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

took the armchair and opened a laptop, which he balanced precariously on his knees.

Over the next fifteen minutes, he asked Ruth a series of detailed questions relating to Owen’s physical appearance, the car and anywhere she thought he might have gone in it. He entered each answer into the laptop, prodding the keys with two fingers. She wanted to scream at him to learn to type.

He closed the laptop and looked her in the eye. ‘I’ve created a record for Owen in the National Crime Agency’s missing persons database,’ he said. ‘That means every police force in the country now has access to Owen’s description. If something crops up, they’ll notify me and I’ll get straight on the phone to you.’

‘But what are you actually going to do?’ she asked, alarmed at how shaky her voice sounded in the airless little room.

‘At this point, there’s not a great deal we can do,’ he said apologetically. Then he smiled. ‘Look, in the vast majority of cases like this, they do come home again, safe and sound. Try not to worry. He’s probably just letting off some steam.’

‘But he’s seventy! He’s hardly likely to have gone off on some jaunt, is he? He used to be a vicar!’

She was aware how pathetic she sounded, but she didn’t care. Maybe younger men did occasionally feel the need to slip away for a few days to let off steam, or whatever they did nowadays. But Owen? No. No. Nonononono. She fished a tissue out of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

‘Let’s not panic. Give Owen a few more days. Then if he’s not back, call me and we’ll have a think about what to do next.’ He handed her a card.

Somehow, she found herself back on the pavement again, having listened to the detective’s stream of reassurances as he steered her out of the police station. And why was he only a detective constable? Surely they’d give the job to somebody more senior?

She returned home and poured herself a large glass of wine. Noticed the kitchen clock said half past eleven. Didn’t care. Drained it. Poured another.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ford followed Hannah across the field towards the smaller of the two tents. It had its own mini-cordon of fluttering police tape. He lifted it for her and they both ducked under.

A hand, severed at the wrist, lay on the grass. Flies crawled over the pale, mottled skin and ragged flesh. He squatted and pointed at it. ‘What do you make of that, then?’

‘There’s clear evidence of animal interference.’ She pulled out a ballpoint pen and indicated the grooves and gouges in the flesh. ‘See? Toothmarks.’

‘From the badgers.’

‘I think so. Rats are a second possibility. Badgers are omnivores, and although their usual diet includes earthworms, beetles and birds’ eggs, they will eat flesh if it presents itself. Though I don’t suppose many have tasted human.’ She adopted a formal tone like an old-fashioned newsreader. ‘Flesh-eating badgers are roaming Salisbury.’

She turned and looked at him. The crinkles fanning out from the corners of her eyes suggested a smile behind the mask. Hannah possessed a sense of humour just off-kilter enough for her to join the black comedy club that included medics, emergency workers and the armed forces.

Ford pointed to the protruding bones. ‘Did they do that as well?’

‘I can’t say at this point. But to the naked eye, they do appear to have been gnawed.’

‘You’ll be at the post-mortem?’

‘Yes, I will.’

Ford straightened. Sighed. ‘I have to go. I’ll see you later, Wix.’

‘Bye, Henry,’ she said, and he heard the pleasure in her voice at his use of her nickname.

He went to find the crime scene manager. Experienced in matters rural, the DS from General CID had dressed for the job in green wellies and a thornproof jacket.

‘Morning, sir,’ the DS said.

‘Morning, Harry. We need to check if there are more remains down there,’ Ford said, pointing at the tented badger sett. ‘Any bright ideas?’

‘I had a word with the farmer. Chap by the name of Ball. He’s bringing a tractor with a digger attachment on the back. Said he’d be about half an hour.’

Ford nodded his appreciation. ‘God knows how long it would have taken if we’d gone through channels.’

Harry grinned. ‘Quicker to do it by hand, sir.’

Ball arrived with his tractor. All work stopped as the assorted coppers, CSIs and a couple of dog-walkers kept behind the outer perimeter watched him manoeuvre the machine into position. The CSIs dismantled the tent, dragging the assemblage of poles and flapping fabric out of harm’s way.

‘Natural England’d have a field day if they saw us doing this,’ Harry said.

‘Let’s hope they don’t find out then, eh?’

They watched as the farmer laboriously scraped away the red earth from the entrance to the sett and began digging down. The growl of the tractor’s diesel engine rose and fell as the scoop bit into the earth. Five minutes later, Hannah shouted. An arm, missing its hand and smeared with mud, tumbled from the clawed scoop.

The CSIs laid out an unzipped black body bag on the grass, and piece by piece they began assembling the filth-encrusted remains into a disarticulated corpse . . . missing its head.

Ford looked at the sad array of body parts. Here and there he saw traces of discoloration on the skin. He looked closer, holding his breath, and realised what they were.

He called over to Hannah. When she arrived he pointed at one of the arms. ‘I think those are tattoos. Do you think you could get them cleaned up? We could show some photos around today, see if anybody recognises them.’

She nodded. ‘I’ve got water in the van.’

It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Maybe he’d get lucky and the golden hour might actually last sixty minutes for once. He watched as Hannah squirted water over an arm and began gently swabbing the skin with a sponge. As she revealed the tattoo, of a futuristic, black and grey machine gun with a winged skull on