by Andy Maslen
He heard a shot. Loud in the silence of the countryside, it sounded more like the large-calibre rifles being fired at the gun club than the little pops a .22 would make. The shot came from his left. He walked towards it, then realised he was heading into a live-firing area where the shooter had no idea of his presence. Not wanting to be mistaken for a deer, or whatever Stephen was shooting, he put his hands to his mouth and called out.
‘Hello? Stephen? It’s DI Ford. Hold your fire!’
Is that what he was supposed to shout? Hold your fire? Really? It sounded ridiculous, as though he was in a war film. Nevertheless, he was relieved when he heard an answering call.
‘This way, Ford.’ Stephen dropped into a parodic London gangster accent. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve put me shooter up!’ A laugh followed, braying, self-satisfied.
Ford found Stephen dressed head to toe in a very convincing woodland camouflage outfit, leaning against a tree trunk, a rifle resting in the crook of his elbow.
‘Come to do a spot of hunting?’ Stephen asked.
‘You’re a good shot?’ Ford asked, pointing at the rifle.
Stephen shrugged. ‘Not bad. And Dad’s Parker-Hale is a beauty. But he and Loopy are the real sharpshooters. She can shoot the balls off a fly with it on a good day.’
‘It’s a .308, isn’t it?’
Stephen nodded, smiling. ‘You know your guns.’
‘Did you ever come across Tommy Bolter out here?’ Ford asked, mentally adding a tick to a checklist.
‘Me? Why would I?’
‘He used to trespass on your land. Poaching, creating mischief. Did you?’
Stephen looked away, shading his eyes as a shaft of sunlight broke through the canopy and hit him full in the face. ‘No. I let Joe deal with the riff-raff. Shh! Look,’ he whispered. ‘Over there. A roe. Nice buck.’
Ford watched as Stephen Martival settled the fleshy part of his jaw against the rifle’s polished stock and looked through the telescopic sight. He was smiling. Odd. Or was he just screwing his face up as he sighted on the deer?
‘Let’s see you eat our fruit trees after this,’ Stephen muttered.
He squeezed the trigger. Ford flinched at the huge bang as the bullet left the muzzle. Pigeons clattered from a tree behind them, adding the rattle of wings to the echo of the gunshot.
‘Did you hit it?’ Ford asked.
Stephen smiled broadly, nodding. ‘Amidships! Just like Dad taught us. Got to hit them cleanly in the heart or they wander off hurt and you have to spend all bloody afternoon tracking them down and finishing them off. Cruel to leave them to die in pain.’
He picked up a coil of rope at his feet and strode off, crashing through the bracken, and beckoned Ford over his shoulder without looking back.
Standing beside Stephen, Ford looked down into the dead deer’s sightless right eye. It wore the same film he’d seen so many times before, in the eyes of dead people. The shine gone, along with the life that had so recently animated it.
Stephen drew a knife from a leather sheath on his belt and squatted. As he bent to his task, Ford heard rapid hoofbeats. He looked round to see Lucy galloping up on Woodstock.
She arrived and slid from the saddle in a single flowing movement. Holding Woodstock by the reins, she led the horse to a tree some thirty feet away and tethered it. The horse flared its nostrils and whinnied.
Stephen looked over, then turned to Ford. ‘Horses don’t like the smell. Makes them twitchy. Can’t say I blame them,’ he grunted, heaving out a pile of stinking intestines. ‘Absolutely bloody rank.’
Lucy joined Ford and Stephen and nodded to Ford.
‘Hello again, Inspector.’ If she was surprised to see him, she gave no sign.
‘Calmed down, have you?’ Stephen asked her, grinning.
She kicked him – none too gently, Ford saw – in the thigh. ‘I came to tell you I forgive you.’
‘Thanks, Loops. The old man didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘Easy for you to say, when you’re the one he took hunting the other day.’
‘Whatevs.’
Turning back to the carcass, Stephen finished gutting the deer and roped the hind legs together, fashioning the free end of the rope into a short leash.
‘I parked the Subaru over there,’ he said to Lucy, pointing to a copse fifty yards away. ‘Bring Woody over and we’ll tie this on. Get him to do some proper work for a change.’
Lucy’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Woodstock is a thoroughbred, not some bloody dray horse.’
‘Come on, sis, don’t make me drag it all the way myself.’
She stuck her hands on her hips. ‘You shot it.’
‘I know. And now I’m asking for a bit of help. Go on. For your big bro. Be a sport. Pretty please?’
She grinned. To Ford their banter looked genuine enough – born of long association, like that of any other pair of siblings. Did the Bolters chaff each other like this, he wondered? Not anymore.
‘Oh, God, fine! Hold on while I get him. But bring it away from those,’ she said, jerking her chin towards the gut-pile. ‘There’s no way he’ll stand still long enough over here.’
‘Thanks, you’re a brick.’
Ford shook his head. These two young aristocrats seemed to have completely forgotten he was there. Which suited him. It gave him an opportunity to see how they behaved together. And around firearms.
Both seemed more than comfortable. And Stephen had used his hunting knife on the carcass with practised ease. Was it really such a big step up from a dead deer to a dead man? Ford found he could quite easily imagine Stephen shooting Tommy, butchering his corpse and then jollying Lucy along to help him ‘chuck the bloody stuff down this ’ere ’ole’.
He watched Stephen drag the deer away from the discarded viscera, which were already attracting flies. With Lucy holding Woodstock by the bridle, and keeping the horse’s head turned away, Stephen tied the other end of the rope around the saddle’s pommel.
Lucy mounted Woodstock and, at a slow, steady walk, the stallion dragged the deer to Stephen’s dented olive-green pickup. With the carcass in the load bay, he closed and latched the tailgate.
‘Thanks, Loops. See you back at the house,’ he said.
She nodded, wheeled Woodstock round and kicked the horse into a trot, then a canter. Ford watched her go, nodding to himself as she reached the wide grassy avenue and shot off at full tilt, clods of earth flying up from Woodstock’s hooves.
With Lucy gone, Stephen seemed to lose interest in hunting. He shouldered the rifle and stuck his hands on his hips. ‘Did you actually want something,’ he asked, ‘or do the police just enjoy watching other people having fun?’
Ford ignored the provocation. He hit Stephen with the simple, direct question that had unhorsed men a lot more arrogant than him. ‘Where were you between nine a.m. on Thursday April the twenty-ninth and the same time the following day?’
Stephen pulled his head back. ‘You’re not asking me for a bloody alibi, are you?’
‘Can you remember?’
Stephen stared up at the tree canopy. ‘God, I mean, I suppose so. Let me think. It’s not as if I keep a bloody journal like a teenage girl. Dear Diary, today I murdered a bloke and dumped his body.’ Grinning, he looked back at Ford. Who didn’t smile. Some of the cockiness left Stephen’s eyes. ‘Yes! I do remember. I spent Thursday with a couple of mates, and in the evening I had dinner with Coco.’
‘I’ll need names and contact numbers for your friends. Where did you have dinner?’
‘The Beckford Arms in Tisbury. They’ll have details of my reservation.’
‘Thanks. As soon as you can, please. How about between midday on Friday the thirtieth and midnight on May the first?’
‘OK, yah. Well, let me see, I had a bit of a hangover. I hit the brandy pretty hard when we got back from the Beckford. Got up late, about half eleven, had a spot of lunch, then I went up to town. I had a business meeting and stayed over.’
That was inter
esting. Somehow, Ford hadn’t pictured Stephen working. Or Lucy for that matter. He decided to switch tack for a little while, let Stephen relax before pushing him on his second alibi.
‘What kind of work do you do?’
‘I’m a valuer for Selman’s – the auctioneers?’
Ford smiled encouragingly. He’d heard the firm mentioned on the news once or twice when a big sale came up. And they’d recently handled the sale of a famous rock musician’s guitar collection. A Stratocaster not dissimilar to Ford’s own had gone for over two million pounds.
‘What’s your speciality?’
‘Chinese ceramics. Why do you ask?’
Ford shrugged. ‘I’m just interested. You do vintage instruments from time to time.’
‘That an interest of yours, then?’
‘I have a sixty-two Stratocaster.’
‘Very nice. Colour?’
‘Fiesta red.’
‘Well, if you ever decide to sell it, let me know. We could get you a very good price.’
Ford smiled. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. I’ll also need contact details for your colleagues. And anything else you can think of that might help us determine your movements that day. Train tickets, credit card receipts, that sort of thing.’
‘Yah, sure. I get it now. OK, it’ll take a little while. Is it all right if I email it?’
Ford handed him a card. ‘As I said, soon as you can, please.’
He accepted Stephen’s offer of a lift back to the manor house but refused his offer of tea. He had work to do.
Sam nodded along to the beat of the music playing through his wireless earbuds. Normally he walked home with Josh and they’d be chatting or showing each other videos on their phones. But Josh had got an after-school detention, so Sam was alone.
He walked down Exeter Street, trailing his fingers along the rough stonework of the wall to his right that surrounded the Cathedral Close.
One of his earbuds wasn’t sitting right. He frowned with irritation and reached up to adjust it. It fell out just as his finger reached it, and dropped to the ground. He stooped to retrieve it and noticed a bloke stopped about ten metres back.
Something about the guy sent a shiver of tension through him. He was staring at Sam. He looked fucking evil. Sam glared back, put his earbud back in and started off again.
But he could sense the bloke behind him now. Didn’t like the feeling. He glanced back over his shoulder. He was still there.
The bloke was bulky. Fat, really. With slitty eyes in a weird, doughy sort of face. Really big forehead that made him look like a caveman. Sam turned away and walked on. He passed a couple of sixth-formers coming back from rugby in their kit, laughing loudly and shoulder-barging each other.
He wanted to say something about the bloke but couldn’t think what. Then they were gone, and it was too late. He took a right, heading towards Harnham and the woods he cut through on the way home.
On the corner, he flicked another glance behind him. The bloke was right there.
Sam wasn’t massive, like some of the sports guys. He didn’t get into fights. Much, he corrected himself. Only when absolutely necessary. But he wasn’t a coward, either.
The bloke was smirking like he knew some dirty secret he couldn’t wait to share.
Sam stopped dead. Turned. Pulled his earbuds out and stuffed them deep into a pocket. He waited until the guy was only about a metre away.
‘What’s your problem? Are you following me or something?’ Sam asked. His heart was pounding, but he was determined not to show any fear.
‘Your dad’s a cop, isn’t he?’ the guy said, leaning close. Really getting into Sam’s face. His breath stank like a dead dog.
‘Yeah. And?’
The bloke pointed a stubby finger. ‘Tell him he better get a fucking move on, finding my brother’s killer. Or you’re going to suffer.’
Sam squared his shoulders. No way was he taking shit from anyone over his dad’s work. Especially not some Neanderthal. ‘Tell him yourself. Who are you, anyway – one of the famous Bolter brothers, I suppose?’
The man’s pale, sparse eyebrows lifted. ‘Yeah, I am, actually. Tell him Rye Bolter knows which way you go home from school. I’ll be watching you, Sammy.’
Then he turned round and shambled off.
Sam’s mouth was dry and his pulse was really bumping in his throat. But he dragged out his phone quickly and shot a video of the bloke as he disappeared round the bend in the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Hannah signed Owen’s PC out from the exhibits room. She carted it up to Forensics and assembled the tower unit, monitor, keyboard, mouse and speakers on a spare desk. She pressed the power button and went to make herself a cup of tea. When she arrived back at her desk, the screen was asking for the password. She entered the characters using one finger.
Gaia_Needs_Owen!
She read what she’d typed. ‘Gaia needs Owen. Well, that’s not even slightly egotistical.’
The screen popped into life: a neat grid of all Owen’s programs and apps. Hannah double-clicked on the set called ‘VLOG’. Here were Owen’s tools for his one-man video campaign: shortcuts to the blogging platform, Google docs, a video editing package and a sound recorder. But not the program she’d been hoping to see: the management software for Owen’s GoPro.
She began delving into the hard drive’s file structures, reasoning that Owen might have hidden it among the PC’s management folders. It had to be here somewhere.
She eventually found the program buried three layers down, in a folder innocuously labelled ‘Microsoft Application Library’, itself hidden in part of the PC’s operating system.
‘You were a cautious man, Mr Long,’ she said.
She double-clicked the icon. A second dialog box popped up, requesting a password. Her finger hovered over the keyboard.
Most people of Owen’s generation, having managed to find a password one company would accept as ‘Strong’, often stuck with it for everything, from banking to shopping. Not sensible. But understandable. Had Owen followed the herd? It was worth a try.
She typed it again.
Gaia_Needs_Owen!
The computer responded instantly.
Some of your security details are incorrect.
She hit the ‘Reset Password’ button. It asked her to enter her email address. She checked Owen’s email program and entered the address from his profile.
We do not recognise that email address.
That was interesting. Owen must have been using a Cloud-based email account for his GoPro. Ten minutes later, having failed to find anything that worked, she reached a conclusion. Owen had been so security-conscious, he’d used one of the many cloaked email services that provided users with anonymous email accounts.
She smiled to herself. A challenge. Hannah enjoyed challenges. Abandoning the reset idea, she went back to the password dialog box.
She put a finger to the point of her chin and stared at the winking cursor. It seemed to be daring her to enter enough incorrect passwords that it could shut her out. Surely Owen hadn’t created different but equally obscure passwords for all his accounts? She herself had memorised over thirty separate passwords. All strong. But she knew she was different.
She tried a new strategy. He might have kept the main password as the root and added on account-specific codes for all his apps.
Gaia_Needs_Owen!_gopro
Some of your security details are incorrect.
Gaia_Needs_Owen!_GoPro
Some of your security details are incorrect. You have two more attempts.
Gaia_Needs_Owen!_G0Pr0
Some of your security details are incorrect. You have one more attempt.
Gaia_Needs_Owen!_GoPrO
You may not attempt any more passwords for 24 hours.
Hannah inhaled deeply, then exhaled, shutting her eyes. How frustrating. She hated the thought of having to tell Henry she’d failed.
After work, Ford had driven t
he long way home to clear his head. He cooked lamb chops and roasted baby potatoes in olive oil with sea salt and rosemary for him and Sam.
Sam polished his off and looked straight at Ford. ‘Hey, guess what?’
‘What?’
‘I was on my way home from school, right? And this bloke was, like, following me. All the way down Exeter Street and then up to the Old Bridge. So, I turned round, OK? And I was, like, who the fuck are you and why are you following me?’
Ford’s stomach flipped over. He knew who it had to be. ‘Sam, you shouldn’t—’
Sam shook his head. ‘No, wait. I haven’t finished. He’s like, tell your dad to hurry up and find who killed my brother. Then he said his name. But I already guessed most of it. Rye Bolter. But I totally owned him. And I got him on video in case you want to arrest him for, like, verbal assault or whatever.’ Sam sat back, smiling.
‘Show me.’
Sam fiddled with his phone for a few seconds then held it out to Ford. Even from the back, there was no mistaking Rye’s distinctive build and gait. Ford felt anger boiling up inside him. He needed to stop this before it got any worse. But first he needed to make Sam understand a bit more about how the world worked.
‘Right, number one, that was really stupid. You don’t confront anyone who follows you in the street. Run if you have to, or shout for help. Go into a shop or something. But especially not Rye bloody Bolter. He’s unstable and a total thug, Sam. What if he’d hit you? You’d be in hospital by now.’
‘But he didn’t, did he? I faced him down. I owned him! Don’t worry, Dad. I’m fine.’
‘Never mind that! And number two, I’m going to sort out some protection. Discreet protection,’ Ford added as Sam’s mouth opened to complain. ‘Just for a day or two while I sort it out. He won’t bother you again. I promise. OK?’
Sam smiled. ‘OK, fine. But I think you’re overreacting.’
Ford bit back his response. Because explaining why he wasn’t overreacting would only frighten Sam.
Once they’d cleared away from dinner, they both headed for the small sitting room at the back of the house. Ford did his best to behave calmly, but inside he was planning an action that would stop Rye Bolter in his tracks. Or so he prayed.
