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

expert. He’s arrogant, clever, disdainful, manipulative, charming. He’s a basic fit for Lisa Moore’s description.’

Sandy’s eyes widened. ‘A basic fit? Your report said her attacker had dark hair and a moustache, plus glasses. You showed her photos and she said it wasn’t Abbott, but it might have been Matty Kyte.’

‘Come on, Sandy. Please trust me. What more do you want?’

‘For a start, a bit more than your prejudice against a toffee-nosed doctor. How about some hard evidence? One piece, Henry. One! A fingerprint. A DNA trace. A fibre that places him at one of the crime scenes. How’re the forensics coming along?’

‘Slow. Could be faster if you gave me more money.’

Sandy sighed, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. Thought of spreadsheets. Contingency funds. Recruitment. Equipment. She opened them again. ‘Come back in an hour with the amount you need. I’ll see what I can do.’

He jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll be back here in forty-five minutes.’

‘No promi—’ she shouted at his retreating back, but the final syllable was cut off as the door closed behind him.

Maybe an arrest was off the cards, for now. But that didn’t mean Ford couldn’t keep investigating Abbott. And now they had the DNA analysis from the blood taken from under Lisa Ford’s fingernails, this could be the key.

He’d asked himself whether his conviction about the man was triggered more by resentment of his abrasive manner than a copper’s feel for a ‘wrong ’un’. Answering himself truthfully was hard, but the circumstantial evidence was strong. And plenty of killers had gone down with no more than that.

He called the hospital. The receptionist put him through to Abbott’s secretary, and she informed him that ‘Mr Abbott isn’t working today.’

‘All right for some,’ Ford said, aiming for a jokey tone.

‘Mr Abbott does a lot of charity work. I’m sure he’s at home catching up on his voluntary work as a trustee at the Purcell Foundation,’ she said.

‘Was he working the day before yesterday?’

‘Yes.’

Ford cursed inwardly. ‘At SDH?’ he said.

‘In the afternoon, yes. In the morning he was at Revelstoke Hall Hospital in the New Forest, where he sees his private patients.’

‘From what time in the afternoon?’

‘I’ll have to check. Hold, please.’

Classical music filled the earpiece. Ford winced and held the receiver away from his ear, then hurriedly brought it back as the music cut out again.

‘Here we are,’ the secretary said. ‘He saw his first patient here at two forty-five.’

Ford rang the bell. He was nervous and wiped his palms on his suit trousers. He’d discarded Sandy’s loyalty and protection to pursue a hunch. If I’m wrong on this, she’ll hang me out to dry. She’ll have to.

Abbott answered his front door wearing a pair of khaki shorts, scuffed brown leather boat shoes and, incongruously, a long-sleeved dress shirt with the collar open. His shoes and shins were flecked with green. Ford caught the sappy smell of fresh-cut grass.

Abbott rolled his eyes. ‘Back so soon?’ he said, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘People will start to talk.’

‘May I come in, Mr Abbott?’

‘Why?’

‘For a chat.’

‘I’m in the middle of mowing the lawn.’

‘Push-along or ride-on?’

Abbott frowned. ‘Ride-on. Why?’

‘No reason.’ He took a half-step closer to Abbott. ‘It won’t take long.’

Abbott groaned. ‘Oh, very well.’

Pausing at the sink to drink off a tumbler of water from the tap, Abbott held a second, empty, glass out towards Ford. ‘You want one? It’s awfully hot out there, isn’t it?’

‘No, thanks.’

Abbott shrugged and gestured for Ford to take a seat at the kitchen table. Then he sat facing him, spread his hands out in front of him on the gleaming oak surface and lifted his chin.

‘Well?’

Ford noticed a dark spot on the inside of Abbott’s left shirt sleeve, about halfway between wrist and elbow. Filed it. ‘He attacked another food bank customer the day before yesterday.’

‘Attacked? Not murdered?’

Ford shook his head, scrutinising Abbott’s face for a twitch, a flicker of the gaze, anything that might betray his inner landscape: innocent, guilty, sane, psychopathic. Saw nothing.

‘He picked the wrong victim. She’s ex-army. Gave the bastard a hiding.’

‘Good for her,’ Abbott said with a smile.

‘She got a good look at him, too.’

‘Did she identify him? That would be a good lead, I’d imagine.’

‘She said he looked like you, Mr Abbott.’ Ford kept his face straight as he delivered the lie.

‘Really? What – average height, average build, brown hair, brown eyes? That sort of thing?’

Ford felt his gut twitch: an unpleasant sensation as if he’d swallowed something alive. ‘A bit more than that. And here’s the thing. The attack took place in the morning.’

Abbott smiled a lazy smile. ‘I sense you’re building up to something.’

‘Where were you on Wednesday morning at eleven forty-five?’

‘Why do I get the feeling you already think you know the answer?’

‘At SDH?’

‘No,’ Abbott said, drawing out the word with the falling/rising inflection of someone explaining something simple to an idiot. ‘I was at Revelstoke Hall Hospital.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘I doubt it. I was working in my office on a paper for the British Journal of Haematology. It’s a very prestigious journal.’

‘How about hospital CCTV?’

‘They have it, of course. But not on the consultants’ corridor,’ he added.

Ford made a mental note to check the footage. He pointed at the spot on Abbott’s shirt sleeve. ‘Cut yourself?’

Abbott rotated his forearm outwards and looked down. ‘Brambles. Bloody things are taking over down by the riverbank.’

‘We have a few in our garden, too,’ Ford said. ‘Want me to take a look? I’m a trained first-aider.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! It’s a scratch, not a knife wound.’

Ford held out his hand. ‘Please.’

Shaking his head in evident disbelief, Abbott unbuttoned his cuff and took his time folding it back on itself. He extended his arm, the tender skin on the inside surface uppermost. A series of ragged scratches extended for a span of about four inches, beaded with dark-red clots like the inky pearls of blackberries.

‘As I said,’ Abbott drawled, ‘I’m fairly sure I’ll survive this . . . insult.’

Evidence. Sandy had asked for it.