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

Mick nodded. ‘Who’s costing me a bloody fortune, by the way. The leech is bleeding me dry, and that’s before I start paying Kirsty child support.’

‘Look, try to stay focused, but talk to me, yes?’

‘I will. I’ve got to go.’

Alone in his office, Ford watched Mick’s progress through Major Crimes, phone clamped to his ear. Poor sod. Thoughts of his years with Lou shouldered their way into his consciousness.

Theirs had been a strong marriage. Everybody said so. She’d never lost patience with his long hours or sudden departures midway through movies or dinners out. She’d smile resignedly and kiss him on the cheek – distractedly, if she was interested in the film. Not strong enough to save her life, though, was it? And nor was he. He shoved the thought down.

Jools burst through the door, waving a couple of sheets of paper. ‘I think I’ve got him, guv! Pond Man.’ She thrust the printout into his outstretched hand.

Ford scanned the top sheet. ‘I’ll go and see her tomorrow. Thanks, Jools.’

He called the inter-force liaison officer at the Met to let them know a colleague from Wiltshire would be on their turf, then headed for the stairs. He reached for his phone, intending to recall Olly from his tattoo-parlour canvass. Then he stayed his hand. Spending some time wearing out shoe leather would do Olly good.

Jools scanned the list of ammunition buyers she’d just received from the sales guy at Berret & Sartain. He’d sorted them alphabetically, for which she mentally thanked him. The list contained seventy-one names, all but one of which were men’s. She realised she’d had no idea of the extent of hunting in Wiltshire.

She cut and pasted the list into a spreadsheet. Added Mick’s list of meat-trade workers. Scanned down the two columns, looking for a match. Her eyes fixed on a pair at the top of the list. Virtually identical. The others faded away as her pulse ticked up a notch.

QUALIFIED BUTCHERS

AMMUNITION BUYERS

. . .                  . . .

ADLAM, Thomas W.     ADLAM, Tom

. . .                  . . .

She stood and crossed Major Crimes to the murder wall for the Tommy Bolter and Pond Man deaths. Tom Adlam had discovered Pond Man on his farm. Had to be the same man. A line from a lecture at police college came back to her: Murderers, especially psychopaths, will often involve themselves in the subsequent investigation, partly to monitor police progress, but also for the thrill they derive from being ‘seen, yet unseen’.

Back at her desk, she scrolled through the rest of the list. Relief ran through her as she found no more matches. She closed Mick’s list and pulled up the membership lists of the two Royal Colleges, of surgeons and pathologists. Neither had a match to the ammunition list.

She grabbed her car keys.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jools inhaled. The farmhouse kitchen smelled wonderful. Two loaves of bread with pale ellipses slashed into their chocolate-brown tops were cooling on a wire rack beside an Aga.

Facing her across a scrubbed pine table that glowed with years of hard use sat Tom Adlam and his wife, Clare. His wiry frame contrasted with her more rounded one. The Adlams’ weather-beaten faces spoke of long days outside.

Jools opened her notebook. Smiled. Looked at each partner in the marriage, and the farm, in turn.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. ‘Finding a body on your land must have been a shock.’

Tom Adlam nodded. ‘Can’t say it didn’t upset me. You see dead wildlife all the time. You get used to the smell. But not’ – he looked down at the steaming surface of his tea – ‘not a man.’

Jools offered him a sympathetic glance, brow furrowed to show him she took him seriously.

‘What did you want to talk to Tom about?’ Clare asked, covering her husband’s hand with hers. ‘He’s incredibly busy at this time of year. He’s already given a statement to a uniformed officer.’

She made ‘uniformed’ sound like it meant ‘real’. Did Jools’s plain clothes count against her? Or was it her gender? Women could be just as sexist as men. Especially in a rural county like Wiltshire. She smiled again. Harder.

‘Have you always been a farmer?’ she asked Tom.

‘Man and boy. Why?’

‘No other trade when you were younger?’

‘I’ve been working on the farm my whole life. Left school, went to Sparsholt College to study agriculture. Then here full-time.’

Jools made a note. More for effect than to record his answer. She hadn’t got to her real question yet. Now she saw a way in.

‘Did you study butchery at Sparsholt?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Did you get a good grade?’

‘I can’t remember. I know I passed, ’cause I’ve got the certificate up in the farm shop.’

‘But you learned all the skills?’

Jools observed him closely. Looking for a sign he was hiding something. The twitch of an eye muscle would be enough for her.

‘I can handle a knife, yes. Look, what’s this all about? I thought you were here about that drowned bloke.’

‘Actually, he didn’t drown. Someone shot him.’

‘All right, that shot bloke, then.’

‘Do you own any guns, Mr Adlam?’ She made it sound so innocent. As if she were merely asking whether he owned any floor mops.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Clare said sharply. ‘Why are you asking him if he owns any guns? And about his butchery qualification? Surely you don’t think he had anything to do with that poor man being murdered? Tom found him, for God’s sake.’

Jools smiled sweetly. Ask questions, make proposals. Stay in control. ‘Mr Adlam?’

‘I’m a farmer, aren’t I?’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘I’ve got a 12-gauge shotgun, a .308 rifle and a .22 for pests.’

Jools registered the uptick in her pulse, but maintained the calm exterior of a merely curious police officer. ‘And they’re all licensed.’

‘Do you want to see my certificate?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

He shoved his chair back, scraping the unprotected feet across the slate tiles with a loud screech. Jools jotted a couple of notes, then took a sip of her tea. She smiled at Clare Adlam, whose own mouth had tightened into