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

is, the evidence puts Tommy and Owen within feet of each other at the exact same time.’

Ford nodded. He’d leaped beyond the evidence, where Hannah felt most comfortable, and into the realm of the imagination, where he knew she struggled. Because they could also put the shooter there, couldn’t they? Tommy watched Owen get shot by someone he knew. He waited until the coast was clear and then he went back – ran, probably – to his truck and told Gwyneth about the golden ‘effing’ ticket.

Ford pictured a confrontation. Owen ranting against Lord Baverstock’s ‘unbridled rapacity’ or some such high-flown phrase. Hibberd turning up, outraged at the trespass. Telling Owen to clear off. Owen refusing, probably asserting that he was following a higher calling, or obeying a greater authority. Hibberd unshouldering the .22 and threatening Owen, maybe at that point not intending to shoot.

He closed his eyes and the scene became real. After watching so many of Owen’s videos, he could hear the man’s accent and distinctive phrasing.

Owen is unfazed by the gun. He laughs at Hibberd. ‘What are you going to do, shoot me?’

‘I could. You’re trespassing. Who’s to say you didn’t attack me?’

Owen spreads his arms wide. ‘You’re right. Nobody here but us chickens. But our sins find us out, you know. My life is as nothing compared to the great interconnected world that is Gaia.’

Then he surprises Hibberd by going for the gun. Probably planning some dramatic move like throwing it as far as he can, into the hedge. Or over it, with a bit of luck.

The two men tussle over the rifle.

Hibberd is by far the stronger of the two. He’s an ex-soldier up against an ex-vicar. He yanks it back. The gun goes off with the muzzle jammed under Owen’s chin. He falls dead at Hibberd’s feet. Hibberd panics, but only for a second. He runs back and fetches his Land Rover. Drags the body into the load bay and hurtles away. Under cover of night he dumps the corpse into a deep part of the Ebble, not knowing the storm surge will ruin his plan.

Hannah’s voice broke into the vision. Ford opened his eyes to see her looking at him, not with impatience, merely curiosity, as if studying a new species of rural wildlife.

‘Should we get back to Bourne Hill now?’ she asked. ‘I have a lot of work to do. And I think we should put a rush on DNA profiles from those cigarette butts.’

‘Agreed,’ Ford said.

On the walk back to the car he reminded himself not to get fixated on Hibberd. Plenty of other people on the estate had access to firearms. Not least the aristocratic family with the silly boarding-school nicknames. Maybe it was time to pay them another visit. He could talk to Stephen. He’d probably been the least visible of the quartet.

Ford’s first mentor on the force, a whip-thin DS with a mind as sharp as his features, had told him on his first day as a DC, ‘People don’t like the idea of it, but being a good copper is all about being nosey. Never be afraid to stick yours in where it isn’t wanted.’

He dropped Hannah off at Bourne Hill, then turned the Discovery round again and drove out to Alverchalke.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

On arrival, Ford was told that Stephen was out shooting. The maid gave him directions and, ten minutes later, heart pounding from the climb through woodland, he emerged on to a wide grassy avenue flanked by towering oaks, elms and cedars.

He heard a shot. Loud in the silence of the countryside, it sounded more like the large-calibre rifles being fired at the gun club than the little pops a .22 would make. The shot came from his left. He walked towards it, then realised he was heading into a live-firing area where the shooter had no idea of his presence. Not wanting to be mistaken for a deer, or whatever Stephen was shooting, he put his hands to his mouth and called out.

‘Hello? Stephen? It’s DI Ford. Hold your fire!’

Is that what he was supposed to shout? Hold your fire? Really? It sounded ridiculous, as though he was in a war film. Nevertheless, he was relieved when he heard an answering call.

‘This way, Ford.’ Stephen dropped into a parodic London gangster accent. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve put me shooter up!’ A laugh followed, braying, self-satisfied.

Ford found Stephen dressed head to toe in a very convincing woodland camouflage outfit, leaning against a tree trunk, a rifle resting in the crook of his elbow.

‘Come to do a spot of hunting?’ Stephen asked.

‘You’re a good shot?’ Ford asked, pointing at the rifle.

Stephen shrugged. ‘Not bad. And Dad’s Parker-Hale is a beauty. But he and Loopy are the real sharpshooters. She can shoot the balls off a fly with it on a good day.’

‘It’s a .308, isn’t it?’

Stephen nodded, smiling. ‘You know your guns.’

‘Did you ever come across Tommy Bolter out here?’ Ford asked, mentally adding a tick to a checklist.

‘Me? Why would I?’

‘He used to trespass on your land. Poaching, creating mischief. Did you?’

Stephen looked away, shading his eyes as a shaft of sunlight broke through the canopy and hit him full in the face. ‘No. I let Joe deal with the riff-raff. Shh! Look,’ he whispered. ‘Over there. A roe. Nice buck.’

Ford watched as Stephen Martival settled the fleshy part of his jaw against the rifle’s polished stock and looked through the telescopic sight. He was smiling. Odd. Or was he just screwing his face up as he sighted on the deer?

‘Let’s see you eat our fruit trees after this,’ Stephen muttered.

He squeezed the trigger. Ford flinched at the huge bang as the bullet left the muzzle. Pigeons clattered from a tree behind them, adding the rattle of wings to the echo of the gunshot.

‘Did you hit it?’ Ford asked.

Stephen smiled broadly, nodding. ‘Amidships! Just like Dad taught us. Got to hit them cleanly in the heart or they wander off hurt and you have