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

own had gone for over two million pounds.

‘What’s your speciality?’

‘Chinese ceramics. Why do you ask?’

Ford shrugged. ‘I’m just interested. You do vintage instruments from time to time.’

‘That an interest of yours, then?’

‘I have a sixty-two Stratocaster.’

‘Very nice. Colour?’

‘Fiesta red.’

‘Well, if you ever decide to sell it, let me know. We could get you a very good price.’

Ford smiled. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. I’ll also need contact details for your colleagues. And anything else you can think of that might help us determine your movements that day. Train tickets, credit card receipts, that sort of thing.’

‘Yah, sure. I get it now. OK, it’ll take a little while. Is it all right if I email it?’

Ford handed him a card. ‘As I said, soon as you can, please.’

He accepted Stephen’s offer of a lift back to the manor house but refused his offer of tea. He had work to do.

Sam nodded along to the beat of the music playing through his wireless earbuds. Normally he walked home with Josh and they’d be chatting or showing each other videos on their phones. But Josh had got an after-school detention, so Sam was alone.

He walked down Exeter Street, trailing his fingers along the rough stonework of the wall to his right that surrounded the Cathedral Close.

One of his earbuds wasn’t sitting right. He frowned with irritation and reached up to adjust it. It fell out just as his finger reached it, and dropped to the ground. He stooped to retrieve it and noticed a bloke stopped about ten metres back.

Something about the guy sent a shiver of tension through him. He was staring at Sam. He looked fucking evil. Sam glared back, put his earbud back in and started off again.

But he could sense the bloke behind him now. Didn’t like the feeling. He glanced back over his shoulder. He was still there.

The bloke was bulky. Fat, really. With slitty eyes in a weird, doughy sort of face. Really big forehead that made him look like a caveman. Sam turned away and walked on. He passed a couple of sixth-formers coming back from rugby in their kit, laughing loudly and shoulder-barging each other.

He wanted to say something about the bloke but couldn’t think what. Then they were gone, and it was too late. He took a right, heading towards Harnham and the woods he cut through on the way home.

On the corner, he flicked another glance behind him. The bloke was right there.

Sam wasn’t massive, like some of the sports guys. He didn’t get into fights. Much, he corrected himself. Only when absolutely necessary. But he wasn’t a coward, either.

The bloke was smirking like he knew some dirty secret he couldn’t wait to share.

Sam stopped dead. Turned. Pulled his earbuds out and stuffed them deep into a pocket. He waited until the guy was only about a metre away.

‘What’s your problem? Are you following me or something?’ Sam asked. His heart was pounding, but he was determined not to show any fear.

‘Your dad’s a cop, isn’t he?’ the guy said, leaning close. Really getting into Sam’s face. His breath stank like a dead dog.

‘Yeah. And?’

The bloke pointed a stubby finger. ‘Tell him he better get a fucking move on, finding my brother’s killer. Or you’re going to suffer.’

Sam squared his shoulders. No way was he taking shit from anyone over his dad’s work. Especially not some Neanderthal. ‘Tell him yourself. Who are you, anyway – one of the famous Bolter brothers, I suppose?’

The man’s pale, sparse eyebrows lifted. ‘Yeah, I am, actually. Tell him Rye Bolter knows which way you go home from school. I’ll be watching you, Sammy.’

Then he turned round and shambled off.

Sam’s mouth was dry and his pulse was really bumping in his throat. But he dragged out his phone quickly and shot a video of the bloke as he disappeared round the bend in the road.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Hannah signed Owen’s PC out from the exhibits room. She carted it up to Forensics and assembled the tower unit, monitor, keyboard, mouse and speakers on a spare desk. She pressed the power button and went to make herself a cup of tea. When she arrived back at her desk, the screen was asking for the password. She entered the characters using one finger.

Gaia_Needs_Owen!

She read what she’d typed. ‘Gaia needs Owen. Well, that’s not even slightly egotistical.’

The screen popped into life: a neat grid of all Owen’s programs and apps. Hannah double-clicked on the set called ‘VLOG’. Here were Owen’s tools for his one-man video campaign: shortcuts to the blogging platform, Google docs, a video editing package and a sound recorder. But not the program she’d been hoping to see: the management software for Owen’s GoPro.

She began delving into the hard drive’s file structures, reasoning that Owen might have hidden it among the PC’s management folders. It had to be here somewhere.

She eventually found the program buried three layers down, in a folder innocuously labelled ‘Microsoft Application Library’, itself hidden in part of the PC’s operating system.

‘You were a cautious man, Mr Long,’ she said.

She double-clicked the icon. A second dialog box popped up, requesting a password. Her finger hovered over the keyboard.

Most people of Owen’s generation, having managed to find a password one company would accept as ‘Strong’, often stuck with it for everything, from banking to shopping. Not sensible. But understandable. Had Owen followed the herd? It was worth a try.

She typed it again.

Gaia_Needs_Owen!

The computer responded instantly.

Some of your security details are incorrect.

She hit the ‘Reset Password’ button. It asked her to enter her email address. She checked Owen’s email program and entered the address from his profile.

We do not recognise that email address.

That was interesting. Owen must have been using a Cloud-based email account for his GoPro. Ten minutes later, having failed to find anything that worked, she reached a conclusion. Owen had been so security-conscious, he’d used one of the many cloaked email services that provided users with anonymous email accounts.

She smiled