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

search warrant. Ford picked it up on the way back to Bourne Hill.

‘What did you think about Lord Baverstock this afternoon?’ he asked Hannah after she’d seated herself opposite him in his office.

‘I think he was telling the truth about Owen. Your last question unsettled him severely. I saw many signs of emotional distress,’ she said, consulting a notebook. ‘Under that degree of pressure, it’s virtually impossible for anyone to maintain a lie without giving something away.’

‘He had nothing to do with Tommy’s murder?’

‘I don’t think so. Not with its commission, anyway.’ Hannah looked as if she needed to say something.

‘Was there something else?’ he asked.

Hannah frowned and bit her lip. ‘No. Nothing. Thanks, Henry.’

She stood and left, closing the door behind her. She’d looked tense. Had she been about to confront him with something about the accident? He pushed the idea away. He thought back to the conversation with Lord Baverstock.

If he’d wanted to let Joe off the hook, admitting to lax control of the gun safe was a master stroke. Ford started wondering. Had he just been played?

The sound of Sandy’s bustling gait interrupted his thoughts. He looked up and saw her striding through the main office, nodding at the various ma’ams coming her way, offering a quick word here and a pat on the back there.

‘Henry, got a minute?’ she called.

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve got Gordon Richen here. He wants to discuss the Hibberd arrest plan with you.’

Looking forward to seeing the tactical firearms commander, Ford followed Sandy into her office, resolving not to mention the new intel about just how many people had access to the murder weapon. Nor his suspicions about who might really have pulled the trigger.

He bumped into her back as she stopped dead just over the threshold. Once she’d moved to her desk, he saw why. Martin Peterson sat beside Gordon Richen. Not for the first time, Ford wished Peterson’s office was somewhere less convenient than the top floor of Bourne Hill. The South Pole would be a start.

Richen stood and shook hands with Ford. At well over six foot, he towered over the other three people in the room. Like a lot of the firearms team, he’d moved straight from the army into the police and continued to wear his hair cropped to his skull.

‘Can I help you, Martin?’ Sandy asked. ‘Only, we’re about to run through a highly sensitive arrest plan.’

Peterson beamed. ‘Yes, Gordon just told me. I saw him arriving and, well, it’s not every day we have a senior firearms officer at Bourne Hill. So I thought I’d just drop in and see what’s’ – he pointed a finger at her like a pistol and adopted a terrible American accent – ‘goin’ down.’

Ford caught Richen wincing. Sandy’s neutral expression didn’t flicker, though Ford could see the way the muscles tightened at the angle of her jaw.

‘Fine, but this is confidential. Lives are at stake.’

Peterson nodded vigorously and smiled again. ‘Understood. You carry on and don’t mind me. I’m just here in—’

‘—an overwatch role?’ Sandy asked.

He beamed. ‘Exactly.’

‘What about the murder weapon? Will it be in the house?’ Richen asked.

‘It could well be,’ Ford said. ‘Or else he returned it to the gun safe. If he needed it, or another firearm, he’s got the key.’

‘What about his own firearms?’

‘He’s got a shotgun.’

Sandy interrupted, turning to Ford. ‘If you don’t find the .22 at Hibberd’s place, you’re saying it’s at Alverchalke Manor?’

‘In all likelihood, yes.’

Sandy frowned at him. ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, eh?’

Ford nodded, thinking now wasn’t the time to fess up about the search warrant. He wanted to lubricate that particular conversation with alcohol.

Richen asked a few more questions, and the meeting broke up with an agreement to make the arrest at 6.00 a.m. the following morning.

Back in Major Crimes, Ford reviewed the plan with the team. Each element sounded logical, precise, thoroughly worked out. If only he didn’t have a niggling doubt that, despite the evidence, they were looking at the wrong man. Was he hammering a square peg to make it fit a round hole drilled by JJ Bolter? Cutting corners to protect Sam?

Lord Baverstock himself had, unwittingly, put his finger on it. Joe didn’t have exclusive use of the .22. So even if he had shot a rabbit with it, that didn’t mean he’d used it to kill Owen. They had the murder weapon, but not necessarily the murderer.

Next he phoned Sandy. ‘Fancy a quick drink at The Wyndham?’

‘Oh, go on, then. I’ve got a mountain of budget forecasts to get through, but I can spare thirty minutes for my favourite DI.’

They walked up to the pub together and found a table in a quiet corner.

‘How did it go with Lord B today?’ Sandy asked when Ford returned from the bar with a large vodka and tonic for her and a low-alcohol lager for himself.

‘Fine.’

She regarded him steadily over the rim of her glass. ‘Please tell me you didn’t accuse him of murder?’

Ford returned her stare. ‘I didn’t.’

He hadn’t just lied to his boss, had he? No. He was in the clear. He hadn’t accused Lord Baverstock of murder. He’d just asked him if he’d been involved in a conspiracy to murder. Not the same at all.

‘Good. Because the last thing I need is a disgruntled aristocrat barging into my office complaining about rough handling.’

‘How about a competent DI who’s just bought you a lovely drink telling you he’s already applied for a search warrant for Alverchalke Manor and associated properties?’

Sandy put her drink down, frowning. ‘And you’ve done that because?’

‘We’ve identified the murder weapon. I can prove Joe used it. But I don’t believe he still has it. I think it’s in the gun safe at Alverchalke Manor. I need it, Sandy! Without it, we’ve got bugger all that would stand up in court and get a conviction.’

Sandy took a long pull on her drink. ‘Fine. I know you think I’ve become too much the politician, but police