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

did, really,’ she said. ‘We were down at the stream back there. Suddenly, Murphy zoomed across the stream and ran off to the hedge there.’ She pointed at the tent. ‘He was tugging at something. Then he just pulled and it came out and it was’ – she shuddered – ‘a hand. Well, most of one, anyway.’

‘And when you were walking Murphy, did you see anyone else?’

She sipped the coffee then shook her head. ‘No. Not a soul. Sometimes I do. This route is popular with dog-walkers. I mean, the countryside’s so beautiful, isn’t it? But no. Not today.’

Her tone suggested she wasn’t avoiding responsibility or trying to please. She knew what she’d seen and what she hadn’t, and was unafraid to state it plainly.

‘I’d like you to make a formal statement. One of these officers can take it from you,’ he said. ‘We could do it here, or at home if that would be more comfortable for you.’

Polly opted to do it at home. Leaving her with a uniform, Ford walked towards the knot of CSIs. He saw a familiar face, or its top half, above a surgical mask. China-blue eyes met his own. Dr Hannah Fellowes, the deputy chief forensics officer.

Hannah would take him to view the body part: confronting him once more with the physical reality of violent death. And it would start. The whole unpleasantly satisfying process of entering the mind of a murderer and feeling that sense of connection that existed between all who’d taken another life.

In her first week at Bourne Hill station, Hannah had pushed him on why he hadn’t moved past Lou’s death. He’d avoided giving a straight answer. But sometimes he caught her looking at him, head cocked to one side, as if studying for clues. He hated that feeling of scrutiny, even though he respected her as a colleague and enjoyed their blossoming friendship.

He joined her and said, ‘Morning, Hannah.’

‘Good morning, Henry. Guess what?’

‘What?’

She pulled her mask down and smiled, curving two dimples into her cheeks. ‘I have a nickname.’

‘Really? Congratulations. Am I permitted to know what it is?’

She frowned. ‘Of course! Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to use it. It’s Wix. Which is short for Wikipedia. Because I know a lot about a great many subjects,’ she added.

Ford smiled. Among the quirks that had spurred his affection was Hannah’s fascination with nicknames. When still new at Bourne Hill, she’d learned that his – Henry – came from the founder of the car company. In response, she’d researched an array of facts, from sales of the Ford Mondeo to the date the company had been founded.

He’d thought her Asperger’s might make her shy or stand-offish, but Hannah was the opposite. She was good company. No-filter company, but good, nonetheless.

‘What have we got?’

‘Come with me and I’ll show you,’ she said, resettling her mask.

He followed her. Breathing deeply. Aware of all that was to come.

CHAPTER THREE

Ruth Long didn’t consider herself an anxious woman. In general she was content to let life unfold at its own pace. Plenty of time to react to the present, without worrying over a future that might never happen. But when her husband, Owen, hadn’t returned from his planned two-day trip after three days, which turned into five once she checked her diary, she felt the flutterings in her belly that used to accompany her performances with the Royal Ballet.

She put on some shoes and left the house, not bothering to double-lock the door, and hurried towards the police station on Tolpuddle Street.

The young uniformed officer on the front desk looked up and smiled. She noticed a spot on his chin, which was largely devoid of stubble, and wondered if they’d lowered the minimum age.

‘Yes, madam?’ he said in a pleasant, helpful tone.

On the walk to the station, she’d had time to marshal her thoughts. She’d rehearsed a short statement she felt would deliver the most information in the fewest words. She cleared her throat and straightened her back.

‘My husband is missing. He’s seventy, vulnerable, and I think he may have been hurt. I haven’t heard from him in five days, and that has never happened before.’

The officer nodded. ‘When and where did you last see him?’

‘Don’t you want to take notes?’ she asked.

‘Let’s just talk through the basics first,’ he said with a smile she felt was bordering on patronising.

She bit back the urge to tell him he should be taking her more seriously. ‘He left five days ago. From our house on Cloudesley Street.’

‘And he’s seventy?’

‘Yes,’ she said, unable to tamp down her fear, which was making her irritable. ‘As I just said.’

Now he did reach for a notebook. Somehow the action bothered her more than his little smile a moment ago. She felt her pulse racing.

‘What’s his name, please?’

‘Owen Long.’

‘When exactly did he leave your house?’

‘On Wednesday, April the twenty-eighth. Just before nine a.m.’

‘On foot? In a car?’

‘In the car. A Toyota Prius. It’s more environmentally friendly,’ she added, immediately wondering whether he cared.

Ruth felt a lump in her throat. Sharp-edged, like a flint. She swallowed, felt tears, hard as gravel, trapped beneath her eyelids. She became aware of voices behind her. Tutting. She turned to see a young couple eyeing her suspiciously as though she were there to commit a crime instead of report a missing person.

With a smile, the young officer directed her to a row of plastic chairs. ‘I’ll get someone to come and talk to you. Get a few more details about Owen.’

Sniffing, not trusting herself to speak, she moved away from the counter and took one of the chairs. It was hard under her behind and she shuffled around, trying to get comfortable. Five minutes later, a fortyish man in a grey suit emerged from a door and came over to her.

‘Mrs Long?’ She nodded. ‘I’m Detective Constable Wallace. Do you want to come with me?’

He led her through the door and into a small room furnished with a blue two-seater sofa and a matching armchair. He