Shallow Ground (Detective Ford) Andy Maslen (classic novels to read txt) 📖

ground under our feet. It was probably someone she knew.’

‘I’ll start with the neighbours downstairs. They called it in.’

With Jools gone, Ford returned to the kitchen. Keeping his gloves on, he retrieved the dead woman’s bag and took it back to the sitting room. He sat on the sofa, leaned forward and emptied it on to the coffee table.

A plastic ID on a royal-blue NHS lanyard skittered across the polished surface, face down. He turned it over. And met the dead woman.

‘Angela Halpern. Staff nurse. Salisbury NHS Foundation Trust,’ he intoned.

So he had a name and an occupation and a place of work: Salisbury District Hospital, which made Angie’s co-workers his first line of enquiry. He made a note in his policy book.

DAY TWO, 10.00 A.M.

On the other side of the city, the staff on Bodenham Ward were feeling the full force of their master’s displeasure. Charles Abbott, consultant haematologist, was not happy.

‘My God, woman, this blood is contaminated!’ Abbott employed a level tone he knew frightened even the most experienced of his colleagues. ‘A week’s research down the tubes because you didn’t check the seal. What did you keep it in back in India? Milk bottles?’

The junior doctor had arrived at SDH from a hospital in Mumbai a week earlier to take up a coveted research post.

‘I’m—’ She coughed and started again. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Abbott.’

Abbott observed the young woman’s trembling lower lip with interest. He thrust the open bag at her. ‘Take it. And get it out of my sight.’

She reached out a hand and took it from him, but it slipped from her shaking fingers. Abbott jumped back. She stood, rooted to the spot, as the bag burst, spattering her shoes, ankles and calves. Not one drop hit Abbott’s dark pinstripe suit.

He registered the shocked faces of his staff as the junior doctor ran from the room, stifling a sob. Was it wrong to feel a tiny rush of pleasure at the ease with which he could control their emotions? He dismissed the question. They’d be just the same when – if – they became consultants.

He spotted a man in short-sleeved navy scrubs pushing in through the swing doors, bearing a tray of sterilised instruments.

‘You! Porter!’ he barked.

The porter frowned. ‘It’s Matty, Mr Abbott.’

‘I don’t care what your name is, man. Get this mess cleaned up. And quick about it,’ he added. ‘The CEO’s due on one of his interminable inspection tours in half an hour. Then get down to the blood bank and fetch another unit of whole blood, O positive, yes?’

The porter nodded and offered a small smile. ‘Yes, Mr Abbott.’

As the ward returned to normal, Matty knelt at the edge of the blood pool and began soaking up the worst of it with paper torn from a roll. He brought the dripping wad to his nose and sniffed, then shoved it into the gaping mouth of a yellow clinical waste sack.

He kept up a low monologue as he mopped and wiped, combining Abbott’s name with an inventive mixture of obscenities. He flexed the muscles in his right arm and imagined grinding Abbott’s face into the gore. He smiled.

He looked up to see if anyone was watching him. Everyone was too busy with their own tasks. He stretched out a finger and poked two small dots in the smeary residue. He added a downturned mouth and enclosed them all in a circle.

‘Fuck you, Abbott,’ he muttered, jabbing his index finger down to make a nose. ‘I wish this was yours. Then you’d care what my name was.’

‘What on earth are you doing, Matty?’

He looked up, heart racing. Sister McLaughlin was standing over him, hands on her hips. Peering down at him over that sharp beak of hers, through those stupid old-lady glasses. Nosy bitch.

He gave her his best ‘Who, me?’ smile. ‘Nothing. I—’

‘That is a serious health and safety risk. And why aren’t you wearing gloves?’ She tutted. ‘Get it cleaned up, please. Then go and wash your hands. Thoroughly,’ she added, before spinning on her heel and stalking off.

He watched her swaying rump for a little while. Imagined caning it. Hard. Drawing blood. The fantasy faded, and he bent to his task again, still seeing Abbott’s face before him and feeling the stirrings of an erection.

On the drive to the hospital, Ford’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and punched the ‘Answer Call’ button on the steering wheel.

‘What have you got, Jools?’

‘A neighbour said she thought Angie might have a sister. No obvious troublemakers hanging round the victim. The little boy’s her son, Kai. Three years old. Usually with a childminder. Donna Reid.’

‘Good work. I’m nearly at the hospital. Going to talk to HR. See what I can get from them.’

A few minutes later, he was facing the hospital’s HR director across her paper-strewn desk.

‘I’m afraid one of your nurses has been killed,’ he said. ‘Angela Halpern?’

All colour left her face.

‘Oh, my God! That’s terrible.’

‘Did you know her?’

She shook her head. ‘We have five thousand people working here. Half of them don’t know anyone outside their own ward. Who’d want to kill a nurse? They’re the kindest, the nicest—’

‘They are. And right now what I’m trying to do is identify her next of kin. They need to be notified.’

She nodded, rapid bobs that set her hair swinging. She tapped her keyboard, speaking as she typed.

‘OK. Halpern, A.’ Her red-painted fingernail clicked on a key. ‘Staff nurse. Men’s surgical ward.’ Another plasticky click from the keyboard. ‘Personal details. Contact details. Next of kin. She’s listed her sister. Cherry Andrews.’

‘Like the fruit?’

‘Yes. C-H-E-R-R-Y. Do you want her contact details?’

‘Yes, please.’

Ford noted down landline, mobile and work numbers, plus work and personal email addresses.

Outside again, he walked away from the main entrance towards the A&E department. At the top of the ambulance ramp, he leaned on a rail and looked out over the farmland to the south of the hospital’s sprawling complex of buildings and car parks.

The sun