by Andy Maslen
‘And when you say you “heard”, who told you?’
‘Tommy, of course! Who else? Girls used to love his curly hair. He told me she used to like pulling it when they were doing it.’
His mind processing this startling piece of intelligence at high speed, Ford thanked Dowdell and repeated his promise to look at the upcoming court case.
Could it be true? Could a high-born woman like Lucy Martival – correction, the Honourable Lucy Martival – see anything in a little scrote like Tommy Bolter? No. Never. Not in a million years. Tommy had been boasting. Fantasising. And then Ford’s brain switched gears. No? Never? A million years? Come on, Ford, think the unthinkable!
He called Jools. ‘I need to ask you about what women find sexy.’
‘Okaay. Is this going to be weird?’
He smiled. ‘Do you think Lucy Martival could fancy Tommy Bolter?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Enough to shag him? Is it conceivable?’
‘Anything’s conceivable. Lady Chatterley had a thing for her gardener, didn’t she? But Tommy Bolter? Even if Lucy did fancy a bit of rough, there’s rough and then there’s the Bolters.’
‘OK, thanks, Jools. I’ll let you get on with Gwyneth.’
Ford got back to Bourne Hill and a virtually empty Major Crimes. Jools emerged from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. She saw Ford.
‘You want one, guv? Kettle’s just boiled.’
‘Please, Jools. Then bring it into my office, would you?’
‘I spoke to Tess Pearce while you were out,’ Jools said as she sat and gave Ford his coffee. ‘She confirmed she’s been going out with Joe Hibberd for three months. Looks like Gwyneth was telling porkies.’
‘Actually, I think Gwyneth holds the key.’
‘To what?’
He pushed his doubts aside. The news that he’d arrested Joe Hibberd would find its way back to JJ, then hopefully he’d relent in his threats to harm Sam. ‘To bringing in Lord Baverstock. I want to arrest His bloody Lordship, but Sandy will have a fit if I don’t have bulletproof grounds. Never mind the PCC, she’ll have my arse in a sling all on her own.’
‘How does Gwyneth fit in?’
‘She was waiting for Tommy in his pickup when he witnessed Owen get shot,’ Ford said. ‘I pushed her about whether Tommy said he recognised or knew the killer. She insisted he said “knew”. Originally, I thought it would have been Hibberd, because of their run-ins. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘You think with the right handling, she could tell us more?’ Jools asked.
‘She said Tommy wouldn’t tell her the killer’s name. But what if he let some other detail slip? Something we could use to identify him?’
‘You want us to ask her to come in?’
Ford shook his head. He’d already dismissed this option. ‘I get the feeling Bourne Hill would make Gwyneth nervous. Can you track her down and find somewhere neutral to talk? And she’s worried about JJ and Rye. Do what you can to reassure her that we’ll keep her name out of it.’
With Jools off to talk to Gwyneth, Ford returned, reluctantly, to updating his policy book. A necessary piece of arse-covering every lead investigator and SIO had to contend with, but one that took up a huge amount of time he would have preferred to spend pursuing suspects.
He pulled up Tommy’s record. And looked at the mugshot. Although Tommy didn’t look his best in the photo – who did? – he had a twinkle in his eye and a crooked grin Ford supposed women could easily find attractive.
If Dowdell was telling the truth, the case had just taken on a new dimension. If.
He decided to solicit another female opinion.
Twenty minutes later, he crunched across the gravel in front of Alverchalke Manor, straightening his tie and buttoning his suit jacket.
Directed to the stables, Ford found Lucy in a paved courtyard, brushing the gleaming ebony flanks of the big horse he’d seen her with before. What was its name? Woodstock. That was it.
Above chocolate-brown jodhpurs and gleaming black riding boots, she wore a sleeveless top. She glanced up as his own boots scuffed in a patch of grit.
‘Hello,’ Ford said.
She looked up, but didn’t stop grooming the stallion. ‘Were you just checking me out, Inspector?’
‘Just the horse,’ he said with a smile.
She grinned back at him. ‘Liar!’
‘I wanted to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right?’
She pulled the stallion’s nose down to her face. ‘We don’t mind, do we, Woody?’ she asked, maintaining long steady strokes with the brush.
‘He’s a magnificent animal,’ Ford said, aiming to establish a rapport before hitting her with the big question.
‘Thank you. We have this special bond, don’t we?’ she said as she nuzzled the horse’s neck.
‘Do you ever ride out towards Pentridge Down?’
‘No. It’s too far from here.’
‘Ever go up there shooting?’
She looked back at the horse and resumed vigorously brushing its coat. ‘I’ve never been one for shooting, Inspector.’
He thought back to his chat with the gun club secretary. He could remember Jim’s words exactly. They’re not bad shots, either of them. Especially Lucy. She’s won a few competitions in her time, as well. Registered the lie.
‘Of course, I understand. Only, we’re looking for people who were out there on the day Owen Long was killed.’
She turned and flashed a crooked smile at him. ‘It weren’t me, guv!’
Time to move a step closer.
‘Tell me, did you ever see Tommy Bolter on the estate?’
‘Nope. But I know Joe had a couple of run-ins with him.’
And closer.
‘How would you describe your relationship?’
‘With Joe?’
‘With Tommy.’
The brush caught a tangle in the horse’s mane and made it whinny. She frowned. ‘Sorry, darling, Mummy wasn’t concentrating.’ She continued, though speaking to the horse, not Ford. ‘Well, he used to poach on our land, but I’d hardly call that a relationship.’
And close enough to smell a second lie . . .
‘You weren’t sleeping with him, then?’
She straightened and turned to face Ford.
‘What did you say?’ she demanded, hands on hips.
‘Were you in a sexual relationship with Tommy Bolter?’
‘My God, you’ve got a bloody nerve, haven’t you?’ she asked, raising her voice. ‘Do my parents know you’re here interrogating me like this?’ Her face flushed and her chest heaved.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Ford said.
She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘No, and I’m not bloody going to, either.’
‘You know, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ Ford said, committed to his line of questioning no matter what the blowback. ‘Not nowadays. I certainly wouldn’t judge you for sleeping with Bolter. I took a quick peek at his mugshots. Lovely curly hair!’ He offered her a leer as he spoke. Surely that would push one or two of her buttons?
Her cheeks were blazing as she glared at him. ‘Inspector, do I look like the sort of woman who’d shag a lowlife like Tommy?’
That was interesting. Under stress, she’d called him ‘Tommy’. Not ‘Bolter’. Had she just told him lie number two?
‘Honestly, I don’t know. What do those women look like?’
‘Well, not like me, for a start,’ she said, her breath still shallow and catching in her throat as she spoke. She spread her arms wide. ‘I mean, he had a tattoo of a porn model, for God’s sake!’
Ford took a couple of steps back. ‘Sorry. My mistake. I’ll let you get on with your grooming.’
He turned and walked back to the Discovery. Smiling. Yes. She had delivered a second lie. Because Tommy did have a tattoo of a nude woman. But on his chest. And the Journal had refused to publish it on grounds of taste. Only someone who’d seen him with hi
s shirt off would have known about it. And Ford hardly thought Lucy had found him sunbathing on Alverchalke land.
What if Tommy had seen Lucy shoot Owen? Tommy tried to blackmail her – a person he definitely ‘knew’ – and she told her father, who then murdered Tommy? It worked. Better than that, it felt right. JJ and Rye were ready to kill to avenge the murder of their baby brother. Ford could quite imagine Lord Baverstock – a man who had willingly flown his first wife to her own death – doing the same to keep his daughter out of trouble.
He checked himself. Because if Tommy was a regular poacher on the Alverchalke estate, there was every chance he ‘knew’ Stephen, too. Who, as Ford had seen for himself, was a good enough marksman to bring down a deer with a clean shot through the heart.
He started the engine. ‘Well, it was one of you,’ he said to the empty cabin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ford parked the Discovery and walked towards the station. JJ emerged from between two parked cars and strode across the tarmac towards him. Ford looked him in the eye. Had he been waiting? Patiently staking out the car park until Ford’s blue Discovery reappeared? He wouldn’t put it past him.
‘What do you want, JJ?’
‘Just came to tell you something. You better get a move on, because we’re getting close to knowing who killed Tommy.’
‘Really? Because we’ve arrested a suspect. So you can lay off the threats.’
‘But it’s not Joe Hibberd, is it, Ford? We both know that.’
Ford didn’t want to think how JJ knew so much about the case. ‘Do we?’
JJ smiled. An expression utterly devoid of good humour. ‘Yeah, we do. And if we find the real killer before you do, they’re going to regret the day they ever saw my little brother.’
Ford took a step closer to JJ. Squared his shoulders. They were about the same height, and though JJ was broader, Ford had bested him physically once already, outside The White Lion. Not to mention the standoff at the hacienda with Rye out cold between them. Maybe his confidence showed. JJ backed up a little.
‘Don’t take the law into your own hands,’ Ford said. ‘You’ll regret it.’
JJ sneered. ‘I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done in my entire life, Ford. I’m not about to start now.’
‘Friendly warning, JJ. Your last,’ Ford said, walking away.
‘How’s Sam?’ JJ called after him. ‘Still happy at Chequers?’
Ford strode on, fighting an impulse to turn back.
As soon as he walked into Major Crimes, Mick came over. ‘Hannah’s looking for you.’
Ford nodded and headed to Forensics, noting that Mick tended to avoid using Hannah’s nickname.
‘Hi, Wix,’ he said when he arrived. ‘You called?’
She frowned and shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t. I asked Mick to tell you I need to see you.’
Ford smiled. ‘Figure of speech. What did you want to tell me?’
‘We’ve analysed the prints from the rifles seized at Alverchalke. No prints match Joe’s, which I’d expect because he said it was his habit to clean guns after using them. We did find prints and partials from at least two other users on each gun, probably family members. But these would have been left after Joe cleaned them. Therefore, also after the murders. The prints don’t match each other or IDENT1.’
Ford sighed. ‘Joe cleaned off the murderer’s fingerprints along with his own. Everything after that is useless.’
Hannah nodded. ‘We also found blood in the barrel of the .22,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s a match to Owen Long’s blood group and we’ve sent it off for DNA analysis. We should have the results back mid-morning tomorrow.’
‘Brilliant. We’ll have a chat about them later. Right now, I’m going back for round two with Hibberd.’
Ford didn’t need anyone else for the second round of questioning. The evidence was mounting that it wasn’t him, although he clearly knew the killer’s identity.
Ford suspected the interview would be short. No lead-up questions this time. Straight into the middle of it. He glanced at Rowbotham, composed and immaculate. Then fixed Hibberd with a stare.
‘When you decided to kill yourself, how did you plan to do it?’
Hibberd blinked twice, and wetted his lips with his tongue. The first proper chink in his armour. ‘What?’
‘Your shot placement. Head? Heart? You can’t have been going to shoot yourself in the foot.’
‘Head.’
‘Really?’
Hibberd recovered. He leaned back. ‘Why not? Guaranteed to work. Don’t know if you’ve seen what a shotgun round does to a human head at point-blank range.’
‘Actually, I have. Nasty business a couple of years back. One of the local farmers went into a deep depression when the bank wouldn’t extend his overdraft. Poor sod blew his brains out in his barn.’
‘Yeah, well, you know, then.’
‘But that’s the thing, Joe. The barn where this poor bloke took his own life? It looked like an abattoir. In the end, his widow burned it to the ground. Couldn’t bear to be reminded of her husband’s suicide, I suppose.’
‘Inspector, do you have a question?’ Rowbotham intoned gravely.
‘Yes, Mr Rowbotham, I do. Joe, you told us in our first interview that’ – he consulted his notes – ‘“I like to keep things clean and tidy.” Now, if we accept that the balance of your mind was disturbed, I can just about understand you leaving your pristine kitchen looking like the inside of a slaughterhouse. But what about your dogs?’
Hibberd’s eyes flashed fear. ‘What about them?’
‘You told me on the first day we spoke that the girls were like family to you. “Better than kids,” you said. Are you seriously telling me you planned, coolly, calmly and deliberately, to put a shotgun barrel into your mouth and pull the trigger while your children looked on?’
Hibberd’s eyes were darting all over the place. ‘I—’
‘And then what? You’ve just unloaded a shotgun into the roof of your mouth. Your head has basically exploded. There’s blood and whatnot all over the place. You’ve closed the front and back doors, and the door to the kitchen itself,’ Ford said. ‘You’ve locked the kitchen window. The dogs would have been terrified at first. But eventually they’d have got hungry. They would have started on what was left of you. Like Bess did when you murdered Owen. Do you remember? You said she licked the blood. Wouldn’t you have sent them outside first?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Like I said, my PTSD affects my memory.’
‘But not your ability to be rational about disposing of Tommy’s body. You remember where you put it and that you cut it up, even if not in how many pieces.’
‘It’s unpredictable.’
‘Is that what your doctors told you?’
‘What doctors?’
‘Whoever diagnosed your PTSD.’
‘I . . . I never went to the MO about it.’
‘What about after leaving the army? Did you go to see your GP? Or a psychotherapist? A charity?’
Hibberd closed down. His eyes dropped and his mouth drew into a thin line.
‘It’s quite acceptable to talk about PTSD these days. Were you ashamed?’
‘No!’
‘So why, then, Joe? Why didn’t you go to the doctor about what is, by all accounts, a pretty terrible illness?’
Hibberd’s breathing had become shallow. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and the bridge of his nose. ‘I thought I’d be all right just working through it. Lord Baverstock’s very understanding.’
Ford nodded. Time for a change of tack. One that would bring him closer to the endgame.
‘He saved your life in Helmand, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘It placed you in his debt.’
‘You could put it that way. I wouldn’t.’
‘No? OK, but how about when he gave you a place to live and a secure job after you were fired for stealing in Scotland?’
Hibberd’s face ch
anged. His mouth tightened. His eyes flicked to the solicitor. Ford knew why. He’d been assuming that in the absence of a criminal record, that detail would have remained a secret.
‘So, what if he did?’
‘Joe, listen to me. It’s clear to me you staged your suicide. I don’t think you had any intention of going through with it,’ Ford said. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the tabletop. ‘It was just a piece of set dressing that allowed you to present your confession as a dying declaration. A man about to kill himself would have no reason to lie about being a murderer. But you’re not a murderer, Joe, I can tell. I think you were covering for someone. Who was it? Lord Baverstock? The man who saved you twice over? Once from death, once from ruin? Or was it someone else in the family? Stephen, perhaps.’ He paused for a couple of seconds. ‘Or Lucy?’
Ford watched Hibberd’s chest rise and fall. A drop of sweat rolled from the bridge of his nose to the tip, hung there for a couple of seconds, then fell on to the table. Hibberd didn’t so much as twitch.
Finally, without taking his eyes off Ford, he uttered two words that Ford knew would be his last. ‘No comment.’
Ford nodded. Hibberd wouldn’t yield. He wouldn’t incriminate Lord Baverstock or anyone else in the family. Here was a man who knew how to keep his mouth shut. Had Lord Baverstock ordered him to take the fall? Calling in the debt owed since Helmand? It seemed possible.
He closed his folder of notes. ‘Joseph Hibberd, under caution, you have confessed to murdering Owen Long and Tommy Bolter. And to disposing of their bodies. But owing to your self-diagnosed PTSD, you can’t remember certain details of either crime. Is that correct?’
Hibberd’s head jerked up and down twice.
‘For the recording, the suspect nodded, indicating acceptance of my summary. Interview suspended at 2.05 p.m.’
Ford remained in the smelly little room after Hibberd, Rowbotham and the uniform in silent attendance had left for the custody suite.
The suicidal farmer had been Ford’s own invention. A composite. Becky Gaisford, the rural crimes officer, had told him that, nationally, farmers killed themselves at a rate of one a week. He doubted a single farming family in Wiltshire had been unaffected by suicide, one way or another.
