by Andy Maslen
ALSO BY ANDY MASLEN
Detective Ford:
Shallow Ground
DI Stella Cole:
Hit and Run
Hit Back Harder
Hit and Done
Let the Bones Be Charred
Weep, Willow, Weep
A Beautiful Breed of Evil
Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers:
Trigger Point
Reversal of Fortune
Blind Impact
Condor
First Casualty
Fury
Rattlesnake
Minefield
No Further
Torpedo
Three Kingdoms
Ivory Nation
Crooked Shadow
Other Fiction:
Blood Loss – A Vampire Story
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by Andy Maslen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542021005
ISBN-10: 1542021006
Cover design by Dominic Forbes
To my family – Jo, Rory and Jacob
CONTENTS
START READING
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘If it is not right do not do it; if it is not true do not say it.’
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
CHAPTER ONE
Polly Evans gasped for breath, unwilling to believe what lay at her feet.
Sparks fizzled in her peripheral vision and tremors broke out all over her body.
Five minutes earlier, she’d been enjoying a walk through the countryside with her border terrier, Murphy. They’d stopped in a tussocky meadow at the edge of a shallow section of the meandering River Ebble.
Mid-drink, Murphy had raised his dripping muzzle, splashed through the water to the muddy bank opposite and raced towards a white-blossomed hawthorn hedge.
By the time Polly had reached the yelping little dog, he’d disappeared into a gaping hole in the reddish earth big enough to fall into.
Polly had got down on her knees. She could see Murphy’s bunched rear end as he struggled to retrieve something. He’d reversed out and dropped his trophy before her on the grass, tail wagging, pink tongue lolling.
Mustering all the self-control she’d acquired in her thirty-year career as an inner-city biology teacher, she took out her phone and called the police.
To calm herself as she stared at the object Murphy had retrieved, she began naming its parts. Ulnar artery, flexor muscle of wrist, fibrous sheath of finger . . .
CHAPTER TWO
As Eric Clapton played ‘Three O’Clock Blues’ on the Discovery’s stereo, Ford glanced at the satnav. The dog-walker’s location was less than a mile away. Control had called him twenty minutes earlier.
He slowed to pass a young woman pushing a bicycle up the steep hill. She smiled and waved. He smiled back and accelerated away from her.
He saw a lay-by on the other side of the road, just before a hump-backed bridge. A gate beside it stood open. Someone must have asked the farmer to unlock it. He eased the Discovery through the gate and into the field beyond. The grass rippled in four-foot-wide undulations, the troughs containing six inches of water.
In the distance, he could see a forensics tent. A white van marked ‘Wiltshire Forensics Service’ sat off to one side, its rear doors open. White-suited CSIs moved between tent, van and a spot a little further towards the centre of the field, also protected by a tent. Uniforms were present, too. They’d erected a blue and white tape cordon. The Discovery rolled and heaved its way across the field, splashing through the drainage ruts.
Ford’s stomach churned as he drove closer to the crime scene. Ever since he’d left his wife to drown on a sea-level rock shelf on their last climb together, he’d experienced nausea at every murder scene he’d investigated.
The rational part of him knew he’d done the right thing. But the emotional Ford, the Ford who lay awake at night, endlessly rerunning those last, precious few moments with Lou, saw things differently. It leaned across a judge’s bench. Pointed an accusing finger. Screamed YOU KILLED HER! Loaded guilt on to his chest until he sat bolt upright at 3 a.m., gasping for breath.
Pushing the memories, and the nausea, down, he parked next to the CSI van. He gave the uniformed loggist on the cordon his collar number and slid under the tape she held up for him. The uniforms had set up an inner cordon. The white plastic tent occupied its centre, sides sucking in and bellying out in the breeze as if breathing. It backed on to a hedge of white-flowered hawthorn, through which brambles and ivy twined.
Out of the wind’s rough caress, the temperature rose. Standing just inside the doorway, Ford loosened his tie. The CSIs had erected the tent over a hole that opened out at the foot of the hedge. It was enormous. Easily big enough for a man to fall into. Around the edge, earth had been piled up. He looked closer. Sitting atop the soil he saw a few fragments of eggshell and a tiny white bone.
‘It’s a badger sett, sir,’ a male CSI said. ‘The lady who found the hand said her dog pulled it out of here.’
Ford left the tent and went over to a couple of uniforms standing with a woman in late middle age holding a scruffy little terrier on a lead. They’d managed to procure a cup of coffee for her, which she drank in small sips, her eyes darting every which way from over its rim.
He introduced himself, then said, ‘I understand you found the hand.’
‘Murphy did, really,’ she said. ‘We were down at the stream back there. Suddenly, Murphy zoomed across the stream and ran off to the hedge there.’ She pointed at the tent. ‘He was tugging at something. Then he just pulled and it came out and it was’ – she shuddered – ‘a hand. Well, most o
f one, anyway.’
‘And when you were walking Murphy, did you see anyone else?’
She sipped the coffee then shook her head. ‘No. Not a soul. Sometimes I do. This route is popular with dog-walkers. I mean, the countryside’s so beautiful, isn’t it? But no. Not today.’
Her tone suggested she wasn’t avoiding responsibility or trying to please. She knew what she’d seen and what she hadn’t, and was unafraid to state it plainly.
‘I’d like you to make a formal statement. One of these officers can take it from you,’ he said. ‘We could do it here, or at home if that would be more comfortable for you.’
Polly opted to do it at home. Leaving her with a uniform, Ford walked towards the knot of CSIs. He saw a familiar face, or its top half, above a surgical mask. China-blue eyes met his own. Dr Hannah Fellowes, the deputy chief forensics officer.
Hannah would take him to view the body part: confronting him once more with the physical reality of violent death. And it would start. The whole unpleasantly satisfying process of entering the mind of a murderer and feeling that sense of connection that existed between all who’d taken another life.
In her first week at Bourne Hill station, Hannah had pushed him on why he hadn’t moved past Lou’s death. He’d avoided giving a straight answer. But sometimes he caught her looking at him, head cocked to one side, as if studying for clues. He hated that feeling of scrutiny, even though he respected her as a colleague and enjoyed their blossoming friendship.
He joined her and said, ‘Morning, Hannah.’
‘Good morning, Henry. Guess what?’
‘What?’
She pulled her mask down and smiled, curving two dimples into her cheeks. ‘I have a nickname.’
‘Really? Congratulations. Am I permitted to know what it is?’
She frowned. ‘Of course! Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to use it. It’s Wix. Which is short for Wikipedia. Because I know a lot about a great many subjects,’ she added.
Ford smiled. Among the quirks that had spurred his affection was Hannah’s fascination with nicknames. When still new at Bourne Hill, she’d learned that his – Henry – came from the founder of the car company. In response, she’d researched an array of facts, from sales of the Ford Mondeo to the date the company had been founded.
He’d thought her Asperger’s might make her shy or stand-offish, but Hannah was the opposite. She was good company. No-filter company, but good, nonetheless.
‘What have we got?’
‘Come with me and I’ll show you,’ she said, resettling her mask.
He followed her. Breathing deeply. Aware of all that was to come.
CHAPTER THREE
Ruth Long didn’t consider herself an anxious woman. In general she was content to let life unfold at its own pace. Plenty of time to react to the present, without worrying over a future that might never happen. But when her husband, Owen, hadn’t returned from his planned two-day trip after three days, which turned into five once she checked her diary, she felt the flutterings in her belly that used to accompany her performances with the Royal Ballet.
She put on some shoes and left the house, not bothering to double-lock the door, and hurried towards the police station on Tolpuddle Street.
The young uniformed officer on the front desk looked up and smiled. She noticed a spot on his chin, which was largely devoid of stubble, and wondered if they’d lowered the minimum age.
‘Yes, madam?’ he said in a pleasant, helpful tone.
On the walk to the station, she’d had time to marshal her thoughts. She’d rehearsed a short statement she felt would deliver the most information in the fewest words. She cleared her throat and straightened her back.
‘My husband is missing. He’s seventy, vulnerable, and I think he may have been hurt. I haven’t heard from him in five days, and that has never happened before.’
The officer nodded. ‘When and where did you last see him?’
‘Don’t you want to take notes?’ she asked.
‘Let’s just talk through the basics first,’ he said with a smile she felt was bordering on patronising.
She bit back the urge to tell him he should be taking her more seriously. ‘He left five days ago. From our house on Cloudesley Street.’
‘And he’s seventy?’
‘Yes,’ she said, unable to tamp down her fear, which was making her irritable. ‘As I just said.’
Now he did reach for a notebook. Somehow the action bothered her more than his little smile a moment ago. She felt her pulse racing.
‘What’s his name, please?’
‘Owen Long.’
‘When exactly did he leave your house?’
‘On Wednesday, April the twenty-eighth. Just before nine a.m.’
‘On foot? In a car?’
‘In the car. A Toyota Prius. It’s more environmentally friendly,’ she added, immediately wondering whether he cared.
Ruth felt a lump in her throat. Sharp-edged, like a flint. She swallowed, felt tears, hard as gravel, trapped beneath her eyelids. She became aware of voices behind her. Tutting. She turned to see a young couple eyeing her suspiciously as though she were there to commit a crime instead of report a missing person.
With a smile, the young officer directed her to a row of plastic chairs. ‘I’ll get someone to come and talk to you. Get a few more details about Owen.’
Sniffing, not trusting herself to speak, she moved away from the counter and took one of the chairs. It was hard under her behind and she shuffled around, trying to get comfortable. Five minutes later, a fortyish man in a grey suit emerged from a door and came over to her.
‘Mrs Long?’ She nodded. ‘I’m Detective Constable Wallace. Do you want to come with me?’
He led her through the door and into a small room furnished with a blue two-seater sofa and a matching armchair. He took the armchair and opened a laptop, which he balanced precariously on his knees.
Over the next fifteen minutes, he asked Ruth a series of detailed questions relating to Owen’s physical appearance, the car and anywhere she thought he might have gone in it. He entered each answer into the laptop, prodding the keys with two fingers. She wanted to scream at him to learn to type.
He closed the laptop and looked her in the eye. ‘I’ve created a record for Owen in the National Crime Agency’s missing persons database,’ he said. ‘That means every police force in the country now has access to Owen’s description. If something crops up, they’ll notify me and I’ll get straight on the phone to you.’
‘But what are you actually going to do?’ she asked, alarmed at how shaky her voice sounded in the airless little room.
‘At this point, there’s not a great deal we can do,’ he said apologetically. Then he smiled. ‘Look, in the vast majority of cases like this, they do come home again, safe and sound. Try not to worry. He’s probably just letting off some steam.’
‘But he’s seventy! He’s hardly likely to have gone off on some jaunt, is he? He used to be a vicar!’
She was aware how pathetic she sounded, but she didn’t care. Maybe younger men did occasionally feel the need to slip away for a few days to let off steam, or whatever they did nowadays. But Owen? No. No. Nonononono. She fished a tissue out of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.
‘Let’s not panic. Give Owen a few more days. Then if he’s not back, call me and we’ll have a think about what to do next.’ He handed her a card.
Somehow, she found herself back on the pavement again, having listened to the detective’s stream of reassurances as he steered her out of the police station. And why was he only a detective constable? Surely they’d give the job to somebody more senior?
She returned home and poured herself a large glass of wine. Noticed the kitchen clock said half past eleven. Didn’t care. Drained it. Poured another.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ford followed Hannah across the field towards the smaller of the two tents. It had its own mini-cordon of fluttering police tape. He l
ifted it for her and they both ducked under.
A hand, severed at the wrist, lay on the grass. Flies crawled over the pale, mottled skin and ragged flesh. He squatted and pointed at it. ‘What do you make of that, then?’
‘There’s clear evidence of animal interference.’ She pulled out a ballpoint pen and indicated the grooves and gouges in the flesh. ‘See? Toothmarks.’
‘From the badgers.’
‘I think so. Rats are a second possibility. Badgers are omnivores, and although their usual diet includes earthworms, beetles and birds’ eggs, they will eat flesh if it presents itself. Though I don’t suppose many have tasted human.’ She adopted a formal tone like an old-fashioned newsreader. ‘Flesh-eating badgers are roaming Salisbury.’
She turned and looked at him. The crinkles fanning out from the corners of her eyes suggested a smile behind the mask. Hannah possessed a sense of humour just off-kilter enough for her to join the black comedy club that included medics, emergency workers and the armed forces.
Ford pointed to the protruding bones. ‘Did they do that as well?’
‘I can’t say at this point. But to the naked eye, they do appear to have been gnawed.’
‘You’ll be at the post-mortem?’
‘Yes, I will.’
Ford straightened. Sighed. ‘I have to go. I’ll see you later, Wix.’
‘Bye, Henry,’ she said, and he heard the pleasure in her voice at his use of her nickname.
He went to find the crime scene manager. Experienced in matters rural, the DS from General CID had dressed for the job in green wellies and a thornproof jacket.
‘Morning, sir,’ the DS said.
‘Morning, Harry. We need to check if there are more remains down there,’ Ford said, pointing at the tented badger sett. ‘Any bright ideas?’
‘I had a word with the farmer. Chap by the name of Ball. He’s bringing a tractor with a digger attachment on the back. Said he’d be about half an hour.’
Ford nodded his appreciation. ‘God knows how long it would have taken if we’d gone through channels.’
Harry grinned. ‘Quicker to do it by hand, sir.’
Ball arrived with his tractor. All work stopped as the assorted coppers, CSIs and a couple of dog-walkers kept behind the outer perimeter watched him manoeuvre the machine into position. The CSIs dismantled the tent, dragging the assemblage of poles and flapping fabric out of harm’s way.
