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

barked, in such a commanding tone that Mark stopped with his hand midway to his cuffs. ‘I think you’re risking your career over a simple misunderstanding, Inspector,’ Abbott said, quieter now. ‘You know I have influential friends. Are you sure you want me to make a formal complaint against you?’

‘One hundred per cent. The cuffs, Mark.’

Mark had Abbott in the cuffs in seconds and, unable to resist, the consultant was frog-marched to the van, where, with a little gentle encouragement from Gary, he climbed up on to the step and made his way into the internal cage.

The van roared away, its diesel engine loud in the sleepy village.

Ford beckoned the two PCs over. ‘Inside, with me.’

They nodded grimly. On the drive over they’d agreed the arrest of the wife might prove trickier than that of the husband.

‘Mrs Abbott?’ Ford called out, reaching the kitchen. ‘Police!’

‘Upstairs, sir?’ Mark asked.

‘Go on. Gary, check the downstairs. Shout if you find her.’

Their booted feet heavy on the wooden floorboards and the stairs, the two burly officers left Ford in the kitchen. He looked through the French doors.

Lucinda Abbott lay on a steamer chair, topless, her eyes shaded by oversized round sunglasses. Ford strode across the lawn, conscious of the Quik-Cuffs rubbing the skin in the small of his back and the patch of sweat between his shoulder blades.

Seeing him, she stood and pulled a coral sundress over her head. He was struck, again, by her beauty. She stood, one hip cocked, as a swimsuit model might.

‘What brings you to our humble abode, Inspector?’ she asked.

Ford approached to within two feet of her. Swallowed. ‘Lucinda Abbott, I am arresting you on suspicion of being an accessory to murder . . .’

As he recited the arrest script, Lucinda Abbott’s mouth dropped open. Halfway through the caution, her knees gave way and she collapsed on to the chair.

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she asked, looking up at him with panicked eyes. ‘There must be a mistake. Where’s Charles?’

‘Your husband is under arrest. At the moment he’s in a prisoner transit vehicle, being taken to Bourne Hill Police Station, where he will be formally charged with murder.’

She shook her head, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. ‘No. No! This is all wrong. Charles isn’t a murderer. Nor am I. He was with Zoe Denys. He told me. He told you.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t believe that. We have no evidence that she even exists. Stand up, please. You need to come with me.’

She stretched up a hand; he pulled her gently but firmly to her feet and completed the arrest script.

‘Is this about the blood?’ she whispered.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘He told me he was taking it from the hospital. It was, I don’t know, past its use-by date or something. I know it’s weird, what we were doing, but it’s not illegal. It was just a fetish of his. Nothing serious.’

‘Turn around, please,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘I’m going to handcuff you and then escort you to a police car.’

‘That’s not necessary, surely?’ she protested.

Ford slapped the Quik-Cuffs against her wrists, locking them one above the other. Now she did struggle a little.

‘That hurts!’ she squealed. ‘You’ve pinched a nerve.’

‘Keep still, then. Let’s go.’

‘I can’t. Not like this. All those policemen looking at me. It’s not decent.’

‘Fine. Come inside and we’ll get you a coat or something.’

Once they reached the kitchen, he let her go and she turned to face him. She recovered a little of her previous poise. ‘If you can just take these handcuffs off, I’ll just pop upstairs to my dressing room and find something more’ – she paused – ‘appropriate to wear to your police station.’

Ford smiled. ‘I have a better idea,’ he said. ‘Gary!’ he shouted.

The PC arrived in the kitchen doorway, filling it. His eyes strayed over Lucinda Abbott’s body before he returned his gaze to Ford. ‘Sir?’

‘Go and find something to cover Mrs Abbott, please.’

‘Sir.’

Ford remained at the house after the convoy had left Britford for the custody suite at Bourne Hill. His heart was racing, but he felt elated rather than nervous. He’d got him, this time. He was sure of it. The media would have to eat their words.

Never mind the false start with Matty Kyte. He’d assaulted Hannah and he’d admitted to nicking stuff from the hospital, so Ford was certain he could spin the story so that Matty came off a villain, even if not of the psychopathic variety. As for the wife, Ford sensed he knew who had the whip-hand in that marriage.

He put some bootees on, pulled nitrile gloves over his hands and went upstairs, his Tyvek-shod feet sinking into the thickest-pile carpet he’d ever walked on.

The upstairs hallway reeked of vanilla. He pushed open the first door he came to: a bathroom, dominated by a free-standing claw-footed bath standing in the centre of polished wooden boards. He located the source of the smell. On the windowsill a small glass jar held a few inches of an amber liquid, from which protruded a dozen or so slender sticks.

He opened the medicine cabinet, but it held nothing of interest. Just a few unopened packets and tubes of what he took to be guest toiletries. Must have an en suite.

A single door at the end of the hallway beckoned him. He opened it and stepped into the master bedroom.

He gasped. ‘Bloody hell!’

The room was vast: at least thirty feet by fifty, with a pitched ceiling supported by exposed oak beams. One end contained a sofa and armchair in matching silver-and-purple brocade fabric. A vast widescreen TV was suspended from the wall. Currently, it was displaying an image of a lake surrounded by lush tropical forest.

A four-poster bed dominated the other end of the room. A huge four-poster bed, he realised as he got closer – three pillow-widths across and at least seven feet from head to foot.

He pulled open the top drawer of the night-stand. It contained nothing suspicious beyond a novel Ford himself had given up on the