by Andy Maslen
‘I have zipped men, or what was left of them, into body bags. I have held the hands of boys barely out of their teens while they cried for their mothers. Legs missing, half their faces shot off, guts spilling out,’ he said, maintaining a level tone, which was all the more disturbing for its lack of emotion.
‘None of which—’
‘Hold! I haven’t finished. I ordered nobody to kill anybody,’ Lord Baverstock hissed through gritted teeth. ‘I am done with death, do you hear? Done with it!’ The muscle in his cheek was firing twice a second. ‘I saw enough death in the army to last me a lifetime. I thought I’d left it behind when I received my honourable discharge. Then Sasha contracted that vile, disgusting disease. Tell me, do you know what MND does to a body?’
Ford hadn’t expected this turn in the conversation. He shook his head. ‘I don’t.’
‘It’s a cruel thing, Ford. All Sasha had in front of her was years of unremitting, worsening and incurable pain. She didn’t want that. She asked me to take her to Libertas. I take it you’ve heard of that?’
Ford felt a sudden flash of hostility and no way of reining it in.
‘One of those death clinics the Swiss are so hot on,’ he said.
Lord Baverstock sneered at him. ‘Put it like that if you wish. I don’t care. I begged Sasha to reconsider. But she was as strong-willed as she was beautiful. I accompanied her because I loved her,’ he said. ‘It was a risk, but one I was willing to take for her.’
‘You were willing to take her to her death, you mean.’
Lord Baverstock’s face darkened. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Ford could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Beside him, he sensed Hannah stiffening. He wasn’t sure whose buttons were being pressed anymore. ‘How long did the doctors give her?’
‘I don’t see how that’s any of your damn business. I thought we were discussing Joe Hibberd’s role in Bolter’s murder.’
Ford couldn’t help himself. He felt tears pricking at his eyes. ‘Five years? Ten?’
Lord Baverstock stared at Ford. Finally, he spoke with what seemed to Ford like genuine compassion. ‘I’m sorry, but I have no interest in prolonging this conversation. I assume you are suffering from some sort of work-related stress,’ he said. ‘PTSD, most likely. They tell me it’s common among police officers nowadays. My advice to you is to get yourself to the MO, or police surgeon, or whatever you chaps have these days. Get yourself signed off for a couple of weeks. See somebody about it. No shame in it.’
He picked up the secateurs, turned away and, with a trembling hand, resumed dead-heading the roses.
As they drove away, Ford put his phone on speaker and called a friendly magistrate he knew. He really wanted the .22 rifles from Lord Baverstock’s gun safe. With them in his possession he could get Hannah running forensic ballistics tests – the works. After he’d explained, the magistrate readily agreed to provide a search warrant. Ford picked it up on the way back to Bourne Hill.
‘What did you think about Lord Baverstock this afternoon?’ he asked Hannah after she’d seated herself opposite him in his office.
‘I think he was telling the truth about Owen. Your last question unsettled him severely. I saw many signs of emotional distress,’ she said, consulting a notebook. ‘Under that degree of pressure, it’s virtually impossible for anyone to maintain a lie without giving something away.’
‘He had nothing to do with Tommy’s murder?’
‘I don’t think so. Not with its commission, anyway.’ Hannah looked as if she needed to say something.
‘Was there something else?’ he asked.
Hannah frowned and bit her lip. ‘No. Nothing. Thanks, Henry.’
She stood and left, closing the door behind her. She’d looked tense. Had she been about to confront him with something about the accident? He pushed the idea away. He thought back to the conversation with Lord Baverstock.
If he’d wanted to let Joe off the hook, admitting to lax control of the gun safe was a master stroke. Ford started wondering. Had he just been played?
The sound of Sandy’s bustling gait interrupted his thoughts. He looked up and saw her striding through the main office, nodding at the various ma’ams coming her way, offering a quick word here and a pat on the back there.
‘Henry, got a minute?’ she called.
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve got Gordon Richen here. He wants to discuss the Hibberd arrest plan with you.’
Looking forward to seeing the tactical firearms commander, Ford followed Sandy into her office, resolving not to mention the new intel about just how many people had access to the murder weapon. Nor his suspicions about who might really have pulled the trigger.
He bumped into her back as she stopped dead just over the threshold. Once she’d moved to her desk, he saw why. Martin Peterson sat beside Gordon Richen. Not for the first time, Ford wished Peterson’s office was somewhere less convenient than the top floor of Bourne Hill. The South Pole would be a start.
Richen stood and shook hands with Ford. At well over six foot, he towered over the other three people in the room. Like a lot of the firearms team, he’d moved straight from the army into the police and continued to wear his hair cropped to his skull.
‘Can I help you, Martin?’ Sandy asked. ‘Only, we’re about to run through a highly sensitive arrest plan.’
Peterson beamed. ‘Yes, Gordon just told me. I saw him arriving and, well, it’s not every day we have a senior firearms officer at Bourne Hill. So I thought I’d just drop in and see what’s’ – he pointed a finger at her like a pistol and adopted a terrible American accent – ‘goin’ down.’
Ford caught Richen wincing. Sandy’s neutral expression didn’t flicker, though Ford could see the way the muscles tightened at the angle of her jaw.
‘Fine, but this is confidential. Lives are at stake.’
Peterson nodded vigorously and smiled again. ‘Understood. You carry on and don’t mind me. I’m just here in—’
‘—an overwatch role?’ Sandy asked.
He beamed. ‘Exactly.’
‘What about the murder weapon? Will it be in the house?’ Richen asked.
‘It could well be,’ Ford said. ‘Or else he returned it to the gun safe. If he needed it, or another firearm, he’s got the key.’
‘What about his own firearms?’
‘He’s got a shotgun.’
Sandy interrupted, turning to Ford. ‘If you don’t find the .22 at Hibberd’s place, you’re saying it’s at Alverchalke Manor?’
‘In all likelihood, yes.’
Sandy frowned at him. ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, eh?’
Ford nodded, thinking now wasn’t the time to fess up about the search warrant. He wanted to lubricate that particular conversation with alcohol.
Richen asked a few more questions, and the meeting broke up with an agreement to make the arrest at 6.00 a.m. the following morning.
Back in Major Crimes, Ford reviewed the plan with the team. Each element sounded logical, precise, thoroughly worked out. If only he didn’t have a niggling doubt that, despite the evidence, they were looking at the wrong man. Was he hammering a square peg to make it fit a round hole drilled by JJ Bolter? Cutting corners to protect Sam?
Lord Baverstock himself had, unwittingly, put his finger on it. Joe didn’t have exclusive use of the .22. So even if he had shot a rabbit with it, that didn’t mean he’d used it to kill Owen. They had the murder weapon, but not necessarily the murderer.
Next he phoned Sandy. ‘Fancy a quick drink at The Wyndham?’
‘Oh, go on, then. I’ve got a mountain of budget forecasts to get through, but I can spare thirty minutes for my favourite DI.’
They walked up to the pub together and found a table in a quiet corner.
‘How did it go with Lord B today?’ Sandy asked when Ford returned from the bar with a large vodka and tonic for her and a low-alcohol lager for himself.
‘Fine.’
She regarded him steadily over the rim of her glass. ‘Please tell me you didn’t accuse him of murder?’
Ford returned her stare. ‘I didn’t.’
He hadn’t just lied to his boss, had he? No. He was in the clear. He hadn’t accused Lord Baverstock of murder. He’d just asked him if he’d been involved in a conspiracy to murder. Not the same at all.
‘Good. Because the last thing I need is a disgruntled aristocrat barging into my office complaining about rough handling.’
‘How about a competent DI who’s just bought you a lovely drink telling you he’s already applied for a search warrant for Alverchalke Manor and associated properties?’
Sandy put her drink down, frowning. ‘And you’ve done that because?’
‘We’ve identified the murder weapon. I can prove Joe used it. But I don’t believe he still has it. I think it’s in the gun safe at Alverchalke Manor. I need it, Sandy! Without it, we’ve got bugger all that would stand up in court and get a conviction.’
Sandy took a long pull on her drink. ‘Fine. I know you think I’ve become too much the politician, but police work is still in my blood. If you tell me it’s up there, I want you to go and find it.’
He nodded. That was what he intended to do. And he needed to do it fast. The Bolters were sniffing around where they had no business sniffing, and despite his threat to JJ, he was sure they’d be keeping up their own private investigation into Tommy’s murder.
Lord Baverstock hated the public who traipsed around his grounds from April to September. Worse still, because they required his grinning, suited presence, were the tedious fundraisers to whom Coco devoted so much of her time. Away from both, he preferred his own name to the burdensome title that came with the stately home he struggled to keep afloat.
He’d tried to get the staff to call him Philip, but the looks they gave him on receipt of his suggestion ranged from puzzlement to outright horror. Had he asked them to call him Your Most Evil Satanic Majesty, he couldn’t imagine shocking them more.
At least Joe didn’t call him ‘Your Lordship’ or ‘My Lord’. He stuck to ‘Major Martival’. Joe sat before him now, in the library, a cut-glass tumbler of single malt in his right hand. With his left, he scratched the top of a black Lab’s glossy head. The Lab’s tongue lolled from its mouth, and when Joe’s fingers found a particularly pleasurable spot, it emitted a low rumble of satisfaction.
Late-afternoon sunlight illuminated the leather spines of the books, picking out the gold-tooled lettering. The grandfather clock in the corner struck five.
Martival took a deep breath. ‘We’ve been through some times together, Joe, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, Major, we have.’
‘I want you to know that since you came to work for me at Alverchalke, I’ve seen you change. For the better,’ he added, in case Joe didn’t get the compliment.
‘I love the work, Major, you know that. And I want you to know that I’ll never forget what you did for me in Helmand. Ever.’
Martival nodded. He knew that. Save a chap’s life, he owed you. He closed his eyes. Heard the whine of bullets and the screams of his wounded sergeant thousands of miles and many years distant, but as fresh as yesterday’s new blooms in the rose garden. He sipped his whisky, enjoying the burn as the spirit hit his throat.
‘The police are getting close, Joe. I don’t think I can hold them off much longer. I had Inspector Ford up here earlier, grilling me about you.’
‘That’s all right. When they talked to me, I knew what I’d have to do. It was just a matter of time before we put your plan into action.’
‘Good man. Now, a little bird at Bourne Hill tells me they’re coming for you tomorrow morning at oh-six-hundred. I want you to go quietly, Joe. No fuss.’
Joe frowned. Took a pull on his drink. He stopped scratching the dog and, in response, it butted its blocky head against his thigh. He ignored it.
‘You’re sure this is the only way, Major?’
Martival looked at his gamekeeper. He liked Joe. Respected him, even. But a good commander knew when sacrifices had to be made, however unpleasant.
‘No other option. It’s for the best.’
Joe sighed and resumed scratching the dog’s head. ‘I understand, Major. What shall I tell Ford?’
‘You found Long trespassing. He acted aggressively towards you. Then he grabbed your gun and in the struggle it went off. Tragic accident. Self-defence, even.’
‘What about Bolter? They know we had a fight.’
Martival thought back to his earlier conversation with the detective. ‘We’ll talk to the lawyer, but my feeling is we go for the PTSD angle. Say the accident with Long disturbed the balance of your mind. Bolter tried to blackmail you and the stress caused a blackout.’
‘Will that work?’
‘Honestly, Joe? I don’t know. I never went in for that barrack-room lawyer nonsense. But if it does all go to shit, I will fight for you tooth and nail, like I did in Afghanistan,’ Martival said, leaning on the last word. ‘I will get you the best lawyers money can buy, starting with my own solicitor. Coco knows a few QCs up in town. We’ll ask around. If it comes to trial, you’ll plead not guilty. If they convict anyway, we’ll try and get you into a decent prison. And when you get out, you’ll come straight back here to your old job.’
Joe finished his drink and set the glass down. ‘Thanks, Major. I won’t let you down. Just like you didn’t let me down.’
‘Least I can do, Joe. Now, you’ll have to forgive me, but I need to go and put some stuff together. I’m going up to London tonight. I’ll be gone for a couple of days. You’ll be all right, yes?’
‘Yes, Major. Right as rain.’
The Lab began whining, a thready, high-pitched sound that for the first time ever set Martival’s teeth on edge. They said dogs were adept at picking up on their owners’ emotions. He made an effort to calm himself and smiled at his gamekeeper.
‘Probably best if we don’t have any more contact till they arrest you,’ he said. ‘One never knows who’s listening in on one’s calls.’
JJ pointed to a chair opposite him at the long, polished table in the hacienda’s meeting room. He pushed the bottle across to Rye.
‘Sit down. We need to talk.’
Rye dropped into the chair, poured brandy into the heavy tumbler and drank off half in a single gulp. ‘What about?’
‘What do you think, you muppet? Ford.’
Rye’s voice took on a complaining tone. ‘I gave the kid a warning and look what happened.’
JJ took a pull on his own drink, then shook his head. ‘I told you not to do anything and you ignored me.’
‘He tasered me. We should make a complaint.’
‘For fuck’s sake, are you really that stupid? You threatened his kid in broad fucking daylight. And he got you on video. Ford’s right. He could say he came to arrest you and it went south. Forget the kid, I’ve got something much better. Much more clever.’
‘Don’t drag it out then. What?’
‘I’ve been doing a little digging into Ford’s past. Did you know he left his wife to drown?’
Rye sat up straighter. His eyes flashed and a grin stole across his face. ‘What? You serious?’
‘It was a climbing thing in Wales. On the coast. She broke her leg and he apparently went off to get help. When the coastguard got there, she was dead. Drowned.’
‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’
‘Yeah, well, don’t get too excited. It all got written off as an accident. They had an inquest like they did for Tommy.’
Rye’s face closed in on itself. He finished his brandy and poured another.
‘Why tell me then?’ he asked sulkily.
‘I didn’t think that was the whole story. I went over to the land of the sheep-shaggers. Spoke to this guy at Milford Haven Coastguard. Persuaded him to talk,’ JJ said, rubbing thumb and forefinger together.
Rye grinned as he swallowed another enormous mouthful of brand
y. ‘What did he say?’
‘He gave me this internal report. They had their suspicions it wasn’t all kosher but nothing ever got done about it.’
‘So we’re going to blackmail him with it?’
‘No, you arsehole! Look where blackmail got Tommy. We’re going to be much more subtle. You’re going to put it in the hands of someone who’ll take over digging where I left off.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Her name is Dr Hannah Fellowes. She’s the second in command of the Forensics department at Bourne Hill.’
‘Cool,’ Rye said, drawing out the word. ‘D’you get this from your source, then, did you?’
JJ nodded. Grinned. ‘We’re not the only ones with family troubles.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The terms of the search warrant in Ford’s jacket pocket were clear. Under Section 8 of PACE, the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, he was permitted to search Alverchalke Manor and all buildings within a one-mile radius.
The magistrate had been more than happy to sign it, on the basis that Ford believed that he would find one or more murder weapons on the property. It wasn’t perfect, but they didn’t have the manpower for a bigger area.
He’d managed to scare up sixteen uniformed search officers to work under Jan as the supervisor. They were parcelled out between four marked cars currently following Ford and Jan in his Discovery. He turned into the private road that led to Alverchalke Manor.
‘I suspect we’ll be here for two days, at least,’ he said. ‘We’ll get a couple of people in a car at the gate there overnight.’
‘Got it,’ Jan said, making a note.
Ford pulled up in the large semicircle of gravel outside the manor house.
‘Ready?’ he asked her.
‘Ready,’ she replied, with a brief smile.
Ford walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
‘This is a copy of a warrant to search this property,’ he said, handing it to the maid who opened the door. ‘Please stand aside.’ He turned to Jan. ‘In you go.’
Jan beckoned half a dozen officers to follow her in. A second team headed to the stables. In his office, Ford and Jan had plotted the house and outbuildings. They’d outlined them in red or blue, as hot or cold zones, according to their importance. The stable block and the house, where they expected to find the firearms, were hot.
