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

little excitement. Something to tell the nurses, or her next visitor.

She smiled and pulled out her notebook. ‘Ivy S. Johnson,’ she repeated, though she scribbled Call Ford ASAP on the open page.

‘Well, dear, all I was going to say is, you can’t possibly believe Matty has anything to do with that horrid business in the town,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘Couldn’t you tell, dear? That man is the sweetest, kindest thing. Why, only yesterday he offered to sit with me because I felt a bit woozy after my injection.’

DAY SEVEN, 9.30 A.M.

With his father’s long-ago taunts ringing in his ears – ‘You stupid little shit! You can lick that up!’ – he pushes the grubby bell button. He has to wait for two minutes before it crackles with an answer.

‘Yeah?’

‘Mr Eadon? Paul?’

‘Who wants him?’

‘My name is Harvey. Harvey Williams. I’m from the Purcell Foundation. May I come in?’

‘Why?’

‘I think you dropped your rolling tobacco at the food bank. I have it here in my hand.’

The latch buzzes, and he’s through. He pats his jacket over the pocket containing his equipment. The hallway stinks, as does the stairwell. Nothing but junkies and alkies. Losers! Pathetic, worthless losers.

He climbs to the fifth floor, not trusting the foul-smelling lift. Turns left out of the stairwell and knocks on the scuffed red front door three from the end of the walkway.

The man who opens the door has red-rimmed eyes and a rash of sores around his mouth. He’s thin, but his cheeks are still a reasonable colour. Nice and pink.

‘You got my baccy?’

‘May I come in? I have something else for you.’

‘Knock yourself out,’ the man drawls, turning and shuffling back into the gloom.

Grinning, Harvey punches hard into the right side of Eadon’s neck. The vagus nerve isn’t an easy target, but he’s done his research. Eadon goes down.

Harvey drags him into the kitchen, positions him and takes out the cannula with its razor-tipped trocar.

When he’s finished, he takes a scummy-looking pan scourer from the dirty sink, dips it in the pool and paints a number on the wall.

With the number behind him, he smiles into his phone’s lens and takes a selfie. Another one for you, Dad.

At 3.47 p.m. Ford parked on Terry Road in Morland’s Field, a run-down area of the city known for high levels of petty crime, from drug-dealing to bike thefts.

Five minutes later, shaking his head, he stood on the threshold of the filthy kitchen.

‘Who found him?’ he asked Nat.

‘Social worker. I’ve started house-to-house enquiries. All we’ve got so far is, he was an Olympic-level pain in the arse.’

‘Keep on it.’

Looking at the body seated in the pool of blood, the yanked-down jeans, the puncture wound, the number daubed on the wall, Ford knew what he was dealing with. ‘Multiple linked offences’ be damned. He closed his eyes, ignoring the seasick feeling as his world tilted.

He saw a man. Strong, but non-threatening. Older? In a suit and tie? Well spoken? An authority figure? He opened his eyes as his gut heaved, and reached into his pocket for a bag.

He was back at Bourne Hill by 5.00 p.m. and pulled everyone into a briefing. He turned on the projector and beamed the latest outrage on to the wall.

‘Paul Eadon, twenty-eight years old. Lived in Raymond Molyneaux House. Identical MO to Angie Halpern.’

‘Any link between him and Angie, guv?’ Olly asked.

‘That’s what we’re going to find out. I want you to talk to his social worker. She’s happy to give you chapter and verse. See if his and Angie’s lives overlapped. Maybe she treated him once.’

‘Cause of death?’ Jools asked.

‘I could see the edge of recent bruises on the back and sides of his neck. Dr Eustace will confirm, but I’m thinking the killer stunned him with a punch then throttled him and stuck him with a needle like before.’

He clicked the mouse to bring up the next image, a bloody 500, dripping down the wall towards a tattered calendar, the current month featuring a picture of a golden retriever.

‘He wrote this on the wall,’ Ford said, as if they hadn’t got the message.

‘Shall I run Eadon through the PNC?’ Jan asked.

Ford nodded. ‘OK, thanks everyone. Hannah, you got a minute?’

He waited for the room to empty, noting the way Mick glared at Hannah.

‘What is it?’ she asked, holding a sheaf of papers in front of her like a shield.

‘It’s the same guy, isn’t it?’

‘I can’t be one hundred per cent sure.’

Ford sighed with exasperation. ‘Yes, but, on balance?’

‘On balance, yes. Identical MO. Identical signature. I would say both murders were carried out by the same individual.’

‘Is this a serial killer? On balance,’ he added, hurriedly. ‘You worked with the FBI. You must have talked to people about them.’

A shadow flitted across her eyes. ‘I did. It looks probable. I would expect to find a third body very soon, unless we catch him.’

‘“Him?” Not them?’

Hannah shook her head. ‘It’s a man. I’m certain.’

‘I’d be interested to know what else you could come up with about him.’

Her eyes widened, and she smiled. ‘You mean you want to profile him? And you want me to help you?’

‘Yes. If you’re up for the challenge.’

‘You said no before. You said . . .’ She closed her eyes, frowning. ‘“It’s unnecessary. The young ones always want to go outside for profilers at the merest sniff of something unusual, instead of doing proper coppering.”’

Trust you to nail me with my exact words, Hannah. ‘Yes, I did. And at the time I meant it. But I think we need to work a bit harder at getting inside his head. It means extra work, and I’m afraid there won’t be any overtime authorised.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s fine. I have more than enough money for me and Uta Frith to live on.’

‘Good. Come with me. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

Sandy looked up from her computer.

‘Henry! And you must be the Dr Fellowes I’ve been hearing so much about,’ she said effusively, standing and rounding