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

He could see Hibberd’s head and shoulders. He was sitting perfectly still, looking at something in front of him. The windowsill cut off the view, so Ford couldn’t tell what was occupying his attention.

Behind him he heard muttered conversation and metallic snaps and scrapes as the AFOs readied their weapons. He’d also brought a canine unit and could hear the handler murmuring to his dog.

Inside the cottage that had been his home since the major had rescued him, sat former Grenadier Guards sergeant Joe Hibberd. Molly and Bess, his border collies, padded round the kitchen, their claws clicking on the slate floor tiles. He sat at a table pitted and scarred from many decades of use, but otherwise spotlessly clean.

Joe had risen early. And, as usual, he’d made a pot of tea. Strong, like the brews they had in Helmand. He’d eaten a hearty breakfast: sausages, fried eggs, fried bread, bacon and baked beans. Two thick slices of toast and marmalade. He hadn’t moved since, spending the time flicking through a photo album of his time in the army and fingering the set of medals he kept on his dressing table. The props weren’t in the plan: they’d been his own idea. He hadn’t troubled the major with them. Nor with his additional piece of drama.

In front of him sat his Willow pattern plate, smeared with brown sauce and a few slowly congealing streaks of bacon fat. He placed the plate on the floor and the dogs padded over to share the unusual bounty.

He reread the note he’d written before going to bed. Nodded. It would do the job.

His shotgun lay on the table. Its wooden stock shone in the early-morning sunlight coming through the leaded window. He inhaled its smell: gun oil, cleaner and polish. Beside it, a half-empty box of shells waited.

Through the open window, he could hear the chatter of rotor blades. Altitude 5,000–8,000 feet, he estimated. It would be a Wiltshire Police Eurocopter EC135 in navy and yellow livery. He saw them from time to time, overflying the estate. Nothing like as loud as the Apaches, Merlins and Chinooks they’d had in Afghanistan. Decent birds, all the same.

Joe put his knife, fork, plate and mug in the dishwasher. He added a tablet to the compartment, set it to a short cycle and clicked the door closed.

He placed the photo album and medals on the kitchen counter, dampened a cloth to wipe the table, then folded it and hung it over the swan-necked tap. A place for everything, and everything in its place. The dogs were lying down, watching him move around the kitchen. Their eyes were bright, expectant. They thought they’d be going out soon, accompanying him to some part of the estate or another. Molly’s tail thumped lazily against the padded edge of her bed.

‘Not today, girls,’ he said, sadly. ‘I think Major Martival will be taking care of you from now on.’

He reached for the Browning, thumbed the latch and broke it. He took two red cartridges from a box, inspected their brass caps and inserted them into the breech. With a snap, loud in the silent kitchen, he closed the gun.

The action had disturbed his note, which shifted off-square by a few degrees. Tutting, he realigned it with the edge of the table, beside his phone.

Even though he’d been expecting it, the call startled him. He looked back at the dogs and lifted his phone to his ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Joe, this is Inspector Ford. I’d like you to come to the front door with your hands on top of your head, please. Then follow the instructions given to you.’

‘You going to arrest me, Inspector?’

‘Afraid so, Joe. Now, don’t do anything silly, OK? I want this to go smoothly so we can all get home in one piece. You included.’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t cause any trouble.’

Joe ended the call and realigned the phone with the note. He picked up the shotgun. With a final scratch of the dogs’ heads, he walked to the front door.

As agreed with Gordon Richen, Ford stood thirty feet back from the cottage door and off to one side, giving the AFOs a clear field of fire. As the door swung inwards he had to fight down the urge to throw himself flat in the dirt.

Joe Hibberd stood there, holding a shotgun loosely across his body, barrels pointing down at the ground.

‘Hello, Inspector,’ Joe said.

Behind him, Ford heard heavy boots thundering up.

‘Armed police! Put the gun down! Armed police! Drop your weapon!’

Gordon Richen rushed past Ford, pistol gripped in both hands and pointing at Joe. Two more AFOs took up kneeling positions, their black assault rifles aimed at his head.

In the slowed-down time that descended on him, Ford noticed Joe’s freshly shaven cheeks and the greyish circles under his eyes. He watched as, with infinite care, Joe bent his knees and laid the shotgun on the ground.

The two AFOs rushed him. One forced him to the ground at gunpoint. The other snapped on rigid cuffs, pinioning his wrists behind his back in the stacked formation for maximum restraint. A third ran up and retrieved the shotgun.

Letting out the breath he’d been holding, Ford walked over to the prone figure. Joe twisted his head round to look up at him.

‘That was a good decision, Joe. Thank you.’

With Hibberd on his way back to Bourne Hill, Ford went inside. He walked down the hall to the kitchen and opened the door to be confronted by the two black and white border collies he’d seen with Hibberd before. They were barking furiously. Stiff ruffs of hair stood up on their necks. They came to a stop a few feet from Ford, long yellow teeth bared. He fought down a primal terror. He had time to think, This is what cavemen felt when they met wolves.

He kneeled down and extended a hand, closed into a downward-pointing fist. He remembered Joe telling him their names: female, though