by Andy Maslen
It didn’t look like Joe was self-medicating with alcohol. Ford suspected most members of his team – hell, the whole of Bourne Hill – drank more than Hibberd did.
Of course, Hibberd might be suffering from PTSD without seeking help. Ford just didn’t believe he was. But if he challenged him over it, he could simply agree to the contents of Olly’s report and claim he was battling it alone.
His phone rang.
‘Front desk, sir. Joe Hibberd’s brief has arrived.’
Ford scoffed the rest of his sandwich and half the chocolate. He stood and brushed the crumbs off his suit trousers, grabbed his file on Hibberd and went to collect Jools. On the way to the interview suite he suggested a tactic for probing Joe’s claims about his PTSD.
He’d been expecting one of the duty solicitors – Gillian Kenney or another overtired, overworked, publicly funded lawyer who’d read the client’s file two minutes before accompanying them into the interview. The sight of Jacob Rowbotham’s cadaverous form surprised him. Today, Salisbury’s leading criminal solicitor wore an immaculate pinstriped suit made of soft-looking fabric that absorbed light like a black hole.
The surprise didn’t last long. The faithful retainer’s in trouble, and his aristocratic boss and former commander puts on a good show by sending his own lawyer.
Time and date stated, and introductions made ‘for the tape’, Ford began.
‘I read your letter, Joe.’
‘Then why am I here? Open-and-shut case. I’m just sorry you got me before I went through with it.’
‘Let’s leave the letter for now. I want to ask you about the murders you say you committed.’
‘I don’t say I committed them,’ Hibberd said, leaning forward. ‘I did commit them.’
‘Tell me how you killed Owen Long.’
‘I found him up near the rearing field, making some sort of video, ranting about Lord Baverstock. Bloody class warrior. I went over to him with the dogs and told him he was trespassing.’
‘And you had a rifle with you at this point?’
‘Yeah. Always take something out with me. I had a .22. It’s nothing much, just thought I’d get a rabbit for the pot like when you met me up there,’ he said.
‘And then?’
‘He went bloody berserk, didn’t he? Grabbed the rifle and started yelling in my face, swearing, calling me a lackey. I tried to hold him off ’cause I was genuinely in fear. Then bang!’ Hibberd clapped his hands, making his lawyer jump. ‘The muzzle jammed under his chin and he died on the spot.’
‘Which gun did you use to kill Owen?’ Jools asked.
‘Like I said, the Remington .22 from Maj— Lord Baverstock’s gun safe.’
‘Why not use your own?’
‘Like I told your mate here the first time we met, it’s at Berret & Sartain. Needs the trigger looking at.’
‘How long have they had it?’
‘Since the twenty-eighth of April.’
Ford kept his face neutral. If Joe was telling the truth, and it would be easy enough to check, he was offering Ford concrete proof that he hadn’t used his own gun. Owen had been shot on the twenty-ninth.
‘Where’s the rifle you used now?’
‘Back in the gun safe up at the main house.’
Ford nodded. Clearly Hibberd had no idea they’d searched the manor house and seized the rifles.
‘You didn’t think to get rid of it?’
Hibberd shook his head. ‘Not mine, is it?’
‘And you weren’t worried about potentially incriminating Lord Baverstock or a member of his family? Or another member of staff?’
Hibberd’s eyes slid sideways then locked back on to Ford’s. ‘Like I said, I did it. And I confessed, too. No need to worry. Anyway, it doesn’t prove anything if their fingerprints are on it, does it? It’d be weirder if they weren’t, seeing as how it’s their gun.’
Ford switched to the present tense to put Hibberd right into the centre of the scene the man claimed he was describing from memory. ‘You’ve just shot Owen. He’s lying dead at your feet. The dogs – what are they doing?’
‘Molly’s lying flat. Bess is a bit nervy. She’s gone up to him and she’s, you know, licking it.’
‘The blood, you mean?’
‘Yeah. I shooed her away and got her to lie down.’
Ford nodded, made a note. The detail about the blood was a nice touch. He looked up at Hibberd and smiled.
‘How did you get him from there to the Ebble, Joe?’
‘Back of the Land Rover, wrapped up in a tarp. I chucked him into a nice deep bit. If we hadn’t had those heavy rains, he would’ve stayed where I put him till the eels and the crayfish ate everything but the bones. You’d never have found him in a thousand years.’
Ford nodded sympathetically. ‘Just your hard luck.’ He doodled a small tick on the pad in front of him. A sign for Jools to take over.
‘Did you see Tommy at any point?’ she asked.
‘No. But he must have been hiding somewhere. The next day, he calls me up, right? He says he saw me kill Long and he wants fifty grand or he’ll tell you lot.’
‘Have you got that kind of money?’
Hibberd’s eyes widened with what looked like genuine surprise. ‘Do I look like the sort of bloke with fifty grand in savings?’
‘I don’t know. I try not to judge by appearances.’
‘Well, I don’t. The cottage is tied to the job. I’ve got a small army pension and what Lord Baverstock pays me. That’s it.’
‘So you decided to kill him.’
‘That’s right. I told him to meet me on Alverchalke land. Said we’d be guaranteed privacy. Bolter turned up expecting his big payday but I’d got myself nicely tucked under a camo net about a hundred yards away, in case he brought his brothers.’
‘Describe what happened next.’
‘He just stood there, bold as brass.’ Hibberd ran his tongue over his lip. It looked like nerves to Ford. ‘And I shot him.’
‘What with?’
‘Lord Baverstock’s Parker-Hale.’
‘Why didn’t you use the .22 again?’
‘No good for a long-range shot. And I didn’t want to be anywhere near Bolter.’
‘Shot placement?’ Jools asked. A flicker of doubt crossed Hibberd’s face at her use of a military term. She smiled at him. ‘I’m ex-army, too. MPs.’
‘Huh. A monkey, eh?’
She shrugged. ‘Somebody had to eat all the bananas.’
That won her a brief smile. ‘Left ear.’
‘Must have made a mess.’
He shook his head. ‘Ballistic tip. Expanded in his head. No exit wound, no mess.’
‘Did you clean that gun, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wouldn’t it have helped your cause if you’d left your prints on both rifles?’
‘I didn’t think I had a cause, did I? Plus, I’m an old soldier. You always clean your weapons after use. I had it drilled into me by my gunnery instructors. I like to keep things clean and tidy. Once you learn that in the army, it stays with you for life.’
‘How did you dispose of Tommy’s body? The Ebble again?’ Ford asked.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I tried to be more rational about it.’
‘Rational?’
‘Yes. I reckoned putting two bodies in the same place doubled the risk one might float or something.’
‘Yeah, I can see that,’ Ford said casually, but made a note. ‘Instead of using the Ebble again, you did what?’
‘I cut him up and dumped the pieces down a badger sett.’
Ford retrieved Joe’s suicide note from the folder in front of him. He made a show of reading it.
‘That’s odd. It says here you had some kind of blackout. But now you recall chopping him up. Which is it, Joe? You do remember or you don’t remember?’
Hibberd rubbed the back of his neck. Glanced at his solicitor. Then looked back at Ford. ‘I remem
ber the first bit.’
‘OK. How many?’
‘What?’
‘Sorry, Joe. I know it’s a gruesome question, but how many pieces did you cut Tommy into?’
Hibberd blinked. His mouth opened and then closed again.
‘Joe?’ Ford asked again.
Having remained utterly immobile until now, Rowbotham leaned over and spoke to Hibberd behind his hand.
Hibberd nodded. ‘I can’t remember. That’s what I meant in my letter. I was having some sort of flashback. Like you said, I basically blacked out, and when I came round I was at mine in the shower.’
Ford shook his head, gratified his ploy with the letter had worked. ‘Sorry, Joe, I was paraphrasing. What you actually wrote was, “I don’t know what happened except I came to beside his dismembered body.” Clear it up for me,’ he said with a smile. ‘When you came out of this apparent blackout, were you beside the body or in the shower?’
‘Body,’ Joe muttered.
Ford nodded and made a note. ‘Thanks for that, Joe. Now, you said you didn’t want to double the risk that one of the men you murdered would float if you put them both into the water,’ Ford said.
‘That’s right.’
‘How did you stop Owen from floating, Joe?’
‘What?’
‘When the farmer found him, he was at the bottom.’
‘Not following you.’
‘Let me try again. Bodies do sink to begin with. But then they float. Owen didn’t. How did you ensure he stayed down?’
‘Like I said, I’m in this flashback. It’s all a blur.’
Ford frowned, made a show of consulting his notebook. ‘Sorry, Joe – that’s what you said when you killed Tommy.’
Rowbotham leaned over again and offered Hibberd more murmured advice.
‘It affects my memory. My PTSD. When Long went for my gun, it brought it all back.’
‘So you’re saying you had a blackout then, as well?’
‘Yes.’
Jools leaned forward. Ford caught the movement and let her take over.
‘You know, I met quite a few people in the army who had PTSD. Some after I left, too.’
‘And?’ Hibberd said, crossing his arms.
‘I think you’re lying. You see, real sufferers of PTSD, they do have memory problems. But they’re the opposite of the ones you’re describing,’ she said. ‘They can’t help reliving the traumatic episode. Every single detail. The memories don’t fade with time like normal ones do. They stay as fresh as if they were happening right then. I’m surprised you’re saying it caused blackouts and memory lapses for fresher events.’
Ford knew that it was perfectly possible for PTSD to work like that. But as a non-sufferer, Joe might not. How would he react?
Joe looked at Rowbotham, who went through his murmuring routine a third time. He stared at the table as he listened, nodding.
Then he looked back at Jools. ‘You are not a qualified person to pronounce on my medical history or the particular symptoms of my condition.’
Ford thought Rowbotham could have a career as a stage ventriloquist if he ever tired of the law. He didn’t believe a word of what Joe had said. It was obvious the two of them had cooked up the PTSD line between them. Maybe at Martival’s suggestion. Had they discussed how to use it in Hibberd’s defence?
‘Let’s go through the sequence of events again,’ he said. ‘After shooting Owen Long dead in self-defence and dumping his body in the River Ebble, you murdered Tommy Bolter in cold blood while in some kind of trauma-induced fugue state. Then you chopped his body up into an unspecified number of pieces and dumped them in a badger sett. That about it?’
‘Yes. As I said.’
‘Where did you chop him up and what did you use to do it? Your place?’
‘I can’t remember, can I?’
‘I thought you said you could remember.’
Joe looked panicky. His eyes flitted round the interview room as if he might find an answer scrawled on the grimy paintwork.
‘Let me help you, Joe,’ Ford said. ‘Did you do it at the manor house? An outbuilding?’
‘I can’t remember!’
‘Well, where then? It must have made a hell of a mess.’
Hibberd folded his arms. ‘I. Can’t. Remember.’
Ford decided on a change of direction.
‘Did Tommy know you were in a relationship with Gwyneth Pearce?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Gwyneth.’
Hibberd groaned and shook his head. ‘I’m not in a relationship with her.’
‘I saw you together at the inquest.’
Hibberd shook his head. ‘I’ve been seeing her sister, Tess, if you must know. She’s more my age. And my type. Sensible head on her shoulders. She’s ill, though, so she asked me to go with Gwynnie to the inquest to look after her.’
‘Why did Gwyneth tell me you and she were involved?’
‘Why don’t you ask her? She’ll make up some lie, but do you want the truth?’
‘Go on.’
‘Gwynnie hates it if Tess has something she doesn’t. She probably hoped word would get back to Tess to make her jealous. The girl’s a fantasist.’
Inwardly questioning Gwyneth’s reliability as a witness, but not his own conviction that Hibberd wasn’t the killer, Ford smiled and closed his notebook. Jools did the same, following his lead.
Ford closed the interview, saying Hibberd would remain in custody and he would see him again ‘before too long’.
He left Hibberd with Rowbotham.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Hannah came to see Ford in his office immediately after the interview.
‘I think you’re right about Joe. I watched the interview on the monitor. He’s lying.’
‘I could tell he was lying, but I didn’t hear him avoiding contractions in his speech. You said to watch for that as a possible tell.’
She pointed to a chair. ‘May I?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘That is only one of a number of tells. He also switched between extremely detailed explanations for parts of his behaviour and then falling back on his claim of PTSD-induced amnesia.’
‘Didn’t ring true to you?’
‘No. It did not. In fact I saw a man willing to agree to scenarios suggested by the interviewer, i.e. you, without being able to supply details that should have been burned into his cerebral cortex.’
‘Like cutting a man up but not being able to say how, where or into how many pieces until I helped him out?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, exactly.’
‘What about when he mentioned dating Gwyneth’s older sister? Was that a lie?’
Hannah looked away from him on the final word. A pink tinge had crept into her cheeks. Odd. He waited until she faced him again, though he noticed she was having trouble meeting his eye.
She shook her head. ‘No. You were—’ She blushed furiously. ‘I mean, he was telling the truth. I’m sure of it. When you resume the interview, concentrate on the PTSD. Ask him about his symptoms. What are they? When did they start? How does he feel before, during and after an episode? What does he think triggered it?’
She continued speaking and Ford frantically scribbled notes. When she’d finished, he looked up. ‘Thanks. That’s about a million times more useful than Olly’s half-baked amateur psychology.’
She nodded and got up to leave. ‘More than anything else, Olly wants to impress you,’ she said at the door. ‘But he is an amateur. I am a professional.’
He watched her go. Something had spooked her about Hibberd. But Ford didn’t have time to ponder the question. He stared at the copy of Hibberd’s suicide note. It read more like preparation for a temporary insanity defence in court.
He called the team together and filled them in on his current thinking, and allocated tasks designed to prove Hibberd wasn’t their man, from checking local CCTV to tracing any card payments he might have made at the relevant times.
Ford leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He had too many questions and not enough answers. A JJ Bolter-shaped shadow hanging over the investigation wasn’t helping either. He got up and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair.
Crossing Major Crimes, he called out to Jools, ‘I’m going for a walk. I need to think. Call me if you need me. And can you track down Gwyneth Pearce’s sister? Ask her to confirm Joe’s story about them being in a relationship.’
As Ford walked through the Cathedral Close, a broad area of landscaped lawns swarming with tourists, his phone rang. Unknown caller.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Connor Dowdell. You said if I remembered something helpful to call you, right?’
‘Do you have something?’
‘I might.’
Ford had no difficulty decoding the verbal signal. Dowdell had information. And he wanted something in exchange.
‘And what might you remember, exactly?’
‘Something about one of Tommy’s associates.’
‘Such as?’
‘There’s something I want to ask you first.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve got a court case coming up. I thought maybe you could put in a good word for me ’cause I helped you in a murder investigation.’
‘Send me the details. I’ll see what I can do. No promises, mind.’
‘Fair play.’
‘Tell me.’
‘You know Gwynnie? I said she was one of Tommy’s girls, didn’t I? What do them sheikhs have?’
‘A harem?’
‘Yeah, that. Well, one of the girls Tommy had in his little har-reem was that posh bit who lives on the Alverchalke estate.’
Ford’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You mean Lucy Martival?’
‘Likes a bit of rough, that’s what I heard. Plus, Tommy weren’t a bad-looking lad.’
