Land Rites (Detective Ford) Read online

Keep speaking truth to power. The church’s loss is the planet’s gain. I stand with you.

  RosieTheRioter

  I literally CRIED after reading this. Why is nobody LISTENING to us? The CLIMATE APOCALYPSE is here and the FAT CATS and LANDOWNERS just laugh in our faces. This is OUR WORLD and they have set it on FIRE!!!

  ExtinctlyRebelliousPete

  After forty minutes of more of the same, he sat back. The flapjacks had set off a sharp pain in one of his back teeth and he probed it with his tongue, thinking he needed to visit the dentist and wondering when he’d find the time.

  As for the vlog, Owen might have put a great deal of effort into making his films, but he was preaching to the choir.

  Ford didn’t see the fans as the type to commit murder. But the people against whom Owen railed in his videos – now they were a different story.

  He decided to watch one more video. He clicked the ‘Next’ button for a new page of titles and scrolled down. One caught his eye.

  Avarice at Alverchalke

  He pressed ‘Play’ and leaned forward to watch. In this video Owen sat at his desk, a bookshelf in the background. The intimate surroundings and his closeness to the camera made Ford feel a personal connection to the dead man.

  For much of the first five minutes, Owen ranted against landed families in general, and what he called ‘their unfeeling rapacity, egotistical contempt for the environment and hubristic disregard for natural justice and the fundamental well-being of all living things’.

  Bloody hell! Were they sure cause of death wasn’t swallowing a dictionary?

  Then Owen said something that jerked Ford into full alertness.

  ‘That is why I intend to make a special video on Lord Baverstock’s own land. I have done my research. He plans to build one hundred and thirty new houses on pristine countryside. His motive? Pure and unalloyed greed. And he employs an armed gamekeeper to protect him. But please don’t worry for my safety. Gaia will keep me safe, as she always does.’ He placed his hands together in front of his forehead. ‘Namaste.’

  Ford hit ‘Pause’. Bingo! This was the video they needed: the one that would prove he’d been trespassing on Lord Baverstock’s land when he was killed. But Owen had been murdered before he could upload it, and they didn’t have his camera.

  A question occurred to him. He called Ruth Long.

  ‘Do you know what sort of camera Owen used to make his videos?’ he asked her.

  ‘He used to use his phone, but I bought him a GoPro last Christmas.’

  Ford went online. A few minutes later he had his answer. The latest models had a feature that allowed users to upload their footage automatically to the Cloud. Had Owen’s caution extended to keeping a Cloud backup of his raw footage?

  He checked his emails. Just one, from Hannah.

  The meta-data from the photo Gwyneth Pearce gave you tells us Tommy took it at 11.12 a.m. on Thursday 29th April.

  I intend to try enhancing the image. Tommy had an eight-megapixel camera in his phone and there was plenty of light.

  He took a mouthful of coffee and grimaced. Cold. He finished it anyway and dabbed up the last remaining crumbs of the flapjacks. Questions were arriving faster than he could process them. Had the killer moved the body to deflect suspicion away from Lord Baverstock and on to Adlam?

  That’s what it looked like. And that meant the two murders were definitely linked to the Baverstock family. And Owen had mentioned ‘an armed gamekeeper’ – Joe Hibberd.

  After the last CCTV picture, Owen’s car had vanished. Had the killer shot him, realised that this far from the city he must have come in a car, found it, and driven it away? It must be parked somewhere well hidden. Ford wanted it badly: it would have the killer’s DNA all over it. He made a note to get Jan searching farms and outbuildings. What if he burned it out? He added lay-bys and known dump sites for joyriders.

  Mick popped his head round the door, breaking his concentration. ‘Morning.’

  ‘Morning,’ Ford said. ‘What time did you leave last night?’

  ‘Late,’ Mick said, then took a huge slurp of coffee. ‘Nice shiner you’ve got there.’

  Ford sighed. ‘Mick, I can’t have you waltzing in late when the rest are burning the candle at both ends.’

  Mick shook his head, then winced. ‘It’s not what it looks like. I had a few drinks with Rye and JJ, sure, then a few more with some of the others. And,’ he said, then paused dramatically, ‘I found something out, didn’t I?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I got talking to one of Tommy’s mates last night after you left. Tommy boasted to him about some money-making scheme that was going to make his hare-coursing exploits look like a Saturday job. Said it was going to make him rich.’

  ‘I heard the same story from his girlfriend. Did he have any idea at all what Tommy meant?’

  Mick put the tip of his index finger on his chin. ‘I never thought to ask him,’ he said in a goofy voice. ‘Of course I bloody asked him! I may not be a DI like you, but I can, just about, do the job. Despite what Olly thinks.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say. I got the feeling he was angling for some cash, or a favour.’

  Wondering how much Mick had had to drink before he questioned his informant, Ford pushed on. ‘Did you get a name?’

  ‘Connor Dowdell.’

  ‘Let’s have a chat with him, then.’

  Mick threw back the last of his coffee. He pressed his free hand to his temple. ‘You haven’t got any paracetamol, have you? Or a Nurofen Express?’

  Shaking his head, Ford reached into a drawer, rummaged among the busted staplers and rubber bands and found a squashed packet of painkillers. He tossed it over to Mick.

  ‘Thanks,’ Mick said, pressing three tablets out of their blisters and swallowing them with a grimace. ‘This one’s a bastard.’

  ‘How are things at home?’ Ford asked before he could escape.

  Mick rubbed a hand over his scalp. ‘Kirsty’s trying to clean me out. She wants the house outright, plus a car and child support for the girls. Which I don’t begrudge, by the way,’ he said. ‘But she’s got a job, Henry! At the council. It pays better than mine, for God’s sake.’

  ‘That’s why you’ve got a lawyer,’ Ford said. ‘Listen, I meant what I said the other day. If you need time off, you can have it. But if you’re here, I need you to bring your A game. You did well, finding this Dowdell guy. But spending half the night in The White Lion boozing with the Bolter clan and their hangers-on?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not a great look.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ An edge crept into Mick’s voice. It sounded aggressive, but with Mick, as with so many people, it often masked its opposite.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Mick dragged out a chair and slumped into it, massaging his temples. ‘What, you going to give me the headmaster’s talk about the demon drink?’

  ‘I think somebody on the team’s giving JJ information about the investigation.’

  Mick reared back, bloodshot eyes wide. ‘And you think it’s me? Just because I was at that dump of a school with him? Christ, H, what the fuck?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘No! No, it isn’t. Why would you think that?’

  Ford leaned forward, putting both elbows on the desk. Had he gone too far? He didn’t want to alienate his most experienced DS over an unfounded suspicion. But was it unfounded? Really?

  One more try.

  ‘Look, Kirsty’s after you for money and she’s using the girls to get to you. I understand you’re desperate to hold on to them.’ He paused and inhaled. ‘So desperate you might need additional funds for your lawyer—’

  Mick jumped to his feet. His eyes were blazing. ‘And you think I’m taking brown envelopes from JJ Bolter? Is that it? You think I’m bent?’

  The last thing Ford wanted was a shouting match in earshot of the rest of the team. He stayed sitting. Trying to keep the stakes low enough to manage.

  �
�I didn’t say that.’

  ‘No, but you implied it.’

  ‘Sit down, Mick. Please. I’m sorry, OK? I shouldn’t have said it.’

  Mick folded himself into the chair again, but he looked ready to leave at any moment, back straight, hands gripping the armrests.

  ‘I do need money,’ he said, his voice an urgent murmur. ‘But I’ve borrowed it from my dad, OK? So what if I’m closer than most to JJ? That’s my superpower. I know all the local villains and they know me. Doesn’t mean I’m in their pocket.’

  Ford spread his hands wide. ‘I had to ask.’

  Mick huffed out a breath. ‘Why don’t you look at the one man we know loves to poke his nose into our investigations? Martin bloody Peterson. He’s much more likely to be taking money from a lowlife like JJ Bolter than one of our own.’

  ‘I will. And thanks. I’ll let you go.’

  With his office to himself once more, Ford stared at the ceiling. Mick’s act was impressive. Nobody did wounded outrage better. But the attempt to deflect suspicion on to Peterson at this stage of the investigation was weak. Ford had dismissed the possibility early on. Peterson only bothered with people he regarded as his superiors. People with influence in what he no doubt thought of as the ‘right circles’. He’d no more take cash from JJ than he’d keep an opinion about policing strategy to himself.

  Ford’s phone rang.

  ‘Hi, George, what have you got for me?’

  ‘I wanted to narrow down the time of death, so I sent some of the pupae and maggots from Tommy Bolter’s body parts to a colleague at University College London. He’s the best forensic entomologist in the country.’

  ‘A bug man, eh?’ Ford said, enjoying the chance for a minor piece of banter.

  ‘Yes, Henry. A bug man,’ she said patiently. ‘But not just any bug man. Duncan is in great demand. If it’s not the Met, it’s as likely to be the NCA or the security services.’

  ‘And what did he deduce, your King of the Chrysalises, your Pope of the Pupae, your—’

  ‘You, DI Ford, are incorrigible!’ she said, though he could hear the humour behind the mock outrage. ‘However, I shall forgive you. This time. By analysing the species, number, instar stage and condition of the pupae and maggots, Duncan could estimate time of death for Tommy Bolter. Ready?’

  Ford grabbed a pen. ‘Ready.’

  ‘First, two assumptions. One, the killer didn’t freeze the body. My analysis of tissue samples supports that conclusion. Two, the insects found the body within an hour of death. Which, given assumption one, is well within the bounds of known behaviours of Calliphoridae.’ A beat. ‘That’s blowflies to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said drily. ‘The time of death, George?’

  ‘I’m getting to that. All things being equal, not that one would ever use such a sloppy phrase in one’s report, you’re looking at sometime between noon on the thirtieth of April and midnight on May the second.’

  ‘George, you’re a star! I’d like to show my appreciation by buying you a drink at your earliest convenience.’

  ‘Now that is what I call a proper thank you. I’ll email you.’

  When George hung up, Ford grabbed a piece of paper and started noting down dates, times and locations. He stared at what he’d written. According to Gwyneth, Tommy had witnessed Owen’s murder on the Alverchalke estate. And within three days, he too was dead – on the same estate. That level of coincidence was more than Ford could entertain.

  His phone rang, and his suspicions increased still further.

  ‘I’ve got a Graham Cox on the line, sir,’ the receptionist said when he answered. ‘Says he’s got information about the Alverchalke murders.’

  The line clicked. Ford breathed out. ‘Yes, Mr Cox?’

  ‘Are you the one who’s in charge? Ford? I saw your name in the Journal.’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?’

  ‘I’m the deputy estate manager up at Alverchalke. It said in the paper you found some poor sod dumped down a badger sett.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I didn’t call before because I didn’t think it mattered. But the wife said I ought to,’ he said, with a note of complaint. ‘Sunday before last, Lord Baverstock told me to fill in this sett. Damn big one, it was. He said he was worried someone’d fall in and break their leg or whatever.’

  ‘Can you remember the location of this sett?’ Ford asked, feeling a rush of adrenaline.

  ‘It’s on Mark Ball’s place. Just south of the Ebble, about halfway between Homington and Nunton.’

  ‘It didn’t look filled in when I went down it, Mr Cox.’

  ‘No, well, it wouldn’t, would it? I didn’t bother.’

  ‘Can I ask why not?’

  ‘No point, is there? Bloody-minded little buggers would’ve just dug it all back out again, wouldn’t they? I wasn’t about to waste a morning on it.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell Lord Baverstock.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. He’s a good boss, don’t get me wrong. But he doesn’t always know as much as he thinks he does about the countryside.’

  Ford thanked Cox and ended the call. He added the information to the murder book. Just like the Ebble, the clues in this case were flowing through Alverchalke land.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ford received a summons from Sandy. She used her Python tone of voice, so he went in vowing to tread carefully.

  ‘Tell me about the case,’ she said. Then added, ‘Or is it cases?’

  ‘Case,’ he said. ‘The murders are connected, I’m sure of it. There’s a good chance Tommy actually witnessed Owen being killed. And both men were shot by rifles in calibres we can place in the possession of Lord Baverstock, who, by the way, is aka Philip Martival, and something of a crack shot himself.’

  ‘You’re not telling me you suspect him of two murders? On his own land? Henry, have you truly lost it? Do you want to push Martin “Cheers Now” Peterson’s on button?’

  ‘I just heard from a witness who claims Lord Baverstock told him to fill in a badger sett on Mark Ball’s land. Which looks decidedly odd, don’t you think? But to keep you sweet, let’s just call him a person of interest.’

  ‘Good. Because unless you can bring me compelling evidence of his involvement, I would prefer you to keep your distance. What other leads are you working?’

  ‘Let’s assume, for the moment, it’s not Lord Baverstock we want. I still believe the motive is tied up with the land where the murders happened. I spoke to a young woman who was with Tommy just after he witnessed Owen’s murder.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Tommy told her another “person” appeared while he was scoping out land for hare-coursing. They started arguing, there was some kind of struggle, a gun went off and Owen dropped dead.’

  ‘Leaving aside the technicality that what you’ve got is hearsay, what did she mean by “person”?’

  ‘Tommy was cagey. But whoever it was, they were armed, on Alverchalke land and clearly proprietorial. I’m looking at the gamekeeper, Joe Hibberd. He’s ex-army and had an axe to grind with Tommy.’

  Sandy made notes in a small red leather-covered notebook with a gold propelling pencil. She looked up at him. She’d lost the fearsome glare in those pale blue eyes. He felt a small measure of relief.

  ‘Good. Well, focus your energy on Hibberd for now,’ she said. ‘Unless or until you have something concrete on Lord Baverstock, I want you to leave him alone. That’s an order.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Sandy’s eyes flashed at Ford’s gentle teasing. He thought she could handle it.

  ‘Have you spoken to Owen’s wife?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could she have done it?’

  He shook his head. ‘CCTV from the Met puts her in London throughout the relevant time period for both murders.’

  ‘I had to ask. But I don’t see her as the type. She’s a ballet teacher, right?’

  ‘Yes. But even if she could han
dle a rifle, I can’t see her slinging her dead husband’s body in a river after stabbing it multiple times to prevent it floating. That feels like more of a man’s MO.’

  ‘What’s your gut feel?’

  Ford counted off points on his fingers. ‘It’s one – or less likely, two shooters. But if it’s two, they’re connected. We know Tommy witnessed Owen getting shot and was planning to blackmail the shooter. I think he made his threat and, instead of getting rich, he got killed. That motive is simple. The killer decided to put a stop to the blackmail once and for all.’

  ‘Which you can understand. Tommy could easily have gone back for more. But what about Owen? Why was he killed?’

  ‘Well, my working hypothesis, based on what Tommy’s girlfriend told me and the unusual shot positioning, is that the shooting itself was an accident. OK, following a scuffle, but still not deliberate.’

  ‘Why not report it, then?’

  ‘Come on, Sandy. We all know that people don’t always do what’s sensible. Plus, this person was arguing, struggling really, with Owen. They might not have felt it was an accident in the heat of the moment. I think they panicked. One thing led to another and they ended up dumping an elderly ex-vicar in the river.’

  Sandy screwed her face up. ‘It holds water, no pun intended. Keep on it.’

  As he left her office, he was thinking about what might link two killers on Alverchalke land. The answer had been staring him in the face all along. Family! Everyone who lived or worked on that land was linked to the Martival family. And the strongest links of all were between its members.

  Mick caught his eye as he walked through Major Crimes. Connor Dowdell was waiting for them in the Greencroft.

  They found him leaning against a climbing frame, smoking. The meeting was short and fruitless. Dowdell only confirmed what they already knew. For form’s sake, Ford gave him a card and invited him to call if he remembered anything else.

  Hannah put on her noise-cancelling headphones and stared at the image the girl in the pub had shared with Ford. Tommy Bolter’s selfie.

  Above her head, the incandescent bulbs cast a soft yellow light over her workspace. Elsewhere, fluorescent tubes painted the room a horrible flickery blue-white that drove her crazy.