Land Rites (Detective Ford) by Andy Maslen (best ereader for manga TXT) 📕

‘Yeah, it’s not a job for slackers. Shoots to organise, dogs to train, vermin control,’ he said. ‘Even working with you lot trying to stop those bloody bastards badger-digging and hare-coursing.’

‘Ever come across a bloody bastard called Tommy Bolter?’

Hibberd’s reaction to Ford’s question developed in several discrete steps. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice in his neck. He rubbed his chin fiercely. He bit his lip again, then sucked it into his mouth. ‘Is that what this is about?’

‘He was found dead on land owned by your boss. According to Lord Baverstock, you had a bit of a scrap with him a couple of weeks back. He gave you a nosebleed.’

Hibberd shrugged. ‘Lucky punch.’

‘Did you hit him back?’

‘Of course I did! But it was just a fight. Nothing more.’

‘You didn’t feel he’d humiliated you in front of your employer?’

‘No! People like Bolter are just vermin. Foxes bite, poachers throw punches. That’s if they’re not pulling a knife. No difference.’

‘So you weren’t tempted to control this particular vermin, then? Shoot him in the head, for example?’

Hibberd smiled, shaking his own – intact – head. ‘No point, is there? Put one down, there’s two more to take his place. Plus, I wouldn’t fancy getting on the wrong side of that family, know what I mean?’

Ford did. He’d crossed that line years back. ‘If I were to give you some dates, would you be able to tell me your whereabouts?’

Hibberd touched the back of his hand to his lip and inspected the red dots stippling the skin. He looked at Ford. ‘Don’t need you to do that. I can tell you now. Working.’

‘All day, every day?’

‘Pretty much. If I’m not working, I’m asleep.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘Bess and Molly.’

‘Can I talk to them?’

Hibberd shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Can you speak collie? They’re over there somewhere,’ he added, pointing off towards a small patch of woodland.

Ford decided it was time to rein in the uncooperative gamekeeper. ‘You know, Joe, it’s looking like you were one of the last people to see Tommy Bolter alive,’ he said quietly. ‘You were involved in a fight with him a week or so before he died. You obviously know your way around guns. You work for the family on whose land his body was found. Save the jokes for the pub, yes?’

Hibberd folded his arms. ‘Fine. But if you’re looking at people who’ve had fights with Tommy Bolter, that puts me at the end of a long queue.’

‘They don’t all have guns, though, do they?’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Half the people who live in the countryside have them.’

‘Fair point. And please don’t think I’m trying to pin anything on you. I’m just trying to get to the truth.’

‘If it’s the truth you’re after, you should talk to the lowlifes Bolter used to hang around with,’ Hibberd said. ‘They’re all into drugs, thieving, fly-tipping. Anything they can make a bit of money from without doing honest work.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘No idea. I didn’t exactly ask him to show me his Facebook friends.’

Ford heard barking. He looked over towards the woods. Two black and white border collies were racing towards them. Ten feet out, they dropped to their bellies and began creeping along, their eyes not leaving his.

‘Easy, now,’ Hibberd crooned. ‘Inspector Ford’s a friend, girls. Friend!’

As if they understood him perfectly, the two dogs stood and trotted up to Ford. He offered the back of his hand for them to sniff. Apparently satisfied he presented no threat to their master, they went to nuzzle Hibberd’s free hand for a second or two, then, with joyous yelps, streaked back towards the woodland.

Hibberd watched them go, smiling. ‘Best two dogs I’ve ever had,’ he said. ‘They’re like family to me. Better than kids.’

Ford looked at the dogs, then back at Hibberd. ‘Do you own a gun?’

‘Of course I do! I’m a gamekeeper.’

‘What guns, specifically?’

‘A .22 like this one and a Browning Phoenix 12 gauge. Check your database. My certificate’s all in order.’

‘I will. You said “like this one”,’ Ford said, pointing at the rifle. ‘That not yours, then?’

‘Mine’s in for a repair. This belongs to His Lordship. I use it from time to time. He doesn’t mind as long as I put it back after I’ve finished with it.’

‘One last question. Do you look after Lord Baverstock’s guns as well as your own?’

‘Not just his. The whole family’s.’

‘What calibre weapons do they own?’

‘What calibre?’

‘Yes. You know, it means—’

‘I know what it means,’ Hibberd snapped. ‘Shotguns in 12 and 20 gauge. Couple of four-tens from when the children were little. A few more .22 vermin guns like this one,’ he said, holding up the rifle. ‘His Lordship’s got a Sako .243 rifle and an old Springfield Arms .30-06. Off the top of my head I couldn’t tell you all of them.’

‘Any .308s?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Just curious.’

Ford wrapped up the interview with a polite request that Hibberd make himself available if Ford needed to talk to him again.

He drove away thinking about the family who lived at Alverchalke Manor. Stephen in particular. The man had practically crowed over Tommy’s murder. Could he have been involved? His father had shut him down pretty effectively. Was that a sign of anxiety that he was about to incriminate himself?

And what of Lord Baverstock himself? Another military man. And the employer of a gamekeeper who’d come off worst in a scrap with Tommy. Guns and grievances made terrible bedfellows. This family had both in abundance.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jools and Hannah were the only customers in Berret & Sartain Gunsmiths. The shop smelled pleasantly of leather, wet dog and gun oil. Jools spent a few minutes looking at the racks of shotguns and rifles while they waited for a member of staff to appear.

‘Can I help you, ladies?’

Jools turned to see a guy in his mid-twenties, wearing a buttercup-yellow bow tie above a patterned waistcoat. His close-set eyes were magnified behind thick-lensed horn-rimmed glasses. He wore his hair in a style she associated