’m in the lounge. The police are here,’ she shouted.

  The door swung open. Matty stood there in his blue porter’s uniform, the long-sleeved tunic dark with sweat at the armpits.

  ‘Inspector Ford!’ he said with a broad smile, the cheery voice back. He saw Hannah and walked over to her towards her, hand extended. ‘Hello again, Hannah.’

  She took his hand and pumped it three times. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, with a guilty smile, like a larcenous schoolboy caught by a shopkeeper with a handful of gobstoppers. ‘Just our little joke when I come home from work, isn’t it, darling?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, watching him as he lowered himself into the empty armchair. ‘He didn’t mean it. It’s just his little joke.’

  ‘So, how can I help you?’ Matty asked, spreading his hands wide. As he did so, his right cuff rode up over his wrist. Ford’s gaze zeroed in on the inch or so extra of exposed skin. And the little scab revealed beneath the dark cotton stitching.

  ‘We were just trying to sort out a little – what shall I call it? – puzzle with what you told us before, Matty.’

  Matty raised his eyebrows. Then he frowned. Then he put an index finger under the point of his chin. ‘Puzzle?’ he said, finally.

  ‘Yeah. About your car.’

  ‘The Polo?’

  ‘With the dodgy clutch, yeah.’

  ‘What about it? It hasn’t been stolen, has it? God, that would solve a whole bunch of problems, wouldn’t it, Jen?’

  He laughed and won an answering chuckle from his wife.

  ‘Wouldn’t need to get it fixed then, would we?’ she said.

  ‘Car theft tends not to come to Major Crimes,’ Ford said, with a smile of his own.

  ‘What then?’ Matty asked.

  ‘I was just explaining to Jen before you arrived. It was captured on camera near Angie Halpern’s flat, just after she and her son were murdered. So . . .’

  Now came the interesting bit. He hadn’t told them whether the ANPR camera had caught the face of the driver. Matty could say anything: a friend borrowed it. Joyriders took it, then brought it back. But only if he knew what the police knew about the driver’s identity.

  ‘. . . who was driving it, Matty, you or Jen?’

  Ford waited for Matty to answer. He looked around the room. One of the books on the lowest shelf was much larger than the others. Among the cheap thrillers and crime novels, this had a tatty-looking tan cloth binding. The title on the spine was picked out in gold-tooled lettering.

  HARVEY’S

  DE MOTU

  CORDIS

  The title was Latin, obviously, which Ford’s inner-city comprehensive had not felt appropriate for inclusion on its syllabus. But something about the author’s name tugged at his brain.

  It was Lisa Moore’s witness statement. ‘He said his name was Harvey.’ A pretty uncommon first name. And here it was on Matty Kyte’s bookshelf.

  He realised Matty still hadn’t answered his question. ‘Matty, who was driving the Polo?’ he asked again, dropping some gravel into his voice.

  DAY TWENTY-ONE, 7.25 P.M.

  ‘It was me,’ Matty said.

  Ford stared at him. Was this it? Was he just going to admit to being their killer? ‘Go on.’

  ‘I just, it must’ve slipped my mind,’ he said. ‘You see, I’m watching telly with Jen that night. But she’s pregnant, you see, and she gets this craving for gherkins. Well, I hate them, so we never have them in the house and I says’ – he turned to Jen – ‘didn’t I, babes? I says, “I’ll pop out to get some and you tell me what happens while I’m gone.”’

  Ford turned to Jen, all smiles. ‘Congratulations! You must be thrilled.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s like, the dream, isn’t it?’

  ‘How far along are you?’

  Her eyes flicked to Matty then back at Ford. ‘Two months. Give or take.’

  ‘I remember when my wife was pregnant. She had to have frankfurters. And strawberry ice cream. Together. But you crave gherkins.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, just to be clear, for my notes, you were watching telly, then you, Jen, got the old cravings . . .’ She nodded. ‘And you, Matty, took the Polo and went out to get some gherkins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘I don’t know, about eight twenty? Maybe a bit earlier? Look, I’m so sorry I forgot. Will I get into trouble? It was an honest mistake and I did not, one hundred per cent, mean to mislead the police. Obviously. I mean, you’re trying to catch a serial killer, aren’t you?’

  Ford smiled again, though the effort was beginning to cost him. His cheek muscles felt as if cramp was just one more smile away.

  ‘These things happen, Matty,’ he said. ‘You’d be surprised how often members of the public forget where they were or what they were doing when a crime was committed. Half the time they can’t even describe the face of the person who attacked them, even if it was in their own homes, in broad daylight.’

  Matty smiled back. ‘Must make your job difficult.’

  Ford cleared his throat. Rubbed his neck and winced. ‘I don’t suppose we could have a cup of tea, could we, Matty? I’ve been in meetings all day, and I’m parched.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, his posture softening. ‘Put the kettle on, Jen.’

  Hannah waited for one minute and thirty seconds, timing her exit by the sweep hand of the wall clock. As the thin red wand passed the six, she got to her feet.

  ‘I’ll go and give Jen a hand with the tea,’ she said, smiling.

  The kitchen was cluttered. Every surface held a gadget of some kind: a blender, a food processor, a coffee machine, a toasted-sandwich maker – all in matching shades of red.

  ‘You a detective, too?’ Jen asked her, spooning tea into a large dark-brown teapot.

  ‘I’m a crime scene investigator.’

  ‘What, like off the telly? The ones with the white onesies on?’

  Hannah smiled. She couldn’t tell if the woman was mocking her nor not. ‘They’re Tyvek.’

  ‘Tie-what?’

  ‘Vek. It’s a breathable fabric.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’ Hannah asked.

  Jen jerked her chin at a row of eye-level cabinets. ‘You could get four mugs down.’

  Hannah smiled and reached for the first pair of doors and opened them wide.

  ‘Not that one, that one!’ Jen said crossly, pointing to the neighbouring pair.

  Hannah was about to close the doors when something caught her eye. On its own, the packet of Tesco penne didn’t signify anything. After all, lots of people bought pasta from Tesco. But then she looked at the other packets. Every single tub, tin, box, jar and bag she could see bore a Sainsbury’s logo.

  Her heart thumped in her chest. Mechanically, she closed the doors and moved along to the next cupboard. She retrieved four mugs and set them down on the countertop by Jen’s left elbow. As she did so, she noticed a polished stainless-steel cylinder pushed back into a corner.

  A layperson might have assumed it was a high-end professional pressure cooker. The black plastic handle and gleaming finish contributed to that impression. But the presence of a large gauge set into the lid and six heavy-duty wing nuts to clamp it shut as the pressure built revealed its true purpose.

  Why did the Kytes have an autoclave in their kitchen? They were used for sterilising hospital equipment.

  She looked at Jen.

  Jen was staring back at her. That over-lipsticked mouth set in a grim line.

  ‘Let’s take the boys their tea,’ she said, picking up two mugs.

  Hannah followed her back into the sitting room. Ford turned round as s
he came into the room, and she strove for a signal she could give him without alerting Matty. Nicknames! He knows I like to get them right.

  ‘Here’s your tea, Fiesta.’

  Matty grinned. ‘Fiesta, did you call him?’

  ‘It’s his nickname,’ she said, sitting with her own mug of tea. ‘You know, like Ford Fiesta.’

  ‘Sounds more like a jazz mag to me,’ Matty said.

  ‘Unfortunately, I had no say in the matter,’ Ford said, smiling at Hannah and nodding, just slightly.

  Arrest him! Hannah wanted to shriek. And her! They’ve got an autoclave! And a trophy!

  She looked at Jen, who was scowling. She looked at the wall opposite and its black shelving unit. One shelf held a number of glittery gold and silver statues of men throwing darts, mounted on wooden plinths.

  ‘Look at those, Fiesta,’ she said, pointing. ‘He’s got a collection of trophies.’

  She kept her gaze locked on to Ford’s, hoping, praying that the penny would drop. Ford smiled. He shifted to the front edge of the sofa cushion so that his heels were under his knees and his torso was tilted forwards.

  ‘Very impressive,’ Ford said, standing and reaching under the back of his jacket for the Quik-Cuffs.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Matty said, starting to rise.

  Ford began reciting the formal arrest script, ready to put Kyte on the ground if he showed even a flicker of an intention to run or fight.

  ‘Matthew Kyte, I am arresting you on suspicion of—’

  ‘You can’t!’ Jen shouted, standing. ‘Don’t you touch him!’

  As Matty opened his mouth to speak Hannah saw Jen dive to her left. When she straightened, her right fist was gripping the polished wooden haft of the ornamental tomahawk.

  Shrieking, she swung the vicious-looking weapon at Ford’s head.

  Hannah screamed a warning. ‘Henry! Look out!’

  DAY TWENTY-ONE, 7.44 P.M.

  Ford turned towards Hannah. In that moment, the tomahawk glanced off his left elbow. He yelled out in pain. Staggering back, he tripped over the edge of a rug and slammed against the side of the sofa. Grunting as the wood-topped armrest drove the breath from his lungs, he rolled away as Jen drew the weapon back and delivered a second blow. Half a second slower and she’d have split his skull. As it was, the edge buried itself in the wooden armrest. He leapt for her, striking his balled fist into her right shoulder, aiming to paralyse the arm and get her to drop the tomahawk.