Land Rites (Detective Ford), Andy Maslen [best way to read ebooks .txt] 📗

Upstairs in the small bedroom Ford had converted to a home office cum music room, he flipped the catches on a battered brown leather case and lifted the lid. There lay his prized 1962 Fender Stratocaster. The red paint was showing its age, but wasn’t everyone? Lou had given it to him as a wedding present.

While he waited for the valves in the amp to warm up, he strummed a few chords with the guitar settled across his knee. He thought back to Sam’s questions. The boy had the makings of a detective, though Ford knew better than to even think of suggesting career choices. Instead, he ran through the lines of enquiry – LOEs – coalescing in his copper’s brain.

Witnesses. A second dog-walker? Earlier on the scene than Polly Evans. Someone who saw the body being dumped. It would have been the middle of the night, though. Had to be. Who’d risk something like that in broad daylight? OK, so an insomniac dog-walker.

The tinny sounds emanating from the unamplified strings deepened and rounded out as the amp kicked in. He played a few old B.B. King blues licks, enjoying the pressure on his fingertips as he bent and released the thin steel strings.

How about motives? Not always the most fruitful LOE. As JJ had said, he did know who Tommy was. Narrowing down the pool of potential aggressors meant acknowledging its sheer size in the first place. Forensics could be the best route forward for now. And the search. He turned his attention to the nature of the cover-up.

People killed each other all the time. Sad but true. But they often panicked afterwards. They’d leave the body in full view. Run away, tracking perfect bloody footprints that led right back to the crime scene. Tell people. Even boast about it in the pub or, bafflingly, online.

But not this guy. And Ford knew he was looking for a man. He’d taken Tommy somewhere quiet. And he’d butchered him. Calmly, efficiently. Rendering a human body into more manageable pieces.

He played the introduction to ‘Cold Weather Blues’ by Muddy Waters. ‘Cold’ just about summed it up. What kind of man would have the mental strength, as well as the physical, to dismember a human body?

‘You’re a cold-blooded bastard,’ he said to the empty room as he ended the song. ‘And I’m going to find you.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Grateful that the autopsy was taking place in the morning and not after lunch, Ford looked around the forensic post-mortem suite. He’d taken up position at the head end of the stainless-steel dissection table. Georgina Eustace stood opposite him. They’d known each other for ten years. During that time, they’d become good friends. She’d supported him when Lou died; he’d helped her through her divorce. They’d even shared a drunken kiss at Sandy’s New Year’s Eve party the previous year. Nothing had come of it, but she did allow him to call her George at work. Everyone else stuck to Dr Eustace, or Doc.

As well as Ford and George, the brightly lit space had room for Pete the mortician, who also drummed in Ford’s band; a photographer; the coroner’s officer; and Hannah, Jools and Olly.

Today, a teal cap obscured George’s silver bob. A hinged transparent visor took the shimmer out of her vivid blue eyes. Mask, gown, white rubberised apron, wellingtons and two pairs of rubber gloves completed her professional garb. She looked at Ford, and he nodded.

‘Right,’ she said briskly, ceasing her humming along to the Mozart playing softly in the background. ‘Let’s begin, shall we?’

She pulled the sheet back from the pieced-together body to a few stifled gasps.

Ford turned his gaze to the body. He felt no disgust. No horror. Instead, a profound sense of curiosity. Reassembled by Pete, Tommy was asking him questions. Who killed me? Why did they kill me?

George turned to Pete, who was waiting patiently. ‘PM40, please.’

He handed her a long-handled scalpel fitted with a large blade, curved on its cutting edge. Using it as a pointer, she gestured to the left side of the head.

‘Look at this.’

Ford noticed the way Olly and Jools were trying to follow George’s instruction without looking at the grotesque parody of a human face.

‘There is a great deal of clotted blood in the acoustic meatus,’ George said, touching the scalpel tip to the ear hole. ‘The tragus and concha have suffered some form of trauma,’ she added, gesturing this time to the ridges on the left and right of the opening.

‘What could have caused them?’ Jools asked.

In the slender area of exposed skin between her cap and mask, Ford saw George’s eyes widen. ‘I should have thought just about anything, DC Harper. A cricket stump whacked in with a mallet. A tent peg. A butcher’s steel. Something with a circular cross section, rather than a blade.’

Ford leaned towards Olly as George went back to her description for the digital recorder. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open. You can learn a lot in the mortuary, and Doc Eustace is a good teacher,’ he whispered.

He stopped, aware that people were looking at him.

‘Something you need to share with the group, DI Ford?’ George asked him pointedly, her scalpel poised over the corpse’s face.

Sniggers.

‘Sorry, Doctor Eustace.’

‘Hmm,’ she sniffed, though he saw her eyes twinkling above her mask. ‘Please note the extreme exophthalmos, or proptosis. Bulging eyes, in layperson’s terms.’ The scalpel tip hovered over the left eyeball.

Ford noticed Jools wince. Not Hannah, though. She leaned forward, watching avidly.

‘This could be caused by a thyroid problem,’ George said. ‘However, I notice petechial haemorrhaging on the sclera. See? These scarlet marks on the whites?’

‘Aren’t they usually caused by choking, Doctor? Could that be the cause of death?’ Olly asked.

‘Usually, yes. A point for you, DC Cable. But in this specific instance, I think not.’ She held out her right hand, palm upwards. ‘Magnifier, please.’

Pete handed her a large plastic magnifying glass, which she placed close to the right eye. She straightened and handed it back.

‘As I