Land Rites (Detective Ford)

by Andy Maslen

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t cause any trouble.’

  Joe ended the call and realigned the phone with the note. He picked up the shotgun. With a final scratch of the dogs’ heads, he walked to the front door.

  As agreed with Gordon Richen, Ford stood thirty feet back from the cottage door and off to one side, giving the AFOs a clear field of fire. As the door swung inwards he had to fight down the urge to throw himself flat in the dirt.

  Joe Hibberd stood there, holding a shotgun loosely across his body, barrels pointing down at the ground.

  ‘Hello, Inspector,’ Joe said.

  Behind him, Ford heard heavy boots thundering up.

  ‘Armed police! Put the gun down! Armed police! Drop your weapon!’

  Gordon Richen rushed past Ford, pistol gripped in both hands and pointing at Joe. Two more AFOs took up kneeling positions, their black assault rifles aimed at his head.

  In the slowed-down time that descended on him, Ford noticed Joe’s freshly shaven cheeks and the greyish circles under his eyes. He watched as, with infinite care, Joe bent his knees and laid the shotgun on the ground.

  The two AFOs rushed him. One forced him to the ground at gunpoint. The other snapped on rigid cuffs, pinioning his wrists behind his back in the stacked formation for maximum restraint. A third ran up and retrieved the shotgun.

  Letting out the breath he’d been holding, Ford walked over to the prone figure. Joe twisted his head round to look up at him.

  ‘That was a good decision, Joe. Thank you.’

  With Hibberd on his way back to Bourne Hill, Ford went inside. He walked down the hall to the kitchen and opened the door to be confronted by the two black and white border collies he’d seen with Hibberd before. They were barking furiously. Stiff ruffs of hair stood up on their necks. They came to a stop a few feet from Ford, long yellow teeth bared. He fought down a primal terror. He had time to think, This is what cavemen felt when they met wolves.

  He kneeled down and extended a hand, closed into a downward-pointing fist. He remembered Joe telling him their names: female, though right now he couldn’t recall them precisely.

  ‘Hey, girl,’ he crooned to the closer of the two growling dogs. ‘Don’t worry about your master. He’s just coming for a chat at Bourne Hill.’

  The nearer dog – the alpha, he assumed – cast an appraising glance at him. Her ears, which had flattened against her head on seeing Ford, pricked up again. He stayed motionless, avoiding eye contact. The other dog remained still, though Ford felt relieved she had stopped growling.

  The lead dog inched forward and bent her snout to his hand. She sniffed loudly, twice.

  ‘There, that’s all right, then, isn’t it, eh?’ Ford said. He curled his hand under the dog’s jaw and scratched at the loose skin there. The second dog, sensing the threat had passed, whined a little before shouldering her way in for Ford to scratch her behind the ears. Slowly he stood. He turned round and called for someone to take the dogs outside to the canine unit.

  Alone, Ford stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. Getting a feel for Hibberd’s life. Had he not already known of Hibberd’s military service, the cleanliness and order all around him would have been a strong clue. The only jarring note was the open box of shells on the table.

  He saw zero evidence of cooking or any kind of food preparation. No crumbs in front of the bread bin, no smears on the work surfaces, no splashes on the stainless-steel stove top. He looked into the corners. Unlike his own kitchen, he saw no cobwebs freighted with tiny white shrouds. He noted the medals and the photograph album on the countertop.

  He walked in, pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, then picked up the sheet of notepaper sitting dead square in the centre of the pine table.

  To whom it may concern,

  I, Joe Hibberd, confess to the murders of Owen Long and Tommy Bolter.

  Long attacked me when I challenged him on Lord Baverstock’s land. I shot him with a .22 I took from Lord Baverstock’s gun safe.

  I acted in self-defence, not that I expect a court to believe that. They are prejudiced against veterans, always persecuting us for things we did in the heat of battle years ago.

  I also shot Tommy Bolter. I used a .308 hunting rifle also belonging to Lord Baverstock. Bolter saw me kill Long and demanded fifty thousand pounds to keep quiet. It triggered my PTSD. I don’t know what happened except I came to beside his dismembered body.

  I do not wish to bring disgrace on Lord Baverstock and his family. They have always been good to me and know nothing about what I did. This is one hundred per cent on me.

  As I do not expect a fair trial, I am taking the only other way out.

  I leave my entire estate to the Royal British Legion.

  Yours faithfully,

  Joseph Hibberd, CGC (Conspicuous Gallantry Cross)

  Ford wrinkled his nose. Something didn’t feel right. He folded the note and placed it in a paper evidence bag he took from his inside pocket. He went outside.

  At the side of the house, Ford saw a battered Land Rover Defender – the basic utility vehicle rather than the more upmarket Discovery he drove. This one had been built as a pickup, with an open load bay behind the stubby two-person cab. Whatever shine the sage-green paint had once enjoyed had long been weathered away, leaving it virtually matte.

  He looked over the slab-sided load bay. Dust and grit covered the ridged steel floor. He peered into the corners, searching for the darker colouration of blood spots. Seeing none, he turned and called over to a uniform unrolling crime scene tape.

  ‘Over here, please.’

  When the PC arrived, he recognised her. ‘Hello, Lisa, how’s it going?’

  She smiled. ‘Ace, sir, thanks. I’m so grateful to you for getting me in to Bourne Hill as a proper copper.’

  ‘I said I would. I try to keep my promises.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘I want you to put a cordon round this vehicle and get a sheet – or, better yet, a tent – over the load bay in case it rains. Then get it recovered to HQ.’

  She cupped her hand and leaned towards the driver’s-side window. About to warn her against touching the glass, he realised he didn’t need to. She stopped a few inches short as she looked inside.

  ‘You think he used it to transport the bodies, sir?’

  ‘It’s a hypothesis.’

  He left PC Moore calling for a flatbed on to which they could load the Land Rover.

  Ford turned and surveyed the scene. Hannah had arrived with a team of CSIs. Once they had what they wanted, he’d send Jan in. He jogged over.

  ‘Hello, Henry,’ Hannah said, pulling down her face mask as he arrived. ‘Do you think it’s him?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Wix. We had to arrest him, but I’m not feeling it.’

  ‘Ah, the famous Ford gut. I think I’ll stick with the evidence, if that’s all right?’

  He frowned. More offbeat humour? He pushed on. ‘On that subject, I’ve got Hibberd’s Land Rover protected over there,’ he said, gesturing to the Landie with PC Moore standing guard. ‘I thought it might have blood or DNA in the back.’

  She nodded briskly. ‘I’ll get right on it. What about firearms?’

  ‘Joe told me his .22 is at the gun shop,’ Ford said. ‘Gordon’s guys have the shotgun.’

  ‘On that subject, I put Ellen and George on the firearms from Alverchalke Manor. They’re doing the .22s and the .308 first.’

  ‘Thanks. Let me know as soon as you have anything.’

  Heading back to Bourne Hill with Mick Tanner beside him, Ford thought about Hibberd’s suicide note. Or what he realised he had started thinking of as his ‘suicide note’.

  He’d read other examples of the genre. They were often so packed with emotion that reading them evoked tears even in hardened cops. Hibberd’s lacked feeling, apart from that single reference to veterans being persecuted by the courts. And even that felt contrived, somehow.

  The note felt like it had been not so much wri
tten as constructed. Each sentence, each paragraph, calculated to provide a piece of the puzzle. Joe had shouldered the entire burden of guilt. He’d absolved Lord Baverstock and his family. And he’d forestalled any further police enquiries.

  Ford thought the PTSD angle was a nice touch. It tapped into a strand of thinking that had moved in recent decades from the world of psychiatry to everyday conversation, TV shows and social media. Hell, Lord Baverstock had even suggested Ford had it.

  Against that, he had to weigh the evidence. That’s why they’d arrested Hibberd in the first place, after all. In prime position, the bullet George had retrieved from Owen Long’s skull matched the one used by Hibberd to shoot a rabbit. Juries liked facts like that.

  Then there was the circumstantial evidence. And Hibberd’s experience. Strike that. Combat experience. As a sniper. Add in a grudge against at least one of the victims.

  Something else was bugging Ford, but he couldn’t drag it out of the dark long enough to scrutinise it. It would come. If he let it.

  ‘Penny for ’em?’ Mick asked.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You’ve been on autopilot for the last five minutes. Have you even registered a single thing I’ve said?’

  ‘Sorry, Mick, I was thinking about Hibberd’s note.’

  ‘Yeah. Result! CPS won’t give us any grief over this one.’

  Ford had his doubts, but kept them to himself. ‘How’re things with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Me? Oh, just bloody peachy! She’s trying to turn the girls against me. Yesterday, I’m on the phone to Caitlin and she says, “Oh, Dad, Mum says you’re trying to wriggle out of child support.” Which is a complete lie! Not by Caitlin, she’s just repeating what bloody Kirsty told her.’

  ‘At least they’re still talking to you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. But it’s killing me. I mean, they weren’t at the cuddling stage anymore but, still, they used to give me a hug. Now Kirsty is pouring this, this poison into their ears. Drip, drip, drip! What if they start to believe her? I can’t lose my girls!’

  Ford looked sideways. Mick’s eyes were glistening. He swiped a hand across them and then rubbed furiously at the stubble on his scalp. Ford spotted a lay-by coming up and braked hard, swerving off the road and bringing the Discovery to a scuffing halt.

  ‘Jesus! What did I say?’ Mick asked, removing his hands from the dashboard, where he’d been bracing himself.

  ‘Nothing. I mean, lots, but nothing bad. You said you wanted to keep working. I respect that. God knows, I need you. But if you feel things getting on top of you, come and see me. That’s an order.’

  Mick sniffed, then cleared his throat. Without looking at Ford, he nodded. ‘Thanks. Means a lot.’

  Ford knew Mick wouldn’t want to prolong the conversation. The DS wore his heart where it belonged, not on his sleeve. He’d built a persona as the hard man of Major Crimes, if not Bourne Hill, and it wouldn’t do to let people see his fragility. And Ford felt he needed to build bridges after practically accusing Mick of taking money from the Bolters.

  And what of Ford himself? God only knew what would happen if people saw the sometimes precarious state of his own sanity.

  He pushed the thought aside. Later. I’ve a murder suspect to interview.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The chatter in Major Crimes stilled as Ford and Mick walked in together. Olly and Jools hurried over.

  ‘Are you all right, guv?’ Jools asked, looking into Ford’s eyes with concern.

  ‘I’m fine, Jools.’

  ‘I listened in on the radio from here. They said he pointed a shotgun in your face.’

  Ford smiled. ‘Not even close. I think the AFOs were disappointed they didn’t get to use their toys.’

  ‘When are you interviewing Hibberd, guv?’ Olly asked.

  Ford checked his watch. ‘It’s ten past eight now. We booked him in at six thirty-five. The PACE clock started ticking then, so we’ve still got plenty of time, but I want to move fast, so as soon as his brief gets here.’

  ‘I just thought, with my degree in criminology, I could help you formulate the interview strategy.’

  Out of Olly’s eyeline, Jools smirked. Ford caught the expression and frowned at her.

  ‘What did you have in mind, Olly?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve prepared a dossier for you with some thoughts about profitable avenues for questioning to get him to open up. It’s on your desk.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll read it now. And you know what?’

  ‘What, guv?’ Olly asked, the pleasure evident on his face.

  Ford smiled. ‘I’d have more time for reading if I didn’t have to make myself a coffee.’

  Jools grinned. ‘I’ll have white, no sugar, as you’re making, Ols.’

  Ford left them to their bickering and retreated to his office to read Olly’s report.

  It made for interesting reading. After receiving an honourable discharge from the army, Hibberd had found work in London as a nightclub bouncer – ‘door staff crew member’, his online CV read.

  But after a fracas that ended with him cold-cocking a clubber, he’d moved up to Scotland, where he’d found work on a shooting estate owned by a Saudi billionaire. That had lasted for a year until he’d been caught stealing from guests and fired, though not prosecuted.

  Hibberd had returned south and fetched up as his former commander’s gamekeeper, where he’d been ever since.

  Ford finished the report, the rest of which concentrated on Hibberd’s background, and turned to Olly’s observations, all of which were couched in the sort of academic language that had Ford reaching for an imaginary red pen.

  He mentally turned Olly’s highfalutin phrases into plain English. His least favourite was ‘Childhood spent in benefit-dependent community characterised by intersecting antisocial vectors.’ Ford translated that one as: ‘Grew up in a poor neighbourhood with lots of crime.’

  Ford sighed, and shut the folder. Once you cut the fat, some decent stuff remained. But it showed merely that Olly had found out from lectures and books what it had taken Ford a couple of decades to figure out on the job. No more, no less.

  Actually – yes, less. Because Olly hadn’t the life experience Ford had. Then a wicked voice in Ford’s head interrupted his train of thought. No, and isn’t he lucky!

  Locking the thought away, he went to see Olly. The days were passing and still they hadn’t got access to Owen’s GoPro account.

  ‘Have you got that bloody GoPro password yet?’

  Olly’s face fell. ‘I spoke to them again this morning.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They said even with Mrs Long’s permission, their legal department would take at least a week. Due diligence, apparently. They’re very nervous of fraud.’

  ‘A week? For God’s sake! Did you tell them we were investigating a murder?’

  ‘I did. I’m sorry, guv.’

  Ford sighed, taking in the DC’s crestfallen expression. ‘This isn’t on you. Bloody corporate risk aversion. I’d like to show them a few of our crime scene photos. Maybe that would gee them up a bit.’

  He checked his watch again. Called the front desk. ‘Has Joe Hibberd’s brief arrived yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘When they do, have someone take them to Interview Suite Four, please. And call me.’

  While he waited, he thought back to the moment he’d walked into Hibberd’s kitchen. Something then hadn’t felt right. He stilled his mind. Went back to the gamekeeper’s cottage. What the hell was it? Just out of reach yet screaming for attention?

  He closed his eyes. Opened the front door and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. Opened that door. Heard, then saw, the dogs. Calmed them and had them taken away.

  He walked to the centre of the immaculate kitchen and looked around. Moved himself outside and looked in again through the window.

  The closed doors. The dogs. The locked window.

  He’d seen the flaw in the suicide scene.

>   Hibberd’s kitchen matched George’s dissection room for cleanliness and order. He’d produced a neatly typed and formatted suicide note and aligned it with the corner of the table. He’d even folded the cleaning cloth and hung it over the tap.

  But if they’d arrived a couple of minutes later, Hibberd would apparently have redecorated his kitchen with his own brains. Would he have cared? A man about to kill himself, worried over what mess he left behind?

  Maybe not. But he cared about his dogs. He’d said they were like family. He wouldn’t have blown his brains out in front of them. And he’d never have left them locked in with his corpse. They’d have got hungry. And they’d have turned to the only available food source. Ford had seen it happen before.

  Smiling, he scribbled a few notes, then went down to the canteen to grab a sandwich and a bar of chocolate.

  Munching his way through the fluffy, tasteless bread and watery tuna mayo, he consulted his notebook. In the rose garden, Lord Baverstock had said up to fourteen people apart from him had access to the Alverchalke gun safe. Ford was still convinced the murderer lived on the estate. And was equally convinced it wasn’t Joe.

  Olly appeared, out of breath, by his side. ‘Hibberd’s medical records came in just after you left. I’ve summarised them for you and added a couple of other pointers.’

  He handed Ford a single sheet of paper.

  ‘Thanks, Olly. Nice work. And even better timing.’

  Ford scanned Olly’s summary:

  Medical records

  – Army: No mention of mental health issues. Only injury prior to attack on machine-gun nest: fractured little finger on left hand.

  – Civilian: No sleeping pills, anti-anxiety medication, antidepressants, therapy or referrals to anger-management courses.

  Police

  – No complaints of domestic abuse. No charges of public order offences or brawling in bars.

  Veterans’ charities

  – No Joe or Joseph Hibberd has ever contacted them.

  Financial

  – Shops at Tesco using credit card. Clubcard account shows just 30 cans of Heineken and a bottle of Scotch in last five weeks’ shopping.