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

the impact of her figure. Her bee-stung lips, frosted in heavy pink gloss, curved upwards just a little as she caught him staring.

He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Abbott, your husband has just told me that he was not, in fact, here with you watching Game of Thrones on the dates I have previously mentioned, as you and he have claimed.’

Her lips parted.

Ford held up a hand. ‘Would it surprise you to know he now claims he was in the company of a sex worker named Zoe Denys?’

She smiled. ‘Not at all.’

DAY EIGHTEEN, 2.05 P.M.

Ford managed to avoid letting his mouth drop open. She’d blindsided him.

‘My husband had been working rather hard recently, Inspector,’ she said with a confiding smile. She took Abbott’s hand in her own, enfolding it so that her long turquoise nails rested on his knuckles. ‘He’s been under enormous stress. From time to time, poor Charles feels the need to let off a little additional steam. With Zoe. It’s not ideal, but tell me, what marriage is?’

‘So, you’re confirming that when you provided your husband with an alibi, that was a lie.’

‘I was trying to protect his reputation,’ she said indignantly. ‘As a loyal wife.’

Ford had had enough of being given the runaround by this would-be local power couple.

‘And how do you think his reputation will look – and yours – if I decide to charge you both with obstruction and wasting police time?’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Try me.’

‘Look, Inspector,’ Abbott said. ‘There’s no need for that.’

Ford looked at Abbott, who was all smiles now, his features once more arranged in that infuriatingly smug expression that had been winding Ford up since their very first encounter. He didn’t need the aggravation of booking them both, but he did want information.

‘I need contact details for Zoe Denys, now.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ Abbott said, the corners of his mouth drooping in a parody of sadness.

‘This is your alibi we’re talking about here.’

‘I know. And I wish I could help you. But I can’t.’

‘You must contact her when you want to see her? What’s her phone number? Or do you use email?’

‘I place a classified ad in the Telegraph. In the Announcements section. You know, ‘Mr X is getting married to Miss Y,’ that sort of thing. She calls me and we fix up a meeting.’

‘So you have her number in your phone.’

Abbott shook his head. ‘She calls me via the hospital switchboard at Revelstoke Hall. Untraceable, you see. She values her privacy just as much as her clients value theirs.’

‘So, what you’re telling me is that you are replacing your old alibis – that you were here watching TV with your wife, or working – with a new one: that you were having sex with an untraceable prostitute in a hotel.’

‘Shamefully, yes. I’m not proud of myself.’

‘Which hotels do you use?’

‘It varies. Usually country-house places, boutique spots on the coast.’

‘I’ll need you to give me a list, and the names under which you registered.’

‘I’ll try to remember and get a list to you.’

‘Try hard. I’ll give you twenty-four hours. We’ll contact the hotels to ask for their registration files and CCTV. If we don’t find you there, you’ll be seeing me again.’ Ford stood. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr and Mrs Abbott.’

Abbott stayed seated, but his wife stood and smiled, ushering Ford out of the kitchen and down the wide hallway to the front door, where she paused.

‘I’m so sorry you had a wasted trip. Poor Charles. I think he might be having some sort of breakdown. I’ll be calling our doctor as soon as you’ve gone.’

Once the detective’s car had disappeared round the bend at the end of the main road through the village, Lucinda stormed back into the living room, where her husband was sipping from a large cut-glass tumbler of whisky.

‘That went well,’ she said, hands on hips.

He smiled up at her. ‘He was on the point of arresting me, darling. I had to come clean about Zoe. He wasn’t buying our binge-watching story so I decided he should have the truth.’ He spread his hands. ‘A bit of police station gossip about my little peccadilloes will be infinitely preferable to me being hauled down to the police station in handcuffs. And we don’t want them discovering that I’ve been pinching blood from work for our little games, do we?’

She stared down at him a moment longer. He was right, damn him. Charles was always right.

DAY TWENTY-ONE, 8.30 A.M.

Ford waited for everyone to fill the meeting room. He checked his watch. No excuses to be late first thing on a Monday morning. Sandy had ordered him to take the weekend off. He’d intended to spend time with Sam, but Sam had spent most of the two days ‘hanging out with my friends, like I usually do’. Still, it had allowed Ford to catch up with paperwork, and to think about Abbott.

Jools had urged him to keep an open mind when he’d called her on Sunday morning. ‘I know you have this feeling for murderers, guv. But the evidence isn’t anywhere near strong enough. You’ve got to go by the numbers. It’s how the majority of cases are solved.’

‘Yes, Jools. It is how the majority are solved. But the majority of victims know their killers. Ours were killed by a stranger. By a psychopathic stranger. That calls for a different approach.’

‘Fine, but you should know, people on the team are starting to question your fixation with Abbott.’

‘And by “people”, you mean Mick, right?’

‘I’ve heard others, too.’

‘Just as long as they remember I’m the lead investigator. I’ll deal with the backstabbing.’

‘It’s not backstabbing, guv! They just want a result.’

‘And they’ll get one, Jools. They will.’

He shook his head to dispel the memory. Everyone had arrived, and he was eager to get the meeting underway. He surveyed the room, assessing, as far as he was able, the state of mind of each member of his