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

have to say no,’ Hannah said. ‘I taught FBI agents how to spot if a suspect is lying. I think you’re lying, Mr Abbott.’

‘I’m not lying,’ Abbott said in a neutral voice. ‘Next question.’

Ford nudged Hannah’s knee with his own and took over. ‘Do you consider yourself a good person, Charles?’

‘Yes. I save lives. I am a trustee at the food bank. I even volunteer to pack their shopping away for them.’

‘A worthy person?’

‘Worthy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where does your sense of self-worth come from, do you think?’

Abbott looked at the ceiling, then back at Ford. ‘My mother said if you could help someone and you didn’t, you weren’t being the best person you could be. It was important to show your worth as a human being. I suppose I got it from her.’

Something in that answer sparked a connection in Ford’s brain. The word ‘worth’. What was it? Then he remembered: Lisa Moore said her attacker had called her worthless. Worth/worthless. Interesting. He made a note.

‘That’s nice. “Said”?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You said’ – he made a show of consulting his notes – ‘“My mother said, if you could help someone”. Not says. Is she not with us any more?’

Abbott folded his arms across his chest. It was the first sign of defensiveness Ford had seen from him.

‘Charles?’ he prompted.

Abbott shook his head. ‘She’s dead. She died.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss. When did she die?’

‘Beginning of last year. May tenth.’

‘That must have been a stressful time, what with your job and your work as a trustee. So many people depending on you.’

Abbott smiled. ‘I managed. I had to. She would have wanted me to.’

‘What do you think about the people who were murdered?’ Ford asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rowbotham said before Abbott could answer. ‘I fail to see what relevance that has.’

Abbott laid a hand on Rowbotham’s forearm. ‘It’s fine, Jacob, really. The inspector has his job to do.’ He faced Ford again. ‘To be honest, I think far too much is made about food banks. Calling those people customers, for one thing.’

‘What would you call them?’

‘Simply, what they are. They are society’s dregs. They should pull themselves up by their bootstraps. I mean, this isn’t the thirties, after all. I see no obvious signs of a Great Depression. They’re too lazy, stupid or short-sighted to figure out a way to earn money for food.’

‘Angie was a nurse. At your own hospital. Was she lazy? Stupid? Short-sighted?’

‘Plenty of nurses manage on their salaries, so yes, I imagine she was.’

A feeling of sickness grew, suddenly, in Ford’s stomach. He swallowed hard. ‘I think you killed them, Charles. I think you killed them because, in your eyes, they were worthless. What I can’t figure out is why you were transfusing yourself with their blood.’

‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ Abbott drawled, inspecting his manicured fingernails.

‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘No. You are wrong. I was not doing that for the simple reason that I did not kill those people.’

There it was again. That stilted speech pattern Hannah had talked about: ‘was not’, ‘did not’. Abbott was lying.

‘Do you have a single scrap of evidence linking my client directly to these crimes of which you are baselessly accusing him?’ Rowbotham asked, shuffling his papers together. ‘I suspect you don’t, in which case I demand you release him.’

‘We have a great deal of evidence. As I’ve already said. Blood transfusion paraphernalia in his bedroom. During our search we also found a chart listing his victims, alongside the numbers he daubed on their walls.’

‘My client has instructed me to say that the medical items were simply research tools he kept at home. The rest proves nothing. I could drive my Bentley through the holes in your case.’

Ford ignored the solicitor – yes, there were holes, and a halfway-decent defence barrister could make hay with them, but they were closing fast, and the DNA results would seal them for ever. In the meantime, he wanted a confession. He stared into Abbott’s eyes. Felt his stomach churn. It was like staring into the depths of a well. He saw no humanity there, just his own reflection.

‘Worthless. It’s a horrible thing to call your own son, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I never call Gawain that.’

Ford changed tack – all part of the interview strategy. ‘We did a little digging into your background, Charles. When you were six, you were admitted to A&E at SDH with a fractured wrist,’ he said, tapping the folder that contained Abbott’s medical notes.

‘The doctor you spoke to breached the General Medical Council’s code of patient confidentiality,’ Rowbotham interjected. ‘Anything you gained will be inadmissible in court.’

‘No, Mr Rowbotham. I’m afraid you’re wrong in law,’ Ford said, enjoying seeing the lawyer’s face redden. ‘We requested voluntary disclosure of Charles’s health records under Section 29 of the Data Protection Act 1998, citing an overriding public interest.’ He turned back to Abbott. ‘Your mother claimed you’d fallen out of a tree, but the doctor who set it added a note saying, and I quote, “bruising consistent with twisting”. Who did that, Charles? Your dad? Did he beat you?’

Abbott shook his head, a languid movement as if easing off a tense muscle. ‘He did not.’

‘I also found a complaint made to the police by one of your neighbours in 1981. She heard your father yelling at you in the back garden, thought he might be beating you. She made a note of the words.’ Ford shook his head. ‘Terrible stuff to say to a little kid.’

‘If it was the old biddy with the cats, I’d take her complaint with a large mouthful of salt,’ Abbott said. ‘She was probably on antidepressants. They can make you say all sorts of funny things.’

‘You can’t remember him calling you worthless, Charles? Over and over and over again, how stupid and worthless you were? Is that what drove you to kill?’

‘You should give up policework and move to Hollywood,’ Abbott said. ‘You’d make a fortune with ideas like that.’

‘Did your mother think you were worthless, Charles?’

‘Not at all.