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

‘Let me whisper it,’ he murmured.

He leaned closer and she turned so he could place his lips against her ear. She became aware of his aftershave, a lovely spicy smell. Gently, he cradled the back of her head.

‘What?’ she whispered back.

‘You’ve discovered my little secret.’

‘Secret?’

‘My trophy cabinet.’

She frowned. What was he on about? She wanted to step back, but his fingertips were pressed against her scalp, clamping her head against his chest. He was very strong.

‘The food, you mean?’

‘Yes. You see, Chrissie, I took them from each of my victims. And now you know about them, don’t you?’

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. You’re him. Off the news.

‘I won’t tell a soul. I promise,’ she whispered, feeling her pulse bumping in her throat.

She tried to pull away, but his grip had tightened.

‘I’m sure you think that’s true, Chrissie. But we both know you’d weaken. You might let it slip to one of your friends. Or the police will start interviewing people here and you’ll just have to be honest, won’t you?’

Fear was making her knees tremble and she thought she might wet herself. ‘Please, Mr Abbott. Please don’t hurt me. You could move them. Throw them in the hospital bins out the back.’

‘But, Chrissie, you’d still know, wouldn’t you? Best we just nip this little problem in the bud, yes?’

Oh, God, had he just bitten her? The sharp sting took her breath away. Then it blossomed into searing, burning agony. She clutched her neck and felt the wetness surging out between her fingers. She felt cold. Icy.

He was grinning at her. He was holding a shiny silver knife . . .

. . . a whatchamacallit scalpy is that right no it’s a scalper no a sca— . . . sc— . . . sss— . . .

She sank to her knees, and as her hand fell away from her neck and the world darkened, she had just enough time to see the jets of blood splashing against the wall. They sounded like the sea in her ears.

Driving away from the hospital two hours later, skin tingling from a thirty-minute scalding shower after the clean-up, Abbott felt so serene he wanted to close his eyes and drive by intuition alone. He resisted the temptation. Tomorrow would be his biggest test yet.

He glanced in the Aston’s rear-view mirror. The incinerator’s orange glow underlit the plume of smoke issuing from the chimney.

DAY TWENTY-TWO, 9.00 A.M.

Ford woke early and called Jools.

‘Morning, guv.’

‘Morning. I want you to finish interviewing Matty without me. When his DNA sample comes back, my guess is it won’t be a match. And on that basis, I want you to de-arrest him for murder and rearrest him for assault and theft. Jen, too.’

‘Got it. And guv?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got some good news for you. Looks like your gut was right, after all.’

‘Go on.’

‘I got Abbott’s medical records. His blood group isn’t O-positive. It’s A-positive.’

Ford smiled. He felt a surge of triumph replacing the black mood that had engulfed him the previous day.

‘Thanks, Jools. You’re a star.’

Ford called Alec on the drive in to work. ‘Has the DNA lab sent back the report on the blood sample Abbott provided?’

‘Yes. Just now, as a matter of fact. But it’s not a match to the scrapings I took from Lisa Moore. I’m sorry, Henry.’

‘I’m not. He switched the blood.’

‘How?’

‘No time to explain.’

No sooner had he ended the call than his phone rang.

‘What is it, Olly?’

‘I found a complaint a neighbour made against Abbott’s dad back in 1981. The dad was swearing at Charles, turning the air blue, according to the neighbour. She dictated the dad’s exact words, guv. Listen.’

As Olly read out the torrent of invective the father had spewed into his son’s ears, Ford’s gut clenched. This was it: the clue to Abbott’s psychology he needed.

At Bourne Hill, he started planning the arrest. And he thought back to his conversations with the Abbotts. There were plenty of examples of married couples sliding into depravity together. Now that he was going to arrest Abbott for murder, he could try to upgrade the charge against Lucinda from obstruction to accessory to murder.

Jools came in and handed him a folder. ‘Abbott’s medical records. They make interesting reading. I pulled out the juicy bits.’

Ford took the folder and read the single sheet Jools had stapled to the inside of the folder. He nodded. ‘Thanks, Jools. How’s your interview with Matty doing?’

She grinned. ‘Slam-dunk.’

Ford called the hospital and discovered Abbott was taking a day off.

Abbott opened the door in a pair of chinos and a pistachio-green linen shirt, open at the neck. Seeing Ford on his doorstep appeared not to faze him. He smiled. Ford caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath.

‘Detective Inspector! What a pleasant—’

Then he looked over Ford’s shoulder. Where two of the biggest uniformed officers Ford had managed to find stood side by side. Gary and Mark were each well over six foot and members of the same rugby club.

Beyond them, a police car stood idling on the road, its blue lights flashing, casting their cobalt glow over Ford’s Discovery and a white prisoner transport van.

Abbott’s face betrayed no emotion as Ford spoke. ‘Charles Abbott, I am arresting you on suspicion that you murdered Angie and Kai Halpern, Paul Eadon, Marcus Anderson and Aimee Cragg, and that you attempted to murder Lisa Moore.’ He paused, sensing the two big PCs beside him squaring themselves. ‘We have compelling evidence linking you to these crimes. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand what I have just told you?’

Abbott pursed his lips. ‘I understand your words, but what I fail to understand is what the devil you’re playing at? I thought we’d concluded I wasn’t your man?’

‘Cuff him, please, Mark,’ Ford said, standing to one side.

‘Wait!’ Abbott