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

the murders of Angie and Kai Halpern, Paul Eadon, Marcus Anderson and Aimee Cragg, and to the attempted murder of Lisa Moore?’

‘I think I just said that, didn’t I?’

‘Why, Charles? Why them?’

Abbott sighed. ‘He used to beat me. I suspect he also beat my mother, but she always denied it. Once, he drew blood and made me lick it up. I can still taste it.’

‘Your father,’ Ford said.

‘My father. Nicholas Ralph Augustus Abbott. Stalwart of the rugby club, the local Conservative association, the Masons, and a sadistic bully who made my childhood hell.’

‘He called you worthless? That’s what set you off on a killing spree?’

‘Oh, the trigger, you mean?’ Abbott rolled his eyes. ‘I think I’ve always been – what shall we say, predisposed? – to a lack of empathy. Maybe even possessing certain not entirely attractive traits as far as harming small animals goes,’ he said, with a small frown. ‘But there was always a chance I might have continued in my more or less blameless life, rising through the ranks of my chosen profession. If not for one thing.’

‘And that was?’

‘My mother died. It was this May, not last. We were always close. She worried about me. My father couldn’t stand it. He thought she’d turned me into a homosexual, though his preferred epithet was “poofter”. Very retro.’

‘How did she die?’

‘The official cause of death was suicide. She washed thirty sleeping pills down with a bottle of vodka. But I know what really killed her. He drove her to it. He said it was a lifetime’s grief for birthing me that did it. “You killed your brother in your mother’s barren womb, and now you’ve killed her, too, you worthless little shit!”,’ Abbott growled. ‘But it wasn’t. It was him. He controlled every aspect of her life.’

‘What did he mean? How did you kill your unborn brother?’

‘They wanted children for ages but they couldn’t conceive. Nick sprang for IVF. Three cycles it took and, finally, when my mother was forty-three, it worked. Twins. It’s surprisingly common, did you know that? Roughly forty-six per cent of IVF conceptions are multiples, mostly twins.’

‘I had heard, yes.’

‘Well, the pregnancy was fine until, one day, Mother went for a scan and they gave her the old “We have some sad news, Mrs Abbott” speech.’

Ford felt he knew what was coming. Kept quiet while Abbott was happy to talk.

‘One of the babies had died in the womb. In utero, as one might say. A boy. I came out alive and kicking three months later. My brother didn’t kick so much.’

‘That must have been hard for her,’ Ford said.

Abbott shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. Other people’s emotions aren’t my strong point, as you may have noticed. Anyway, from that day on, dear old Nick had it in for me.’

‘Why? It was sad, obviously, but he had a son, didn’t he? Someone he could love?’

Abbott ran a hand over his hair. ‘You’d think, wouldn’t you? But it turned out I was the wrong kind of son. Useless at kicking a ball, or catching it. More interested in solo nature rambles than joining his bloody rugby club. He despised me. And he made sure I knew it.’

‘So you decided to kill six people and transfuse their blood into yourself. What, to wash his out of you?’

‘Give the man a big round of applause, folks!’ Abbott said in a cod-American accent, before resuming in his own voice. ‘In one. He said he couldn’t believe his blood ran in my veins. Well, now it doesn’t.’

‘Why kill for it? You’re a haematologist. Surely you could just have stolen it from the hospital?’

Abbott snorted. ‘That’s where I told Lucinda it came from. She believed me, as well.’

‘She did the transfusions, didn’t she?’

‘I told her it was a sex thing. She’s very’ – he paused – ‘accommodating in that area.’

‘So why not steal them?’

‘For one thing, the security and tracking at the blood bank are state of the art. Every single bag has an RFID chip on it. You know what one of those is?’

‘Some sort of radio signal device?’

‘I won’t bore you with the technical details, but, yes, broadly speaking.’

‘And for another thing?’

Abbott grinned. ‘It wouldn’t be as much fun, would it?’

Ford took a moment before carrying on. Until this moment he had never heard another human being admit he killed people because it was fun. He’d read about them. About their incapacity to feel empathy, remorse, or any normal human emotion beyond the most basic. And now he was talking to one of these creatures. He composed himself before answering.

‘Why the numbers, Charles?’

Abbott smiled. ‘Being an accountant at the time, he was rather obsessed by numbers. Before he dies, I want him to know how completely and utterly wrong he was about me.’

‘How will he know?’

‘He’s enjoying a little slideshow I put together using those photos,’ Abbott said, gesturing at the phone.

Ford felt anxiety bloom. ‘Where is he?’

‘Safe and sound. Don’t worry about him.’

Ford made a mental note to come back to Nick Abbott, who he felt was anything but safe, and very far from sound.

‘Tell me about the trophies.’

‘Oh, that. I wanted to distract you. Too obvious?’

‘Not at all. Given that when we find them, they’ll help convict you, I’m glad you took them.’

Abbott frowned. ‘Ah,’ he said, with a note of finality. ‘On that subject, I’m afraid they’re gone.’

‘Gone?’ But we still have you on tape admitting to taking them.

‘Yes. I burned them last night.’

‘Where, Charles? Where did you burn them?’

‘Revelstoke Hall. In the incinerator. I had to, you see. A cleaner discovered them in my office. I forgot to lock my cupboard door. Silly, really. Stress, I suppose,’ he said, looking pained. ‘It wasn’t her fault. But I couldn’t risk her blurting it out to one of her friends or posting something on social media.’

Ford felt a fresh wave of nausea wash over him. ‘What did you do to her, Charles?’

Abbott frowned. ‘I killed her, of course! Took me ages to clean up after myself. If you’re