by Andy Maslen
‘Like I said. A dick.’
‘I need to get these to the ballistics lab in Trowbridge,’ Hannah said. ‘I don’t suppose you could come, too?’
‘Sorry, I’ve got a ton of paperwork to do.’
Jools saw Hannah’s expectant face drop into a frown. ‘No, of course. Sorry, I just thought it would be nice to drive over to HQ together.’
‘You know what? Yes. Let me grab some reports. If you can drive, I’ll read on the way there. Who knows, if we meet some brass we can impress them with our commitment to collaborative teamwork, proactive investigative strategies, and best practice in cross-disciplinary learning.’
‘I think you swallowed the latest guidelines from the College of Policing.’
Ballistics tests normally took anywhere from two weeks to a month, so Jools was surprised when Hannah said she’d arranged for the test to be done while they waited.
‘One of the technicians owes me a favour,’ she said, when Jools asked how she’d managed it.
They arrived back four hours later with a sheaf of colour photographs of the rounds test-fired from Adlam’s rifles. Hi-res digital images were waiting on a secure shared server for Hannah to download.
Jools dragged a chair over to Hannah’s desk and watched as she aligned the pairs of images. She sighed. Neither pair matched. Tom Adlam was off the hook.
‘Sorry you had a wasted morning, Wix,’ she said, feeling the weight of the four lost hours heavy on her shoulders.
Hannah turned to her, her face serious. ‘Not wasted. We eliminated Mr Adlam. Unless—’ She stopped.
‘What?’
‘Unless he has other guns and he didn’t declare them.’
Jools nodded. ‘I’d need a warrant to search his property.’
‘You could ask Henry what he thinks.’
Ford was in the kitchen stirring coffee granules into a mug of boiling water when Jools appeared in the doorway.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘The bullets weren’t fired from Tom Adlam’s guns. Hannah and I took them over to HQ to get them test-fired. No match.’
Ford shrugged. ‘These things happen.’
‘Yeah, but if it is him, he could have been trying to throw me off by offering up a couple of spare rifles,’ she said. ‘I thought we should apply for a search warrant for his place.’
Ford frowned, grappling with the point that had been niggling at him. ‘Why two, Jools? Why not use the same one for both murders?’
She opened her mouth, and then shut it again. He watched her pondering the same question he’d been turning over in his mind while making his coffee. Why would someone use two such different weapons to kill two victims?
Unless it was two shooters. But that was pushing the bounds of probability. If they were in London, two murders by gunshot within five miles of each other wouldn’t necessarily be treated as related killings. But here? No. The odds were against it.
‘A .22’s lighter than a .308,’ Jools said, finally. ‘Easier to handle close-in?’
He shook his head. ‘That makes it sound like a deliberate choice of weapon. Tell me what you know about close-up kills.’
Her eyes widened. She’d seen what he had. ‘They’re usually execution-style. Something you practically never see outside terrorist situations or gang killings.’
‘And then it’s two pistol rounds in the back of the head, not a rifle round under the chin.’ He paused. ‘Can you fetch Adlam’s .22 and meet me in my office?’
Jools returned ten minutes later with the wooden-stocked rifle.
‘It’s empty, before you ask,’ she said, sliding the safety lever across to reveal a red-painted dot. ‘Now what?’
‘Owen was shot under the chin and at close range. I want to know how it happened. Maybe if we can figure that out, we’ll see things a little clearer.’ He took a few steps away from her until he was backed up against a wall. ‘I’m Owen. You’re the shooter. How did your gun get under my chin?’
Jools came closer, holding the gun across her body. She lowered it until the muzzle was at the level of her sternum and closed in.
Ford grabbed the barrel and pushed it aside. ‘If you pull the trigger now, you’re going to miss by a mile.’
Jools pulled the barrel back so that the muzzle moved under Ford’s jaw.
‘We fight over it,’ she grunted. ‘Now it could work.’
He relaxed his grip. ‘Put your finger over the trigger.’
‘Nuh-uh. No way.’ Jools shook her head vigorously. ‘First rule of using firearms. You never point a gun at something or someone you don’t want to shoot. We’ve already broken it. I’m not touching the trigger.’
He grinned. ‘Come on, Jools. I must’ve pissed you off at some point in the last week.’
She laughed. ‘Maybe you have. But I still think—’
‘Fine. Put it near the trigger.’
Once she’d complied, Ford pulled the muzzle up under his chin. ‘We struggle. You fire. I die. Possible?’
‘Possible,’ she agreed, pulling the muzzle away and laying the rifle on Ford’s desk. ‘But I still don’t see how it could have gone down this way. Why would I let you get your hands on the rifle in the first place?’
‘Maybe you didn’t intend to kill me. Maybe you weren’t even planning on shooting me.’
‘So I was threatening you, then? Just waving it under your nose to frighten you?’
‘Exactly!’
‘But why? It’s hardly the MO of a murderer, is it?’
Ford saw it then. Clear as a muzzle flash. ‘No! It isn’t. But what if it was an accident?’
‘What do you mean?’
Ford went and sat down. Jools took the visitor’s chair.
‘I mean,’ he said, ‘the shooter didn’t go looking for Owen. He just happened to find him.’
‘By coincidence?’ Jools said with a sceptical twist of her mouth.
‘Not precisely. When you said you were threatening me, do you know what I heard?’
‘What?’
‘Get your ghastly little feet off my land!’ Ford said in a parody of an English upper-class accent.
Jools’s eyes widened. ‘You think it was one of the family, don’t you? The Baverstocks.’
‘Got to be a possibility, hasn’t it? Them or one of their staff.’
‘An ex-army gamekeeper, for example.’
Ford made some notes, then looked up at Jools. ‘Let’s say Joe Hibberd chanced on Owen filming on the estate. He gave him the old “you’re trespassing” speech. Only instead of retreating, Owen doubled down on his eco-warrior thing. Told Joe the land belonged to everyone, or something like that.’
Jools nodded enthusiastically. ‘Joe didn’t like it. He’d already come off second best to Tommy in a fight. He marched up to Owen and they got into a scuffle.’
‘Owen grabbed the gun barrel and it ended up under his chin, and that’s when Joe fired,’ Ford said. ‘Maybe on purpose, maybe by accident.’
‘If we can accept it went down like that, we still have the two-gun problem,’ Jools said. ‘How do you account for the switch to the .308?’
‘Easily, now. Owen is a mistake. But Joe’s done it once and he figures he’ll clear the mess up and then do a better job on Tommy. Pay him back for the ruckus over the poaching.’
‘So you don’t think it was Adlam?’
‘I can’t see it, Jools. I’m sorry. Not as a single shooter. Not as one of a pair. He’s a genuine witness, I could feel it in every word of your report,’ Ford said. ‘If we can narrow down the time of death for either Tommy or Owen, see if he can give you an alibi. But no search warrant. Not unless he ticks at least a couple more boxes.’
Jools nodded. ‘I didn’t get a killer vibe off him either, to be honest.’
He saw from her downcast expression that she knew she’d been reaching. Thought of a way to lift her spirits. ‘How are you getting on with the gun clubs?’
‘I’m going
to start tomorrow. I’ve got a list of five within a thirty-mile radius of Salisbury. One more if you extend it to fifty. Adlam’s a member of one of them,’ she said.
‘So keep him on a list of persons of interest.’
As Jools left his office, he called Hannah. ‘Have you got a minute?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you want to grab a coffee?’
‘I would love to.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Café on the Park, an independent coffee shop, occupied the lower half of a Victorian corner house facing the Greencroft, a small green space between the ring road and the police station. They had the place to themselves, which suited Ford perfectly. The conversation he had planned with Hannah was going to be difficult enough without an audience.
He carried their coffees to the table Hannah had chosen, by a picture window. It looked out over the park, where kids were running around, leaping on to swings, climbing a ‘witch’s hat’ made of elasticated rope, and slithering through a complicated network of green plastic tunnels. Hannah sat facing the door.
‘Did you want to discuss the case?’ she asked.
He took a sip of coffee and shook his head. ‘No. It’s not about work.’
‘Is it about your personal life?’
‘You could say that.’ He found it difficult to know how to proceed. Hannah’s face displayed no emotion. He ploughed on. ‘That research you were doing on mountaineering risks.’ She said nothing. He realised he hadn’t asked her a question. ‘I saw a document on your screen about the risks of rock-climbing. What was it?’
She wouldn’t meet his gaze, speaking into her coffee. ‘I told you in your Discovery on the way back from the first crime scene. It was just research for a friend.’
Maybe Hannah was the official expert on lying, but Ford had years of practical experience. He pushed harder. ‘Were you investigating the accident that killed Lou?’
Hannah opened her mouth, then closed it. Still avoiding eye contact, she answered, ‘No. I wasn’t.’
‘You’re sure? Because you told me once you thought I should be over it by now.’
‘I didn’t say you should be over it. I said I was surprised that you weren’t. Because according to the data, which admittedly is American, most widowers pass through the five stages of grief quicker than you have. Many also remarry.’
He’d asked her directly now, and just like before, she’d denied it was anything to do with Lou. How would her condition affect her ability to lie? He didn’t know. But that didn’t matter, did it? The point was, what had happened between him and Lou was supposed to stay private. Not turned into a research project just when there was an urgent need to solve two murders.
‘Look, I’m sorry for pushing you. And I have no right to ask you this, but can you at least tell me who this friend is?’ As he asked her, he realised he knew the answer. ‘Is it Sam?’
She looked relieved. ‘Yes, that document was for Sam.’
Her frankness irritated him. ‘Don’t you think you should have discussed it with me first?’
Her forehead crinkled. Ford could imagine her trying to process the question. ‘No. Sam asked me for help and I said I’d be happy to. It was easy.’
‘I’m sure it was. But that’s not the point, Hannah.’
‘What is the point, then? And please can you use my nickname?’
‘Fine. Wix. The point is, he’s my son and I didn’t want him to go on the climbing trip.’ Ford’s breath was coming in shallow gasps and he had to fight to calm himself.
‘Because of Lou? Her dying in a climbing accident?’
‘Yes. Because of that.’ There it was again. She just couldn’t leave it alone.
She frowned. ‘Statistically, the chances of a mother and son both dying in climbing accidents are extremely small. About—’
‘Please, I don’t need the exact percentage.’
‘—three hundred and twenty-eight point five million to one.’
Ford sighed. He tried again. ‘What I’m trying to say is, I feel deeply uncomfortable about Sam going on a climbing trip – the same sort of activity that did kill his mother, my wife – and I feel that the two of you bounced me into agreeing.’
She smiled. ‘That’s good.’
‘Good?’ What the hell was she thinking? How could it possibly be good?
‘That you agreed. It’s important for children, especially adolescents, to test themselves. Facing risk is part of developing resilience,’ she said. ‘In fact, according to a clinical psychologist I follow on Twitter called Dr Hazel Harrison, lack of resilience is strongly linked to teenage anxiety and depression.’
‘Which is all very interesting, but can you at least see where I’m coming from?’
She nodded, then took a careful sip of her latte. ‘Hot,’ she muttered. ‘Yes, I can see. You are locked into the early stages of grief for your wife, which, as I said before, is strange.’ She reached across the foot of table that separated their hands to lightly brush the backs of his fingers. ‘You’re compensating by trying to prevent the same fate from befalling Sam. Even though he is at far higher risk from your driving him to school than from climbing a thousand mountains. But you have to let him grow up, Henry.’
He’d hoped – expected – her to be contrite, ashamed even. Apology accepted, they could move on and get back to solving murders together. Now she was besting him in an argument and offering parenting advice.
‘Please don’t tell me what I have to do to raise my son,’ he said, regretting the sharp tone as soon as the words had left his mouth.
Hannah’s face paled. She bit her lower lip. A blush raced up from her throat to her jawline and cheeks. ‘I upset you. I can see that now. I am so sorry, Henry. Please forgive me.’
A tear welled in the inner corner of her left eye and slowly rolled down her flaming cheek before dropping off her chin on to the table. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
He felt the steel bands round his chest loosen a little – and like a complete jerk.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry . . . Wix. You’re right, I know you are. It’s just . . .’ He sighed. ‘I’ve tried so hard to let him have a normal childhood, even though he lost the person he loved more than anyone else in the world.’
‘That’s you now,’ she said quietly. ‘He told me. He said he wished you could forgive yourself. That’s an unusually mature attitude for an adolescent boy.’
They walked back to Bourne Hill without speaking. Ford hoped he hadn’t wrecked a friendship still at the stage where even a few sharp words could throw it off course.
Ford got back late that evening and Sam had already gone to bed. He’d left the letter from school on the kitchen table, scrawling across the top in untidy handwriting:
Don’t forget about trip permission letter plus cheque.
Ford sighed. He signed the permission form, dug out his chequebook from a kitchen drawer, then stuck the letter and cheque into a crumpled brown envelope.
At breakfast the next day, Ford handed Sam a toasted bagel with butter and Marmite, and a glass of milk. He waited while Sam consumed half the bagel and washed it down. Talking to his adolescent son before he’d eaten in the morning carried a degree of risk. More likely to lead to a tirade than anything approaching civilised conversation.
‘I put your trip letter and the cheque on the hall table,’ he said.
Sam nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d asked Hannah to get those safety statistics for you?’
‘Why d’you think?’
‘I don’t know. It’s why I’m asking.’
‘Because I thought you’d be cross. Like you are.’
‘Yeah, I am cross. And you know why? Because she’s the deputy chief CSI. She’s supposed to be spending her time helping me solve two murders, not acting as your unpaid researcher.’
‘I checked first. She said it was fine.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘The point is, my darling boy, you knew I’d be unhappy, and you went behind my back.’
The remainder of the bagel stopped halfway to Sam’s mouth. ‘Dad, I know that. But what about me? I would’ve been unhappy not going when all my friends were going. Look,’ he said, softening his voice in a way that brought a lump to Ford’s throat, ‘I know, all right? I know it’s because of Mum. You feel guilty because she’ – he looked down then back at Ford – ‘she died and you lived. But you can’t live your life trying to stop it from happening again. You’ll go crazy.’
Ford took a sip of his coffee. ‘When did you get so bloody mature?’
Sam smiled and took another bite of his bagel. ‘You can still love me without rolling me up in bubble wrap, you know,’ he mumbled.
‘Are you trying to tell me you’re not a little kid anymore?’
Sam grinned. ‘Yeah. But don’t think that means you can stop giving me an allowance. And I’ll need spending money for the trip. A tenner should do it.’
‘You cheeky little bleeder! How about a lift to school instead of taking your bike?’
Sam shook his head. ‘It’s fine. Me and Josh . . . I mean, Josh and I are going in together.’
‘All right. Remember to take the letter.’
Halfway out the door, Sam turned. ‘I won’t. Thanks, Dad. You’re cool.’
Cool was OK. Ford could live with cool. It was the idea of losing his only child to the mountains that he struggled with. He turned away from the thought and grabbed his work things.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Olly sighed. Trudging round the tattoo parlours had been a waste of time. But at least now he felt he had done a proper bit of detective work. He’d hit Mick with it if he tried his ‘experienced copper’ act again.
He sat at his desk, ready to review the CCTV footage for Owen Long’s silver Prius.
Olly found him entering the city at 11.04 a.m., thirteen days earlier. The last image was timestamped 8.43 a.m. the following day, leaving the city on the Coombe Road heading towards Blandford.
He stared at the image and tried to force himself to think like an experienced detective. To think like Ford. He knew he could come across as a know-all, and he hated the way Mick never missed an opportunity to make fun of his fast-track status. But Olly dreaded failure. Why couldn’t Mick see he was just trying to catch up with everyone else?
