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

Locking the thought away, he went to see Olly. The days were passing and still they hadn’t got access to Owen’s GoPro account.

‘Have you got that bloody GoPro password yet?’

Olly’s face fell. ‘I spoke to them again this morning.’

‘And?’

‘They said even with Mrs Long’s permission, their legal department would take at least a week. Due diligence, apparently. They’re very nervous of fraud.’

‘A week? For God’s sake! Did you tell them we were investigating a murder?’

‘I did. I’m sorry, guv.’

Ford sighed, taking in the DC’s crestfallen expression. ‘This isn’t on you. Bloody corporate risk aversion. I’d like to show them a few of our crime scene photos. Maybe that would gee them up a bit.’

He checked his watch again. Called the front desk. ‘Has Joe Hibberd’s brief arrived yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘When they do, have someone take them to Interview Suite Four, please. And call me.’

While he waited, he thought back to the moment he’d walked into Hibberd’s kitchen. Something then hadn’t felt right. He stilled his mind. Went back to the gamekeeper’s cottage. What the hell was it? Just out of reach yet screaming for attention?

He closed his eyes. Opened the front door and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. Opened that door. Heard, then saw, the dogs. Calmed them and had them taken away.

He walked to the centre of the immaculate kitchen and looked around. Moved himself outside and looked in again through the window.

The closed doors. The dogs. The locked window.

He’d seen the flaw in the suicide scene.

Hibberd’s kitchen matched George’s dissection room for cleanliness and order. He’d produced a neatly typed and formatted suicide note and aligned it with the corner of the table. He’d even folded the cleaning cloth and hung it over the tap.

But if they’d arrived a couple of minutes later, Hibberd would apparently have redecorated his kitchen with his own brains. Would he have cared? A man about to kill himself, worried over what mess he left behind?

Maybe not. But he cared about his dogs. He’d said they were like family. He wouldn’t have blown his brains out in front of them. And he’d never have left them locked in with his corpse. They’d have got hungry. And they’d have turned to the only available food source. Ford had seen it happen before.

Smiling, he scribbled a few notes, then went down to the canteen to grab a sandwich and a bar of chocolate.

Munching his way through the fluffy, tasteless bread and watery tuna mayo, he consulted his notebook. In the rose garden, Lord Baverstock had said up to fourteen people apart from him had access to the Alverchalke gun safe. Ford was still convinced the murderer lived on the estate. And was equally convinced it wasn’t Joe.

Olly appeared, out of breath, by his side. ‘Hibberd’s medical records came in just after you left. I’ve summarised them for you and added a couple of other pointers.’

He handed Ford a single sheet of paper.

‘Thanks, Olly. Nice work. And even better timing.’

Ford scanned Olly’s summary:

Medical records

– Army: No mention of mental health issues. Only injury prior to attack on machine-gun nest: fractured little finger on left hand.

– Civilian: No sleeping pills, anti-anxiety medication, antidepressants, therapy or referrals to anger-management courses.

Police

– No complaints of domestic abuse. No charges of public order offences or brawling in bars.

Veterans’ charities

– No Joe or Joseph Hibberd has ever contacted them.

Financial

– Shops at Tesco using credit card. Clubcard account shows just 30 cans of Heineken and a bottle of Scotch in last five weeks’ shopping.

It didn’t look like Joe was self-medicating with alcohol. Ford suspected most members of his team – hell, the whole of Bourne Hill – drank more than Hibberd did.

Of course, Hibberd might be suffering from PTSD without seeking help. Ford just didn’t believe he was. But if he challenged him over it, he could simply agree to the contents of Olly’s report and claim he was battling it alone.

His phone rang.

‘Front desk, sir. Joe Hibberd’s brief has arrived.’

Ford scoffed the rest of his sandwich and half the chocolate. He stood and brushed the crumbs off his suit trousers, grabbed his file on Hibberd and went to collect Jools. On the way to the interview suite he suggested a tactic for probing Joe’s claims about his PTSD.

He’d been expecting one of the duty solicitors – Gillian Kenney or another overtired, overworked, publicly funded lawyer who’d read the client’s file two minutes before accompanying them into the interview. The sight of Jacob Rowbotham’s cadaverous form surprised him. Today, Salisbury’s leading criminal solicitor wore an immaculate pinstriped suit made of soft-looking fabric that absorbed light like a black hole.

The surprise didn’t last long. The faithful retainer’s in trouble, and his aristocratic boss and former commander puts on a good show by sending his own lawyer.

Time and date stated, and introductions made ‘for the tape’, Ford began.

‘I read your letter, Joe.’

‘Then why am I here? Open-and-shut case. I’m just sorry you got me before I went through with it.’

‘Let’s leave the letter for now. I want to ask you about the murders you say you committed.’

‘I don’t say I committed them,’ Hibberd said, leaning forward. ‘I did commit them.’

‘Tell me how you killed Owen Long.’

‘I found him up near the rearing field, making some sort of video, ranting about Lord Baverstock. Bloody class warrior. I went over to him with the dogs and told him he was trespassing.’

‘And you had a rifle with you at this point?’

‘Yeah. Always take something out with me. I had a .22. It’s nothing much, just thought I’d get a rabbit for the pot like when you met me up there,’ he said.

‘And then?’

‘He went bloody berserk, didn’t he? Grabbed the rifle and started yelling in my face, swearing, calling me a lackey. I tried to hold him off ’cause I was genuinely in fear. Then bang!’ Hibberd clapped his hands, making his lawyer jump. ‘The muzzle jammed under his chin and he died on the spot.’

‘Which gun did you use to kill Owen?’