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

and was watching Ford. ‘Twenty metres, heated year-round, costs me a bloody fortune, but you know what they say: “If you’ve got it, flaunt it!”’

The man was unbelievable, crowing over his wealth as he led Ford and Hannah to a set of expensive-looking wooden garden furniture: low-slung recliners that some people called steamer chairs, their brass hinges glittering. And a matching table, on which a jug of something cold, amber-coloured and garnished with mint leaves stood, condensation beading its lower half.

A long-limbed blonde woman in a high-cut zebra-print swimsuit lay back in one of the steamers, an arm draped over the edge. Ford put her age at late thirties, judging by her skin and muscle tone. She uncurled herself and stood, advancing towards him, one slender arm extended, the wrist jingling with multiple silver bracelets.

‘Inspector Ford,’ she purred as they shook hands. ‘Lucinda Abbott. We meet at last.’ She flicked a glance at Hannah. ‘And I see you’ve brought a friend.’

Hannah held out her right hand. Gave Lucinda Abbott the one-two-three treatment. Ford smiled inwardly at the consternation that flickered across Lucinda’s face.

She reclined again, bringing one knee up and extending her other leg and folding her arms behind her head, her cornflower-blue eyes holding Ford in a searchlight beam.

‘Darling, I think you’re making Inspector Ford uncomfortable,’ Abbott drawled.

‘Relax,’ she said. ‘I’m sure the inspector has more pressing issues on his mind.’ She looked up at Ford again. ‘Or were you enjoying the view?’

‘Do you own a grey metallic VW Polo?’ Ford asked Abbott, ignoring the provocation. He’d met at least one couple before who clearly found this sort of flirting a turn-on.

‘What? You saw our vehicles when you parked, did you not?’

Interesting. Avoiding a straight answer to the very first question I ask you. Well, now we’re on my territory. My rules.

‘I saw three vehicles, yes. Do you own any others?’

Abbott’s gaze flicked leftwards. ‘I do not.’

Ford nodded and pursed his lips, as if impressed by this straightforward answer. ‘So, if, purely hypothetically, we were to take a look inside that very impressive garage of yours, we wouldn’t find any more cars? A grey metallic VW Polo, for example.’

‘No, you would not. Not that you would be able to, as I doubt you have a search warrant.’ Abbott folded his arms across his chest as he said this, then looked down and unfolded them.

Ford caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Lucinda Abbott had swung her legs over the side of the steamer and was sitting up, as if she were a spectator at a tennis match.

‘Could we go and have a look?’ Ford asked.

‘No, we could not,’ Abbott said calmly.

‘We believe that the murderer drives one,’ Ford continued.

‘How very fascinating for you.’

Ford changed tack. ‘Your alibis for the dates of the murders?’

‘What of them?’

‘You claimed you were here each time.’

‘I didn’t claim anything,’ Abbott said. ‘I told you where I was, and that was the truth.’

‘I’m afraid he’s right,’ Lucinda Abbott said with a smile. ‘Charles was here with me.’

‘Just the two of you?’

‘Just the two of us.’

‘No friends popping round? No unexpected dinner guests?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what sort of social life you lead, but ours is rather dull, I’m afraid. Charles and I were watching television.’

‘I don’t suppose you remember which programmes were on those days?’

Lucinda grinned, and Ford sensed he had walked into a trap.

‘How delightfully old-fashioned of you. We were binge-watching Game of Thrones.’ She turned to her husband, who was bestowing on her a frank stare of admiration. ‘Weren’t we, darling?’

‘Yes, darling. Yes, we were.’

‘Each time?’ Ford asked.

‘Each time,’ Abbott repeated, that superior smirk back in residence.

‘Tell me, I noticed a Megadeth poster in one of your upstairs windows. Are there any other people living here with you?’ He paused, unable to resist a quick dig. ‘Or are you the heavy-metal fan, Mr Abbott?’

‘That would be Gawain.’

‘The knight?’

Abbott’s lips twitched. ‘My son.’

‘My lad’s into that kind of music, too. He favours Metallica, though,’ Ford said, trying to unsettle Abbott with the random change of subject. ‘I don’t know why, sounds like chainsaws being put through a wood-chipper to me. Now, B.B. King, on the other hand—’

‘Have you quite finished?’ Abbott burst out.

‘I’m sorry, did you have to be somewhere?’

‘No. As my wife said, we lead a quiet social life. But I fail to see how my children’s tastes in music are relevant to a serial killer investigation.’

Ford frowned. He turned to Hannah. ‘Did I mention we were investigating a serial killer?’

She shook her head.

He turned back to Abbott. ‘You said children. So more than one?’

‘Obviously, children being the plural of child. I would have thought even a police officer could deduce that.’

Ford smiled, pleased to have rattled the consultant at last. ‘Quite. So, how many more? One, two?’ He looked down at Lucinda Abbott. ‘Three? I must say, Mrs Abbott, you’ve certainly kept your figure.’

She repaid him with a smile that stopped just this side of a leer. He sensed he was in the presence of two operators, not just one.

‘One,’ she said.

‘Name? Age?’

‘Scheherazade. Seventeen.’

‘Gawain and Scheherazade,’ Ford said, face impassive. ‘My lad’s called Sam.’

‘Believe me, Inspector,’ Abbott drawled, ‘at the school where they board, those names wouldn’t earn you a second glance, let alone the mockery you seem bent on delivering.’

Ford shook his head. ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘I was going to compliment you. So many kids nowadays sound like their parents just made something up.’

Ford’s calculated appeal to the man’s rampant snobbery worked. Abbott took the bait.

‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘Yes, it’s all Saxona this, Meadow that, Kai the other.’

Ford had only intended to soften Abbott up, but the last name to leave the man’s lips had his heart racing.

‘You do know that was Angie Halpern’s son’s name, don’t you?’

‘What? Oh, yes, so it was. Forgive my lapse of taste, Inspector. Long day, and all that. Was there anything else?’

‘Scheherazade. You said she was seventeen?’

‘Yes.’ Abbott drew out the single syllable in a sing-song