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

could use, you know, an asset,’ he said, making air quotes and relieved to see Sam’s grin widen. ‘But you know the code, OK?’

Sam nodded. ‘Not a word to anyone. On pain of death.’

‘Worse, on pain of no Wi-Fi. Deal?’

Sam held out his fist for Ford to bump. ‘Deal. So what are you going to do now?’

‘Me? I’m going to eat something, then I’m going to have another beer, then I’m going to listen to the Allman Brothers’ At Fillmore East, very loud through headphones, then I’m going to get some sleep, then I’m going to have to review the whole case right from the start and see if I missed anything,’ he said.

Sam smiled, then pulled the toasted sandwich out of its cage. He pointed at it. ‘Want half?’

‘Yeah. That would be great.’

Son and father sat facing each other at the kitchen table, munching on the sandwich.

‘I’m going round to Josh’s tomorrow after school. So if you have to work in the evening, you know, that’s OK.’

Ford nodded, realising his son knew more about the way his job worked than he gave him credit for. ‘Thanks. But as soon as we clear this one, you and I are going out for a drive in the Jag. Anywhere you like. A road trip, yeah?’

‘Cool. So.’ Sam took a bite of his half of the sandwich, chewed vigorously, then spoke through a cheekful. ‘What about that other guy? The consultant up at the hospital. What happened to him?’

‘It’s weird. I was so sure it was him. Still am, really. But his blood group’s wrong.’

‘Wrong?’

‘We think the killer’s transfusing himself with a litre of blood from each victim.’

Sam pulled a face. ‘Gross.’

‘Yeah, gross just about covers it.’

‘So, what, the doctor guy has the wrong blood group or something?’

‘He’s O-positive. The killer has to be A-positive or AB-positive.’

‘Oh yeah!’ Sam said, his eyes wide. ‘We did that in biology. Right before the monoclonal antibodies that Hannah helped me with. You have to have compatible blood groups or your antibodies destroy the new blood cells.’

‘Exactly. And Mr Charles-bloody-Abbott doesn’t have the right blood type.’

‘So, you, like, checked him out or whatever?’

‘Yes. He took his own blood right in front of me. Alec tested it. It’s not a fit for the killer.’

‘Maybe he switched it or something.’

Ford shook his head. ‘I was right there, mate.’

‘Yeah, but what if, right, he knew you’d ask for it and he prepared a trick? It’s like that magic book I was obsessed with when I was a kid, remember? You use – what’s it called? – misdirection. You keep up your patter and you do something to distract the audience, then when they’re looking at the beautiful girl or the dove or whatever, you pull the switcheroo.’

Ford thought back to the scene in Abbott’s consulting room. Closed his eyes and ran the movie back and forth. A line of dialogue floated free. ‘Hand me a label, would you, Ford?’

Ford snapped his eyes open.

‘Sam, you’re a bloody genius! I love you!’

He seized Sam by the shoulders and kissed him hard on the forehead.

DAY TWENTY-ONE, 11.55 P.M.

Chrissie Norton was nearing the end of her late shift at Revelstoke Hall Hospital. She enjoyed cleaning, and the chance it gave her to have a little poke around in the doctors’ offices. She liked reading patients’ notes if any had been left up on a screen, but that was rare.

Cupboards were fun, too. Never knew what you might find. Boxes of chocolates were her favourites. Popping a caramel into her mouth, she’d assuage her guilt with the thought that nobody’d miss one or two.

Humming to herself, she unlocked the door to the last office on her corridor. The brass name plate, which she would polish to a beautiful sheen after cleaning the room itself, bore the name Charles Abbott.

So handsome. And those eyelashes. Like a girl’s!

He was a careful one, Charles Abbott was. Never left his computer switched on, let alone with the patient database open on the screen. Kept his cupboards locked, too, stingy bugger! Still, he was a charmer, that was for sure, and she quite liked the way his eyes roved over her body on the rare occasions their paths crossed.

Reflexively, she hooked a finger around the slender aluminium handle of the first cupboard along the back wall and gave it a tug. No harm in trying, is there? Her heart fluttered as the door swung open. He must be getting careless. She squatted down and peered inside. And she frowned.

‘Now, why would a nice wealthy gentleman like you be shopping in these places?’ she said aloud as she took in the odd assortment of groceries arranged on the shelf.

Then the door opened behind her, making her jump. She turned to see Charles Abbott framed in the doorway. He didn’t look cross. That was a good thing.

‘It’s Christine, isn’t it?’ he asked her, smiling, and locking the door behind him. ‘What do they call you? Chris? Chrissie?’

She got to her feet, smoothing her hands over her smock. ‘Chrissie. I, I’m so sorry, Mr Abbott. I didn’t mean to pry. I was just dusting the cupboard and the door opened.’

‘Of course,’ he said, still smiling, and taking a step towards her. ‘Silly of me, really. Forgetting to lock it, I mean. I’ve been under a degree of pressure recently.’

Her heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird, Chrissie backed away from him until the windowsill jabbed her just over her kidneys.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t report me. I’ll lose my job.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, in a low, reassuring voice she always associated with doctors. Must teach it them at medical college. ‘I’m not going to report you. But I do need to tell you something. Something personal. Would that be OK?’

‘You can tell me anything. I won’t breathe a word,’ she shot back, anxious to please now he’d offered her a lifeline.

He crooked a finger. ‘Come here, then.’

She closed the distance between them. ‘What is it, Mr Abbott?