by Andy Maslen
He stopped outside Berret & Sartain and looked in at the array of shotguns on a wooden rack. The publicity photos all showed a similar type of person: posh-looking older men and a few younger and very attractive women. Wearing tweeds and long boots, they smiled widely, guns cradled in their arms or held up to their shoulders. Gun dogs – black Labs, mostly, plus a few spaniels – waited patiently at their feet. Medium breeds.
To a lot of environmental activists, these people were the enemy. Ready to kill anything that moved; hoarding land the Greens believed should belong to everyone. The feeling was mutual. To the shooting classes, environmentalists were urban keyboard warriors who didn’t understand the countryside.
Had Pond Man been causing trouble for Lord Baverstock? Was that why he was found close to the Alverchalke estate? Could he and Tommy have been working together somehow? It seemed unlikely, but in his years as a detective, Ford had learned that sometimes the most unlikely things were simply a truth he hadn’t come across yet. He walked on.
At the briefing, thirty minutes later, he shared his latest insights.
‘So he was making a nuisance of himself and someone lost it,’ Mick said, folding his arms.
‘A nuisance?’ Olly echoed. ‘I know you find anyone with progressive views beyond redemption, Mick. But surely even you can see it’s a bit of a stretch to murder someone because they’re trying to save the planet?’
His face flushing, Mick leaned towards Olly and jabbed a finger at him. ‘Even me? What, you mean thicko Detective Sergeant Mick Tanner, with his knuckles dragging on the ground? As opposed to Detective Constable Oliver Cable, with his degree in criminology and a broomstick up his arse?’
Ford stepped in quickly. ‘That’s enough! Olly, show some respect. Mick, calm down.’
Both men glared at him and then at each other. The rest had all found fascinating things to read in their notebooks.
‘Do you want me to run a search on the NCA missing persons database, guv?’ Jools asked.
Ford nodded. ‘I saw the owner of Inkerman just now,’ he said. ‘He was certain it wasn’t their work, but that leaves a few other places who might recognise it. Olly, visit them all and show them the picture. If we find the artist, we find Pond Man’s identity.’
‘Yes, guv,’ Olly said sullenly.
‘Mick, any news on those butchers you were tracing?’
Chest rising and falling visibly, Mick nodded and looked down at his notebook. ‘We finished all the interviews. Of the original forty-three, we’ve got twenty-five males with their own place. Nobody got even a whiff of a wrong ’un from any of them.’
‘How about alibis?’
‘Still checking.’
‘All right. Thanks Mick, nice work.’ He turned back to the semicircle of expectant faces. ‘Let’s hope someone reported Pond Man as a MISPER so Jools gets a quick ID.’
Jools watched Ford striding to his office, Mick dogging his steps, his lower jaw jutting. She turned back to her monitor and jiggled the mouse to wake her creaking PC out of its slumber. Once the monitor flickered into life, she opened the police search screen on the NCA missing persons database. If any one of the UK’s forty-five police forces had reported a missing person, the National Crime Agency would have it.
She entered Pond Man’s details and hit the dark blue ‘Search’ button, sat back and waited. A few seconds later the screen refreshed. She stared at it, unwilling to believe her luck. A single hit, for which she was sure the Gaia tattoo was responsible.
Owen Long. A white male, reported missing by his wife four days earlier. Aged seventy. With a tattoo of a female figure. The notes screen, searchable only by the police, contained the clincher: Tattoo is of ‘Gaia’ – naked green female, globe/planet earth in her lap.
The file included a full-face photo of Long. And although submersion in water had swollen the dead man’s features, the resemblance was clear enough for Jools to be confident she’d come face to face with Pond Man.
She hit ‘Print’, then clicked away to a new screen and pulled up the reporting person’s contact details.
Ford leaned back against the edge of his desk, hands beside him. ‘Close the door, Mick.’
Mick complied, then came to stand in front of Ford, rubbing his hand over the bristles on his scalp. In the quiet of the office, Ford could hear them scratching under Mick’s palm.
‘What’s going on?’ Ford asked.
‘What, because of that business with Olly? He’s just an arsey burger-flipper. They’re all the same: McDonald’s on a Friday, DC by Monday. They work a single domestic homicide where the husband confesses by teatime, and suddenly they’re International Murder Detective.’
‘I agree, he can be a pain. And he was out of line. But you completely overreacted. What’s up? You’ve been late to work a couple of times recently. And you’ve lost the edge off your dress sense, too.’
Mick shrugged. ‘It’s just work. Two murders. I just let myself go a bit.’ But he couldn’t maintain eye contact. And he’d folded his arms across his chest. The message blared out. Keep off!
Ford didn’t. ‘Who was that bending your ear on the phone the other day? Kirsty?’
Mick nodded. Said nothing. Ford had a flash of insight. Cop marriages had one of the worst breakdown rates.
‘You two OK?’ Ford asked.
Mick unfolded his arms long enough to rub his scalp again. He looked out of the window. Up at the ceiling. Down at the floor. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
‘She wants a divorce,’ he mumbled.
Ford knew better than to ask questions when people were just opening up. Silence often prompted more talk. He kept quiet.
‘Eleven years we’ve been married,’ Mick said in a complaining tone. ‘And now she’s decided to give me aggro about ignoring her. All because I forgot our wedding anniversary. She knew what I did for a living when I proposed to her.’ He hesitated. ‘I said we should try counselling. And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll kill you.’
Ford couldn’t help smiling. Even in this moment of heightened emotion, Mick needed to preserve his macho reputation.
‘What did she say?’
‘She agreed. So we go along and Kirsty basically dives straight in, telling the therapist about what a shit husband I am,’ Mick said. ‘I try to argue and the bloody cow with the clipboard and the purple dungarees tells me to give Kirsty her space. Then we come out, after I’ve paid, and Kirsty goes, “There! Happy now? I’ve got a lawyer. I suggest you do the same.”’
‘Are you still at home?’
Mick shook his head. ‘Renting a flat. A bloody one-bedroom flat!’
‘What about Evie and Caitlin?’
‘I’m seeing them on Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings. And we’ve got bloody WhatsApp. But it’s not the same, is it?’
‘No. It’s not. If you need compassionate leave, I can do that for you. Or just time off to talk to your lawyer.’
Mick nodded. ‘Who’s costing me a bloody fortune, by the way. The leech is bleeding me dry, and that’s before I start paying Kirsty child support.’
‘Look, try to stay focused, but talk to me, yes?’
‘I will. I’ve got to go.’
Alone in his office, Ford watched Mick’s progress through Major Crimes, phone clamped to his ear. Poor sod. Thoughts of his years with Lou shouldered their way into his consciousness.
Theirs had been a strong marriage. Everybody said so. She’d never lost patience with his long hours or sudden departures midway through movies or dinners out. She’d smile resignedly and kiss him on the cheek – distractedly, if she was interested in the film. Not strong enough to save her life, though, was it? And nor was he. He shoved the thought down.
Jools burst through the door, waving a couple of sheets of paper. ‘I think I’ve got him, guv! Pond Man.’ She thrust the printout into his outstretched hand.
Ford scanned the top sheet. ‘I’ll go and see her tomorrow. Thanks, Jools.’
&nb
sp; He called the inter-force liaison officer at the Met to let them know a colleague from Wiltshire would be on their turf, then headed for the stairs. He reached for his phone, intending to recall Olly from his tattoo-parlour canvass. Then he stayed his hand. Spending some time wearing out shoe leather would do Olly good.
Jools scanned the list of ammunition buyers she’d just received from the sales guy at Berret & Sartain. He’d sorted them alphabetically, for which she mentally thanked him. The list contained seventy-one names, all but one of which were men’s. She realised she’d had no idea of the extent of hunting in Wiltshire.
She cut and pasted the list into a spreadsheet. Added Mick’s list of meat-trade workers. Scanned down the two columns, looking for a match. Her eyes fixed on a pair at the top of the list. Virtually identical. The others faded away as her pulse ticked up a notch.
QUALIFIED BUTCHERS
AMMUNITION BUYERS
. . . . . .
ADLAM, Thomas W. ADLAM, Tom
. . . . . .
She stood and crossed Major Crimes to the murder wall for the Tommy Bolter and Pond Man deaths. Tom Adlam had discovered Pond Man on his farm. Had to be the same man. A line from a lecture at police college came back to her: Murderers, especially psychopaths, will often involve themselves in the subsequent investigation, partly to monitor police progress, but also for the thrill they derive from being ‘seen, yet unseen’.
Back at her desk, she scrolled through the rest of the list. Relief ran through her as she found no more matches. She closed Mick’s list and pulled up the membership lists of the two Royal Colleges, of surgeons and pathologists. Neither had a match to the ammunition list.
She grabbed her car keys.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jools inhaled. The farmhouse kitchen smelled wonderful. Two loaves of bread with pale ellipses slashed into their chocolate-brown tops were cooling on a wire rack beside an Aga.
Facing her across a scrubbed pine table that glowed with years of hard use sat Tom Adlam and his wife, Clare. His wiry frame contrasted with her more rounded one. The Adlams’ weather-beaten faces spoke of long days outside.
Jools opened her notebook. Smiled. Looked at each partner in the marriage, and the farm, in turn.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. ‘Finding a body on your land must have been a shock.’
Tom Adlam nodded. ‘Can’t say it didn’t upset me. You see dead wildlife all the time. You get used to the smell. But not’ – he looked down at the steaming surface of his tea – ‘not a man.’
Jools offered him a sympathetic glance, brow furrowed to show him she took him seriously.
‘What did you want to talk to Tom about?’ Clare asked, covering her husband’s hand with hers. ‘He’s incredibly busy at this time of year. He’s already given a statement to a uniformed officer.’
She made ‘uniformed’ sound like it meant ‘real’. Did Jools’s plain clothes count against her? Or was it her gender? Women could be just as sexist as men. Especially in a rural county like Wiltshire. She smiled again. Harder.
‘Have you always been a farmer?’ she asked Tom.
‘Man and boy. Why?’
‘No other trade when you were younger?’
‘I’ve been working on the farm my whole life. Left school, went to Sparsholt College to study agriculture. Then here full-time.’
Jools made a note. More for effect than to record his answer. She hadn’t got to her real question yet. Now she saw a way in.
‘Did you study butchery at Sparsholt?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Did you get a good grade?’
‘I can’t remember. I know I passed, ’cause I’ve got the certificate up in the farm shop.’
‘But you learned all the skills?’
Jools observed him closely. Looking for a sign he was hiding something. The twitch of an eye muscle would be enough for her.
‘I can handle a knife, yes. Look, what’s this all about? I thought you were here about that drowned bloke.’
‘Actually, he didn’t drown. Someone shot him.’
‘All right, that shot bloke, then.’
‘Do you own any guns, Mr Adlam?’ She made it sound so innocent. As if she were merely asking whether he owned any floor mops.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Clare said sharply. ‘Why are you asking him if he owns any guns? And about his butchery qualification? Surely you don’t think he had anything to do with that poor man being murdered? Tom found him, for God’s sake.’
Jools smiled sweetly. Ask questions, make proposals. Stay in control. ‘Mr Adlam?’
‘I’m a farmer, aren’t I?’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘I’ve got a 12-gauge shotgun, a .308 rifle and a .22 for pests.’
Jools registered the uptick in her pulse, but maintained the calm exterior of a merely curious police officer. ‘And they’re all licensed.’
‘Do you want to see my certificate?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
He shoved his chair back, scraping the unprotected feet across the slate tiles with a loud screech. Jools jotted a couple of notes, then took a sip of her tea. She smiled at Clare Adlam, whose own mouth had tightened into an expression of outright disgust.
‘He’s not a murderer, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she said.
Jools said nothing.
‘He’s the gentlest soul on God’s earth,’ Clare continued. ‘I mean, he’ll kill foxes or rats. And he enjoys the odd shoot on the Alverchalke estate when he’s invited, pheasants and such. But that’s animals, not people.’
‘It’s just routine, Mrs Adlam. There’s nothing to worry about.’
Clare sniffed. ‘How come I’m feeling worried, then?’
Tom Adlam’s arrival let Jools off the hook. He took his seat again and thrust a folded sheet of paper at her. She unfolded it and skimmed the black and yellow certificate.
‘Well, that’s all how it should be,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Tell me, Clare mentioned you go on shoots. You take the shotgun for those, do you?’
‘Of course. I’m hardly going to take a .22, am I?’
Jools smiled. ‘Of course not. So, what’s the .308 for? Do you hunt?’
He shook his head. ‘Target-shooting. On the rare occasions I have some time off, I go down to Cranborne Gun Club.’
Jools nodded and made a note. The club headed the list the gun shop guy had given her.
‘Would you mind if I borrowed your rifles?’
‘Why?’
‘I’d like to have them test-fired. We recovered a bullet from a second body found on your neighbour Mr Ball’s farm. You may have heard about it? The bullet is a .308. And the man you found was shot with a .22.’
Clare Adlam’s mouth dropped open. Jools noticed she was squeezing her husband’s hand so hard her knuckles had turned pale. ‘You can’t possibly be serious! No,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Don’t let her. Make her get a warrant or whatever they do. Like on the telly.’
Wincing, he freed his hand from her grip. He shook his head. ‘It’s fine. Knock yourself out. But I want a receipt.’
Twenty minutes later, Jools parked at Bourne Hill with Adlam’s cased rifles in the boot of her A3.
‘Dad?’ Sam said as he and Ford cleared up after their evening meal.
‘What?’
‘On the Journal website, it says there was a second body.’
Ford nodded. ‘A farmer found it in a drainage pond on his land.’
‘Did it float?’
‘No. The farmer brought it up with a grappling hook.’
‘But they do usually, right?’
‘Yes. The gases produced during putrefaction fill the body cavity and make it buoyant.’
Sam pulled a face. But he ploughed on. ‘So he must�
�ve, like, weighted it down?’
Ford was about to correct him, then held his tongue. Some details were too gruesome to share. It wasn’t lying to Sam. It was protecting him. ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘It was a good question. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.’
Sam smiled. Then Ford saw a brief expression of doubt flit across his son’s features. Little more than a momentary drawing-together of the eyebrows, but he caught it just the same.
‘Everything OK?’
‘There’s a school trip coming up. Can I go? It’s three hundred and eighty-five pounds and I need a parent’s signature,’ Sam said, the words tumbling over themselves.
‘Sure. What is it? Camping again?’
Sam shook his head, frowning. ‘Not camping. But it’s really important. It’s for geography. Tom’s going. Max, Nathan, Joe. Literally everyone.’
‘I said you could go. You won’t miss out. Where is it?’
‘The Brecon Beacons.’
Immediately, Ford knew what the answer to his next question would be. And he felt a cold wave of fear wash over him. ‘Is it climbing?’
‘It’s totally safe, Dad! It’s supervised and there are guides and, like, only safe routes, and they’ve got all the best safety gear. Please can I go?’
‘No, Sam. I can’t let you. Not after what happened to Mum. You know that even the safest climb can go wrong in a heartbeat.’
Sam shook his head, flicking his curls left and right. ‘You’re wrong! I’ve checked the statistics. You’re actually more likely to die playing table tennis than rock-climbing.’
Ford had no doubt Sam had done his research, although his assertion sounded wildly unlikely. But it didn’t change the way he felt. ‘It’s not safe, Sam. I don’t care what the statistics say.’
‘You have to! I’ll be, like, the only boy not going. They’ll all know why, too.’
Ford saw Lou as if it were yesterday, not six years ago. Her face pale with the agony caused when the block he’d dislodged had smashed her thigh bone. Minutes before she drowned, when he left her.
