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

up at the hospital. Lot of Filipinos up there.’

‘One final date, Jaz.’

She listened carefully, then paused before answering. Looked up and to the left, then back at Ford. She shrugged. ‘Here, I think, with Dom. He’s my husband. I’d have to check, but I’m pretty sure. We only go out at the weekend, and I know I wasn’t training or at an event.’

‘It’s fine. But if you wouldn’t mind letting me know once you’ve double-checked.’

He handed her a card, which she took between the pads of her outstretched finger and thumb.

‘Is this about the murders?’ she asked, putting the card on a side table.

‘Yes. Did you know any of the victims?’

‘Remind me of their names again?’

‘Angie and Kai Halpern. Paul Eadon. Marcus Anderson.’

‘I used to say hi to Angie when she came to the food bank. I met her once, up at the hospital when I was collecting my mum. She was such a caring person – why anyone would want to hurt her, I don’t know.’

‘How about the other two?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Paul, I remember. Horrible man. God forgive me for saying this,’ she said, crossing herself, ‘’cause he was poor and using the food bank, but he was trash. You know that, right?’

‘I do. But even trashy people have the right to life.’

She rolled her eyes, which were a deep brown and fringed by thick curtains of lashes. ‘You sound like Reverend Cox.’

‘And he is?’

‘Chairman of the trustees. Like, not the ones who work there. They’re more like posh people who make sure everyone’s doing their best for our clients,’ she said. ‘There’s even a lord. That good-looking one, you know? Lord Bodenham?’

Somewhere in Ford’s brain, two unconnected cogs meshed together.

He stood. ‘Thanks, Jaz. You’ve been really helpful.’

She bounced to her feet. ‘Is that it, then?’

He smiled. ‘That’s it.’

‘You’re not going to slap the cuffs on me?’ she said, holding out her hands.

‘Not today.’

She pouted. ‘Shame. I wouldn’t mind getting the third degree off of you.’

Then she winked. Ford felt a blush heating his cheeks.

At the Purcell Foundation’s main office on Castle Street, a converted Georgian townhouse, Ford asked the receptionist if Leonie Breakspear was available.

‘I’m sorry, she’s at a conference in London on food security and sustainability.’

‘Is there someone else in a position of authority I can speak to?’

‘Rachel’s here. I don’t think she has any meetings until later.’

‘Rachel?’

‘Taylor. She’s the CEO.’

‘Could you let her know I’m here, please?’

The woman in jeans and a polo shirt who welcomed Ford at the top of the narrow flight of stairs was tall, with an athletic physique. Despite her height, she moved gracefully, as if she’d been a dancer. She was in her mid-forties, her dark brown hair cut short, with a low, straight fringe. Her dark eyes sat above a wide, smiling mouth.

‘Sorry about the climb. We’re listed, so no lift.’

She led him to her office, a room that must have been the master bedroom, with a marble fireplace and triple sash windows that gave out on to a small courtyard garden.

‘Are you wondering about my clothes?’ she asked, catching him staring at her jeans.

‘Sorry. Force of habit. Your receptionist said you were the CEO.’

Smiling, she tapped the embroidered logo on the polo shirt. ‘Staff uniform. I was helping out this morning. I save the power suits for the big donors.’

‘People like Lord Bodenham?’

‘Ben’s a good friend. He’s very generous. With his time and his money.’

‘I’m investigating four murders. You’ve read about them?’

‘Yes. Leonie told me they were all customers of ours – the adults, at least,’ she said.

‘We’ve been interviewing your staff and volunteers. One mentioned the trustees. Do you have a list of their names and contact details?’

‘Surely you researched our website? They’re there in plain view.’

‘I did. But websites show what organisations want to tell the public. Not necessarily what they want to tell the police.’

She frowned and pursed her lips. ‘What are you suggesting? We have nothing to hide.’

He shrugged. ‘I’d like to make sure I have a complete list. Perhaps you have new ones you haven’t got round to putting on your website.’

Her face relaxed and she smiled a second time. ‘I’m sorry. I’m under a lot of pressure as it is, and these murders. . .’ She tailed off. ‘Those poor people.’

‘Which is why I and my team are working hard to try and catch their killer. So, the list?’

‘Of course,’ she said, nodding and opening a laptop. ‘Hold on.’

A laser printer beside her desk hummed. She gave Ford the single warm sheet.

He scanned the list.

Geoff Riley

Paul Wallace

Frances Mackay

Chris Law

Nicola Cronin

Charles Abbott

Revd Julian Cox

David Valentine

Lord Bodenham (President)

‘Tell me,’ he said, eyes locked on to the sixth name, ‘are they actively involved, your trustees, or just names on the letterhead?’

‘Oh, very much the former. I encourage them to put in a few hours at the sharp end every month. I have no time for people using us to add some right-on credentials to their CV in the hopes of an MBE.’

‘And they do that, do they? Get involved at the sharp end?’

She smiled. ‘Some more than others, but yes, they do. They’re all very committed to our work.’

Back in his car, Ford sat with the key in his hand. It’s you, Abbott. It has to be. Everywhere I turn, there you are. To hell with the chief con. And Sandy will thank me when I bring you in.

DAY ELEVEN, 2.00 P.M.

Ford sat at his desk and made a call, trying to ignore the resentment making his lip curl. It was answered after ten rings.

‘Hello again, Mr Abbott. DI Ford here. I—’

‘I must say, I’m rather surprised to hear your voice interrupting my afternoon,’ Abbott said. Ford heard the smile in his voice. ‘I thought I’d made my feelings about your behaviour clear.’

‘You did. And I must apologise for my manner at our last meeting. I was out of order. I’m sorry.’

‘Well, that’s better. Apology accepted. We all lose our tempers from time to time. Some more readily than others,