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

Hannah screamed a warning. ‘Henry! Look out!’

DAY TWENTY-ONE, 7.44 P.M.

Ford turned towards Hannah. In that moment, the tomahawk glanced off his left elbow. He yelled out in pain. Staggering back, he tripped over the edge of a rug and slammed against the side of the sofa. Grunting as the wood-topped armrest drove the breath from his lungs, he rolled away as Jen drew the weapon back and delivered a second blow. Half a second slower and she’d have split his skull. As it was, the edge buried itself in the wooden armrest. He leapt for her, striking his balled fist into her right shoulder, aiming to paralyse the arm and get her to drop the tomahawk.

‘Leave her alone, you bastard!’ Matty shouted.

Ford heard rather than saw Matty launch himself towards him, arms outstretched. Hannah dropped to her knees and punched Matty hard between the legs. Matty emitted a high-pitched scream and toppled sideways, clutching his groin.

‘I’ve got him, Henry!’ Hannah yelled.

Taking it on trust, Ford shoved his right palm against Jen’s cheek, forcing her head over sideways. She’d dropped the tomahawk, but her long nails were clawing towards his eyes. Keeping his face out of range, he dug his knuckle into a spot behind her jaw known as the mandibular angle pressure point. She squealed with pain as he bore down on the bundle of nerves that ran behind the bone.

‘Stay down, Jen!’ he shouted.

Whimpering, she complied. As Ford pulled her arms behind her and slapped the Quik-Cuffs on her wrists, he had enough time to witness an extraordinary sight.

Hannah had folded Matty’s right arm up behind his back in a classic law-enforcement hold. She straddled his prone form, panting and muttering something under her breath, then pulled a thin belt free from her trousers and tied Matty’s wrists behind him, jerking the leather tight against the buckle.

Ford pushed Jen down against the carpet. ‘Stay there,’ he barked. ‘You OK, Hannah?’

‘I’m fine, thanks, Henry,’ she said, grunting with the exertion.

Ford formally arrested the Kytes for murder then pulled out his radio and called it in.

Back at the station, while Matty and Jenny Kyte were being booked in by the custody sergeant, Ford turned to Hannah.

‘Those were some impressive moves you pulled,’ he said, massaging his bruised arm.

‘I learned from a former marine at Quantico on a weekend self-defence course,’ she said.

Ford smiled, storing away another small fact about Hannah’s past. Wondering what it meant. ‘I’m glad you studied it so thoroughly. You saved my life back there. I thought Jen was going to scalp me.’

She blushed. ‘You’d have done the same for me.’

‘Yep. But not with as much style.’

She pointed at his arm. ‘How is it? It looked like she really walloped you.’

Ford rubbed the spot where Jen Kyte had smacked him with the tomahawk. It was sore and he suspected he’d have the mother and father of all bruises to show Sam at some point. But thanks to Hannah’s warning shout, the blade hadn’t inflicted anything more permanent.

‘It’s OK. That came out of nowhere, though, didn’t it?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t spot the signs.’

‘Hey, this isn’t on you. I don’t think there were any signs.’ Seeing Hannah was struggling with her emotions, he searched for a way to lighten the mood. ‘I tell you what, that woman has some severe anger-management issues.’

Hannah smiled, but the expression seemed to cost her. ‘I need to go home now, Henry. That was all very overwhelming. I need some peace and quiet. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘OK, Hannah. Get some rest. And thanks again. I’m going to go home too, for an hour or so, while Kyte’s brief gets here.’

With Hannah gone, Ford went back to rubbing his injured arm. Half a second later and I’d have been invalided out of the force. Shit! I was the one at fault, not Hannah. Lou’s voice echoed inside his head, sending the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. Yes, you should have seen it coming.

Ford knocked on Sam’s door.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me. Can I come in?’

‘Yeah.’

Sam was sitting on his bed, leaning back against a pillow. Earbuds dangled round his neck. The shelves and drawers of the IKEA furniture were all shut, squared off and newly free of the stickers that he’d applied as a kid. Not a T-shirt or pair of pants on the floor, not a chocolate-bar wrapper or empty crisp packet in evidence.

Ford nodded appreciatively. ‘Smart,’ he said, sitting on the swivel chair by the matching desk.

‘I tidied it.’

‘No shizzle!’

‘Did you want something, Dad? Only I’ve got homework to do.’

‘Is that what you’re listening to on your phone?’

‘Funny. It’s a politics podcast.’

‘Sorry. I need to ask you something.’

‘What?’

‘You do Latin, right?’

‘Yeah. Don’t know why they make us, though. It’s a dead language. It’s no use for getting a job or anything.’

‘Uh-urrh! Incorrect! What does de motu cordis mean?’

‘What?’

‘De motu cordis.’

‘Ever hear of Google Translate?’

‘Yes. But I wanted to ask you. If you must know, I wanted an excuse to chat to you. It’s been a long day.’

Sam smiled. ‘You wanna hug?’ he said, holding his arms out.

‘Actually, yes, please. That would be great,’ Ford said, kneeling beside Sam’s bed and allowing his son to wrap his arms around his shoulders. They stayed like that for a few seconds, then Sam pulled back.

‘OK. Weird now. What was that bit of Latin again?’

‘De motu cordis.’

‘De means “of”, or “about”. Motu means “motion”. Cordis is easy. It’s “heart”. So de motu cordis means “of the motion of the heart”.’

‘Next question – who was William Harvey?’

‘He discovered the circulation of the blood.’

‘OK, thanks, Sam.’

‘Wait! What the hell?’

‘Tell you later.’

‘You’re going?’

Ford felt it again. That tug. Between being there for Sam and being there for the victims. ‘I’m sorry. I have to.’

Sam shot a hard-eyed look at Ford. ‘Go on then. Just remember to tell your big boss I did the translation.’

DAY TWENTY-ONE, 8.45 P.M.

Back in Major Crimes with a mug of coffee and a