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

quick, I suppose you might find some bones in the incinerator,’ he said. ‘The soft tissue’s all flying about up there somewhere,’ he finished, looking up at the low ceiling.

Ford made a note: Contact RHH, suspend use of incinerator. Check for bones. Missing cleaner?

Forcing himself to remain calm, when what he felt like doing was launching himself across the table and punching the smug expression off Abbott’s face, Ford resumed his predetermined line of questioning. ‘The trophies were for our benefit, I understand that. Very clever of you, Charles. But it was always about the blood, wasn’t it?’

‘It was.’

‘You were transfusing your father’s blood out and your victims’ blood in. That’s right, isn’t it? You wanted to rid yourself of him.’

‘In one.’

‘Why did you pick people with A-positive blood? Why not use O-negative – the universal donor?’

Abbott smiled. ‘Oh, I looked at both, Inspector, believe me. But the ones I selected just had a more pathetic aspect to them.’

Ford fought down his revulsion.

‘You’re two litres short.’

‘True. But soon I’ll have more blood in my veins than he has in his.’

A sense of foreboding grew from nothing to a dark grey cloud in Ford’s mind. ‘Because?’

Abbott smiled his sly smile. ‘Can’t you guess?’

‘Was he going to be your final victim?’

‘Was?’ he said, pausing. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong tense. Is would be more accurate. I said he’s nice and safe. I hooked him up to an IV line to keep him hydrated. Oh, and a second line in the median cephalic vein in his right arm. I put a tap on it. Took a few experiments to get the drip-rate correct. He’s bleeding to death. Very slowly. I injected him with low-molecular-weight heparin to make sure it doesn’t clot. I had intended to complete my six transfusions and then open the tap wide.’

‘Where is he, Charles?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Where is he? Let us save him. You’re sick. I think you know that. You’ll end up in a secure hospital rather than prison, with the help of Mr Rowbotham here and a clever barrister. But this is premeditated. This is revenge. No jury will ever believe you killed your father out of a helpless compulsion.’

Abbott pulled his mouth to one side and tipped his head by ten degrees. ‘No? I’m not so sure. I’ll have them weeping at my tale of childhood abuse before they’ve had their first coffee break,’ he said, grinning. ‘And don’t count on a guilty plea, either. I have a very strong suspicion – no pun intended – that my barrister will be entering a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity.’ He leaned forward, slowly. ‘He’s very good. I dare say he spends more on a weekend’s shooting than you earn in a year.’ Then Abbott winked, before leaning back and folding his arms.

Ford ignored the provocation. ‘You’re going to go down for a long time, Charles. Tell me where he is and it will look good to the judge,’ he said. ‘That you cooperated.’

Abbott placed a fingertip to his chin and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘I think not. I’ve achieved what I set out to do. I’m free of him. Nothing else matters.’ He frowned. ‘You said earlier we were similar because we both have sons. But I wonder, are we alike in other ways?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can move on. But what about you, Inspector?’

‘What about me?’

‘Can you move on?’

‘Once you’re locked up, yes, of course I can.’

Abbott smiled. ‘That’s not what I meant. Can you move on after Louisa?’

Ford had to fight down an urge to vomit. ‘What?’

‘I researched you on the internet. It wasn’t hard. “Detective’s wife dies in tragic accident”, the Salisbury Journal had it. Everything’s digital these days.’

‘That’s none of your damn business.’

‘Isn’t it? I wonder, did you have a hand in Louisa’s death? Did you sabotage her harness? What was it? Did you get tired of her constant nagging about doing night feeds?’ Abbott’s grin widened. ‘Did the old sex life peter out after the baby came along? Or were you fucking someone else?’ He looked at Hannah. ‘I wonder, do Dr Watson’s charms extend beyond the intellectual to the physical?’

‘Interview terminated,’ Ford said, stabbing the STOP button on the tape machine.

He stood up and left, Abbott’s final yelled taunt ringing in his ears.

‘Maybe we’re not so different, you and me, Ford. Death enjoys our company!’

In the corridor, Ford turned to Hannah.

‘Nice job on the password.’

‘Thank you. I noticed his number plate when we called on him,’ she said. ‘In an ordinary person, a personal plate means very little. But in a psychopathic personality it’s a visible symbol of their narcissism. I thought he’d probably like to use it as often as possible.’

He smiled. ‘Come on. Let’s get the troops together.’

She shook her head. ‘I need to get over to his house in Britford. I’ll see you later.’

Having assembled the team in the briefing room, Ford clapped his hands to restore order.

‘Charles Abbott just confessed to the killings. All five, plus the attempted murder of Lisa Moore. He also told us he killed a cleaner at Revelstoke Hall Hospital, so I need them contacted. He’s been charged and remanded in custody.’ The murmurs that had stilled rose again. ‘Which is a result you can all be proud of. But we’re not done yet.’

‘What is it, guv?’ Jools asked.

‘He’s got his old man locked up somewhere, bleeding to death, and he won’t tell us where.’

‘We should check Abbott’s house ourselves,’ Jools said. ‘You said it was a big place and the CSIs are all working inside at the moment.’

‘Yes. I’ll take a team over there myself. I saw lots of outbuildings in the garden. Even a boathouse. You’re with me.’

‘Yes, guv.’

‘Mick, see if Abbott has a second property. His sort usually have a cottage in the country, don’t they? Or down on the coast. Dorset? Cornwall?’

‘On it, boss.’

‘Olly, can you check out the father’s place, please? Nicholas Abbott, middle names Ralph Augustus. He’s