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

they know me. Doesn’t mean I’m in their pocket.’

Ford spread his hands wide. ‘I had to ask.’

Mick huffed out a breath. ‘Why don’t you look at the one man we know loves to poke his nose into our investigations? Martin bloody Peterson. He’s much more likely to be taking money from a lowlife like JJ Bolter than one of our own.’

‘I will. And thanks. I’ll let you go.’

With his office to himself once more, Ford stared at the ceiling. Mick’s act was impressive. Nobody did wounded outrage better. But the attempt to deflect suspicion on to Peterson at this stage of the investigation was weak. Ford had dismissed the possibility early on. Peterson only bothered with people he regarded as his superiors. People with influence in what he no doubt thought of as the ‘right circles’. He’d no more take cash from JJ than he’d keep an opinion about policing strategy to himself.

Ford’s phone rang.

‘Hi, George, what have you got for me?’

‘I wanted to narrow down the time of death, so I sent some of the pupae and maggots from Tommy Bolter’s body parts to a colleague at University College London. He’s the best forensic entomologist in the country.’

‘A bug man, eh?’ Ford said, enjoying the chance for a minor piece of banter.

‘Yes, Henry. A bug man,’ she said patiently. ‘But not just any bug man. Duncan is in great demand. If it’s not the Met, it’s as likely to be the NCA or the security services.’

‘And what did he deduce, your King of the Chrysalises, your Pope of the Pupae, your—’

‘You, DI Ford, are incorrigible!’ she said, though he could hear the humour behind the mock outrage. ‘However, I shall forgive you. This time. By analysing the species, number, instar stage and condition of the pupae and maggots, Duncan could estimate time of death for Tommy Bolter. Ready?’

Ford grabbed a pen. ‘Ready.’

‘First, two assumptions. One, the killer didn’t freeze the body. My analysis of tissue samples supports that conclusion. Two, the insects found the body within an hour of death. Which, given assumption one, is well within the bounds of known behaviours of Calliphoridae.’ A beat. ‘That’s blowflies to you.’

‘Thanks,’ he said drily. ‘The time of death, George?’

‘I’m getting to that. All things being equal, not that one would ever use such a sloppy phrase in one’s report, you’re looking at sometime between noon on the thirtieth of April and midnight on May the second.’

‘George, you’re a star! I’d like to show my appreciation by buying you a drink at your earliest convenience.’

‘Now that is what I call a proper thank you. I’ll email you.’

When George hung up, Ford grabbed a piece of paper and started noting down dates, times and locations. He stared at what he’d written. According to Gwyneth, Tommy had witnessed Owen’s murder on the Alverchalke estate. And within three days, he too was dead – on the same estate. That level of coincidence was more than Ford could entertain.

His phone rang, and his suspicions increased still further.

‘I’ve got a Graham Cox on the line, sir,’ the receptionist said when he answered. ‘Says he’s got information about the Alverchalke murders.’

The line clicked. Ford breathed out. ‘Yes, Mr Cox?’

‘Are you the one who’s in charge? Ford? I saw your name in the Journal.’

‘Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?’

‘I’m the deputy estate manager up at Alverchalke. It said in the paper you found some poor sod dumped down a badger sett.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yeah, well, I didn’t call before because I didn’t think it mattered. But the wife said I ought to,’ he said, with a note of complaint. ‘Sunday before last, Lord Baverstock told me to fill in this sett. Damn big one, it was. He said he was worried someone’d fall in and break their leg or whatever.’

‘Can you remember the location of this sett?’ Ford asked, feeling a rush of adrenaline.

‘It’s on Mark Ball’s place. Just south of the Ebble, about halfway between Homington and Nunton.’

‘It didn’t look filled in when I went down it, Mr Cox.’

‘No, well, it wouldn’t, would it? I didn’t bother.’

‘Can I ask why not?’

‘No point, is there? Bloody-minded little buggers would’ve just dug it all back out again, wouldn’t they? I wasn’t about to waste a morning on it.’

‘But you didn’t tell Lord Baverstock.’

‘No, I didn’t. He’s a good boss, don’t get me wrong. But he doesn’t always know as much as he thinks he does about the countryside.’

Ford thanked Cox and ended the call. He added the information to the murder book. Just like the Ebble, the clues in this case were flowing through Alverchalke land.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Ford received a summons from Sandy. She used her Python tone of voice, so he went in vowing to tread carefully.

‘Tell me about the case,’ she said. Then added, ‘Or is it cases?’

‘Case,’ he said. ‘The murders are connected, I’m sure of it. There’s a good chance Tommy actually witnessed Owen being killed. And both men were shot by rifles in calibres we can place in the possession of Lord Baverstock, who, by the way, is aka Philip Martival, and something of a crack shot himself.’

‘You’re not telling me you suspect him of two murders? On his own land? Henry, have you truly lost it? Do you want to push Martin “Cheers Now” Peterson’s on button?’

‘I just heard from a witness who claims Lord Baverstock told him to fill in a badger sett on Mark Ball’s land. Which looks decidedly odd, don’t you think? But to keep you sweet, let’s just call him a person of interest.’

‘Good. Because unless you can bring me compelling evidence of his involvement, I would prefer you to keep your distance. What other leads are you working?’

‘Let’s assume, for the moment, it’s not Lord Baverstock we want. I still believe the motive is tied up with the land where the murders happened. I spoke to a young woman who was with Tommy just after he witnessed Owen’s murder.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Tommy told her another