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

self-importance,’ Ford said. ‘Tell him he’s got better insights into Joe’s character than anyone else alive. He’ll love the idea he’s been handed an opportunity to weaken the prosecution case by fleshing out Joe’s PTSD defence. And being the kind of man he is, I suspect he won’t credit you with the smarts to see that’s what he’s doing.’

‘Did I just call you devious?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Scratch that. It’s not even close. You’re the Machiavelli of Major Crimes.’

Ford grinned. ‘Now there’s a nickname I could get to like!’

‘Last question. When?’

‘I thought tomorrow. If he’s around. Say ten a.m.’

‘Agreed.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘I’m getting quite excited now. I’ll call him this evening.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Right. Get going. And let’s hope we can achieve all this without shots being fired. The last thing I want to have to explain to the PCC, the chief con and News at bloody Ten is how we created the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral in rural bloody Wiltshire.’

‘Not good for the brand?’

She glared at him. ‘Not even slightly.’

Back in his office, Ford started drawing up the risk assessment matrix on Lord Baverstock’s arrest.

Finishing it after half an hour, he looked at the chewed end of his pencil. The Lucy Problem wouldn’t leave him be.

Ford looked up to see Sandy in his doorway. He checked the time reflexively – 7.03 p.m. – good to see the brass putting in the hours.

‘Come in, boss. Take the weight off.’

She sat down and leaned towards his desk. ‘Your plan needs tweaking. I just spoke to Baverstock. He’s not at home. He’s in London, staying at his club. Bigwood’s. I arranged to meet him tomorrow afternoon at three to talk about Joe Hibberd’s supposed PTSD.’

‘Right. Actually, that works,’ Ford said, running through a couple of scenarios in his head. ‘We’ve got two more options for the arrest. One, we could plot up outside the club with a couple of Met AFOs and jump him when he comes out.’

‘Huge potential risk to the public if he’s got a firearm. I can’t see him with a shotgun, but if he’s ex-army he might have a nine mil,’ she said. ‘He may not be expecting to be picked up, but he’s got to be on his guard. Plus we’d have to work with the Met and you know how leaky they are.’

‘Or two, we do a hard stop on the route between London and home. Take him on a quiet bit of road.’

‘Better. You could get him secure without a shootout in central London.’

‘It’s the less risky of the two,’ Ford said. ‘We get the Met to pick him up on ANPR on the M3, then we send a firearms commander plus four AFO units up to intercept him on the A303. Or the A30 if he decides to come via Stockbridge.’

‘What do you want to do with Hibberd?’

‘Keep him here until the arrest’s out of the way. He’s been charged with an indictable offence, so can you authorise another twelve hours?’

‘Authorised. Next?’

‘Nothing else.’

Hannah appeared in the doorway holding a folder. Five minutes later she’d briefed them on her findings from the Land Rover. Traces of blood whose type matched Tommy Bolter’s. And a hair stuck to the blood, implying the blood was still wet when the hair was shed. DNA tests were being fast-tracked with results expected the following day.

Ford asked what kind of hair, hoping she’d say long and blonde. Her answer set him back a step.

‘Short and brown.’

Ford felt the Lucy Problem wrap itself in another layer. Hannah explained the hair had its root attached and had also been fast-tracked.

Once under arrest, Lord Baverstock would have to provide a DNA sample. They’d compare it to the DNA from the hair, and then would that be that? Or would Ford find himself still tugging at one more loose end?

Hannah stood. ‘I have to leave now. It’s been an exhausting day and tomorrow’s going to be busier. Good night.’

‘Night, Hannah,’ Ford and Sandy said in unison.

Sandy smiled once Hannah had gone.

‘I like her,’ she said.

‘Me too.’

‘I suggest you do the same as Wix,’ Sandy said, getting to her feet. ‘Get some sleep tonight. Like the lady said, tomorrow’s going to be a big day.’

Ford did as he was told, deciding after a quick mental struggle not to reveal to Sandy his suspicions about Lucy Martival. Or his concerns about the Bolters.

After Ford and Sam had cleared up from supper, Sam disappeared off to his room. Smiling at his son’s thunderous ascent of the stairs, Ford opened a beer and took it through to the sitting room. He took a long pull and looked out at the lawn, where a pair of collared doves were waddling along together like an old married couple.

Sam reappeared, holding a length of lime-green climbing rope. He waggled it at Ford.

‘Look. I got it off eBay. Five pounds. It’s great for practising. Plus a carabiner.’

Ford’s insides fluttered. He ignored the sensation and smiled. ‘Go on then. Tie me a double figure-eight.’

Sam grinned. ‘Too easy!’

Ford watched as Sam’s slender fingers doubled, twisted and threaded the rope into a perfectly good knot.

‘What next?’ Sam asked.

‘Bowline.’

This one took longer, but within twenty seconds, Sam flourished a decent bowline with a biggish loop. ‘Another?’

Ford smiled. ‘Right. Let’s see how well you’ve been doing. Tie me a clove hitch.’

Sam furrowed his brow, but the knot he tied round the dull grey carabiner was on the money. Ford was impressed, though below the pride he felt welling fear.

‘That’s good, Sam. Really good. Keep it up.’

‘I’m going to. Don’t worry. How was your day?’

‘Busy.’

‘OK. That was brief,’ Sam said with a frown.

‘Sorry, mate. Can’t say more. Hopefully tomorrow evening, though.’ He took a deep breath and let it out quietly before speaking again. ‘Listen, have you seen any more of Rye Bolter?’

Sam shook his head. ‘No.’ Then he grinned. ‘I think that gorilla in a blue suit might have scared him away.’

‘You saw him, did you?’

‘You might want to send him