Shallow Ground (Detective Ford) Page 14

  ‘OK. Those are our top ten,’ Ford said. ‘Nine men and one woman who won a medal in the European Powerlifting Championships.’ He looked to his left. ‘Jan, can you and Mick sort out the interviews, please? Bring in a couple of PSIs, if you can find any spare in General CID.’

  Ford emerged from the briefing room to see Sandy marching down the corridor towards him in full battle dress: cobalt-blue jacket over a white shirt, tailored charcoal trousers, heels that matched the jacket. And a lot more make-up than usual.

  ‘Henry!’ she barked. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  He pointed to his office. ‘Work?’

  ‘Wrong! Well, right. With me. Press conference in the big meeting room in five.’

  He sighed. Was there any point protesting? Did anyone win arguments with the Python? Worth a try.

  ‘Do you really need me? I’ve got a ton of paperwork to catch up on.’

  She reached out, clapping her hands on his shoulders. He recognised her perfume: Chanel No5. She always wore it for press conferences. Claimed it gave her confidence to stare down the mob.

  ‘Welcome to my world, DI Ford.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘Of course, if handling the media isn’t your thing, I could always bump you back down to DS. I’m sure Mick Tanner would be more than willing to step up to the plate.’

  ‘It’s fine, boss. No need to take such a drastic step. You want me to lead?’

  ‘You spoil me,’ she said, winking.

  He fell into step beside her; they took the stairs.

  Sandy stopped dead on one of the half-landings, causing Ford to bump into her. ‘Oh, and Henry?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Smarten yourself up a bit. That suit looks like you slept in it. Can’t do much about it now, but run a comb through your hair, at least.’

  Although the new building was supposed to be air-conditioned, the system was struggling against the heat generated by thirty journalists and their assorted equipment.

  With no great relish, Ford opened proceedings. ‘Good afternoon.’ He hesitated, startled by the sudden volley of flashes as the stills photographers grabbed their first pictures. ‘Three days ago, the body of a man was discovered in a flat in the centre of Salisbury. Today, we discovered the body of a second man on a farm on the southern outskirts of the city. We are treating—’

  ‘Were they bled dry?’ a voice rang out.

  Frowning, Ford tried again. ‘We are treating both deaths as suspicious.’

  ‘Is there a vampire at work in Salisbury?’

  General laughter.

  ‘Keep calm, Henry,’ Sandy whispered, looking down at her notes.

  ‘At this point I am unable to speculate as to the killer’s identity,’ he said, fighting the urge to get up and leave. ‘The cause of death in both cases was exsanguination, which matches that of Angela Halpern.’

  ‘So it is the same killer?’ a journalist shouted. ‘Is there a serial killer in Salisbury?’

  Sandy pressed her leg against Ford’s, her signal for him to let her take over.

  ‘There isn’t enough evidence at this stage of the investigation to draw such a conclusion,’ she said. ‘We’re asking the public for two things. One, to be vigilant. Think twice before letting a stranger into your home. And two, to inform the police by calling Bourne Hill Police Station, or Crimestoppers, if they see or hear anything suspicious.’

  ‘What, like someone turning into a bat?’ the same journalist shouted, prompting more laughter.

  Sandy kept a fixed smile plastered on to her face, and waited them out. The room fell silent under her glare.

  ‘If anyone has a sensible question, now would be the moment,’ she said.

  ‘Do you have any suspects yet?’ a young woman with a FREELANCE badge pinned to her top called out. Several of the older male journalists craned their necks to take a better look at her.

  ‘At the moment, we are pursuing several lines of enquiry. We have identified a number of persons of interest, and DI Ford and his team are working flat out to interview them all for elimination purposes.’

  ‘So, that’s a no, then?’

  Sandy smiled again. ‘I have full confidence in DI Ford and his team. They will identify a suspect, and when they do, I can assure you, we will communicate that fact to you.’ She stood. ‘Thank you all.’ Then, under her breath, as the noise levels soared, ‘Come on, Henry, let’s grab a quick drink at the Wyndham Arms.’

  Sitting with their drinks, a large vodka and tonic for her and an orange juice and soda for him, Sandy combed her fingers through her hair.

  ‘Who was that loudmouth making the wisecracks?’

  ‘I couldn’t see. To be honest, I haven’t done many of these, boss. I’m not sure I’d know him by sight anyway.’

  ‘How about the girl? The one with the tight top the blokes couldn’t keep their eyes off. Have you seen her before?’

  Ford shook his head. ‘I had someone called Kerry Battle on the phone from Sky a couple of days back. Maybe the girl was her stringer.’

  Sandy grunted. ‘Huh! I’d like to string her up. Impertinent little cow.’

  Ford grinned. ‘And there was me thinking you looked like butter wouldn’t melt.’

  ‘That’s the magic power of Chanel for you. Seriously, though, what are your thoughts so far?’

  He sipped his drink. ‘Despite your nice deflection of that journalist’s question, we do have a serial killer on our patch,’ he said. ‘And he’s working fast. I mean, Christ, three adults and a kid in, what, a month?’

  ‘I know. He’s going to keep on going, isn’t he?’

  ‘Until he’s caught, or we put too much heat on him and he leaves the area, yes.’

  ‘What do we know about him?’

  ‘Taking the cases as a whole, there are two interesting features. The adult victims were all using the food bank. And I have this feeling there’s also a link to the hospital.’

  ‘This isn’t about Mr Abbott, again?’

  Yes. It is. Ford shook his head. ‘Angie Halpern worked there. Paul Eadon was treated for a blood infection up there. And the killer has shown more than a rudimentary knowledge of anatomy and medical procedures for drawing blood.’

  ‘You think it’s a doctor?’

  ‘Yeah, or a nurse. Or a care assistant. Or the chief executive, for all I know. Just, they’ve got some sort of connection. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I know you’re doing your best. So forgive me for what I’m about to say,’ said Sandy, looking him straight in the eye. ‘But, just try, you know? To catch him before he does another one.’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ he said.

  They finished their drinks and walked back down College Street towards Bourne Hill and their respective offices.

  After catching up on witness statements, interview transcripts and reports from the different investigating teams, Ford checked his watch, and swore.

  It was 6.15 p.m. He still had a mountain of paperwork to get through, and he’d promised to drive Sam to a friend’s house out in the sticks for a paintball party.

  He called Miles. ‘Any chance you could run Sam out to Broad Chalke? He’s due at a party at seven and I’m going to be stuck at work for another couple of hours.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. Eleanor and I are just leaving for a charity do. It’s in the opposite direction. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. I ask too much of you guys as it is. I’ll leave now. Take the work with me.’

  Fifteen minutes later, stomach clenched with tension from fighting to get through the rush-hour traffic, Ford swerved off Rainhill Road and scrunched to a sliding stop on the gravel. His phone had been pinging incessantly. He looked down, hoping it was Jools with a breakthrough in the case.

  Where are you? Lift to Max’s, remember?

  Where are you? Party starts @ 7

  Not cool, Dad

  Where are u?

  Don’t make me late

  u knew about this for weeks

  WH
ERE ARE YOU?

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  Sam was sitting on the front doorstep, staring at his phone. He looked up as Ford peered out at him. His face was dark, those deep-brown eyes black with fury.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ Ford said. ‘You ready?’

  Wordlessly, Sam got to his feet and climbed into the rear of the Discovery.

  The drive took them deep into the countryside, down single-track lanes beneath ivy-throttled trees leaning towards each other like drunks walking home from a country pub.

  Ford tried again. ‘Sam, I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting. It’s the case. It’s—’

  ‘—obviously more important than I am.’

  ‘No! Of course not. Nothing in this world is more precious to me than you. You know that.’

  ‘Do I? Oh, thanks for updating me on what I know. Because sometimes I wonder if I even have a dad,’ Sam said. ‘I spend more time with the Pitts than I do with you.’

  ‘That’s not true. I’m doing the best I can. But since my promotion, I’m taking on a lot more responsibility. It’s going to get better, I promise.’

  ‘“It’s going to get better, I promise,”’ Sam said in a mocking little voice.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Sam, I’ve got a mortuary with four dead bodies in it, three bled dry by some psycho with a thing for blood. I’m here, aren’t I? Driving you to the paintball party, as agreed. What’s the problem?’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Sam’s voice cracked as he yelled at Ford. ‘The problem is you care more about dead people than me!’

  Ford slammed his right foot down on the brake pedal. The Discovery lurched to a stop on a patch of grass verge, the anti-lock brake system juddering, a dust cloud swirling past the windscreen.

  He spun round in his seat, glaring at Sam, who was red-eyed, on the verge of tears, staring out of the side window.

  Ford’s pulse was painful in his throat. He felt his own held-back tears threatening to burst their banks beneath his eyeballs. He inhaled and let the breath out gently.

  ‘I miss her, too. I miss her so much it hurts,’ he said quietly. ‘Every day. And when I look at you, my darling boy, I see her. And that makes it better, and worse, because you look so much like her.’ He watched as Sam sniffed and dragged a sleeve across his nose. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been ignoring you. I’m trying my best, but it’s hard bringing you up on my own. You know, the way Gran brought me up on her own. It’s hard,’ he finished, lamely, wishing he could spin back the hands on the clock of his life to ten minutes before he and Lou set off to climb Pen-y-holt for the final time.

  ‘Can we go, please?’ Sam asked.

  Ford took his foot off the brake and pulled away. He dropped Sam at his friend’s house at two minutes to seven.

  Later that night, as he sipped from a bottle of beer while reading interview transcripts, a pair of texts from Sam arrived:

  Staying at Max’s.

  His dad’s bringing a few of us home tomorrow

  A second later, a follow up.

  Sorry

  He tapped out a reply. Equally terse.

  Me 2

  That was what you did. Ford had learned the hard way. Less is more. Desperate to narrow the gap between them but not knowing how, he took a fresh bottle from the fridge door and climbed the stairs to the spare room. He opened his guitar case, lifted out the red guitar, plugged it in and switched on the amp.

  DAY ELEVEN, 9.05 A.M.

  The next morning, another of Ford’s lines of enquiry collapsed in on itself. Olly knocked on his office door and told him William Farrell’s alibi was watertight.

  ‘Like you said, guv. I checked with the gym’s CCTV, everything. He’s there in glorious technicolour, arriving and leaving when he said he did,’ he said. ‘Plus, I’ve got corroboration from the receptionist, a couple of lads working out with him and one of the personal trainers.’

  ‘What about the drugs angle? You think anyone might have been covering for him? He could have arrived then slipped out again.’

  ‘I had a quiet chat with the manager there. He told me they had some trouble with steroids a couple of years back – one of the trainers.’ He shrugged. ‘They sacked him, and now there’s an instant ban for anyone caught with them. I think they’re clean.’

  ‘Thanks, Olly, good work.’

  Ford looked down at the list in front of him: the staff of the Haematology Department at SDH. He’d had them all interviewed informally, pulling in a couple of PSIs to help with the task. All the males with a high score on his suspect matrix had alibis. The low-scoring males, and the women, he discounted for now. The PSIs’ interview notes all came back with different versions of the same story. Basically ‘I don’t see him/her as a serial killer.’

  Sighing, he cradled his cheeks in his palms and stared at the now-useless list. Had his instinct for a wrong ’un deserted him? He’d felt sure Abbott was involved somehow, but he had an alibi and Ford knew he had no evidence to take to Sandy, let alone the CPS. The porter was looking like a dead loss, too, with his own alibi.

  He screwed up the list and tossed it into the bin in the corner.

  ‘Follow the evidence, Henry,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Follow the bloody evidence.’

  And he started to reread the files from the beginning.

  The conference room at Bourne Hill was packed: Ford’s immediate team, plus Hannah, Alec Reid, the PSIs, CID detectives drafted in and a few uniforms, including Nat Hewitt.

  The door opened and everyone turned to see who’d arrived after the scheduled start time.

  There was a chorus of ‘ma’ams’ as the latecomer revealed herself to be Sandy, resplendent in a tailored mustard top and black leather skirt.

  ‘How’s it going, Henry?’ she asked, pulling out a chair and sinking into it with a grateful sigh.

  ‘Good.’ Bad, but that’s not what the troops need to hear.

  ‘OK if I say a few words?’

  He nodded.

  She pushed back from the table and made her way round the edge to the front, squeezing past a couple of the chairs whose occupants were too slow to pull themselves in. She ran a hand through her hair and took her time looking around the room, building the tension.

  Then she released it. ‘Serial killers. Don’t you just hate the twisted little sods?’

  The room erupted in laughter. Ford joined in, grateful for the chance to let off some steam in their own safe space, free of the prying eyes and ears of journalists, police and crime commissioners and all the other people who reckoned they knew better than the cops how to do the job.

  Once a semblance of order was restored, apart from a few sniffs as the female officers dabbed at mascara tears, Sandy continued.

  ‘Three’s the charm, you all know that. Some of you might have known in your waters you were facing a serial. Well, now it’s official,’ she said. ‘Which means more resources, but also more scrutiny.’ She turned to Ford. ‘I had the PCC on the phone earlier, bending my ear about the need for a “swift resolution to this distressing case”.’

  This prompted more smiles.

  ‘And more media, I suppose,’ Ford said, scowling.

  ‘Than you could shake a stick at. Just play nice and try to use them as much as they use us.’

  ‘I’ll behave. I promise.’

  ‘Which I choose to take at face value,’ she said, offering him the faintest of winks. ‘One more thing. Three linked homicides makes this a Home Office-specified Cat 1 investigation. You get an operation name.’

  ‘What are we on this time, ma’am?’ Jools called out. ‘Wild flowers? Birds of prey?’

  ‘Coastal features. You’re now the investigative team on Operation Shoreline.’

  Olly fought the urge to punch the air. He exited the CCTV program. He saw Ford in his office, frowning as he typed, and hurried over.

  ‘Guv?’

  Ford looked up.

  ‘I got a hit on the C
CTV at the city end of Wyvern Road. The road’s dead most of the time. But at 8.32 p.m. on the night Angie and Kai were murdered a grey VW Polo drove by. Looked like a male at the wheel.’

  ‘Index number?’

  Olly shook his head. ‘Obscured.’

  ‘Track every grey Polo in Salisbury, then widen it out to the rest of Wiltshire, Dorset and Hampshire. I want to know who was behind the wheel.’

  Ford watched the young DC’s back as he marched to his desk. The boy’s ambitious, like I was. Am! Jesus, I need to get a result on this. My first big one since becoming a DI. The media will hang me out to dry if it turns into a runner.

  Wanting to banish the negative thoughts, he called Mick. ‘How are the food-bank interviews coming?’

  ‘Slow, but good. Nobody stands out yet. Most have alibis. A few don’t, but you know the type,’ he said. ‘They’re the library volunteers, the people who plant flowers on verges and roundabouts, the Neighbourhood Watchers, the PTA chairmen. I’m not picking up a vibe from any of them. Same for the others.’

  ‘Keep at it. I’m going mad here with report-writing. Can you send me a couple of names off the list you haven’t interviewed yet?’

  While he was waiting for Mick’s email, Jan stepped into his office. She looked pleased.

  ‘Cat got the cream?’ he asked.

  ‘A whole bucket. Look.’

  She held out a clear debris pot with a black screw-top lid. He read the label.

  MARCUS ANDERSON, CS/1

  FABRIC SAMPLE. FOUND IN OAK TREE, 100M FROM CS/1.

  EVIDENCE NUMBER: BH/SHORELINE/PC6774/87/7

  Holding it up to the light, he saw a scrap of fabric.

  ‘It was caught on a sharp bit of bark in a fork,’ Jan said. ‘Your captain’s pick. Looks like our man might have been hiding there while he waited for Marcus to appear.’

  ‘Good work, Jan, although it could just have come from a kid playing. Get it to Forensics. Maybe there are some epithelials or hairs attached.’

  A few minutes later, an email arrived from Mick. Ford had two people to trace, interview and eliminate – TIE, as the jargon had it: Lenny Hayes and Jasmin Fortuna, both volunteers.

  Hayes’s phone went straight to voicemail. Ford left a short message requesting an interview. He dialled Fortuna next.