by Andy Maslen
He knew he ought to let Sam go. The boy was fearless. The trouble was, Ford had enough fear for two.
He shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry. That’s final.’
Sam’s face darkened. ‘It’s not fair! I have to go.’ He clenched his fists at his sides. ‘Let me, you bastard!’ Then his eyes widened with shock at what he’d just said.
Ford rocked back, the final, yelled word worse than a punch. Sam spun round and stalked off, heading for the stairs.
‘Sam, wait,’ he called. ‘Wait!’
Sam stopped mid-stride, his back to Ford. Ford closed the distance between them. He placed his hands gently on his son’s shoulders and turned him round. Tears glistened in Sam’s eyes, hanging off his lashes like diamonds.
‘Come here,’ Ford said, holding his arms wide. Sam let himself be enveloped in a hug, though he didn’t return it, his arms limp at his sides.
‘I’m sorry for what I just said.’ Sam’s voice was muffled in the crook of Ford’s neck. ‘Please let me go. I swear I’ll do exactly what the teachers say.’
Ford sighed. Could he keep Sam wrapped in cotton wool forever? There’d come a time when he’d be free to do whatever he liked. Riding motorbikes. Parachuting. BASE jumping. And, yes, even climbing.
He knew his fear of losing him was irrational, but then chided himself. Of course it was! But what about women afraid to cross dark parks alone? Children in care afraid of what the night would bring to their bedrooms? Old people afraid to answer their own front doors? Irrational? Or a well-adjusted reaction to the threats around every corner?
He felt Sam pulling away and released him from his embrace. He looked – not down, he realised, but across – into those pleading eyes. Saw in them how badly Sam wanted to fit in. Not to be forever consigned to the role of ‘boy whose mum died’. Ford felt the rope that connected them loosening. Maybe he could play this one out gently, and avoid disaster. He sighed. Prayed.
‘OK.’
Sam swiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘I can go?’
Ford nodded, feeling, if it were possible, simultaneous surges of anxiety and relief. ‘I’ll sign the form and write the cheque.’
Now Sam did hug his dad, so tightly Ford gasped as the breath left his lungs. ‘Whoa! Too tight!’
Sam ignored him and squeezed harder. ‘Thanks, Dad. I’ll be careful, OK? You don’t need to worry.’
‘I know, mate. I know. Now let me go, you big lummox. I’ve got a ton of paperwork to get through and those reports won’t write themselves, you know.’
As an attempt at levity it flopped, but Ford’s bruised psyche couldn’t manage anything better. The form for the trip would be merely the first in a long list of documents he still had to deal with that evening.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Knowing that Sam spent most Saturdays hanging out with his mates, Ford set off for Islington to see Ruth Long. He put Live at the Regal, B.B. King’s finest album, on repeat and pointed the Discovery towards London. The drive up the M3 gave him ample time to think. The case loomed large, but so did a side issue. Who had told JJ about Ford interviewing the Baverstocks?
The chief suspect in Ford’s mind was Martin Peterson. The PCC was well connected and loved to boast of his high-society acquaintances, even though Ford suspected half the time those acquaintances would hardly recognise him.
Could there be someone on his own team passing titbits to JJ? What would they get out of it? The answer was horribly obvious. People like JJ understood two currencies. Cash. And fear. Either he had a hold over someone, or he was paying them. Or both.
So who’d be willing to sell a little of their integrity to a man like JJ Bolter? Or, to put it another way, who needed money right now? Someone with unexpected legal bills and looming child support payments, perhaps? Oh, Jesus, please not Mick.
The trouble with insights like that one was that, much like genies, they were hard to stuff back into their bottle. They were out and demanding attention.
But so was the satnav: ‘Turn left on to Cloudesley Street, then you have reached your destination.’
He made the turn into a wide avenue of alternating lime trees and Japanese cherries, the latter’s soft pink blossom lying in drifts against the tyres of the parked cars. Every spot at the kerb was occupied and Ford had to leave the Discovery a few streets away, beneath a London plane tree with its camouflage bark of ivory, sage, khaki and rust.
Walking to the house, he admired the assorted high-end wheels. A scarlet Ferrari outside the Longs’ house stood out from the mass of silver, black and grey, like a prom queen at a funeral.
The wrought-iron gate opened with a screech. Ford frowned. He’d imagined people like this would be more house-proud. Or have people who’d be house-proud for them while they went out to work in banks, social media companies or advertising agencies. The terracotta window boxes of plum-red geraniums went some way to dispelling the image of genteel shabbiness.
Ford thumbed the bell push, inhaled and exhaled. Tried to ease his neck inside the buttoned-up shirt collar. The door opened. His pulse raced. A chill flickered through him, then passed like a summer storm.
The slender figure who stood framed in the doorway did not match his expectations. He’d been picturing a woman who’d look comfortable behind the wheel of the low-slung sports car parked just a few feet away. A coiffed and Botoxed lady-who-lunches, dripping with bling and designer labels.
Ruth Long looked perfectly ordinary. A slim, narrow-hipped figure, accentuated by a beige woollen dress belted at the waist. Grey hair scraped back from an oval face devoid of make-up. Brown eyes above bruised-looking bags.
‘Mrs Long?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Are you from the police? Have you found Owen?’ Her voice trembled. ‘Is he all right? He went down to Salisbury over a week ago now. We think he must have been taken in by students or his fellow activists.’ Her lips formed into a tremulous smile. ‘Owen’s like that, a real shepherd to his new flock. People love him. They all do. I don’t think he knows he has that effect on them. Especially the young ones—’
Seeing no possibility of a gap, Ford interrupted, showing her his ID. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Ford. I’m with Wiltshire Police. I’m based in Salisbury. May I come in?’
She nodded and turned, leading him into a living room furnished comfortably with cloth-upholstered sofas. No TV, he noticed.
She gestured with a limp hand to the sofa facing the window, then sank into its companion’s saggy embrace. ‘Where is he? Why didn’t you bring him in from your car? I assume you have a car, don’t you?’
Her eyes were caffeine-bright. They ranged around the room as she spoke, as if she might find her husband perched high on one of the groaning bookshelves, or the frame of one of the modern art prints jostling for space on the walls. Her bony fingers knotted round each other.
‘Mrs Long, I’m investigating a murder and we’ve found a body that we believe may be that of your husband,’ he said. ‘It’s not definite, but I want you to prepare yourself for the worst. I’m here to ask you if you’d come back to Salisbury to help us make an identification.’
She frowned. Then she smiled. ‘You must be mistaken. Owen isn’t dead.’
Ford had seen it happen before. The brain would play all sorts of tricks to prevent the message getting through. It was a tasteless joke. A case of mistaken identity. A reality TV show prank. Anything, anything at all, but the cold, awful, blister-raising truth.
He tried again. ‘We matched the body to your description of Owen on the National Crime Agency missing persons database. The photo, his Gaia tattoo. I’m afraid it does look as though it’s him. That’s why I need your help.’
Her head shook from side to side. ‘No. You’re wrong. Lots of people have Gaia tattoos nowadays. Because of the climate crisis. Owen was so committed to the planet, he . . .’
Ford waited. She’d just used the past tense to describe her husband. The ancient, emotional part of her brain might be in full-blown d
enial, but the rational part knew.
It always did. It started adjusting language, planning funerals, wondering where the loved one kept all their internet passwords. Figuring out the best way to explain it to Sam.
He listened to the sound of her breathing. A cat wandered into the room and performed figures of eight around her ankles. Outside, a raspy engine noise disturbed the quiet street. He looked out of the window and saw the Ferrari pulling away.
‘How?’ she asked, in a quiet voice.
‘The man we found had been shot.’
‘Shot,’ she repeated. She frowned. ‘You mean with a gun?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Ruth nodded. Moving slowly, her back straight, as if balancing books on her head, she stood up and left the room, telling Ford she needed to collect a few things.
Ford stood and inspected the photographs grouped on the mantelpiece. In one, Ruth stood beside a teenage girl. The girl wore a tutu and ballet pumps. Ruth wore a black wraparound cardigan and leggings. In her right hand she held a cane of some sort. A dance teacher? That would account for her posture and graceful gait.
He heard the door swing open again. He turned. Ruth stood there, a small brown leather holdall in her hand. She smiled at the photo.
‘Chloe Roberts. My best pupil last year. She’s headed for the Royal Ballet.’
‘You teach?’
‘I used to dance professionally. That’s me at the end.’ Ford followed her gaze and saw a younger version of the grief-stricken woman before him, onstage. In a pale pink tutu, her over-made-up face bearing a wide, strained smile, she hung in mid-air, a muscular male dancer beneath her, arms outstretched, ready to catch her.
Before leaving for Salisbury, Ford excused himself and phoned George. He apologised for calling her into work and asked her to have the body moved to the viewing room. He didn’t anticipate any violence this time.
On the drive down, he asked Ruth about Owen. She explained he’d been a vicar in the Church of England for thirty-two years before deciding the planet needed him more than God did.
She told Ford that Owen had been planning some sort of solo protest, but beyond that she didn’t know anything. He’d taken their car, a silver Toyota Prius, which meant Ford could set someone looking for it on CCTV.
He arrived with Ruth at the Chapel of Rest at 2.57 p.m. First he showed her photographs, just in case she gave an instant ‘no, that’s not him’. No sense in distressing the public with corpses if he didn’t have to. But she nodded, tearfully.
Now, Ford stood beside a visibly shaking Ruth as Pete gently drew back the sheet from her husband’s face. They’d done a beautiful job of restoring Owen to an approximation of normality.
Somehow, Pete and his colleagues had reduced the swelling of his facial tissues. He wore the usual peaceful expression in death that grieving families take as a sign their loved one hasn’t suffered, not knowing it’s simply the consequence of the muscles relaxing.
Pete had hidden the bullet hole under Owen’s chin beneath a sheet. It wrapped around his neck and extended up and over his head, to cover the sutures from the incision across his forehead.
Ruth stood, looking down at her dead husband. She extended a trembling finger and stroked it down his cheek.
‘Is it Owen, Mrs Long?’ Ford asked.
She sniffed. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
Ford led her away and nodded his thanks to Pete, who solemnly replaced the sheet over Owen Long’s face.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Ford asked Ruth as they reached the hospital’s ground floor. ‘They have a nice cafe here.’
‘Yes, please.’
With cups in front of them, Ford explained that they would need to ask her questions, but that he could assign her an FLO to travel back to London with her.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll find a B&B here for a few days. I want to be close to him.’
‘We’ll sort that out for you. There are some nice ones in the city centre. You’ll need some things. Would you like me to have someone fetch them from home for you? One of my sergeants, Jan Derwent, could do it. I’ll introduce you at the police station so you can tell her what to bring.’
Ruth nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Their teas finished, he drove Ruth to Bourne Hill.
He called Jan. ‘Can you come to Interview Suite Three, Jan? I have Ruth Long here with me.’
Jan came in and sat beside Ruth on the two-person sofa. Ford saw the way Ruth reacted to the presence of another woman. Some of the tension left her shoulders.
Jan gave off a vibe that made people relax around her – a tool she used to devastating effect when interviewing cocky young thugs who thought they were being interviewed by their aunt, right up to the point where she allowed them, gently, to incriminate themselves. Here, it produced a calming effect.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Long,’ she said.
‘Please, call me Ruth.’
‘Ruth, I want you to know we’re all working as hard as we can to find the person who killed Owen. Now,’ she said, opening her notebook, ‘what can I bring you from home?’
Jan left after five minutes with a list of clothes and personal items.
Ford turned to Ruth. ‘I’ll get someone to walk back to your B&B with you. While Jan is collecting your things, it would be helpful if she could look around. We’d also like to collect Owen’s toothbrush for a DNA sample. Would that be OK?’
Ruth nodded. ‘He took a manual one with him, but we share an electric one at home. Owen’s was the blue head, by the way.’
‘Thank you. Tell me, did Owen have a study at home? Or a spare room he used as a home office?’
‘Upstairs. The back bedroom.’
‘Did he have a computer?’
‘A rather flashy one.’ Her mouth formed the ghost of a smile. ‘He called it the Gaia Engine. He mostly used it for his vlog.’
‘Did he use a password, do you know?’
She nodded, sniffing. ‘He made me copy it to my phone. Hold on.’ She tapped and swiped for a few seconds, then held the phone up to him.
Ford pulled a biro from his jacket pocket and copied out the password: Gaia_Needs_Owen!
‘Thank you. I’d like to look at his vlog. What did he call it?’
‘The Circle of the Earth. It’s a quote from Isaiah – Owen loved it. It was his favourite book of the Bible,’ she said. ‘He said it combined beautiful prose with eternal truths about our relationship with the planet God created.’
Ford made a note. ‘I know this is painful for you, but can you think of anyone who might’ve wished Owen harm?’
Her eyes flashed defiantly. ‘Yes! Plenty of people. Every one of the greedy sods whose development plans he opposed. You could start with them.’
‘How many people are we talking about?’
‘I don’t know – hundreds? Owen was very active in the movement.’
‘Did he receive threats from any of them? Visits from thugs trying to warn him off? Anything like that?’
She shook her head. ‘No, nothing.’
Ford left Ruth in the company of a young female PC and caught up with Jan in the car park. ‘Thanks, Jan. I knew she’d take to you.’
‘What do you want me to do while I’m there?’
‘I want you to get into his computer. I’ll text you the password. Look through his emails, see if there are any threatening ones.’
‘Or I could bring it back?’
‘Yes. She gave me permission to do whatever it takes. He sounds like he got bitten badly by the eco-bug. It’s like Mick said. Sometimes those folk rub people up the wrong way.’
Yes, and it’s a long list of people. Farmers, shooters, hunters, bankers, oil company CEOs, politicians – even ordinary people just trying to catch the Tube to their workplaces.
If Owen Long had got in somebody’s face, would that have been enough of a motive for murder?
He tried to imagine a pissed-off corporate type shooting a retired vi
car then dumping the body in a pond in the middle of farmland outside Salisbury. Couldn’t see it. No, this crime belonged to its location, and there would be a local culprit. That’s where he would focus the team’s energies and limited resources.
The lines of enquiry were converging, turning two cases into one. Ford could see a glimmer of hope he might be able to arrest the culprit before Tommy Bolter’s wake. That was if the leaker inside Bourne Hill didn’t queer his pitch by alerting JJ, who’d made it plain his preferred method of justice had nothing to do with due process.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On Monday morning, Jools retrieved Adlam’s guns from the armoury and took them to Hannah, who looked up and smiled as she saw Jools approaching her desk.
‘Hi, Jools. Did you have a good weekend?’ Hannah asked.
‘Not bad. I spent all of yesterday redecorating my spare room. You?’
‘I was doing research.’
Jools waited for more, but Hannah didn’t elaborate.
‘Cute,’ Jools said, pointing at a plastic giraffe at the end of a line of zoo animals arranged in order of height along the base of Hannah’s workstation. ‘Is he new?’
Hannah nodded. ‘Did you know, a male giraffe can grow to be eighteen feet tall and weigh up to one and a half tons?’
‘I did not.’ Jools hefted Adlam’s guns. ‘Did you know I have here two rifles, in .22 and .308 calibre?’
Hannah grinned. ‘I did not. Whose are they?’
Jools laid the cases on Hannah’s desk. ‘Tom Adlam’s. The guy who found Owen’s body.’
‘This is excellent. You realise you could have found both murder weapons?’
Jools widened her eyes. ‘My God, Wix. I never thought of that!’
Hannah’s eyebrows drew together. ‘You should have, because—’ She stopped. Smacked herself on the forehead. ‘You were being ironic, right?’
‘Right. Sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine. It’s good training for me. And you’re kinder about it than Mick.’
‘He’s such a dick, isn’t he?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure. But he does exhibit a number of biases that could impede his ability to be impartial and rational as a detective.’
