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

was fitted out with rudimentary office furniture, including a coffee percolator.

She gestured at it. ‘Would you like a cup? Or is that just a TV thing? You know, policemen always drinking coffee?’

He smiled. ‘No, it’s real-life coppers, too. And yes, please.’

She sat beside the desk rather than behind it, so that they were knee to knee.

‘How can I help you?’ she said, eyes wide, enquiring.

‘Have you seen in the news about the murders?’

She nodded. Ford was impressed by her reaction. No immediate stagy look of horror.

‘Of course. Those poor people.’

He nodded. ‘We think they were all’ – he paused, unsure of the correct term – ‘customers. Of the food bank.’

‘Here?’ she said.

‘Unless there’s another food bank in Salisbury?’

‘No, just us. But, how? I mean, why? Who would do such a thing to people who are already so vulnerable?’

Not wanting to explain to her that muggers, killers, stalkers, paedophiles and rapists preferred to go after society’s most vulnerable members, he stuck to his training and asked his own questions. ‘Do you have a list of people who come here?’

‘Yes. We ask all new customers to fill out a simple form. We help the ones with literacy problems. But it’s confidential. You can see that, surely? To preserve their dignity.’

‘Of course. But if they were customers, that’s a very strong link between them. The killer may be targeting people who use the food bank. Believe me, I have no interest in subjecting any of your customers to intrusive or undignified questioning, and we would keep their identities confidential.’ Unless and until we arrest one. Then all bets are off.

She looked as if she was in pain, screwing up her face and hunching her shoulders. ‘I do understand, really I do. But there are rules. Policies. Procedures.’

Fighting down an urge to shout that he was trying to prevent any more of her customers being bled to death, Ford switched tack. ‘Let’s leave your customers for now. How about a list of employees? And do you have volunteers?’

She puffed her cheeks out, nodding. ‘I suppose that would be all right. Can I email it to you?’

‘I’d rather take it away with me.’

Back at Bourne Hill, Ford gathered the team together. He passed a stack of A4 sheets of paper to Olly. ‘Take one, pass them on, as they say at police college.’

‘Who are they, guv?’ Jan asked.

‘Purcell Foundation employees and volunteers. Divide them up between you and put a basic personal and lifestyle profile together for each one. Use the PNC, social media, Google, whatever. Everyone on it, please. Back here at three.’

With the team reconvened in the conference room later that afternoon, Ford clapped his hands to still the buzz of conversation. ‘These are all persons of interest. I want them interviewed as soon as possible.’

‘In pairs?’ Mick asked.

‘Ideally, yes,’ he said. ‘But there are a lot of people on that list and we’re up against a serial killer who’s already accelerating. So, let’s map them against our suspect profile and score them. Do the ten with the highest scores in pairs, the rest take one each.’

Half an hour passed in a hubbub of activity as the assembled investigators and CSIs reviewed every person on Ford’s list against the basic suspect profile he and Hannah had drawn up. Finally, he had ten names written up on the whiteboard.

Geoff Dowd

Mark Packham

Lance Williams

Philip O’Rourke

Matthew Kyte

James Collins

Lenny Hayes

Jason Torrance

Robert Babey

Jasmin Fortuna

He looked at the fifth name, then at Jools. She was staring at the list, lips pressed together. Focused. Hungry.

‘OK. Those are our top ten,’ Ford said. ‘Nine men and one woman who won a medal in the European Powerlifting Championships.’ He looked to his left. ‘Jan, can you and Mick sort out the interviews, please? Bring in a couple of PSIs, if you can find any spare in General CID.’

Ford emerged from the briefing room to see Sandy marching down the corridor towards him in full battle dress: cobalt-blue jacket over a white shirt, tailored charcoal trousers, heels that matched the jacket. And a lot more make-up than usual.

‘Henry!’ she barked. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

He pointed to his office. ‘Work?’

‘Wrong! Well, right. With me. Press conference in the big meeting room in five.’

He sighed. Was there any point protesting? Did anyone win arguments with the Python? Worth a try.

‘Do you really need me? I’ve got a ton of paperwork to catch up on.’

She reached out, clapping her hands on his shoulders. He recognised her perfume: Chanel No5. She always wore it for press conferences. Claimed it gave her confidence to stare down the mob.

‘Welcome to my world, DI Ford.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘Of course, if handling the media isn’t your thing, I could always bump you back down to DS. I’m sure Mick Tanner would be more than willing to step up to the plate.’

‘It’s fine, boss. No need to take such a drastic step. You want me to lead?’

‘You spoil me,’ she said, winking.

He fell into step beside her; they took the stairs.

Sandy stopped dead on one of the half-landings, causing Ford to bump into her. ‘Oh, and Henry?’

‘What?’

‘Smarten yourself up a bit. That suit looks like you slept in it. Can’t do much about it now, but run a comb through your hair, at least.’

Although the new building was supposed to be air-conditioned, the system was struggling against the heat generated by thirty journalists and their assorted equipment.

With no great relish, Ford opened proceedings. ‘Good afternoon.’ He hesitated, startled by the sudden volley of flashes as the stills photographers grabbed their first pictures. ‘Three days ago, the body of a man was discovered in a flat in the centre of Salisbury. Today, we discovered the body of a second man on a farm on the southern outskirts of the city. We are treating—’

‘Were they bled dry?’ a voice rang out.

Frowning, Ford tried again. ‘We are treating both deaths as suspicious.’

‘Is there a vampire at work in Salisbury?’

General laughter.

‘Keep calm, Henry,’ Sandy whispered, looking down at her notes.

‘At this