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

Mars Bar for energy, Ford was immediately surrounded by his team. Everyone was smiling. People came up to slap him on the back.

Ford patted the air for silence. ‘We have Matty and Jen Kyte in custody. That means the PACE clock is ticking. I want a team over to their place right now to start searching. Jan, can you organise that, please?’

‘Yes, guv. What are we looking for?’

‘Evidence of blood transfusions. Needles, big ones. They’re called trocars. Blood bags, tubes – you’ve seen the A&E programmes on the telly.’

‘What about the trophies, boss?’ Olly asked.

‘Get the contents of their food cupboards,’ Ford said.

‘Who’s going to do the interviews, guv?’ Jools asked.

‘You and I’ll take Matty.’ He turned to Mick. ‘You and Olly take Jen. I think she’s the one doing the transfusions. They’re a team. And they’re in it up to their necks.’

Everyone dispersed. Olly stopped at the door and came back to Ford. ‘One thing more, guv. I traced Scheherazade Abbott’s Polo. No joy, I’m afraid. It’s been at her school all this term.’

Ford and Jools entered Interview Room 4 at Bourne Hill Police Station at 9.00 p.m. Refreshed by a cup of strong coffee and eager to get at their man, Ford paused at the door.

‘Softly softly, catchee monkey, OK?’

Jools nodded.

Ford had his pick of interview rooms, and others were far more welcoming. But No. 4 was his favourite when interviewing murder suspects. Somehow it had retained the smell of fear-sweat, despite the nightly attentions of the cleaners. Windowless, its light came from a single unshaded bulb dangling from a foot of grimy flex in the centre of the ceiling.

Sitting on the far side of the table were Matty Kyte and one of the duty solicitors drawn from the South Wiltshire pool. The solicitor, Gillian Kenney, had a careworn but kind face, and short, dull auburn hair. In her forties, she was dressed in a simple black suit and a snowy-white blouse.

Ford had met her professionally and socially on a few occasions and liked her. She was there to do a job and he knew she’d do it to the best of her abilities and with her client’s best interests at heart. She always used a yellow legal pad in the American style, and she wrote her notes with a green lacquer fountain pen with a gold nib.

She nodded to him. No smile, but there was a professional’s regard in her eyes.

Kyte smiled at Ford. His own clothes having been removed for examination, he was dressed in pale-blue sweats and athletic socks turned grey from much washing.

‘This is all a mistake,’ he said, as soon as Ford sat down.

Kenney laid a hand on his left forearm. ‘Don’t say anything yet, Matty.’

Ford reached over and switched on the interview recorder. Other forces used digital kit nowadays, he knew, but Wiltshire was either too slow or too cheap to issue it, so they were stuck with ribbons of magnetic tape.

The bleep finally ended.

After the formal noting of the time and date of the interview, the Home Office-prescribed caution and the names of all participants, Ford began.

‘You interested in blood, Matty?’

Matty shrugged.

‘Could you answer out loud, please, for the recorder?’

‘Not especially. Why?’

‘I think you are. You were seen drawing a face in it, as we all agree. And you’ve got a book on your shelf among the thrillers called De Motu Cordis by William Harvey. He’s the man who discovered the circulation of the blood.’

‘Oh, yeah. That one. It’s not mine.’

‘No? Whose is it?’

‘It belongs to Jen.’

‘Why does she have an old book like that, Matty?’

‘It was her auntie’s. The one who left her the house? It’s rare,’ Matty said with – what? – a hint of pride? ‘I said we should sell it on eBay. You know, to put towards our deposit. But Jen says it’s an heirloom and we should keep it.’

‘Why did you kill them, Matty?’

Matty shook his head, smiling. ‘I didn’t kill anyone, Mr Ford.’

‘Why did you write numbers on the wall in their blood?’

Matty frowned. ‘I didn’t! It wasn’t me.’

Ford watched Kenney’s pen dancing across the ruled sheets of her notepad. Matty’s eyes flicked left, right, up, down, unable to settle on a single point of focus in the room. He crossed then uncrossed his arms. Touched the back of his head.

‘The adult victims were all food-bank users.’

‘Yes, you told me that, Mr Ford.’

‘They were murdered on, or shortly after, the last time they visited the food bank.’

‘Not by me.’

‘And in each case, the murderer took a grocery item with him.’

‘Is that why your assistant talked about my darts trophies?’

‘She’s not my assistant, Matty. She’s our senior crime scene investigator. Tell me what you know about trophies.’

Matty smirked. ‘Sorry. She didn’t say much, so I just assumed, you know, she was your junior. She’s quite attractive, isn’t she?’

‘Trophies, Matty?’

‘Serial killers take them, don’t they? On the TV, the FBI guy always says how they take their victims’ ears, or their knickers or whatever,’ said Matty. ‘I watch a lot of TV. On account of Jen and me saving. Is Jen all right? I don’t know what came over her. I think she was just in shock when you arrested me.’

‘She’s fine, Matty. Two of my officers are talking to her right now. Among other things, they’re asking her why she attacked me with a tomahawk. Do you know what this serial killer took?’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘Tesco penne. Waitrose tomato ketchup. Sainsbury’s teabags – English breakfast. Garlic and salt crackers from Lidl.’

‘Couldn’t make much of a meal out of that lot, could you?’ Matty said with another infuriating smile.

‘My colleague saw Tesco penne in your kitchen cupboard, Matty. Do you want to tell us how it got there?’

Matty shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Jen does the shopping.’

‘Bit odd to have one thing from Tesco when everything else comes from Sainsbury’s, isn’t it?’

‘She cuts out coupons. Maybe they were on offer.’

‘Why have you got an autoclave in your kitchen, Matty?’

‘What?’

‘An autoclave. It’s that thing in the corner that