Shallow Ground (Detective Ford) by Andy Maslen (to read list txt) 📕

you. ‘When I return with a warrant, I will obviously want to interview each person on the list, yourself included, in a more formal setting. I’m thinking Interview Room 1 at Bourne Hill Police Station. The interviews shouldn’t take long. No more than an hour each. Of course, as the head of service, yours would take longer.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ Abbott asked smoothly. ‘Because, you should know, I don’t take very kindly to intimidation. I am also on rather good terms with the chief constable of Wiltshire. So tread carefully.’ He smiled. Wider than before, exposing immaculate and expensive-looking dentistry. ‘Just a friendly piece of advice.’

Ford breathed deeply. Observing the man facing him, but listening to his gut. You’re hiding something. That’s why you’re warning me off. Are you protecting someone?

‘Noted. But as I’m simply trying to solve the murder of one of your colleagues, perhaps you could try to help me. I’m sure the chief constable would appreciate your efforts.’

Abbott sighed. ‘Very well, though if HR find out, I’ll be for the high jump.’ He picked up the phone on his desk. ‘Justine? Would you print out a list of Haematology Department staff for Inspector Ford, please. He’s just leaving.’

The secretary appeared a few moments later with a single sheet of A4. She dropped it into Ford’s lap. The look she gave him would have cut steel.

‘Thank you.’

She closed the door behind her with what he felt was rather more force than was needed.

‘Have you always been interested in blood?’ Ford asked.

‘It’s my life’s work, as I believe I told you before.’

‘Of course.’

‘Listen, Inspector,’ Abbott said, his voice softer now. ‘I understand the pressures under which you’re working. As a public servant myself, I have the same issues. Too many demands on my time, too little budget. Oversight, watchdogs, patients’ rights groups, managers with their infernal targets. All I want to do is practise medicine – heal people – but they have me chained to a PC half the time, filling out forms like a bloody pen-pusher.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘My point is that whilst I sympathise with your professional desire to follow every avenue, however’ – he laid a flat palm on his chest – ‘unlikely, you’d be better off pursuing those with a greater chance of leading you to the killer.’

Ford frowned. ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me. What do you mean?’

‘If you really want to find your killer, why don’t you look somewhere you’re more likely to find him?’

Ford stood his ground, and offered Abbott a smile. ‘Where would you suggest?’

‘Among the lower classes, obviously.’

Ford counted to three before responding. ‘Do you have any names or addresses we could investigate?’

Abbott smiled. ‘Please don’t patronise me. I mean, look at my own ward, for example. There’s this dreadful man. A porter, for God’s sake. Forever addressing me as if we’re colleagues. He’s always asking me about my work. Why don’t you interview him?’

‘Maybe I will. What’s his name?’

‘Now, there I can’t help you. We move in completely different circles, both professionally and’ – he shuddered – ‘socially.’

Ford shrugged. ‘Not much to go on, then.’

‘No, wait!’ Abbott said. ‘One of my junior staff spilled some blood earlier this week. I asked this chap, the porter, to mop it up, and the ward sister found the damned fellow drawing in it, muttering all sorts of language about me as he did it. That’s odd, wouldn’t you say?’

Ford’s pulse kicked up a notch. Abbott was a gold-plated snob with an ego that would overshadow the cathedral, but what would Sandy say? A hunch is all very well, love, but bring me some bloody evidence. Maybe this porter could supply it.

‘Name?’ he pressed.

‘He said his name was—’ He looked up for a second, then back at Ford. ‘Matty!’

Ford looked at the list. At the bottom he found ‘Kyte, Matthew, porter’. He underlined the name. ‘Thank you, that’s very helpful.’

Major Crimes was humming when Ford returned. He announced a meeting for 4.00 p.m.

He checked his emails. Georgina had sent him a copy of her post-mortem reports on Angie and Kai. Ignoring all the other messages, he opened the attachments. He skim-read the report on Angie first and made notes, including the manner, cause and time of death.

Angie Halpern

MOD: homicide.

COD: exsanguination.

TOD: likely between 5.00 p.m. on July 2nd and 5.00 a.m. on the 3rd.

No sexual assault.

No mutilation.

Other injuries: head wound; hyoid bone broken and bruising consistent with manual strangulation; puncture wound extending from inner left thigh into femoral artery consistent with large-bore needle such as trocar.

Toxicology: clean. Trace amounts of ibuprofen and paracetamol, female contraceptive pill.

He repeated the process with Kai’s.

Kai Halpern

MOD: homicide

COD: lethal injection.

TOD: likely between 5.00 p.m. on July 2nd and 5.00 a.m. on the 3rd.

No sexual assault.

No mutilation.

Other injuries: puncture wound to left side of neck consistent with hypodermic syringe.

Toxicology: sufficient fentanyl to cause death.

Ford stared at his last note. Fentanyl? Wasn’t that a powerful painkiller they gave to cancer patients? That meant the killer had taken it with him. Who had access to fentanyl? Three thoughts flashed through his mind in rapid-fire succession. Junkies. Cancer patients. Medical staff.

At four that afternoon, with most of the team assembled and another cup of strong coffee in front of him, Ford asked Olly to kick off.

‘I’ve collated the relevant data from the interviews with hospital staff. Angie Halpern was as close to the stereotypical angel as you could imagine,’ Olly said, miming a halo over his own head. ‘Nobody had a bad word to say about her. I even talked to a couple of patients. I’m surprised they hadn’t put up a statue to her.’

The door banged back on itself. Mick came in, a grin gleaming from the black nest of his moustache and goatee. ‘Sorry I’m late, Henry. Just finishing up an interview. One of Angie Halpern’s work colleagues is off sick. I went round to his house to talk to him. Quite interesting, actually.’

‘Go on,’ Ford said, ignoring Olly’s frown.

‘Earlier this year, one of her patients died. They investigated, and