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

‘He’s not a murderer, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she said.

Jools said nothing.

‘He’s the gentlest soul on God’s earth,’ Clare continued. ‘I mean, he’ll kill foxes or rats. And he enjoys the odd shoot on the Alverchalke estate when he’s invited, pheasants and such. But that’s animals, not people.’

‘It’s just routine, Mrs Adlam. There’s nothing to worry about.’

Clare sniffed. ‘How come I’m feeling worried, then?’

Tom Adlam’s arrival let Jools off the hook. He took his seat again and thrust a folded sheet of paper at her. She unfolded it and skimmed the black and yellow certificate.

‘Well, that’s all how it should be,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Tell me, Clare mentioned you go on shoots. You take the shotgun for those, do you?’

‘Of course. I’m hardly going to take a .22, am I?’

Jools smiled. ‘Of course not. So, what’s the .308 for? Do you hunt?’

He shook his head. ‘Target-shooting. On the rare occasions I have some time off, I go down to Cranborne Gun Club.’

Jools nodded and made a note. The club headed the list the gun shop guy had given her.

‘Would you mind if I borrowed your rifles?’

‘Why?’

‘I’d like to have them test-fired. We recovered a bullet from a second body found on your neighbour Mr Ball’s farm. You may have heard about it? The bullet is a .308. And the man you found was shot with a .22.’

Clare Adlam’s mouth dropped open. Jools noticed she was squeezing her husband’s hand so hard her knuckles had turned pale. ‘You can’t possibly be serious! No,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Don’t let her. Make her get a warrant or whatever they do. Like on the telly.’

Wincing, he freed his hand from her grip. He shook his head. ‘It’s fine. Knock yourself out. But I want a receipt.’

Twenty minutes later, Jools parked at Bourne Hill with Adlam’s cased rifles in the boot of her A3.

‘Dad?’ Sam said as he and Ford cleared up after their evening meal.

‘What?’

‘On the Journal website, it says there was a second body.’

Ford nodded. ‘A farmer found it in a drainage pond on his land.’

‘Did it float?’

‘No. The farmer brought it up with a grappling hook.’

‘But they do usually, right?’

‘Yes. The gases produced during putrefaction fill the body cavity and make it buoyant.’

Sam pulled a face. But he ploughed on. ‘So he must’ve, like, weighted it down?’

Ford was about to correct him, then held his tongue. Some details were too gruesome to share. It wasn’t lying to Sam. It was protecting him. ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘It was a good question. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.’

Sam smiled. Then Ford saw a brief expression of doubt flit across his son’s features. Little more than a momentary drawing-together of the eyebrows, but he caught it just the same.

‘Everything OK?’

‘There’s a school trip coming up. Can I go? It’s three hundred and eighty-five pounds and I need a parent’s signature,’ Sam said, the words tumbling over themselves.

‘Sure. What is it? Camping again?’

Sam shook his head, frowning. ‘Not camping. But it’s really important. It’s for geography. Tom’s going. Max, Nathan, Joe. Literally everyone.’

‘I said you could go. You won’t miss out. Where is it?’

‘The Brecon Beacons.’

Immediately, Ford knew what the answer to his next question would be. And he felt a cold wave of fear wash over him. ‘Is it climbing?’

‘It’s totally safe, Dad! It’s supervised and there are guides and, like, only safe routes, and they’ve got all the best safety gear. Please can I go?’

‘No, Sam. I can’t let you. Not after what happened to Mum. You know that even the safest climb can go wrong in a heartbeat.’

Sam shook his head, flicking his curls left and right. ‘You’re wrong! I’ve checked the statistics. You’re actually more likely to die playing table tennis than rock-climbing.’

Ford had no doubt Sam had done his research, although his assertion sounded wildly unlikely. But it didn’t change the way he felt. ‘It’s not safe, Sam. I don’t care what the statistics say.’

‘You have to! I’ll be, like, the only boy not going. They’ll all know why, too.’

Ford saw Lou as if it were yesterday, not six years ago. Her face pale with the agony caused when the block he’d dislodged had smashed her thigh bone. Minutes before she drowned, when he left her.

He knew he ought to let Sam go. The boy was fearless. The trouble was, Ford had enough fear for two.

He shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry. That’s final.’

Sam’s face darkened. ‘It’s not fair! I have to go.’ He clenched his fists at his sides. ‘Let me, you bastard!’ Then his eyes widened with shock at what he’d just said.

Ford rocked back, the final, yelled word worse than a punch. Sam spun round and stalked off, heading for the stairs.

‘Sam, wait,’ he called. ‘Wait!’

Sam stopped mid-stride, his back to Ford. Ford closed the distance between them. He placed his hands gently on his son’s shoulders and turned him round. Tears glistened in Sam’s eyes, hanging off his lashes like diamonds.

‘Come here,’ Ford said, holding his arms wide. Sam let himself be enveloped in a hug, though he didn’t return it, his arms limp at his sides.

‘I’m sorry for what I just said.’ Sam’s voice was muffled in the crook of Ford’s neck. ‘Please let me go. I swear I’ll do exactly what the teachers say.’

Ford sighed. Could he keep Sam wrapped in cotton wool forever? There’d come a time when he’d be free to do whatever he liked. Riding motorbikes. Parachuting. BASE jumping. And, yes, even climbing.

He knew his fear of losing him was irrational, but then chided himself. Of course it was! But what about women afraid to cross dark parks alone? Children in care afraid of what the night would bring to their bedrooms? Old people afraid to answer their own front doors? Irrational? Or a well-adjusted reaction to the threats around every corner?

He felt Sam pulling away and released him from his embrace. He looked – not down, he