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

had to protect them from the flak that was about to hit them from every angle.

‘At some point in the next twelve hours or so, we’re going to have the ladies and gentlemen of the media descending on us. I want to set a few ground rules. One’ – he held up a finger – ‘as always, assume you’re speaking on the record. Two, if you say it, expect to see it used where the world and his wife can read it. Possibly with your ugly mug next to it.’

‘Better keep Mick out the way, then, guv,’ Jools said, provoking laughter from the rest of the room.

Ford smiled. Noted that Mick managed a diplomatic ‘Fuck you, Jools!’ in response.

‘Three, nobody is to mention how Kai Halpern was murdered. Nobody. Understand?’

A chorus of ‘Yes, guv/boss/Henry.’

‘Olly, how are we getting on with the son of the dead woman? Farrell, was it?’

‘William, yes, guv. He’s a fit lad. A bodybuilder. Says he was at his gym working out when the first two murders were committed.’

‘Corroborated?’

‘Working on it.’

‘Work harder. And as soon as the pathologist gives us a time of death for Marcus Anderson, ask him for that date too.’ He gestured to Jan. ‘Anything from the searches yet?’

‘Sorry, Henry. Nothing so far, but they’re still up there, so fingers crossed. You want me to widen the perimeter?’

‘Not for now. He used what came to hand to stun Angie, a punch with Paul, and God alone knows with Marcus. It’s classic serial-killer MO evolution. He’s refining and adapting as he goes.’

‘The signature’s consistent, though,’ Olly said. ‘The bleeding out and the numbers.’

Ford turned to the whiteboard and stabbed an index finger at the three images of the bloody numbers.

666 – tap.

500 – tap.

167 – TAP.

‘Significance?’

The room fell silent. Someone snapped a pencil. The crack was loud.

‘The numbers are in the wrong order,’ Hannah said, keeping her gaze fixed on Ford as all heads swivelled round to look at her.

‘No, they’re not,’ Mick said. ‘666 was Angie, 500 was Paul and 167 was Marcus.’

‘That’s the order of discovery. Not the order they were killed. I think Marcus had been dead for longer than a week. More likely, over two. Though we’ll need a forensic entomologist to confirm it.’

‘You’re saying it should go, 167, 666, 500?’ Ford said.

‘Yes, I am.’

Ford rearranged the photos on the whiteboard. ‘Anyone?’

‘I’m still seeing that 666, guv,’ Mick said. ‘Look, serials are nutters, right? This one happens to be a satanic nutter. It’s not getting us anywhere, is it?’

Ford agreed. The numbers, the signature, the profile: none of them meant anything until they had a suspect. ‘What do you suggest, Mick?’

‘What about this guy Jools interviewed? What was his name again?’

‘Matty Kyte,’ Jools said.

‘He works at SDH. So did the first victim. And the second vic was treated there, by her.’ Ford tapped the name beneath the photo on the whiteboard. ‘Angie, I mean,’ Mick corrected himself. ‘Then we’ve got Olly’s guy. The justice warrior. His alibis are “I was training at the gym”. They’re all selling each other steroids, so it’ll be flimsy. Just sticking together.’

‘Right. I want you and Olly to tie those up. Get CCTV of him arriving and leaving for the times and dates of the murders. Or in their café, if they have one. See if they have a check-in system, time-stamped till receipts or swipe-card data.’

‘Guv?’

He looked over at Jools. ‘What is it?’

‘I was looking at the crime scene photos earlier. From Angie’s kitchen. Something weird.’

Jools clicked a couple of keys on her laptop and projected an image on to a blank section of wall.

‘Go on.’

‘These are the groceries on Angie’s kitchen table. What do you notice?’

Silence fell as the assembled investigators scrutinised the image in front of them.

Hannah broke the silence. ‘They’re all different brands.’

‘Of course they are,’ Mick said. ‘She had coffee, pasta, tinned stuff, cereal. Who buys all one brand?’

‘No, not that. The store brands, look.’ Hannah pointed. ‘Tesco, Waitrose, Asda, Sainsbury’s.’

‘Exactly,’ Jools said. ‘When most people go shopping, they stay loyal to one store.’

‘Not if they’re a bit strapped for cash. Then they shop around for offers,’ Mick said.

‘Maybe. But Waitrose? Not cheapest for anything, is it?’

Ford saw it. ‘The food bank.’

Jools smiled and nodded. ‘That’s what I reckon. I think poor Angie had more month than money, and when things got tight she went off to the Purcell Foundation.’

Ford made a note in his policy book. ‘Thanks, Jools, that’s another line of enquiry. Can you start digging, please? Anyone there giving her grief, that sort of thing.’ He turned to the end of the table housing the sergeants. ‘Mick, can you find out if Paul Eadon was a food-bank user?’

Once the meeting was over, Ford walked with Hannah to Forensics.

‘I want to see the photos from the other two crime scenes,’ he said.

Seated beside each other at her desk, Hannah called up three folders, labelled Halpern/S1, Eadon/S1 and Anderson/S1.

‘Those are the primary crime scenes,’ she said, before double-clicking on the folder labelled Eadon/S1.

She scrolled through until she found a set of images detailing the kitchen cabinets. Slowly, she tabbed through until she found an image of a food cupboard.

She pointed. ‘Look.’

There they were. The same random assortment of branded packages. Biscuits from Lidl. Tea from Sainsbury’s. Tinned stew from Tesco. Pasta from Aldi.

They looked at each other. ‘Food bank,’ they said in unison.

The results from Anderson’s eco-hut kitchen were the same. More in the way of lentils, beans and wholewheat pasta, but a similar variety of store brands.

‘I don’t think this is about the hospital at all,’ Ford said.

Half an hour later he was on his way to meet Leonie Breakspear, the manager of the Purcell Foundation’s food bank.

DAY TEN, 12.30 P.M.

The young woman walking towards Ford with a smile and an outstretched hand had the tanned face and sun-kissed blonde hair of a surfer.

‘I’m Leonie. Welcome,’ she said as they shook hands.

She showed him to a partitioned corner of the Purcell Foundation warehouse. The space