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

‘Hey, girl,’ he crooned to the closer of the two growling dogs. ‘Don’t worry about your master. He’s just coming for a chat at Bourne Hill.’

The nearer dog – the alpha, he assumed – cast an appraising glance at him. Her ears, which had flattened against her head on seeing Ford, pricked up again. He stayed motionless, avoiding eye contact. The other dog remained still, though Ford felt relieved she had stopped growling.

The lead dog inched forward and bent her snout to his hand. She sniffed loudly, twice.

‘There, that’s all right, then, isn’t it, eh?’ Ford said. He curled his hand under the dog’s jaw and scratched at the loose skin there. The second dog, sensing the threat had passed, whined a little before shouldering her way in for Ford to scratch her behind the ears. Slowly he stood. He turned round and called for someone to take the dogs outside to the canine unit.

Alone, Ford stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. Getting a feel for Hibberd’s life. Had he not already known of Hibberd’s military service, the cleanliness and order all around him would have been a strong clue. The only jarring note was the open box of shells on the table.

He saw zero evidence of cooking or any kind of food preparation. No crumbs in front of the bread bin, no smears on the work surfaces, no splashes on the stainless-steel stove top. He looked into the corners. Unlike his own kitchen, he saw no cobwebs freighted with tiny white shrouds. He noted the medals and the photograph album on the countertop.

He walked in, pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, then picked up the sheet of notepaper sitting dead square in the centre of the pine table.

To whom it may concern,

I, Joe Hibberd, confess to the murders of Owen Long and Tommy Bolter.

Long attacked me when I challenged him on Lord Baverstock’s land. I shot him with a .22 I took from Lord Baverstock’s gun safe.

I acted in self-defence, not that I expect a court to believe that. They are prejudiced against veterans, always persecuting us for things we did in the heat of battle years ago.

I also shot Tommy Bolter. I used a .308 hunting rifle also belonging to Lord Baverstock. Bolter saw me kill Long and demanded fifty thousand pounds to keep quiet. It triggered my PTSD. I don’t know what happened except I came to beside his dismembered body.

I do not wish to bring disgrace on Lord Baverstock and his family. They have always been good to me and know nothing about what I did. This is one hundred per cent on me.

As I do not expect a fair trial, I am taking the only other way out.

I leave my entire estate to the Royal British Legion.

Yours faithfully,

Joseph Hibberd, CGC (Conspicuous Gallantry Cross)

Ford wrinkled his nose. Something didn’t feel right. He folded the note and placed it in a paper evidence bag he took from his inside pocket. He went outside.

At the side of the house, Ford saw a battered Land Rover Defender – the basic utility vehicle rather than the more upmarket Discovery he drove. This one had been built as a pickup, with an open load bay behind the stubby two-person cab. Whatever shine the sage-green paint had once enjoyed had long been weathered away, leaving it virtually matte.

He looked over the slab-sided load bay. Dust and grit covered the ridged steel floor. He peered into the corners, searching for the darker colouration of blood spots. Seeing none, he turned and called over to a uniform unrolling crime scene tape.

‘Over here, please.’

When the PC arrived, he recognised her. ‘Hello, Lisa, how’s it going?’

She smiled. ‘Ace, sir, thanks. I’m so grateful to you for getting me in to Bourne Hill as a proper copper.’

‘I said I would. I try to keep my promises.’

‘What can I do?’

‘I want you to put a cordon round this vehicle and get a sheet – or, better yet, a tent – over the load bay in case it rains. Then get it recovered to HQ.’

She cupped her hand and leaned towards the driver’s-side window. About to warn her against touching the glass, he realised he didn’t need to. She stopped a few inches short as she looked inside.

‘You think he used it to transport the bodies, sir?’

‘It’s a hypothesis.’

He left PC Moore calling for a flatbed on to which they could load the Land Rover.

Ford turned and surveyed the scene. Hannah had arrived with a team of CSIs. Once they had what they wanted, he’d send Jan in. He jogged over.

‘Hello, Henry,’ Hannah said, pulling down her face mask as he arrived. ‘Do you think it’s him?’

‘I’m not sure, Wix. We had to arrest him, but I’m not feeling it.’

‘Ah, the famous Ford gut. I think I’ll stick with the evidence, if that’s all right?’

He frowned. More offbeat humour? He pushed on. ‘On that subject, I’ve got Hibberd’s Land Rover protected over there,’ he said, gesturing to the Landie with PC Moore standing guard. ‘I thought it might have blood or DNA in the back.’

She nodded briskly. ‘I’ll get right on it. What about firearms?’

‘Joe told me his .22 is at the gun shop,’ Ford said. ‘Gordon’s guys have the shotgun.’

‘On that subject, I put Ellen and George on the firearms from Alverchalke Manor. They’re doing the .22s and the .308 first.’

‘Thanks. Let me know as soon as you have anything.’

Heading back to Bourne Hill with Mick Tanner beside him, Ford thought about Hibberd’s suicide note. Or what he realised he had started thinking of as his ‘suicide note’.

He’d read other examples of the genre. They were often so packed with emotion that reading them evoked tears even in hardened cops. Hibberd’s lacked feeling, apart from that single reference to veterans being persecuted by the courts. And even that felt contrived, somehow.

The note felt like it had been not so much written as constructed. Each sentence, each paragraph, calculated