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

Jan nodded and made a note.

‘Everyone else, I want you up at the hospital. I want you to find anyone and everyone who knew Angie. What was she like? Who did she pal around with? Any difficulties with patients, or their relatives? You know the drill.’

‘What are you doing, Henry?’ Jan asked him.

‘I’m up there, too. I want to know more about blood.’

After the nightmare, he hadn’t been able to sleep, so he’d gone online and found SDH’s Haematology Department and its head of service, Charles Abbott.

As soon as the meeting closed, he called the hospital and found his way to Charles Abbott’s secretary.

‘He’s extremely busy, Inspector. His list is absolutely crammed as it is. Can’t this wait? I’m sure we could slot you in later this week.’

‘Someone murdered a nurse at your hospital. I am the lead investigator,’ he said. ‘So I’m afraid it can’t wait. If you could slot me in any time this morning, that would be perfect.’

At 9.28 a.m. he knocked on Charles Abbott’s office door.

‘Come!’

That single syllable set his hackles rising.

The broad-shouldered man behind the desk radiated power and confidence. His office was a stage, set for its leading man. The wall behind him groaned under the weight of framed medical diplomas and photographs of their holder in evening dress beside minor royalty, the city’s mayor in full regalia and a couple of locally based TV and film actors. A type Ford had met before. And never liked.

Abbott stood and offered his hand, smiling. They shook, briefly, and he gestured to the chair facing him.

‘Please, take a seat.’

Despite the heat, Abbott wore a crisp pink shirt and navy tie. An expensive-looking suit jacket swung on a hanger from a wooden coat-rack in a corner. Sunlight streaming in through a large south-facing window gilded his tanned skin. An arrow-straight parting revealed white scalp beneath his short brown hair. Ford caught a whiff of expensive aftershave.

‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Dr Abbott,’ Ford said.

Abbott’s lips compressed into a thin, disapproving line. ‘Justine tells me you gave her little choice but to comply,’ he said. ‘Before we go any further, and forgive me for being pompous, but might you accord me the respect to which my position as a consultant entitles me?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I am a “Mr” as in Mr Abbott. Not “Dr”. That’s for my less successful colleagues and the pill-pusher you visit when you have a sore throat or whatever. I’m sorry to insist, but I worked hard to reach my position, as I’m sure you did.’

Ford smiled. Breathed in, softly, and out again. ‘Pompous’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

‘My apologies, Mr Abbott.’

‘Thank you.’ Abbott checked his watch, a chunky gold number that Ford suspected was a Rolex. ‘Now, please be brief, Inspector. I have patients who depend on me, rounds, and so forth.’

‘What can you tell me about blood?’

Abbott frowned. ‘That’s a rather . . .’ he paused, ‘unfocused question. I have spent the last twenty-seven years studying blood in all its many and varied forms, and the diseases that affect it, particularly cancers. I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific.’

‘I am investigating the murder of a nurse who worked here. You may have read about it on the Salisbury Journal website.’

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t. I take the Telegraph for news. Old-fashioned, I know, in this digital age, but there we are,’ he said, spreading his hands wide.

Ford forced himself to stay calm. ‘She was exsanguinated. Bled out.’

‘Yes, yes, I know my Latin.’

‘We are working on the assumption that blood is significant to the killer, and I want – I would like – to know what blood might mean to him. Or her.’

Abbott’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What it might mean? Oh, for heaven’s sake. I thought you were coming here to access my scientific knowledge. Not waste time discussing psychology.’

Ford’s initial dislike of the man sitting opposite him had mutated into a deeper feeling: a sense that this alpha male was using his power to intimidate him. Or to hide something.

‘Isn’t psychology scientific?’ Ford asked, clenching and unclenching his fist in his lap.

Abbott snorted. ‘I am a medical man, Inspector. I look, rather as I imagine you do, at the evidence. Are these red blood cells sickle-shaped? Is this patient’s blood deficient in clotting factors? Why is this patient’s haemoglobin level so low? Facts, do you see? Not fancies.’

Ford nodding, feeling as if he were the one being interviewed, and not the other way around.

He decided to try one more time. ‘Is there anything you can tell me that might help our investigation? Anything at all?’

Abbott sighed and looked at the ceiling. ‘In history, blood has been associated with three principal forces. First, rather obviously, life. Second, the soul. Third, heat – from the Greek haema, meaning “hot” or “incandescent”,’ he said, in a professorial tone. ‘If you force me to venture into psychology – and, may I add, I feel extremely uncomfortable doing so – I should imagine your killer believed he was somehow releasing his victim’s life-force.’

Ford caught Abbott’s suppressed shudder as he spoke the last word. What was that? Discomfort at being forced to use psychobabble, or disdain for the murder victim?

Ford nodded, writing up the insight on his mental whiteboard. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Though he would have preferred something less nebulous.

‘Thank you. Before I go, I’d like a list of everyone who works in this department, please. From nurses up to consultants.’

Abbott steepled his fingers in front of his face. ‘I’m sure you would.’

‘Shall I ask your secretary?’

‘You can ask her, but I’m afraid she won’t be able to help you. Not without a warrant.’ Abbott smiled ruefully. ‘I’d love to help, Inspector, really I would. But it’s these damned privacy regulations. GDPR: ever hear of it?’

‘General Data Protection Regulations.’

‘Then you see the bind I’m in,’ Abbott said.

Ford decided he’d had enough of this supercilious consultant. My gut never lies to me, Abbott. I don’t like