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

inches and kept swinging the torch beam from side to side, searching for his prize. The earth smelled old, as if he were descending not just in space but also in time. Riding on the bass notes of iron and loam he detected a sweeter smell, tinged with putrescence. Decaying flesh. Here and there he saw dark smears.

Something white flashed at him a few yards further on. Trying to ignore the sense of a crushing weight above him, and the way the narrowing walls were scraping at his shoulders, he swung the torch up, down, left, right and – Ohmigod – saw it. Him.

He came face to face with a battered, bloody but still recognisably human head. Was it Tommy Bolter? It looked a little like him. But the eyes were milky and clouded, upturned in their sockets so only half the irises were visible. The skin, a sickly blend of greenish-brown and purple, had begun to sag and slip. Something – the badgers, he assumed – had taken a few bites out of the cheeks, leaving bone shining through. Blood and earth matted the hair. The stink made his eyes water. His guts churned and he had to exert himself not to throw up.

His fingertips were tingling and he found he couldn’t breathe. He heaved air into his lungs, sucking in small particles of dirt that produced a bout of coughing. He fought down a sudden wave of panic as sweat broke out all over his skin. How ridiculous to die down here in a senseless act of bravado.

He took in a breath and held it. He squeezed his eyes shut. His son’s face swam into view.

Sam was sixteen, on the cusp of manhood and taking more of an interest in Ford’s work. Ford thought he knew why. By connecting with his father’s work, Sam could make sense of death. A solved case meant a death explained. He’d asked about his mother’s death, too. Asking for explanations. Details. And, above all, reasons.

But how could Ford give him reasons, when he hardly dared examine them himself? Sam wanted to understand why his mother had died. He’d never cope if his father died, too. It was why Ford kept things back from him. No, give it its proper name. He lied to him.

He found thinking about Sam allowed his panic to recede. He offered up a heartfelt prayer to the saints of his own personal pantheon.

Dear Saint Ella, Saint B.B., Saint Rosetta and Saint Buddy. Saints Jimi, Eric, Jeff and Peter. Please let me get out of this hole, and I promise I’ll try to open up to Sam a bit more. Amen, brothers and sisters.

And he heard them answer, a bluesy chorus:

‘You ain’t gonna die down here, Ford.

You ain’t gonna die down here.

Now, get your ass in gear and pull yourself together,

’cause you ain’t gonna die down here.’

He counted down from ten and, when he reached ‘one’, he opened his eyes. He could breathe normally. The panic was gone.

He reached back for the evidence bag, but his arm wouldn’t go past his ribcage: the passage was too narrow. He groaned, dropping his head until his nose touched the cool, dank earthen floor of the tunnel. Idiot! He should have had the bag in his hand before getting wedged in tighter than a cork in a bottle.

The head lay just an arm’s length away. He hadn’t come all this way to leave it. Flinching, he extended his right hand and curled his fingers into the matted hair. He tugged lightly. The hair came away from the scalp. Wincing, he tried again. This time he hooked his fingers under the jawbone and clamped it with his thumb.

And then, already feeling Hannah’s disapproval as she saw her prime exhibit mishandled by the lead investigator, he shuffled backwards, dragging the head and trying to avoid that milky stare.

The light level increased. So did the space around him. He heard voices. Someone grabbed his ankles.

‘Don’t pull me!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got it.’

A few more awkward elbow pushes and he could finally bring his knees into play and free himself. He stood, the head swinging at his hip.

The watchers burst into applause. He told himself it was genuine, but every copper he’d ever met possessed a fine sense of irony. Add in the state of him and the clapping took on a satirical edge.

A CSI bustled over, a plastic evidence bag already held wide. Grateful to be free of his burden, he placed the head inside. Jools joined him and brushed some crumbs of dirt from his forehead before crouching to untie the rope from his ankle.

‘You look like shit, guv,’ she said.

‘I love you, too, Jools. Come on, let’s get back to Bourne Hill. I’m in need of soap and hot water.’

He walked back to where Hannah was photographing the tattoos. On the left shoulder, a red rose wrapped in barbed wire and pierced by a serrated dagger dripping blood. And on the right pectoral, a large-breasted, naked woman reclining on a motorbike, above script reading ‘I love to ride!’

Sighing, Ford left her to it. He peeled off his forensic gear and threw it all into the back of the Discovery. Freshening up would have to wait. He wanted to brief his boss, Detective Superintendent Sandra ‘Sandy’ Monroe, aka the Python, as soon as they got back.

Driving away, he asked Jools to call Dr Georgina Eustace, the forensic pathologist at Salisbury District Hospital, and put her on speaker.

‘You’ve got a body coming in this morning,’ he said. ‘In bits. I know who it is. Can you get him prepped for a viewing before you do the post-mortem?’

‘When?’

‘A few hours?’

‘That’s not really long enough, but it’s quiet today. Who is it?’

‘Tommy Bolter.’

There was a three-second pause.

‘Ah. I see. I’ll put Pete on it. I’ll tell him to do his best work.’

Jools looked at Ford as he ended the call. ‘This is going to be a shit-show, isn’t it?’

He nodded, thinking that they had ringside seats. The worst