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

‘I wonder whether you’d have time for another chat.’

‘If you’re after more blood talk, I assume you have the internet. Just Google it. No doubt Wikipedia has more information than you could possibly need or want.’

‘No. No more blood talk. I’d like to talk to you about your work for the Purcell Foundation. This afternoon, if possible.’

A theatrical sigh. ‘I have rounds from three till four. I can give you fifteen minutes, then I have a meeting with some colleagues.’

‘Four it is.’

Abbott’s suit jacket was on its hanger, as it had been during their last meeting. Ford discerned the edges of dark patches under the arms of the consultant’s pink shirt.

‘Tell me about your work at the Purcell Foundation,’ Ford said, notebook ready on his knee.

‘I’m a trustee.’

‘Which means?’

‘I oversee the work of the management. It’s largely about good governance,’ Abbott said. ‘Making sure everyone’s acting according to the Foundation’s ethics policy – the charity laws, yes? A quarterly meeting, the odd fund-raising reception. Tiresome, if I’m being brutally honest, but one has to do one’s bit, doesn’t one?’

‘Oh, one does. One does.’

Abbott’s lips tightened and his eyes flashed. A momentary expression, then it was gone. He checked his Rolex, pulling his cuff up to give Ford an eyeful. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘Yes. What do you do when you volunteer at the food bank?’

‘I think I just told you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ford said, smiling. ‘I didn’t make myself clear. I spoke to Rachel Taylor today and she said the trustees all put in time on the frontline. I think the phrase she used was “We don’t want CV-polishers on our board.” Something like that, anyway. What do you do when you’re on the frontline, Mr Abbott?’

Abbott pulled his cuff down again. ‘You know, handing out food parcels, helping people carry their bags to their cars. Or the bus stop. The usual.’

‘Did you ever help Angie Halpern?’

‘I can’t remember. I might have done.’

‘Paul Eadon?’

Abbott frowned and touched his lower lip. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. There are rather a lot of them.’

‘Doesn’t say much for our society, does it?’

‘I really wouldn’t know. Most of them could pay their way if they put in a bit more effort. Look, where are you going with this?’

‘How about Marcus Anderson?’

‘No, again. I’m sorry.’

Ford shrugged. Onwards. ‘I’m trying to build up a picture of the victims and their lives. They’re linked by the food bank, so I need to ascertain whether that’s how their murderer selected them,’ he said. ‘Tell me, have you noticed anyone acting suspiciously when you’ve been volunteering there?’

‘Pocketing baked beans meant for the poor, you mean?’ Abbott said with a smirk.

Ford waited a few seconds before trusting himself to answer. Was that a deliberate choice, Abbott? Are you taunting me? ‘Possibly. Or engaging in inappropriate conversations with customers.’

‘No. Nothing like that. Nothing.’

Ford gave his ‘reassuring the suspect’ smile and leaned back in his chair. ‘Just a few more questions, and then you can go to your meeting.’

‘Thank you. It is rather important.’

For the third time, Ford recited the times and dates of the murders. ‘Where were you on each of those dates?’

Abbott’s face was neutral. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to you on that one.’

‘No diary?’

‘Of course. I’m sorry. You just flustered me there for a second.’

‘It’s just routine. So we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’

Abbott checked his phone, swiping, frowning, swiping, frowning.

‘Any joy?’ Ford asked.

‘I was at home each time.’

‘With someone, or alone?’

‘With my wife.’

‘Well, that’s you in the clear. Thank you, Mr Abbott. You’ve been most helpful.’

Abbott smiled, briefly. ‘You’re just doing your job.’

Ford rose from his chair and turned towards the door, then back to Abbott, over whom he now towered. ‘Do you work out?’

‘What?’

‘You’re in good shape for a man of your age. Do you go to the gym?’

‘Oh. I see. No, is the answer. I play tennis when I can.’

Ford tutted. ‘Best I ever manage is cutting the grass, and even that’s behind a motor mower.’

Then he turned on his heel and left. Planning his next moves. Which in his mind involved handcuffs and a lengthy stay at Bourne Hill’s custody suite.

DAY ELEVEN, 7.45 P.M.

Just nineteen, Nina Gow was old beyond her years, having spent most of her childhood bouncing around foster families and children’s homes, before that glorious, bloody immense day when she turned eighteen and sharing the flat with her bestie became a reality, not a dream. OK, so they had no money, beyond the crappy little amount they got each week in benefits. But they had fun. And the food bank meant they didn’t starve.

She spat out a curse when her key refused to turn in the cheap lock the landlord insisted was ‘perfectly all right for the likes of you’. Then, with a crack, the mechanism admitted defeat.

‘Thank God for that, I really need a wee,’ she said, slamming the thin door behind her. ‘Babe! You in? I got cider.’

She checked her phone on the way up the stairs then put it back in her pocket. She placed the plastic bag of cans on the kitchen counter and walked down the hall to the bathroom, already tugging at the stretchy belt on her jeans.

She opened the door. And she screamed. Her bladder let go. And she didn’t notice.

Aimee was standing in the bath, arms above her head, her naked body sagging. Why was her face dark purple? And why were her eyes bulging out like that? And why was her tongue sticking out? And what, what, oh, Holy Mother of God, what was that in the bath? Blood? No. Not that much, it’s impossible.

Shaking violently, Nina tried to pull her phone out of her jeans pocket, but it wouldn’t budge.

She sank to her knees. ‘Oh, please, oh, please, come on, come on, come ON!’

Finally, she managed to yank it free, and with a trembling finger tapped out the number she’d only ever associated with trouble for her