Shallow Ground (Detective Ford), Andy Maslen [ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt] 📗

the trail,’ she said. ‘If he’s insane, he may believe he is doing the Devil’s work. Either way, I would focus on hard evidence and try to find someone who had a reason to kill her. It would be unwise to fixate on the supposedly satanic implications unless and until we have a compelling reason.’

Ford nodded. She’d expressed his own feelings. ‘I agree. Too many coppers get an idea in their minds and then they’re unwilling to consider alternatives. You can miss vital pieces of evidence that way, ignore leads, even miss suspects sitting right in front of you.’

She nodded. ‘If you think in a typical fashion, you arrive at typical conclusions. You seem to be different. Have you done any lateral-thinking courses?’

He smiled. ‘No. But my mum used to say I’d never do anything the easy way if there was a different way of doing it. I used to make model aeroplanes but ignore the instructions.’

‘And what were your results like?’

‘Interesting. Not airworthy, but definitely unusual.’

‘Even if you had followed the instructions, they still wouldn’t have been airworthy.’

‘Why not?’

She frowned as if he’d said something stupid. ‘Because they were models.’

‘Good point. I never thought of that before.’

She looked up at the kitchen clock. ‘I should go. I have to feed Uta Frith.’

‘Who, or what, is Uta Frith?’

‘My cat. I named her for the Emeritus professor of cognitive development at UCL Institute of Cognitive Neuroscience. Uta Frith is my hero.’

Wrongfooted yet again, Ford stood. ‘Need a lift home?’

She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I can walk from here. See you at work tomorrow.’ A shy smile. ‘Henry.’

With Hannah gone, Ford went in search of Sam. He always made a point of asking him how his day had gone, even if it was only met with a grunted ‘Fine.’ Hannah’s arrival had skewed their normal routine.

Sam wasn’t in his bedroom. Or the garden, sitting on the old swing and scrolling through his social media. That left only one place. Ford sighed. Sam felt the anniversary of his mother’s death just as keenly as Ford. He just dealt with it differently. Maybe bringing Hannah home wasn’t such a great idea.

Ford walked back to the house and opened a door to the right of the kitchen. It led to the garage. Neon tubes cast an unforgiving glow over the spotless interior. Sam was where Ford had expected to find him, slumped in the red leather driver’s seat of a long, low silver E-Type Jaguar, his long fingers caressing the smooth wood of the steering wheel.

Ford remembered the day Lou’s parents had presented them with the keys. It was two days before their wedding. Lou’s father had made a lot of money in banking and spent a good deal of it building up a small collection of classic sports cars.

‘Dad!’ Lou had said, a huge grin lighting up her suntanned face. ‘You’re not serious?’

Her father smiled as he ushered his daughter into the driver’s seat, closing the door with a soft click once she’d settled behind the wheel.

‘You’ve always loved her. Mummy and I want you to have her.’ He turned to Ford. ‘Get in, then. Take her for a spin, and we’ll have some champagne when you get back.’

Laughing, the wind blowing her hair about her face, Lou drove fast through the Berkshire countryside. And Ford watched his wife-to-be, astounded that she was soon to be his.

Ford ran a finger along the cold, smooth side of the car, its paint unmarked by a single scratch, its chrome reflecting his distorted face so that his eyes drew down into ovals.

‘You OK, mate?’ he asked, opening the passenger door and sitting beside his son.

Sam was staring straight ahead. His eyes glistened in the neon light. ‘Why did she have to ask about Mum?’

Ford laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, but Sam shrugged it off, irritably. ‘Hannah was interested, that’s all. She doesn’t seem to have much of a filter.’

‘You think? Is she, like, on the spectrum, or something?’

‘I don’t know. Would that matter?’

‘Of course not! I said, she’s cool. It’s just—’ Sam heaved a sigh, raising his slender shoulders and letting them slump again.

‘What?’ Ford asked. He knew, though. Knew what was coming.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I’ve told you. Lots of times. And I know you’ve searched for the media reports.’

‘Tell me again!’ Sam snapped, hammering his palm on the steering wheel’s wooden rim.

Avoiding seeing the scene that played out in his nightmares, Ford began his well-rehearsed version of the truth like a witness coached by an exacting brief.

‘We were climbing Pen-y-holt. It was a beautiful day. Your mum’s eyes really shone in that bright sunshine. We were trying a new route and it was harder than we expected. Mum hurt her leg. It happened in a split second. There was nothing I could do. I went for help, but by the time the coastguard arrived it was too late to save her. She drowned.’

‘Why couldn’t you do anything? Why couldn’t you save her, Dad? Tell me the truth for once.’

Ford sighed. ‘If I could have, Sam, don’t you think I would have?’

Sam’s tears were flowing freely now, dripping off the sharp point of his chin on to his lap, creating dark splotches on the denim.

‘You’re lying,’ he said quietly.

‘No, I’m not. Why would you say that?’

‘You always told me Mum was a great climber. She wouldn’t mess up. I know she wouldn’t!’ Sam’s voice cracked on this last word.

Ford’s heart turned over at its frail sound. He replaced his hand, and this time Sam left it there.

‘When does it stop hurting, Dad?’ he said, after a long pause.

‘I don’t know. Maybe it never stops. Maybe it just dulls a little, each passing day.’

DAY THREE, 10.00 A.M.

The specialist forensic post-mortem suite at Salisbury District Hospital shared a basement with two huge incinerators. They were kept busy day and night burning medical waste, from bandages to body parts. It was agreed that the guys tending ‘Vesta’ and ‘Vulcan’ possessed the