Land Rites (Detective Ford)

by Andy Maslen

  Peterson nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ll go and speak to Sandy.’

  With that, he hurried off.

  Two hours later, Ford’s phone rang in the middle of a briefing with Sandy and the senior firearms officers.

  ‘Sir, it’s Met traffic control. Just picked up your suspect vehicle, black Bentley Continental GT, index number Charlie One Seven Seven Papa Romeo Foxtrot. M3 westbound, Junction One.’

  Ford checked his watch: 12.45 p.m. – right on schedule. Traffic permitting, Lord Baverstock would be leaving the motorway on the A303 at 1.15 p.m.

  He called Jan to update her. Yes, she was qualified as a POLSA, but she was also an experienced DS and had taken part in plenty of dynamic arrests. She was his link to the team on Baverstock.

  Ten minutes later, at the wheel of the Discovery, he waited for the firearms team to climb into their unmarked BMW X5 SUVs. Behind him, the other members of the arrest teams sat in pool cars, all in anonymous shades of grey, blue and silver, plus marked Skodas and a couple of transit vans.

  With a roaring of a dozen or more high-performance engines, the convoy peeled out from Bourne Hill car park, headed north towards Stockbridge and west towards Alverchalke Manor.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Gordon Richen had designated colours to each side of the house to avoid confusion regarding different directions. Nobody wanted to be running right instead of left. And colours were easier to remember than compass points in a ‘kinetic’ situation.

  Ford watched him give orders in crisp language shorn of all ornamentation: ‘Cover the four sides: yellow, blue, red, white. Radio when you’re in position and eyes on. Go.’

  In crouching runs, black rifles held diagonally across their bodies, the AFOs took up positions around the perimeter of Alverchalke Manor, their dun-coloured rural camouflage blending into the background vegetation of shrubs and trees.

  Minutes later, Richen’s radio crackled into life.

  ‘Yellow team. Eyes on.’

  ‘Red. Eyes on.’

  ‘White. Eyes on.’

  ‘Blue. Eyes on.’

  Richen lowered his binoculars and turned to Ford. ‘We’re on. I’ve got the other four covering the access road to the south and the main drive. If she rabbits, they’ll go for the tyres. Failing that, we’ve got roadblocks set up at the gates. It could get messy, though.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t get that far, then.’

  ‘Copy that.’

  Ford walked over to the firearms team’s dog handler. Shorter than Ford by six inches, what he lacked in height he made up for in bulk. Muscle, mostly, though his flak jacket looked snug around his midriff.

  A large, mostly black German shepherd stood erect at the other end of a short length of thick navy webbing. It quivered with excitement, drool spotting the dry earth beneath its jaws.

  As Ford approached, the dog turned its head and growled deep in its throat.

  ‘Quiet, Kessler!’ its handler said sharply.

  The dog stared malevolently at Ford, but the growling ceased.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ the handler said.

  ‘Morning, Johnno. Been a while.’

  Johnno smiled. ‘That business over in Swindon, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. New dog?’ he said, nodding at the slavering beast by Johnno’s side.

  ‘Sheba retired. Kessler’s a right bastard.’

  ‘In a good way?’

  Johnno grinned. ‘For us, yes. Not for the bad guys.’

  Ford had seen Johnno’s previous charge earn her role as a firearms attack dog. Three men tooled up with sawn-offs had attempted to knock over a cash transport van. Two dropped their weapons, the third made a run for it. He got ten yards, thirty stitches and fifteen years.

  ‘Sir, we’re ready to go,’ Richen said from behind him. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll take over from here. Could you wait by your car, please?’

  Ford nodded and returned to his Discovery. Opening the driver’s door, he took up position behind it, a hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun.

  Richen marched to a position fifty feet from the grand front door of the manor house. He held a pistol in his right hand and a loudhailer in his left, which he now brought up to his mouth.

  ‘Lucy Martival! This is the police. Come to the front door and exit the building with your hands on your head. Follow instructions.’

  Ford stared at the front door. Although the grounds immediately surrounding the house were crawling with police, all he could hear was a solitary blackbird warbling its fast-beating heart out.

  Richen tried again. ‘Lucy Martival! Armed police! Come to the front door with your hands on your head. Armed police!’

  Jan was sitting beside a male AFO in a BMW 5 Series. All four teams had plotted up in a lay-by just east of the Junction 3 slip road on the M3. The car reeked of the guy’s aftershave. She’d already sneezed twice and had to explain it away as hay fever.

  The tactical firearms commander – Zulu Control – had parked on the flyover directly above the motorway. He was monitoring the traffic below, ready to give the signal when the black Bentley passed underneath.

  Beside Jan, the black-clad AFO flexed his gloved hands on the steering wheel. Looking at his stubbled cheeks and shaved head, she wondered whether they issued all new members of the firearms teams with a cut-out-and-keep guide to male grooming. In all her years of service, she’d never seen anyone deviate from ‘the look’.

  He turned to her and caught her staring.

  ‘OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Yup.’

  Nine minutes later, the radio crackled. ‘Zulu commander, all units. Target just passed us. Go!’

  Jan gripped the armrest as the driver put his foot down. With a screech from the rear tyres, the car leaped forward. She glimpsed the speedometer as they joined the traffic. They were already doing eighty.

  Twenty minutes later, as they were nearing the exit for the A303 and Salisbury, the radio buzzed into life again. She took her eyes off the rear end of Lord Baverstock’s black Bentley to glance at the screen.

  ‘Zulu Control, all units. Target is indicating left, left, left, confirm.’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Zulu Four.’

  Jan held tight as the unmarked silver BMW swung off the motorway behind the Bentley. She glanced sideways into the door mirror. She saw the other three cars in tight formation, plus the commander’s.

  ‘What do you think?’ Jan asked the driver.

  ‘Skip said he wants to take him on the A303, about five miles further on. If he takes the A30 and heads for Stockbridge, so much the better: it’s a quieter road.’

  She nodded. It made sense. They needed four cars for the hard stop and one to hang back and set its flashers going, to hold up the traffic till they’d completed the arrest. The fewer cars driven by the general public in the vicinity, the lower the risk of something going wrong.

  Lord Baverstock enjoyed driving. The Bentley had been an extravagance when he’d bought her, but that was fifteen years ago and the old girl had more than done her duty. He let the softly padded leather seat cosset him as he headed back to Alverchalke.

  He hummed along to the opera he’d been listening to obsessively for the last week or so, smiling as the soprano created the most unimaginably beautiful sounds. How could a human voice do that? The aria reached its crescendo, and Lord Baverstock felt the pricking of a tear at the unearthly sound.

  He remembered he wanted to ask Coco if she’d managed to get the opera tickets he wanted, and glanced at the touchscreen. He frowned. No signal. Not even one bar! The mobile company called it – with irritating flippancy, he thought – the ‘Wiltshire Banana’. A broad, sweeping crescent where mobile reception was as patchy as the food at his club.

  He yawned. Meeting lawyers, as he had been doing for much of the previous couple of days, always left him tired and bad-tempered. Seized with a need for a coffee, he indicated left for
the services.

  Jan prepared herself for the action just minutes away. Then, in an instant, the plan changed.

  ‘Zulu commander, all units. He’s signalling left, left, left for the services. Do not let him enter! Go now. Go, go!’

  Jan’s pulse accelerated, though not as hard as the car, which lurched forward as the other cars raced up. One overtook; one moved in on the Bentley’s right side.

  In perfect synchrony, the three high-performance cars slowed from sixty to fifty, forty, thirty, then twenty. They boxed in the Bentley, forcing Lord Baverstock to match their speed or hit the car in front.

  Ten.

  Five.

  Stop.

  At the last minute, the fourth pursuit car shot up on the inside of the Bentley and stopped so close the passenger door couldn’t open. Blue smoke from the screeching tyres drifted past them.

  Barely had the BMW’s wheels stopped turning than the two AFOs in the back seat were out of the car. They raced forward, one to the left and one to the right. Up went their rifles. Aimed straight in at Lord Baverstock. She could see pistols and rifles aimed from the stationary cars to left and right.

  Jan watched the AFOs yell their commands in through the glass. She found she could lip-read quite easily. ‘Armed police! Exit the car now! Hands above your head!’

  The AFO aiming in through the driver’s-side window took a step back. Lord Baverstock, white-faced, emerged with his hands clasped on top of his head. A third officer darted in and yanked his hands behind his back before snapping on a pair of Quik-Cuffs.

  As the AFOs frog-marched him to one of the pursuit cars, Lord Baverstock cast a look back at Jan. She saw a look of passivity on his face. No scowling or bared teeth, no rage distorting his features.

  Ford sighed out a breath he’d been holding while Richen called Lucy Martival through the loudhailer. What the hell was she doing? Loading a rifle? Please God, not that. Richen brought the loudhailer to his lips for a third time.

  Then a shout went up from the side of the house designated blue.

  Ford didn’t hear shots, so she’d not left by a side door and opened fire. He only had to wait a few more seconds for an answer.

  With a clatter of hooves, Woodstock burst through the shrubs at the side of the house and galloped across the stone terrace straight towards Ford, Lucy clinging to the reins.

  He just had time to take in the fact that she was riding bareback.

  With a hoarse yelp, Kessler lurched forward. Johnno took a long step to keep his balance, but as Kessler’s weight snapped the leash tight, he came up on to his hind legs so he was taller than his handler. The dog’s ragged barks echoed off the front of the house.

  The stallion swerved and reared, front hooves pawing the air.

  Ford watched, horrified, as Lucy flew up and back, arms windmilling. Screaming, she sailed through the air, a clear ten feet from the ground, before landing on the flagstones with a sickening thump.

  She came to rest on her back with her arms flung wide and one leg bent under her. Ford thought he’d heard the sharp snap of a bone breaking. Richen spoke into his radio, standing down the AFOs.

  Ford ran over to where Lucy lay and pressed two fingers into the soft flesh below her jaw.

  ‘Get an ambulance!’ he yelled.

  Richen jerked his chin at Lucy. ‘Why do they run, Ford? They must know it’s hopeless.’

  ‘I don’t know. A woman like her, facing life behind bars? Losing her reputation, her friends, her status? I’ve seen people run for less.’

  Richen sighed. ‘Me too. Silly cow. I’ve got to go. See you back at Bourne Hill for the debrief?’

  ‘Yeah, see you, Gordon. And thanks.’

  After the ambulance had left, Ford called Sandy and filled her in.

  Her parting words were reassuring. ‘You did it by the book. The accident isn’t on you. There’ll have to be an enquiry but I’ll make sure that’s how my report reads.’

  His phone rang. It was Jan.

  ‘We just arrested him, guv. No shots fired. They’re searching the car now. How did it go your end?’

  Ford told her.

  ‘Bloody hell, guv. I’m sorry. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m OK. Look, when you get him here, do a Route One.’

  He knew she’d think his order odd. Normally, only violent prisoners were whisked straight from the Black Maria along the intake corridor and into a cell, bypassing the usual custody procedures until they were safely locked up.

  ‘He’s not violent, guv. If anything, he looked resigned to his fate.’

  ‘I’m sure he is, but I want him where I can control who he talks to. I don’t want him hearing the news about Lucy from anyone except me.’

  ‘Got it. Anything else? I can see the van pulling in.’

  ‘Are you all right, Jan?’

  ‘Me? I’m fine. You know what these hard stops are like,’ she said. ‘Apart from nearly choking to death on testosterone and Aramis, I just sat in my seat like a good girl while the boys and their toys did what they do.’

  ‘Funny. Got to go. Let me know when you’re five minutes out.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The hospital consultant led Ford to a private room off a corridor.

  ‘I’ll leave you here, then,’ he said. ‘She took a nasty knock to the head and cracked a couple of ribs, and she broke her collarbone, but she’s going to be fine. Not even a concussion. Luck of the devil, I’d say. We’ve given her light sedation, so don’t expect her to make much sense.’

  Ford closed the door behind him. Lucy lay hooked up to drips, monitors and an oxygen line clipped to her nostrils. The light was low, throwing the bright greens and reds of the digital monitoring devices into sharp relief. Ford smelled disinfectant.

  Sitting at the bedside was Coco. She held her stepdaughter’s left hand in hers, patting and stroking it rhythmically. She turned tear-streaked eyes towards Ford. They flared with hatred.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed.

  ‘I came to see how she was doing.’

  ‘Lucy is extremely poorly. The consultant said she could have died.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’

  ‘So you should be! What on earth were you thinking, arriving with all those armed men? If you really felt you had to arrest her, you could have asked to her – oh, what do they say – attend the police station.’

  Ford decided this wasn’t the time to explain the finer points of his arrest strategy. He backed away. ‘As soon as Lucy’s well enough to leave hospital, I’ll be arresting her for murder. In the meantime, I’ll be stationing an officer outside her room.’

  Coco shook her head. She frowned, then half-smiled. To Ford it seemed as though her features couldn’t agree on what sort of expression would fit best.

  ‘Sorry? Murder? Lucy hasn’t killed anyone. And why do you need a guard outside? You don’t think she’s in danger, do you?’

  Ford thought of JJ, and of Rye. Danger was exactly what he thought Lucy was in. ‘Just a precaution.’

  ‘And where is my husband? I’ve been trying to reach him but it just goes to voicemail.’

  ‘We arrested Lord Baverstock this afternoon. Also on suspicion of murder.’

  Her eyes widened until Ford saw white all the way round the irises. ‘You’re insane! You’ve made a terrible mistake. Bumble hasn’t murdered anyone. And neither has Lucy.’

  ‘Coco?’

  Coco turned away from Ford and leaned close to Lucy.

  ‘Oh, my darling, you’re awake! I’m here, Lucy. I’m right here.’

  ‘It’s true. I—’

  ‘No, darling. Don’t try to speak. You’re confused. They gave you some strong painkillers and a sedative. The consultant explained it to me. I’m sure—’

  ‘Please,’ Lucy murmured. Even at the reduced volume, her voice carried a sense of urgency that silenced her stepmother’s pleading.

  Coco got up from her chair and advanced on Ford. She closed the distance betw
een them to a foot. No more.

  ‘Anything she says to you in here won’t be admissible in court, you know that. She’s confused.’

  ‘Just let me talk to her, please.’

  ‘Just go,’ Lucy said, her voice stronger now. ‘I need to talk to him alone.’

  Coco’s lips twitched, and Ford could see her instinct to protect the injured young woman warring with her desire not to upset her. He would have done the same. But in the end, Lucy’s force of personality wore her down. Coco turned on her heel and left, shooting Ford a glance of the purest venom as she closed the door behind her.

  Ford took the chair and drew it closer to the bedside. He took out his phone, started the voice recorder, then placed it on the nightstand.

  Wincing, Lucy rolled her head over so she could look at him.

  ‘I’m sorry you hurt yourself,’ Ford said.

  ‘Silly of me to ride Woody without a saddle. He’s far too headstrong. Then that dog . . .’

  Ford looked into her eyes. He felt an upwelling of pity. If only she’d called the police when she’d shot Owen, instead of her father.

  ‘I’ve seen Owen Long’s video from the day you shot him,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I went and told Daddy. He said to leave everything to him. Then Tommy called me and said he wanted money.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I told Daddy again. He was furious. But he said he’d deal with Tommy. I thought he was going to pay him off.’

  ‘But he didn’t, did he?’

  ‘No,’ she said, and a tear rolled from her left eye. ‘He made me meet Tommy and he, he . . .’ Ford held his breath. He needed her to complete the sentence. ‘He shot him,’ she finished.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He and Joe took him away. They put him in the badger sett.’

  There it was! The leverage he needed to get to Lord Baverstock. Admissible or not – and that was one for the lawyers – she’d just confessed and implicated her father.

  ‘Lucy, why did you run?’

  ‘Tommy’s brother called me.’