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

“person” appeared while he was scoping out land for hare-coursing. They started arguing, there was some kind of struggle, a gun went off and Owen dropped dead.’

‘Leaving aside the technicality that what you’ve got is hearsay, what did she mean by “person”?’

‘Tommy was cagey. But whoever it was, they were armed, on Alverchalke land and clearly proprietorial. I’m looking at the gamekeeper, Joe Hibberd. He’s ex-army and had an axe to grind with Tommy.’

Sandy made notes in a small red leather-covered notebook with a gold propelling pencil. She looked up at him. She’d lost the fearsome glare in those pale blue eyes. He felt a small measure of relief.

‘Good. Well, focus your energy on Hibberd for now,’ she said. ‘Unless or until you have something concrete on Lord Baverstock, I want you to leave him alone. That’s an order.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Sandy’s eyes flashed at Ford’s gentle teasing. He thought she could handle it.

‘Have you spoken to Owen’s wife?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Could she have done it?’

He shook his head. ‘CCTV from the Met puts her in London throughout the relevant time period for both murders.’

‘I had to ask. But I don’t see her as the type. She’s a ballet teacher, right?’

‘Yes. But even if she could handle a rifle, I can’t see her slinging her dead husband’s body in a river after stabbing it multiple times to prevent it floating. That feels like more of a man’s MO.’

‘What’s your gut feel?’

Ford counted off points on his fingers. ‘It’s one – or less likely, two shooters. But if it’s two, they’re connected. We know Tommy witnessed Owen getting shot and was planning to blackmail the shooter. I think he made his threat and, instead of getting rich, he got killed. That motive is simple. The killer decided to put a stop to the blackmail once and for all.’

‘Which you can understand. Tommy could easily have gone back for more. But what about Owen? Why was he killed?’

‘Well, my working hypothesis, based on what Tommy’s girlfriend told me and the unusual shot positioning, is that the shooting itself was an accident. OK, following a scuffle, but still not deliberate.’

‘Why not report it, then?’

‘Come on, Sandy. We all know that people don’t always do what’s sensible. Plus, this person was arguing, struggling really, with Owen. They might not have felt it was an accident in the heat of the moment. I think they panicked. One thing led to another and they ended up dumping an elderly ex-vicar in the river.’

Sandy screwed her face up. ‘It holds water, no pun intended. Keep on it.’

As he left her office, he was thinking about what might link two killers on Alverchalke land. The answer had been staring him in the face all along. Family! Everyone who lived or worked on that land was linked to the Martival family. And the strongest links of all were between its members.

Mick caught his eye as he walked through Major Crimes. Connor Dowdell was waiting for them in the Greencroft.

They found him leaning against a climbing frame, smoking. The meeting was short and fruitless. Dowdell only confirmed what they already knew. For form’s sake, Ford gave him a card and invited him to call if he remembered anything else.

Hannah put on her noise-cancelling headphones and stared at the image the girl in the pub had shared with Ford. Tommy Bolter’s selfie.

Above her head, the incandescent bulbs cast a soft yellow light over her workspace. Elsewhere, fluorescent tubes painted the room a horrible flickery blue-white that drove her crazy.

She’d spent the first part of the morning consumed with the tool marks on Tommy Bolter’s bones. The photos Dr Eustace’s photographer had taken in the post-mortem would come in useful when they had a suspect in custody, and knives or saws recovered in a search, but the image on her screen now could help them find that suspect.

Humming to herself a tune Ford had played for her once on his red electric guitar, she imported the image into Photoshop. It was actually rather beautiful.

‘You had a good eye for composition, Tommy,’ she said, hearing her own words as fluffy buzzes through the bones of her skull. She recited their names mentally, a calming mantra as she worked: temporal, occipital, parietal, sphenoid, ethmoid, frontal. But then other, less calming, thoughts intruded: memories of conversations in other departments, other forces, other countries.

. . . multiple blunt force trauma to occipital bone . . . entry wound through right temporal bone, massive exit wound destroying left parietal bone . . . blade entered through left orbit, penetrating optic canal into frontal lobe . . .

Anxiety swelled in her chest. Her breath came in short gasps. She squeezed her eyes shut. Hummed louder.

The memories receded. The horrific images faded. Her pulse slowly returned to normal.

She’d noticed the way Henry looked at her whenever they were talking about America and the memories came back. He’d ask if something was the matter. She’d shut down, tell him she didn’t want to share that. And he would back off. So far, it had worked. She hoped he wouldn’t keep probing.

She opened her eyes again and returned to the photo. Her right index finger trembled on the shiny surface of the mouse. She shook her hand out and tried again. Better.

The cursor skated around the control interface of the image-editing software. She felt her breathing slow and deepen. Permitted herself a small smile. She had friends who scoffed at TV crime shows where, with a few mouse clicks, CSIs turned blurry pictures into magazine-quality artwork. But they were starting with a poor-quality image. Tommy’s had been excellent. She just had to fine-tune the information already present in the pixels.

She saved the image as a new file: Bolter_image_1_hi-res_HF_edit-1, then maximised the window until it took up the entire screen.

First, as she’d been trained, she looked at the image as a layperson would, making notes as she went. She saw rough grass in front of her. A sharp-edged shadow spread its fingers across the ground.

On the left, she could see