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

you all know that. Some of you might have known in your waters you were facing a serial. Well, now it’s official,’ she said. ‘Which means more resources, but also more scrutiny.’ She turned to Ford. ‘I had the PCC on the phone earlier, bending my ear about the need for a “swift resolution to this distressing case”.’

This prompted more smiles.

‘And more media, I suppose,’ Ford said, scowling.

‘Than you could shake a stick at. Just play nice and try to use them as much as they use us.’

‘I’ll behave. I promise.’

‘Which I choose to take at face value,’ she said, offering him the faintest of winks. ‘One more thing. Three linked homicides makes this a Home Office-specified Cat 1 investigation. You get an operation name.’

‘What are we on this time, ma’am?’ Jools called out. ‘Wild flowers? Birds of prey?’

‘Coastal features. You’re now the investigative team on Operation Shoreline.’

Olly fought the urge to punch the air. He exited the CCTV program. He saw Ford in his office, frowning as he typed, and hurried over.

‘Guv?’

Ford looked up.

‘I got a hit on the CCTV at the city end of Wyvern Road. The road’s dead most of the time. But at 8.32 p.m. on the night Angie and Kai were murdered a grey VW Polo drove by. Looked like a male at the wheel.’

‘Index number?’

Olly shook his head. ‘Obscured.’

‘Track every grey Polo in Salisbury, then widen it out to the rest of Wiltshire, Dorset and Hampshire. I want to know who was behind the wheel.’

Ford watched the young DC’s back as he marched to his desk. The boy’s ambitious, like I was. Am! Jesus, I need to get a result on this. My first big one since becoming a DI. The media will hang me out to dry if it turns into a runner.

Wanting to banish the negative thoughts, he called Mick. ‘How are the food-bank interviews coming?’

‘Slow, but good. Nobody stands out yet. Most have alibis. A few don’t, but you know the type,’ he said. ‘They’re the library volunteers, the people who plant flowers on verges and roundabouts, the Neighbourhood Watchers, the PTA chairmen. I’m not picking up a vibe from any of them. Same for the others.’

‘Keep at it. I’m going mad here with report-writing. Can you send me a couple of names off the list you haven’t interviewed yet?’

While he was waiting for Mick’s email, Jan stepped into his office. She looked pleased.

‘Cat got the cream?’ he asked.

‘A whole bucket. Look.’

She held out a clear debris pot with a black screw-top lid. He read the label.

MARCUS ANDERSON, CS/1

FABRIC SAMPLE. FOUND IN OAK TREE, 100M FROM CS/1.

EVIDENCE NUMBER: BH/SHORELINE/PC6774/87/7

Holding it up to the light, he saw a scrap of fabric.

‘It was caught on a sharp bit of bark in a fork,’ Jan said. ‘Your captain’s pick. Looks like our man might have been hiding there while he waited for Marcus to appear.’

‘Good work, Jan, although it could just have come from a kid playing. Get it to Forensics. Maybe there are some epithelials or hairs attached.’

A few minutes later, an email arrived from Mick. Ford had two people to trace, interview and eliminate – TIE, as the jargon had it: Lenny Hayes and Jasmin Fortuna, both volunteers.

Hayes’s phone went straight to voicemail. Ford left a short message requesting an interview. He dialled Fortuna next.

‘Hi, this is Jaz.’

‘Jasmin Fortuna?’

‘Yes. Who’s this?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Ford from Wiltshire Police. I’d like to have a chat with you about the Purcell Foundation. Today, if possible.’

‘Do I have to come into the police station?’

Ford smiled and injected a lightness into his tone he wasn’t feeling. ‘Nothing as formal as that. I can come to you, if you like.’

‘You can come round now, in that case. I’m doing my nails. Gonna be a while yet. I’ve only just started.’

Ford parked the Discovery on the street a few doors down from Fortuna’s house, a new-build on an estate on the western edge of the city. The developers had mixed styles and sizes of dwelling, giving the impression of a village rather than row after row of identical boxes.

A metallic-pink BMW 3 Series convertible sat on the concrete drive beside the house, its twin-kidney radiator grille facing the road.

He heard a chain rattling, then a lot of metallic clicks and scrapes from the far side of the door. ‘Bugger! Hold on. It’s my nails.’

The door swung open. Ford tried hard not to stare. The woman facing him was dressed in a silky white T-shirt and leggings that did nothing to disguise her physique. Which, Ford reflected ruefully, was more muscular than his had ever been in his life.

Her pectoral muscles bulged sideways from the T’s armholes and pushed her small breasts out towards him. Biceps, triceps – every muscle group looked inflated. Her caramel skin, which shone in the sunlight, emphasised their interlocking angles, curves and planes.

‘Mrs Fortuna?’

She cackled. ‘Blimey! That’s a bit formal. Call me Jaz. My clients do.’

An unworthy thought flickered through Ford’s mind. ‘Clients?’ he repeated, striving to sound neutral.

His efforts failed. ‘Not that kind. Naughty boy! Nails,’ she deadpanned, waggling the backs of the fingers on her right hand at him. They were tipped with pink-and-white candy-striped talons studded with sparkling gemstones. ‘Look,’ she added, pointing at the side of the BMW.

He turned.

Flowing pink script read ‘Nailz by Jaz’, with website, email, mobile number, plus social media icons.

‘Can I come in?’ he asked.

Having accepted the offer of coffee and then being told to ‘make one for me too, would you, a latte? It’s my nails,’ Ford explained why he was there and what he and his team were doing. He gave her the date and time of Angie and Kai Halpern’s murders.

‘Where were you then, Jaz?’

‘Easy! I was in Reading, at a competition. I’m a powerlifter.’ She flexed her biceps, kissing each in turn. ‘Big guns, tight buns, eh?’ She cackled again.

He gave her another date.

She looked upwards. ‘Tenth wedding anniversary. Out with my family. Loads of us. We’re Filipino. My mum works