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

he added, trying to read her emotions, and failing. ‘But I’m not ready for another relationship.’

She frowned as he spoke, looking directly at him with those piercing blue eyes. ‘According to a University of Indiana sociologist called George Cale, the average widower remarries two and a half years after his wife dies,’ she said. ‘You’ve been in mourning for over six, which is unusual.’

‘What do you want me to say, Hannah? Maybe I’m at the far end of that particular spectrum?’

She frowned. ‘So it’s not because you don’t fancy me?’

He had to smile. She was so direct even gentle sarcasm flew miles over her head. And as questions went, it was a killer. A Tier-3 trained interviewer’s question. Answer ‘no’ and it implied he did fancy her. Answer ‘yes’ and it painted him as a weapons-grade shit.

‘It’s all still a bit raw,’ he said, dodging the bullet. ‘Lou, I mean. Sam and I, we’re coping, but it’s hard, you know?’

She took a sip of her wine, then finished the glass in a few convulsive swallows. ‘He’s lucky to have you as a dad. You know that, right?’

Ford felt relief wash through him as he congratulated himself on deflecting the conversation to a safer path. ‘We rub along, I suppose. I’m just as lucky to have him as a son. He likes you, by the way,’ he said. ‘I can see it in the way he is around you. Normally, he becomes monosyllabic when other adults are around. Not rude, but not exactly forthcoming, either.’

‘Is it hard, bringing him up on your own?’

Always straight to the point, Hannah. ‘It has its moments. But we have some good friends in our road who’ve been there for him – well, us really – since Lou died.’

‘Are you still grieving? Is that why you don’t want this to be a date with me?’

He took the lifeline she’d thrown him. ‘Yeah. I guess I am.’

The truth was, he didn’t know what he felt. He’d had friends who’d lost a spouse, to cancer, or once a fatal traffic accident – a FATACC. They’d mourned, sunk into depression, but risen again, like Lazarus, still bearing the scars of their grief but able to move on, find new partners and, on one joyous occasion, marry in a country churchyard amid clouds of rose petals and the laughter of grown-up children.

‘Then let’s just forget I mentioned it,’ she said. ‘For now. Can I have another drink, please?’

DAY FIFTEEN, 1.15 P.M.

Ford had spent the morning reading thousands of documents, looking for something – anything – in the reports, actions and tip-offs that might provide a lead. Yes, Abbott looked iffy, but there was no hard evidence against him. Sandy had made her feelings pretty clear on the subject. Ford wanted to prove Abbott was the killer, but he had to hold on to the investigation in order to do that.

He focused on the latest murder. Two young women – girls, really – living together. Both food-bank users. But he chose Aimee, not Nina. Why? Aimee was a big girl; Nina was skinny. Was that it? But then, Angie was somewhere between them physically, and Paul Eadon and Marcus Anderson weren’t even the right gender. He gave up.

After a snatched lunch – a ham sandwich and a takeaway coffee from a nearby café – he was back at his desk. His personal mobile rang. He glanced at the screen. The caller ID read: School. His pulse jacked up.

Please let him be OK. Not at A&E with a concussion. No gushing blood from a fall through a window. Please, God, let Sam be safe.

‘Mr Ford, this is Marion Anthony. We met at the last parents’ evening. I’m head of Middle School?’

‘Yes, I remember. What is it, Mrs Anthony? Is Sam all right?’

He heard her inhale. Prayed harder for his son to be fine.

‘Sam has been . . . That is to say’ – the words tumbled out in a rush – ‘I have suspended Sam for a day. He was involved in a fight.’

‘What? Sam would never get into a fight. He’s a good boy. He knows the rules.’

‘Normally, yes, I agree, Sam is a good boy. But not today. He was caught fighting another boy from Year Ten. In point of fact, he was the aggressor. Could you come and collect him, please? The suspension is effective immediately.’

‘Collect him?’

‘It’s school policy.’

‘He’s fifteen. He can walk home.’

‘I’m afraid the rules are quite clear. Where a boy has been suspended he must be collected, in person, by a parent or carer,’ she said primly. ‘We must have the boy discharged from our duty of care. We are, as you know, in loco parentis. That means—’

‘I know what it means, but I’m in the middle of a complex murder investigation. You may have read about it. Or seen it: we’re national news.’

‘I have seen it, and you, Mr Ford. But the rules are there for a reason. If we make an exception for one parent, pretty soon every parent would be demanding one.’

‘Look, I understand the rules. I am a policeman, after all,’ he said, striving to inject a jocular tone into his voice. ‘But surely, just this once, you could bend them. Just a little?’

She sniffed. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. He’ll be waiting in reception.’

I bet you wouldn’t be such a stickler if your family member was lying dead in a lake of their own blood, he wanted to shout.

‘I can’t get away from the office right now,’ were the words that escaped his lips. ‘I’ll’ – his thoughts raced, then crossed the finishing line – ‘I’ll send someone for him.’

Ford pushed through the swing doors into Forensics. Hannah was at her desk, staring at a split-screen fingerprint image on her monitor. She looked round as Ford approached. Smiled. He was relieved after his attempted gentle brush-off the previous evening.

‘Hi, Henry,’ she said.

‘Hi. Listen, I need to ask you a massive favour.’

Her forehead creased and she swung