Land Rites (Detective Ford) Andy Maslen (best pdf reader for ebooks .TXT) 📖

the house to meet up with Josh before school, Ford drove away from Salisbury, heading out into the Chalke Valley. Twelve minutes later he arrived in a small village called Broad Chalke. He turned off High Road on to The Causeway and parked in the small gravelled space behind All Saints’ Church.

He locked the doors and walked through the gap in the hedge. Her grave was on the outer fringe of the churchyard. The stone, a simple rectangle of rough red granite, stood in the dappled shade cast by an old apple tree.

He kneeled before it and, as he always did, read the inscription.

LOUISA KATHRYN FORD

BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

‘THE MOUNTAINS QUAKE BEFORE HIM AND THE HILLS MELT AWAY.’

At the time, Lou’s parents and Ford’s mum had been against the quote. After all that had happened, they said, how could he think of even mentioning the word ‘mountain’, let alone carving it into her gravestone?

What could he say? That he wanted to be reminded, always, of what he had done? That he wanted to be forced to remember he had killed her? That he needed the granite to be scarred as deeply as his soul?

Of course not. Instead he had said Lou loved the mountains. Always had. That love was bigger and more powerful than a mere million tons of rock. That, in the end, he and Lou would be reunited, free to climb together without fear.

They’d relented. They’d had to. And now here he was, kneeling at her feet, striving to feel the forgiveness they’d all assured him she would have bestowed on him in an instant. It was an accident. A tragic accident. Nothing more.

He looked up into the branches of the apple tree, thick with blossom, the petals white and fringed with pink. Two sparrows hopped about in its leafy embrace, twittering crossly at each other as they scrapped for the best spot from which to sing. As one flew off and the victor began cheeping loudly from its victory perch, he stood and looked around. The graveyard was empty.

‘I wish you were still here,’ he said. ‘Sam’s such a big lad now. You’d have loved the way he’s turning out. He’s fearless. Just like you.’

Then he turned and walked back to the Discovery, brushing the wet from his cheeks. He reached the station at 8.30 a.m.

Ford’s phone rang five minutes later. Unknown caller.

‘My name’s Joe Hibberd. You wanted to speak to me?’

The man’s accent wasn’t local. Somewhere in London.

‘I did. Could you come into Bourne Hill police station?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m investigating a murder and I have a few questions for you.’

‘But I’ve got a rearing field full of pheasant chicks. It’s a twenty-four-seven job.’

‘So’s mine, Mr Hibberd.’

He heard Hibberd sigh. Waited him out. Nothing like a copper’s silence to push people out of their comfort zone. So what Hibberd said next surprised him.

‘I can’t. Sorry. If you want to speak to me, you’ll have to come up to the field.’

Ford found himself listening to the hiss and faint crackles on the line. He thought he could hear cheeping in the background. What to do? Far too early to start throwing his weight around.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’ll text you my GPS.’

Twenty minutes later, Ford turned off the track. Two minutes elapsed while he opened, drove through and closed a five-bar gate. Then he was bumbling across an expanse of lumpy grassland dotted with bushes thick with creamy-white blossom. He switched off the satnav, because in the distance he could see a man who appeared to be shooting. He stopped a hundred yards back.

Outside the Discovery, he smiled as the sun warmed his face. Up here, the wind was keener than it had been in the city centre, and it brought the pungent, farmyard smell of muck-spreading up from the south.

He walked upwind towards the man who was stood side-on to Ford, a long gun to his shoulder. It emitted a sharp crack. Hibberd took the rifle from his shoulder and walked away. Not wanting to engage in a slow-speed walking chase through the Wiltshire countryside, Ford called out.

‘Mr Hibberd! Wait!’

Hibberd turned and began walking back, the rifle swinging by his side. He arrived a minute later. Dressed in a forest-green polo shirt, jeans and heavy work boots, he was in his late thirties: solidly built, with short dark hair and tattoos on both exposed forearms. He had the weathered skin of a man whose job kept him outside year round.

‘You Ford, then?’

Ford showed his ID. He looked at the rifle. ‘Nice little gun.’

Hibberd looked down as though he’d never seen it before. ‘This? Yeah, it’s all right, I suppose. Just got a bunny before you showed up. For the pot.’

‘Do you want to go and pick it up? Be a shame to waste the meat.’

Hibberd shook his head. ‘Nah. Don’t worry. I’ll get it later. Or shoot another one if a kite gets it.’

Ford thought of the rabbit in his freezer and that two might make a decent pie. ‘Can I have it, then?’

Hibberd’s face flushed alarmingly and he moved to block Ford’s way. ‘No! Leave it! Jesus, why does every townie always think they can come out here and have whatever they like? I should never have agreed to meet you.’

Ford held his hands up. ‘It’s fine, I’ll leave it. I’m sorry.’

Hibberd sighed and rolled his head on his neck. ‘What did you want to see me about?’

Ford smiled, intending the expression to be taken as reassurance. He stored Hibberd’s extreme reaction away for later consideration. Sweat had beaded on the gamekeeper’s forehead and the bridge of his nose. His deep-set eyes darted left and right as if searching for an escape route. And he was biting his lower lip.

‘Thanks for agreeing to talk to me, Mr Hibberd,’ he said. ‘Or can I call you Joe?’

‘Joe’s fine. Let’s get it over with. I need to get back to the chicks. I was just taking a little break.’ His lip-chewing had pulled loose a sliver of skin and produced a bead of blood.

‘Busy job