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

dropping off her chin on to the table. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

He felt the steel bands round his chest loosen a little – and like a complete jerk.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry . . . Wix. You’re right, I know you are. It’s just . . .’ He sighed. ‘I’ve tried so hard to let him have a normal childhood, even though he lost the person he loved more than anyone else in the world.’

‘That’s you now,’ she said quietly. ‘He told me. He said he wished you could forgive yourself. That’s an unusually mature attitude for an adolescent boy.’

They walked back to Bourne Hill without speaking. Ford hoped he hadn’t wrecked a friendship still at the stage where even a few sharp words could throw it off course.

Ford got back late that evening and Sam had already gone to bed. He’d left the letter from school on the kitchen table, scrawling across the top in untidy handwriting:

Don’t forget about trip permission letter plus cheque.

Ford sighed. He signed the permission form, dug out his chequebook from a kitchen drawer, then stuck the letter and cheque into a crumpled brown envelope.

At breakfast the next day, Ford handed Sam a toasted bagel with butter and Marmite, and a glass of milk. He waited while Sam consumed half the bagel and washed it down. Talking to his adolescent son before he’d eaten in the morning carried a degree of risk. More likely to lead to a tirade than anything approaching civilised conversation.

‘I put your trip letter and the cheque on the hall table,’ he said.

Sam nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d asked Hannah to get those safety statistics for you?’

‘Why d’you think?’

‘I don’t know. It’s why I’m asking.’

‘Because I thought you’d be cross. Like you are.’

‘Yeah, I am cross. And you know why? Because she’s the deputy chief CSI. She’s supposed to be spending her time helping me solve two murders, not acting as your unpaid researcher.’

‘I checked first. She said it was fine.’

‘That’s not the point.’

Sam pounced. ‘What is the point?’

‘The point is, my darling boy, you knew I’d be unhappy, and you went behind my back.’

The remainder of the bagel stopped halfway to Sam’s mouth. ‘Dad, I know that. But what about me? I would’ve been unhappy not going when all my friends were going. Look,’ he said, softening his voice in a way that brought a lump to Ford’s throat, ‘I know, all right? I know it’s because of Mum. You feel guilty because she’ – he looked down then back at Ford – ‘she died and you lived. But you can’t live your life trying to stop it from happening again. You’ll go crazy.’

Ford took a sip of his coffee. ‘When did you get so bloody mature?’

Sam smiled and took another bite of his bagel. ‘You can still love me without rolling me up in bubble wrap, you know,’ he mumbled.

‘Are you trying to tell me you’re not a little kid anymore?’

Sam grinned. ‘Yeah. But don’t think that means you can stop giving me an allowance. And I’ll need spending money for the trip. A tenner should do it.’

‘You cheeky little bleeder! How about a lift to school instead of taking your bike?’

Sam shook his head. ‘It’s fine. Me and Josh . . . I mean, Josh and I are going in together.’

‘All right. Remember to take the letter.’

Halfway out the door, Sam turned. ‘I won’t. Thanks, Dad. You’re cool.’

Cool was OK. Ford could live with cool. It was the idea of losing his only child to the mountains that he struggled with. He turned away from the thought and grabbed his work things.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Olly sighed. Trudging round the tattoo parlours had been a waste of time. But at least now he felt he had done a proper bit of detective work. He’d hit Mick with it if he tried his ‘experienced copper’ act again.

He sat at his desk, ready to review the CCTV footage for Owen Long’s silver Prius.

Olly found him entering the city at 11.04 a.m., thirteen days earlier. The last image was timestamped 8.43 a.m. the following day, leaving the city on the Coombe Road heading towards Blandford.

He stared at the image and tried to force himself to think like an experienced detective. To think like Ford. He knew he could come across as a know-all, and he hated the way Mick never missed an opportunity to make fun of his fast-track status. But Olly dreaded failure. Why couldn’t Mick see he was just trying to catch up with everyone else?

Half an hour later, using the time-of-death estimate from the PM report and the time Adlam had found the body, he had something he felt sure Ford would want to know straight away. Straightening his tie, he went to find his boss.

Ford signalled for Olly to sit down while he finished his call with Sandy. He smiled at him. Was that a new tie? Olly did love his designer gear.

‘Yes, Olly. What’ve you got for me?’

‘I found Owen on the CCTV. Guv, we got Dr Eustace’s report on Friday, right? Well, she said Owen had been dead for a week to ten days. If her estimate for time of death is accurate, even allowing for the range, then I calculate that Owen was murdered not in a three-day window but a twenty-four-hour window.’

‘Good work. What’s the window?’

‘I think Owen was killed between Thursday the twenty-ninth of April after 9.00 a.m. and Friday the thirtieth of April at, say, the same time.’

‘Let’s add on a few hours as a safety margin, but that’s good work. Well done.’

He caught the corners of Olly’s mouth twitching upwards as he stood to leave. Maybe the boy had the makings of a decent detective after all.

Ford looked down to see his hand clamped across his stomach. His stomach had been churning all morning. He knew why. It was the day of the wake. And Ford was nowhere near making