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

an MO: talk his way inside, bludgeon, throttle and exsanguinate. We have a signature: the numbers.’

‘Yes. The numbers.’

‘What do you think they mean?’

‘We’ve covered 666, although, as I said, it’s a misconception that it’s the number of the beast. But in any case, I think the biblical angle is too obvious. Too clichéd. As to 500, it could be the Indianapolis 500. You know?’

‘The road race.’

She nodded. ‘Or cars. The Fiat 500. Or lots in the US made by Ford. Henry Ford!’ She grinned. ‘The Ford Five Hundred, the Galaxie 500 and the Custom 500, to name just three. It’s also a web status code for internal server error.’

‘Or “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by The Proclaimers.’

‘Who?’

‘The Scottish band. The geeky-looking guys with glasses?’ Ford tried a few lines of the song.

Hannah stared at him blankly. ‘You’re not a very good singer,’ she said when he petered out.

‘True. Although I play a mean blues guitar.’

‘Really? When?’

He shrugged and sighed. ‘Whenever I can. Me and a few guys from the station started a band a few years ago. We’re called Blues and Twos. There’s me on guitar. Alec Reid plays bass and sings. A DS from the drugs squad plays piano and Georgina Eustace’s mortician, Pete, plays drums. We’ve done a couple of gigs up at the Wyndham Arms.’

‘That is very cool. Tell me when you’re next playing somewhere. I’d like to come. Where’s your guitar?’

‘D’you want to see it?’

‘I’d love to! Yes, please.’

He got to his feet. ‘Wait there.’

He returned a minute later with a battered brown leather case. He laid it on the floor, popped the four brass catches and opened the lid. The electric guitar within gleamed in the light, though its cherry-red finish had faded and its surface bore scars, scuffs and chips. In some places, hard use had worn the thin skin of paint through to the bare wood so that the grain was visible.

‘What make of guitar is that?’ she asked.

‘Fender Stratocaster – 1962. Ash body, maple neck, rosewood fingerboard. The colour’s Fiesta Red.’ He paused. In his mind’s eye, he saw the case encircled by a huge silver ribbon. It was his birthday. Lou was laughing as he unwrapped it. ‘My wife gave it to me.’

‘Can I hold it?’ she asked, reaching out both hands.

He hesitated, just for a second, before handing it to her. ‘Careful. It’s vintage.’

He watched as she settled the guitar on her knee and plucked at the strings.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Yuk!’

Ford laughed. ‘Well, of course “yuk”. You need to play a chord.’

‘Teach me one.’

Ford reached forward and took the tip of her index finger between his own finger and thumb. She flinched at the contact, then relaxed as he placed the tip on one of the strings.

He pointed at her middle and ring fingers.

‘Put that one there, and that one, no, not there – there, yes! Now strum it. Gently.’

She drew the pad of her thumb across the strings and smiled as the guitar emitted a soft, musical sound.

‘What is it?’

‘E major. The start of a million blues songs.’

She handed the guitar back to him. ‘Play one for me.’

He noticed his hand trembling and felt a fluttering in the pit of his stomach. Ignoring both, he began a simple blues shuffle, muting the strings with the palm of his right hand. He sang a few lines quietly, then, as she smiled, built up the volume.

When he finished, with a few little flourishes on the top strings, she clapped loudly.

‘You’re an excellent guitarist. Did you play for your wife when she was alive?’

Ford wiped the neck of the guitar with a soft cloth. He put the guitar back in its case and snapped the catches shut. Something about Hannah made him feel OK talking about things he’d been keeping tamped down ever since . . . it happened.

‘Sometimes. It’s how we met. I was playing in a pub. She came up to me in the break and we got talking.’

‘You’re still mourning her, aren’t you? Even though it’s been six years since she died. Many widowers work through the five stages of grief quicker than that.’

‘You’re very direct, did you know that? Most people try to pretend it never happened. Either that, or they think I should have got over it by now.’

‘Why haven’t you?’

He hesitated. Should he just tell her? This unusually frank young woman with a forensic brain might understand why he did – why he had to do – what he did. And how it had affected him ever since. No. Not worth the risk. Stick to the story.

‘When Lou died, it fractured everything. I lost faith in the universe for a while.’ Especially since the universe made me choose between leaving her to drown or making Sam an orphan.

‘I don’t think death is fair or unfair. I think it just happens. Your wife died. You didn’t. Tomorrow you might get killed in a car crash. Or I might. Or Sam.’

‘Are you always this blunt, or are you making a special effort just for me?’

Ford meant it as a joke, but Hannah frowned and her eyes darted towards the door. Her lips parted, as if she was about to speak. Then she clamped them together again. She looked straight at him, and he felt as though he was being evaluated. Tested against some criterion only she knew about. The muscles in her face relaxed again.

‘It’s my Asperger’s,’ she said, her face impassive.

Now he understood. The foreigner-in-a-strange-country vibe he picked up at their first meeting. Her precise way with numbers and dates. Her lack of a filter. He felt pleased she trusted him enough to share this part of herself with him.

‘Is that why you frowned when I said our killer was on the intelligent end of the spectrum?’ he asked gently.

She nodded. ‘I thought you were making fun of me.’

‘But you hadn’t told me then.’

‘I thought you could tell. I know some people think I come across as odd.’

He smiled. ‘Listen, for a CSI, believe me, you are way