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

realised, but across – into those pleading eyes. Saw in them how badly Sam wanted to fit in. Not to be forever consigned to the role of ‘boy whose mum died’. Ford felt the rope that connected them loosening. Maybe he could play this one out gently, and avoid disaster. He sighed. Prayed.

‘OK.’

Sam swiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘I can go?’

Ford nodded, feeling, if it were possible, simultaneous surges of anxiety and relief. ‘I’ll sign the form and write the cheque.’

Now Sam did hug his dad, so tightly Ford gasped as the breath left his lungs. ‘Whoa! Too tight!’

Sam ignored him and squeezed harder. ‘Thanks, Dad. I’ll be careful, OK? You don’t need to worry.’

‘I know, mate. I know. Now let me go, you big lummox. I’ve got a ton of paperwork to get through and those reports won’t write themselves, you know.’

As an attempt at levity it flopped, but Ford’s bruised psyche couldn’t manage anything better. The form for the trip would be merely the first in a long list of documents he still had to deal with that evening.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Knowing that Sam spent most Saturdays hanging out with his mates, Ford set off for Islington to see Ruth Long. He put Live at the Regal, B.B. King’s finest album, on repeat and pointed the Discovery towards London. The drive up the M3 gave him ample time to think. The case loomed large, but so did a side issue. Who had told JJ about Ford interviewing the Baverstocks?

The chief suspect in Ford’s mind was Martin Peterson. The PCC was well connected and loved to boast of his high-society acquaintances, even though Ford suspected half the time those acquaintances would hardly recognise him.

Could there be someone on his own team passing titbits to JJ? What would they get out of it? The answer was horribly obvious. People like JJ understood two currencies. Cash. And fear. Either he had a hold over someone, or he was paying them. Or both.

So who’d be willing to sell a little of their integrity to a man like JJ Bolter? Or, to put it another way, who needed money right now? Someone with unexpected legal bills and looming child support payments, perhaps? Oh, Jesus, please not Mick.

The trouble with insights like that one was that, much like genies, they were hard to stuff back into their bottle. They were out and demanding attention.

But so was the satnav: ‘Turn left on to Cloudesley Street, then you have reached your destination.’

He made the turn into a wide avenue of alternating lime trees and Japanese cherries, the latter’s soft pink blossom lying in drifts against the tyres of the parked cars. Every spot at the kerb was occupied and Ford had to leave the Discovery a few streets away, beneath a London plane tree with its camouflage bark of ivory, sage, khaki and rust.

Walking to the house, he admired the assorted high-end wheels. A scarlet Ferrari outside the Longs’ house stood out from the mass of silver, black and grey, like a prom queen at a funeral.

The wrought-iron gate opened with a screech. Ford frowned. He’d imagined people like this would be more house-proud. Or have people who’d be house-proud for them while they went out to work in banks, social media companies or advertising agencies. The terracotta window boxes of plum-red geraniums went some way to dispelling the image of genteel shabbiness.

Ford thumbed the bell push, inhaled and exhaled. Tried to ease his neck inside the buttoned-up shirt collar. The door opened. His pulse raced. A chill flickered through him, then passed like a summer storm.

The slender figure who stood framed in the doorway did not match his expectations. He’d been picturing a woman who’d look comfortable behind the wheel of the low-slung sports car parked just a few feet away. A coiffed and Botoxed lady-who-lunches, dripping with bling and designer labels.

Ruth Long looked perfectly ordinary. A slim, narrow-hipped figure, accentuated by a beige woollen dress belted at the waist. Grey hair scraped back from an oval face devoid of make-up. Brown eyes above bruised-looking bags.

‘Mrs Long?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. Are you from the police? Have you found Owen?’ Her voice trembled. ‘Is he all right? He went down to Salisbury over a week ago now. We think he must have been taken in by students or his fellow activists.’ Her lips formed into a tremulous smile. ‘Owen’s like that, a real shepherd to his new flock. People love him. They all do. I don’t think he knows he has that effect on them. Especially the young ones—’

Seeing no possibility of a gap, Ford interrupted, showing her his ID. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Ford. I’m with Wiltshire Police. I’m based in Salisbury. May I come in?’

She nodded and turned, leading him into a living room furnished comfortably with cloth-upholstered sofas. No TV, he noticed.

She gestured with a limp hand to the sofa facing the window, then sank into its companion’s saggy embrace. ‘Where is he? Why didn’t you bring him in from your car? I assume you have a car, don’t you?’

Her eyes were caffeine-bright. They ranged around the room as she spoke, as if she might find her husband perched high on one of the groaning bookshelves, or the frame of one of the modern art prints jostling for space on the walls. Her bony fingers knotted round each other.

‘Mrs Long, I’m investigating a murder and we’ve found a body that we believe may be that of your husband,’ he said. ‘It’s not definite, but I want you to prepare yourself for the worst. I’m here to ask you if you’d come back to Salisbury to help us make an identification.’

She frowned. Then she smiled. ‘You must be mistaken. Owen isn’t dead.’

Ford had seen it happen before. The brain would play all sorts of tricks to prevent the message getting through. It was a tasteless joke. A case of mistaken identity. A reality TV show prank. Anything, anything at all, but the cold,