Shallow Ground (Detective Ford), Andy Maslen [ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt] 📗

All he needed was a single epithelial cell from Lisa Moore in one of the scratches, or Abbott’s DNA in the tissue retrieved from under her fingernails, and he had his man down cold.

‘I’d like you to come into Bourne Hill Station, Mr Abbott,’ he said in as calm a voice as he could manage, wondering if he was staring into the emotionless eyes of a serial killer. Heart racing. Stomach churning.

‘Why? Do you have a new first-aid kit you want to try out?’

‘Because there are aspects of this case that lead me to believe you may’ – he paused –‘know something about the murders.’ Like the fact that you committed them. ‘And I’d like you to provide a DNA sample.’

‘What aspects?’

‘It would be a voluntary interview. No need for lawyers. Or cells,’ Ford added.

Abbott’s left eye twitched. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Like what?’

‘To get me into an interrogation room without my lawyer present.’

‘Firstly, we call them interview suites’ – Abbott barked out a short, mirthless laugh – ‘and secondly, if it would make you feel more comfortable to bring a legal representative, that would be fine with me.’

It was a gamble. Any half-decent lawyer would advise his client to say nothing. Ford wiped the sweat from his forehead. Felt his mouth fill with saliva.

‘You know what?’ Abbott said, getting to his feet. ‘What I feel like is finishing my lawn. It’s very, very big and I’m only a quarter done.’

Ford stayed sitting. He looked up at his quarry. One more push. ‘I really would like you to come in. If for no other reason than to exclude you from our investigation. A DNA sample would take care of everything.’

Abbott sneered. ‘And, as I think I just said, I really want to continue mowing my lawn. After which I intend to open a very expensive bottle of Sancerre and enjoy a glass or two looking over the fields. So if there’s nothing else . . .’

‘I could always arrest you.’

‘I doubt that. I already gave you my alibi. I think you’re overstepping your authority.’

Ford took his second gamble. ‘Your alibi for Wednesday looks shaky in the absence of CCTV or witnesses, and courts assign minimal weight to spousal alibis. Without anything stronger than your wife’s word that you were binge-watching Orange Is the New Black—’

‘Game of Thrones.’

‘—on the dates of the other murders, there’s enough circumstantial evidence to place you under arrest right now.’ Ford stood. ‘What’s it to be?’

Finally, he saw a crack in Abbott’s disdainful facade. His eyes flicked upwards. ‘You can’t.’

‘I can.’

Ford watched him. Waited for him to make a decision. Ignored the tickle as sweat ran down his ribs from his armpits.

Abbott slumped in the chair. ‘I wasn’t at Revelstoke Hall, and I wasn’t watching Game of bloody Thrones with Lucinda either,’ he muttered.

Ford made a show of cupping his hand behind his right ear. ‘Say again? I didn’t catch that.’

‘I wasn’t here,’ Abbott said, louder this time. His eyes flicked left. ‘Or at Revelstoke Hall.’

Ford tensed. Was Abbott about to run? He looked fit, and he claimed to play tennis. If he went for the French doors, Ford would have to negotiate the kitchen table to give chase.

‘Then where were you?’

‘Christ, man, isn’t that enough? I’ve admitted I lied. Would a serial killer do that?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never met one before.’

‘Look,’ Abbott said, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. He dropped his voice. ‘We’re men of the world, aren’t we?’

‘Are we?’

‘I mean, you’re experienced in the way things are in the real world. You’ve seen it all, I should imagine.’

‘I’ve seen all sorts of things. Some of the most recent will live with me for ever.’

‘Exactly. Look, if I explain to you here, in confidence, what’s been going on, man to man, you need to respect that and keep it to yourself.’

‘What is it you want to tell me, Mr Abbott?’ And if you say you killed them, I’m going to knock you down. Pre-emptive force in exigent circumstances.

‘I was with an escort,’ Abbott blurted.

‘An escort?’

‘Yes, man, you know. A call girl. A prostitute. A tart!’

‘On each of the dates I gave you, when you claimed you were either here watching the telly with your wife or working at Revelstoke Hall?’

Abbott swiped a hand across his brow. He looked relieved, even essaying a small smile. ‘Yes!’

‘Why did you lie before?’

‘Why do you think? I have a reputation to preserve. I hardly think being known for associating with prostitutes gets one invited to the better parties.’

‘Name?’

‘What?’

‘Her name. This escort. What is it?’

‘Oh. Yes, of course. But, as I said, you’ll keep this under your hat?’

‘I think we’d better just have it.’

Abbott hesitated. He sighed and spoke the name on the outbreath. ‘Zoe.’

‘Last name?’

‘She said it was Denys, but, you know . . .’ He smirked. ‘It could be a nom d’amour.’

‘And Mrs Abbott will confirm this, will she? That you weren’t here after all?’

‘Of course she will. We have’ – he paused – ‘an understanding. I’ll go and get her.’

Abbott stood and turned towards the door.

Ford was round the table in a second. He placed a restraining hand on Abbott’s right shoulder, aware, even in this moment of heightened stress, that technically, he’d just used force and might be asked to complete a form at the nick if Abbott complained.

‘No. If she’s upstairs, shout.’

‘She’s not. She’s in the garden. Down by the river, I think.’

‘Does she have her phone with her?’

Abbott returned to his chair and fished out his own phone. ‘I think so. Never goes anywhere without it.’

‘Call her, then. Ask her to join us.’

Five minutes later, Ford sat facing both Abbotts. Ford marvelled at Lucinda Abbott’s ability to come in from a garden in rural Wiltshire looking as though she had been on a beach in the south of France. Today, she wore a bronze bikini, over which she’d tied a gauzy, dark-blue sarong. A gold pendant lay against her breastbone. The translucent sarong heightened rather than diminished