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

a detective, Ford had learned that sometimes the most unlikely things were simply a truth he hadn’t come across yet. He walked on.

At the briefing, thirty minutes later, he shared his latest insights.

‘So he was making a nuisance of himself and someone lost it,’ Mick said, folding his arms.

‘A nuisance?’ Olly echoed. ‘I know you find anyone with progressive views beyond redemption, Mick. But surely even you can see it’s a bit of a stretch to murder someone because they’re trying to save the planet?’

His face flushing, Mick leaned towards Olly and jabbed a finger at him. ‘Even me? What, you mean thicko Detective Sergeant Mick Tanner, with his knuckles dragging on the ground? As opposed to Detective Constable Oliver Cable, with his degree in criminology and a broomstick up his arse?’

Ford stepped in quickly. ‘That’s enough! Olly, show some respect. Mick, calm down.’

Both men glared at him and then at each other. The rest had all found fascinating things to read in their notebooks.

‘Do you want me to run a search on the NCA missing persons database, guv?’ Jools asked.

Ford nodded. ‘I saw the owner of Inkerman just now,’ he said. ‘He was certain it wasn’t their work, but that leaves a few other places who might recognise it. Olly, visit them all and show them the picture. If we find the artist, we find Pond Man’s identity.’

‘Yes, guv,’ Olly said sullenly.

‘Mick, any news on those butchers you were tracing?’

Chest rising and falling visibly, Mick nodded and looked down at his notebook. ‘We finished all the interviews. Of the original forty-three, we’ve got twenty-five males with their own place. Nobody got even a whiff of a wrong ’un from any of them.’

‘How about alibis?’

‘Still checking.’

‘All right. Thanks Mick, nice work.’ He turned back to the semicircle of expectant faces. ‘Let’s hope someone reported Pond Man as a MISPER so Jools gets a quick ID.’

Jools watched Ford striding to his office, Mick dogging his steps, his lower jaw jutting. She turned back to her monitor and jiggled the mouse to wake her creaking PC out of its slumber. Once the monitor flickered into life, she opened the police search screen on the NCA missing persons database. If any one of the UK’s forty-five police forces had reported a missing person, the National Crime Agency would have it.

She entered Pond Man’s details and hit the dark blue ‘Search’ button, sat back and waited. A few seconds later the screen refreshed. She stared at it, unwilling to believe her luck. A single hit, for which she was sure the Gaia tattoo was responsible.

Owen Long. A white male, reported missing by his wife four days earlier. Aged seventy. With a tattoo of a female figure. The notes screen, searchable only by the police, contained the clincher: Tattoo is of ‘Gaia’ – naked green female, globe/planet earth in her lap.

The file included a full-face photo of Long. And although submersion in water had swollen the dead man’s features, the resemblance was clear enough for Jools to be confident she’d come face to face with Pond Man.

She hit ‘Print’, then clicked away to a new screen and pulled up the reporting person’s contact details.

Ford leaned back against the edge of his desk, hands beside him. ‘Close the door, Mick.’

Mick complied, then came to stand in front of Ford, rubbing his hand over the bristles on his scalp. In the quiet of the office, Ford could hear them scratching under Mick’s palm.

‘What’s going on?’ Ford asked.

‘What, because of that business with Olly? He’s just an arsey burger-flipper. They’re all the same: McDonald’s on a Friday, DC by Monday. They work a single domestic homicide where the husband confesses by teatime, and suddenly they’re International Murder Detective.’

‘I agree, he can be a pain. And he was out of line. But you completely overreacted. What’s up? You’ve been late to work a couple of times recently. And you’ve lost the edge off your dress sense, too.’

Mick shrugged. ‘It’s just work. Two murders. I just let myself go a bit.’ But he couldn’t maintain eye contact. And he’d folded his arms across his chest. The message blared out. Keep off!

Ford didn’t. ‘Who was that bending your ear on the phone the other day? Kirsty?’

Mick nodded. Said nothing. Ford had a flash of insight. Cop marriages had one of the worst breakdown rates.

‘You two OK?’ Ford asked.

Mick unfolded his arms long enough to rub his scalp again. He looked out of the window. Up at the ceiling. Down at the floor. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

‘She wants a divorce,’ he mumbled.

Ford knew better than to ask questions when people were just opening up. Silence often prompted more talk. He kept quiet.

‘Eleven years we’ve been married,’ Mick said in a complaining tone. ‘And now she’s decided to give me aggro about ignoring her. All because I forgot our wedding anniversary. She knew what I did for a living when I proposed to her.’ He hesitated. ‘I said we should try counselling. And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll kill you.’

Ford couldn’t help smiling. Even in this moment of heightened emotion, Mick needed to preserve his macho reputation.

‘What did she say?’

‘She agreed. So we go along and Kirsty basically dives straight in, telling the therapist about what a shit husband I am,’ Mick said. ‘I try to argue and the bloody cow with the clipboard and the purple dungarees tells me to give Kirsty her space. Then we come out, after I’ve paid, and Kirsty goes, “There! Happy now? I’ve got a lawyer. I suggest you do the same.”’

‘Are you still at home?’

Mick shook his head. ‘Renting a flat. A bloody one-bedroom flat!’

‘What about Evie and Caitlin?’

‘I’m seeing them on Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings. And we’ve got bloody WhatsApp. But it’s not the same, is it?’

‘No. It’s not. If you need compassionate leave, I can do that for you. Or just time off to talk to your