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

Stuffing the memory back down, he took a small, flat rectangular tin from his pocket, and extracted two filters for rolling cigarettes and a small bottle of oil of menthol. Knowing his ‘stink-busters’ wouldn’t help, but needing the ritual, he squirted a couple of drops of the strong-smelling mint oil on to each of the filters, then stuck them into his nostrils. A smear of oil of camphor on his top lip and he was ready.

He tugged his hood up, settled his face mask over his nose and climbed the final flight of stairs to Flat 3. He didn’t dread seeing corpses any more. Carrying one around with him at all times had dulled the shock to a constant, low-level ache.

If the first-floor landing was tight, the third-floor landing was like a crowded train compartment.

DAY TWO, 9.31 A.M.

White-suited CSIs bearing bagged samples moved in and out along a common-approach path of bright-yellow plastic tread plates. Jools was talking to a uniformed sergeant.

Kneeling beside them, the photographer worked at a laptop propped on a tall stool.

‘Backing up,’ he said, without turning away from the screen.

Ford stepped across the threshold, losing his balance as one of the tread plates shifted beneath his foot. He swore, causing those inside the flat to turn. The common-approach path led along the hall to the kitchen, tight to the left-hand edge of the corridor.

He picked out a set of bloody footprints leading away from the kitchen. Nat’s. He frowned with irritation. And then he thought of her instinct to try to save the little boy. And of his own wife’s desperate entreaty to him: You have to. If you stay here, we’ll both die. Then who’ll look after Sam?

He felt his throat clutch: he pushed on, steeling himself. And then he entered the crime scene.

It happened here. Obviously. You don’t murder somebody outside then bring the body back to dump it in their own kitchen.

Rather than barging into the centre of the working CSIs, firing off questions and asserting his authority, he observed from the edge of the room.

And he didn’t stare, either, or focus in so tightly on the heinous scene before his eyes – the intertwined bodies and the lake of blood – that he got tunnel vision and failed to see the bigger picture. Because that’s what he was there for: to see the scene as a whole. The CSIs and the snapper could pick up far more details than he ever could, or wanted to. One thing preoccupied Ford: the killer. Because Ford knew all about what it was like to kill.

He felt it on the back of his neck first. Fresh sweat chilling his skin. His stomach lurched. He slid a black plastic bag from his inside pocket. As the scene impressed itself upon him, and the wave of nausea rolled through him, he opened the bag and threw up, as quietly as he could manage, then knotted it and placed it a corner.

He noticed Jools watching him. Only her eyes were visible, but he’d seen that look before. The look that said, ‘I understand.’ No, Jools, you don’t. Not at all. He turned away from her and began to look. The nausea subsided to a background tremor. He knew where it was about to take him, was ready for the journey.

Three chairs hemmed the table. Groceries had spilled from one of the bags, but nothing had rolled or fallen to the floor.

Multicoloured paintings covered the fridge door, enthusiasm more in evidence than skill. They reminded Ford of Sam’s earliest artistic endeavours: plenty of finger paintings, a couple of stars that said ‘potato print’ to Ford, and a drawing of two figures. One a wobbly orange oval with two lines straggling down to the bottom edge of the paper, the other a smaller version, their ‘arms’ – more single spidery lines – linked. Dots and crooked curves that might have been faces were set within squashed circles balanced atop the bodies.

Underneath, in coloured crayons, someone had printed ‘Kai and Mummy’. No Daddy, then? Was your mum bringing you up on her own, Kai? Bearing all the weight on her own? Did your daddy come back? Lose his temper?

Coloured magnetic plastic letters held the artworks in place. None had been torn, swiped off-centre or knocked free. It meant ‘no struggle’ to Ford.

He viewed each of the four walls in turn – registering the grotesque graffiti – then moved on to the ceiling, and finally the floor. He let his gaze soften, blurring sharp edges, rounding corners.

He inhaled and, as he breathed out, pushed a little at that part of him that allowed him to inhabit the mind of a murderer. He felt the killer’s presence. Became the killer.

Now he did look at the bodies. The dead woman and the dead child.

You trusted me. Even at the point when I attacked, you didn’t think it was going to happen. You didn’t fight back. I didn’t give you time to. I didn’t give you a reason to.

I’m taking a final look around at my handiwork before I leave you. I wasn’t angry, or not at you, at any rate. That’s why I didn’t mutilate you. I could have, if I’d wanted to. Cut. Stabbed. Bitten. Worse. I could have played around and had some fun, especially with the boy. So small. So defenceless.

But I like blood. I love the stuff, the more the better. Look at it! I’ve left it everywhere for the cops to find. Because I know they’ll find you. And I don’t care. What will they make of my mural? I wonder. Idiots! Nothing.

They won’t catch me. They can’t. I’m too smart for them. They’re not good enough.

Someone spoke to him. The voice sounded blurry, as if underwater.

‘DI Ford?’

He snapped into the present, shuddered, felt a runnel of sweat crawling down his ribcage from his armpit.

One of the CSIs was standing in front of him. China-blue eyes.

‘Sorry, Hannah, what is