by Andy Maslen
The line went silent except for the noise of Dowdell breathing. ‘Yeah. Yeah! He told me she wanted him to call her Loopy. Don’t know why, though. Makes her sound like she’s got a screw loose.’
And there it was. More proof that she’d been lying. How would Tommy Bolter know about Lucy’s nickname unless they’d met?
Ford wanted to act. He needed to. JJ and Rye Bolter were circling Alverchalke, pack dogs closing in on a kill. Who knew who might get caught in the crossfire between these two murderous families? And he could feel the pressure from Sandy and every level above her, right up to the chief con. That was before the PPC, the press and all the many people on social media chipped in. All of whom felt they knew more about solving murders than someone as lowly as a mere DI.
He needed a break. The slow grind of police work had drawn him closer to the murderer, but he still hadn’t located the killer clue that would smash the case open and allow him to penetrate its secrets.
Using the stairs to avoid meeting anyone who’d thrust even more paper into his hands, he reached the car park unseen. Ten minutes later he climbed out of the Discovery at Old Sarum, the Iron Age hill fort that had been the original site of the city.
Walking anticlockwise on the inner rampart, he let his thoughts drift. The sun warmed his back. The leaves of the beeches towering over him shifted in the breeze, adding a soft rattle to the sound of the wind through the higher branches. To his right, on a gently sloping field, a tractor trundled left to right, spraying the vivid green crop with a whitish haze of insecticide.
A small dog ran up to him and barked, twice, before being called back by its owner.
‘Sorry,’ she called.
Ford waved her apology away. ‘No problem.’ Except for the bloody big one occupying my every waking hour: the Lucy Problem.
He called the two victims to mind. Come for a walk with me. He placed Tommy on his left, Owen on his right. Walked with them companionably. They were both murdered on a landscape just like the one surrounding Old Sarum. Owen while trying to protect it; Tommy while trying to make a bit of money from it.
Neither man should have been there. But neither deserved to die at the hands of the people who owned it.
‘If you had his Cloud footage, you’d see what I saw,’ Tommy’s voice intoned from somewhere inside Ford’s head. Yes, but I haven’t, have I? That’s the point. Because Owen was too bloody cautious with his password. And GoPro’s lawyers make the CPS look like bloody ambulance-chasers.
Mentally, he turned to Owen. The former vicar smiled at him, water dripping from his hairline. ‘What do you know about me, Inspector?’
Ford stopped. The two men faded. Because he’d had an idea. Owen’s main PC password was complex, but it was anything but random. It said ‘Gaia needs Owen’, didn’t it? So he used memorable phrases as clues to help him remember his password. Gaia represented what Ford thought of as ‘new’ Owen: the eco-warrior. But before that, he’d been a vicar. And Ruth, bless her, had given him a clue on the day he’d travelled up to Islington to deliver the death knock.
He cast his mind back to their conversation at Bourne Hill. What had she said about Owen’s favourite book of the Bible? It related to the title of his blog.
The Circle of the Earth. It’s a quote from . . . Dammit! The memory wouldn’t hold still long enough for him to grab the next word. What was it? Jeremiah? Isaac?
He pulled out his phone. He tapped in the quote and then saw to his dismay that, despite his elevation above the city – with the spire, as always, visible in the centre – he had no signal.
‘Shit!’ he yelled, startling a couple of tourists, before turning and running back to the car park, narrowly avoiding tripping over a little dog gambolling in the lush grass.
Back at Bourne Hill he rushed up to Forensics, taking the stairs two at a time. He saw no sign of Hannah. He asked the nearest CSI where Owen’s PC was, and she pointed to a desk shoved against a wall in one corner of the room.
Ford pulled up a chair and sat before the ‘Gaia Engine’. He joggled the mouse. Hannah had left the GoPro software open on the screen. He left it where it was and opened a browser. Typed in his search query:
Circle of the Earth Bible book
And, oh Lord, thank you, there it was. The first result contained the clue he’d thought of on the windy crown of Old Sarum’s ancient earthworks:
The Circle of the Earth: meaning and interpretation, Isaiah 40:22
He switched back to the GoPro software. He was about to type in the Bible reference when he stopped. That space after ‘Isaiah’ wouldn’t work. It needed to be a symbol. Or deleted altogether. Let’s start there.
Isaiah40:22
Some of your security details are incorrect.
He sighed. He realised he’d put all his faith in his intuition. Now he realised he was back in Wix’s territory. Detail. Method. Focus.
Fine. He could do that. He tried again. Let’s try a hyphen.
Isaiah-40:22
Some of your security details are incorrect.
OK. An em dash, then.
Isaiah—40:22
Some of your security details are incorrect. You have two more attempts.
Ford felt his patience slipping. He began to fear that he’d got ninety-nine per cent of the way there, but someone higher up the food chain had decided that was as far as he was going to get.
He couldn’t waste any more attempts on guesses. What would Hannah do? She’d think, came the obvious answer. She’d be logical. She’d look for patterns. Ford closed his eyes. Yes, Hannah, but which patterns?
The answer, when it came to him, was obvious. The patterns visible in Owen’s own actions. He’d separated the words in his main password with underscores. That would surely be it. He typed once more.
Isaiah_40:22
Holding his breath, he hit the ‘Return’ key. The screen blanked, then refreshed.
He sighed. And smiled. He was in.
Ford clicked the icon for Cloud storage. The screen displayed a list of alphabetically arranged folders. And, topping the list, he saw it:
Alverchalke
He opened the folder. It contained a single file.
Baverstock_Protest_OL_1
The file data confirmed that Owen had stopped recording the video at 11.53 a.m. on the day of his murder. Pulse racing, Ford opened the file, then clicked the white ‘Play’ triangle in the centre of the still image.
In the distance, across twelve miles of rolling countryside, the spire glowed white in the hazy sunshine. Owen, dressed in jeans and a crumpled maroon shirt, grey hair blown into a wild halo, addressed the camera. Where had he put the GoPro? On a stand? Clipped to a fence or a tree branch?
‘Behind me, you see an ancient landscape, unchanged for millennia. The landowner is the Right Honourable Viscount Baverstock, known also as Lord Baverstock and, given that all men are equal before Gaia, Philip Martival. Owing to a toxic combination of greed, hubris and disdain, he plans to desecrate it by building one hundred and thirty houses.’
Owen turned away and swept his right arm in a half-circle.
‘Philip Martival professes to care about the environment. But his actions speak much, much louder than his words. I urge you, who are watching this, to protest with me. Visit this beautiful part of the country. Camp. Bring your children. Sing. Pray. Together we can—’
A second voice intruded on the soundtrack. ‘Hey! You there! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’
Ford had heard it before. With a grim smile, he nodded. He’d solved the Lucy Problem.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ford leaned closer as Lucy Martival strode into shot. She wore an outfit typical of a certain class of rural dweller. Blue and white gingham shirt beneath a navy-blue sleeveless jumper. Tight-fitting moss-green trousers. Knee-high boots of tan suede interrupted by bands of polished brown leather.
Two black Labs trotted beside her. In her right hand she carried a rifle. She stopped a few f
eet away from Owen. A scowl transformed the face Ford had thought pretty into one harsh and unforgiving.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded.
‘My name is Owen Long.’
‘You’re not local, are you? Not with that accent.’
‘I live in London. But my calling brought me here.’
She tossed her head. ‘Oh, it did, did it? Well, I’m calling you to get the hell off this land.’
‘I am offering a testament to Philip Martival’s rapacity.’ Owen spread his hands wide. ‘He would destroy this beautiful—’
‘What Viscount Baverstock does with his land is nothing to do with you. Now clear off!’
Ford watched, transfixed. He knew what was coming, but still hoped Owen would heed Lucy’s warning and get the hell away. Instead he doubled down on his attack. ‘I should have thought someone of his obvious wealth would have little need of such a tawdry moneymaking scheme as this.’
‘Oh, would you? Not that it’s any of your business, but appearances can be misleading. Anyway, this is private land. It’s been in my family for a thousand years.’
There it was. The phrase Jools had somehow dragged out of Gwyneth Pearce. Further proof, if more were needed.
Lucy was still speaking. ‘You must have ignored half a dozen signs to get here. You’re trespassing!’
‘We are all mere trespassers on this planet. I am serving a higher cause. No less than Gaia. To her, a thousand years is as the life of a mayfly.’ Owen’s voice had taken on a preaching quality, and Ford heard the cadences of the pulpit as the former vicar hit his stride.
Lucy snorted. ‘Gaia? Now I get it. You’re one of those bloody climate people, aren’t you?’
Beside Lucy, the dogs were staring at Owen, breaking off only to cast glances up at their mistress. Ford heard their low growling.
‘If you have children, or plan to, you’d do well to join me,’ Owen said, raising his voice. ‘Nurturing a new life while all around you it is being extinguished is a wasted existence.’
The dogs’ growling intensified. Lucy worked the bolt on the rifle. The metal parts emitted a sharp snick-snack.
‘I said, clear off,’ Lucy said, in a low, threatening tone that Owen must surely have detected.
But still he stood his ground. ‘Why? What are you going to do? Shoot me? I bear you no ill will.’
Jesus, the old boy had balls the size of grapefruit to keep answering back to a clearly angry landowner with a loaded gun.
‘No? Well, that’s just as well, isn’t it? I’m going to tell you one last time. Get. Off. This. Land.’
With each of the final four words, Lucy prodded Owen in the sternum with the rifle’s muzzle. Where any sane person would have backed away, hands out in surrender or supplication, Owen went forward. He grabbed the barrel and tried to wrench it from Lucy’s grip. They scuffled, and Ford watched, mesmerised, as the rifle swung wildly from left to right, and jerked up and down as Owen and Lucy fought for control.
The dogs were barking properly now. Owen screamed as one sank its teeth into his left buttock.
The report as the rifle went off surprised Ford. Little more than the crack of a cheap firework. He rewound the video and slowed it down. He saw, in agonising detail, the final few seconds of Owen Long’s life.
The rifle, swinging about between the two combatants, dropped by six inches as Lucy tried to pull it down and out of Owen’s hands. Ford could see Lucy’s right index finger on the trigger.
Owen yanked the gun upwards. The slow motion changed the sharp crack to a drawn-out boom as the .22 went off, then Owen’s head snapped back and he toppled sideways, blood flowing from a neat black hole under his jaw.
Lucy stood, looking at him, eyes wide, her left hand clamped over her mouth.
Ford reset the playback to normal speed. The dogs were running in circles, barking, darting over to Owen’s body then back again.
She turned and ran, crying ‘Heel!’ as she fled.
Ford wiped a hand across his lips and took a few deep breaths. The video spooled on, a still image accompanied by the rustle of wind blowing across the mic. Owen lay partially in shot, the edge of the screen cutting him off at the knees.
And then, supplying the final piece of the puzzle, Tommy strolled into shot and looked down at Owen.
‘Silly old bugger!’ he said with a hint of a smirk. Then he turned and ran, exiting from the left side of the screen.
Ford went to stop the video, then took his finger off the mouse, wanting more.
Sure enough, after five minutes, he heard the roar of a diesel engine. A familiar sage-green Land Rover raced up the field then lurched to a stop. Lucy jumped out, slamming the door to keep the dogs inside.
Ford rolled his neck to ease the tension that had built as he watched. Lucy squatted down and got her hands under Owen’s armpits before dragging him to the vehicle and manoeuvring him up and into the load bay.
She closed the tailgate, then glanced straight at Ford with a frown. His pulse bumped in his throat and then he understood: she’d spotted the GoPro for the first time, and realised it was still filming.
She marched over until she filled the screen. Her right arm shot out, so close Ford could see the individual checks of her shirt. Then the screen went black. He asked one of the CSIs for a flash drive and copied the file over.
In Major Crimes, he called Jan and told her to bring the entire search team back from Alverchalke Manor. ‘Tell them we’ve got everything we need. And be especially polite to Lady B,’ he added. ‘Apologise for causing any distress.’
Next he sent a group text to the team.
Get back to BH now. URGENT
Sandy looked up as he entered her office. She frowned.
‘What’s up?’
‘Lucy Martival killed Owen. It’s on video.’
Her eyes popped wide. ‘What?’
‘Owen’s GoPro had an automatic upload to the Cloud. I cracked the password. I just watched the footage he shot at Alverchalke. We have to redo the arrest strategy.’
‘Too bloody right. What’s your take on Lucy?’
‘Even if she killed Owen by accident, she won’t want to spend the rest of her life in prison.’
‘High flight risk, even if not a high fight risk?’
‘Yup. Although, from a risk-assessment point of view, she also has access to weapons. And she’s already killed once with a firearm.’
‘I thought you impounded the family’s guns?’
‘The ones in the gun safe, yes. There could be others. In the house, outbuildings, stashed in a horse trough, who knows?’
‘Good point. So, simultaneous on father and daughter?’
‘Exactly. We take Lucy at home with a contain and call-out, and her father in a hard stop.’
‘He told me he’s leaving London at midday.’
Ford performed a quick calculation. ‘He told you he’s leaving his club at noon, right?’
Sandy nodded.
‘Right. Say forty-five minutes from his club to the M3, then he leaves for the A303 around thirty minutes after that. Allowing fifteen minutes to select the best place for the stop, we could do it at 1.30 p.m.’
‘Right, get going. I’ll call Gordon and update him. We’ll need a second firearms team.’
Ford played the video for the team in the sugar cube. They watched in silence, apart from a collective gasp at eleven minutes and seventeen seconds. Ford let the film play out until Lucy reached out towards them all and stopped the GoPro from recording.
He put Mick in with Sandy in the control centre, and Jan and Olly with the AFOs on the hard stop. Jools would accompany him to Alverchalke Manor on the Lucy arrest.
Over the next thirty minutes, Ford sent a covert team into action at Alverchalke Manor to establish that Lucy was at home. He called the Met control room again.
He felt excitement in the pit of his stomach – like playing live for the first time. But he also had every senior investigator’s fear whenever
firearms were involved. Guns meant bullets. And bullets meant the potential for an almighty screw-up. Best case, dead suspects. Worst case, dead members of the public.
Not on my watch.
Ford’s phone rang: the head of the covert team at Alverchalke Manor.
‘Confirmed sighting of Lucy Martival, sir. Indoors. She’s in a downstairs room, working on a PC.’
Ford’s phone rang again five minutes later. The investigator he’d sent to plot up outside Bigwood’s told him Lord Baverstock had just come out of the club, visited a shop, then gone back inside.
The rest of the morning passed in a flurry of briefings. Firearms teams, additional CID and uniforms for the two arrests; the media team at Bourne Hill; even the PCC. How Martin Peterson had got wind of the arrests, Ford didn’t want to think about.
‘You’re serious,’ he said, when Ford told him the identity of the suspects.
‘As I can be.’
Peterson puffed his cheeks out. ‘All I can say is, I hope to God you’re right, Ford. Because if you’re not, the optics on this are going to be terrible. Absolutely bloody terrible.’
Ford stared at Peterson. How things looked to the outside world were about ninety-ninth on Ford’s list of priorities.
‘We have the media team for the optics,’ he said in as calm a voice as he could manage. ‘My main concern is preventing anyone being hurt. You know. For the brand.’
‘Oh, yes, well, of course,’ Peterson blustered. ‘I understand that, of course I do.’
‘Then we’re on the same page.’
‘And you really need all the firearms guys? Surely you have all the family’s guns now?’
Sighing, Ford repeated the point he’d made earlier to Sandy about there being the possibility of further, concealed weapons.
Peterson nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I see. What can I do to be helpful? Shall I call Lady Baverstock and tell her and Stephen to leave the house – you know, give your firearms guys a clear line of fire?’
‘Absolutely not! No!’ Ford took a calming breath. ‘The best thing you can do is’ – a phrase of Peterson’s that Sandy had mimicked earlier came to him – ‘maintain an overwatch role here at Bourne Hill.’
