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

CSI where Owen’s PC was, and she pointed to a desk shoved against a wall in one corner of the room.

Ford pulled up a chair and sat before the ‘Gaia Engine’. He joggled the mouse. Hannah had left the GoPro software open on the screen. He left it where it was and opened a browser. Typed in his search query:

Circle of the Earth Bible book

And, oh Lord, thank you, there it was. The first result contained the clue he’d thought of on the windy crown of Old Sarum’s ancient earthworks:

The Circle of the Earth: meaning and interpretation, Isaiah 40:22

He switched back to the GoPro software. He was about to type in the Bible reference when he stopped. That space after ‘Isaiah’ wouldn’t work. It needed to be a symbol. Or deleted altogether. Let’s start there.

Isaiah40:22

Some of your security details are incorrect.

He sighed. He realised he’d put all his faith in his intuition. Now he realised he was back in Wix’s territory. Detail. Method. Focus.

Fine. He could do that. He tried again. Let’s try a hyphen.

Isaiah-40:22

Some of your security details are incorrect.

OK. An em dash, then.

Isaiah—40:22

Some of your security details are incorrect. You have two more attempts.

Ford felt his patience slipping. He began to fear that he’d got ninety-nine per cent of the way there, but someone higher up the food chain had decided that was as far as he was going to get.

He couldn’t waste any more attempts on guesses. What would Hannah do? She’d think, came the obvious answer. She’d be logical. She’d look for patterns. Ford closed his eyes. Yes, Hannah, but which patterns?

The answer, when it came to him, was obvious. The patterns visible in Owen’s own actions. He’d separated the words in his main password with underscores. That would surely be it. He typed once more.

Isaiah_40:22

Holding his breath, he hit the ‘Return’ key. The screen blanked, then refreshed.

He sighed. And smiled. He was in.

Ford clicked the icon for Cloud storage. The screen displayed a list of alphabetically arranged folders. And, topping the list, he saw it:

Alverchalke

He opened the folder. It contained a single file.

Baverstock_Protest_OL_1

The file data confirmed that Owen had stopped recording the video at 11.53 a.m. on the day of his murder. Pulse racing, Ford opened the file, then clicked the white ‘Play’ triangle in the centre of the still image.

In the distance, across twelve miles of rolling countryside, the spire glowed white in the hazy sunshine. Owen, dressed in jeans and a crumpled maroon shirt, grey hair blown into a wild halo, addressed the camera. Where had he put the GoPro? On a stand? Clipped to a fence or a tree branch?

‘Behind me, you see an ancient landscape, unchanged for millennia. The landowner is the Right Honourable Viscount Baverstock, known also as Lord Baverstock and, given that all men are equal before Gaia, Philip Martival. Owing to a toxic combination of greed, hubris and disdain, he plans to desecrate it by building one hundred and thirty houses.’

Owen turned away and swept his right arm in a half-circle.

‘Philip Martival professes to care about the environment. But his actions speak much, much louder than his words. I urge you, who are watching this, to protest with me. Visit this beautiful part of the country. Camp. Bring your children. Sing. Pray. Together we can—’

A second voice intruded on the soundtrack. ‘Hey! You there! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’

Ford had heard it before. With a grim smile, he nodded. He’d solved the Lucy Problem.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Ford leaned closer as Lucy Martival strode into shot. She wore an outfit typical of a certain class of rural dweller. Blue and white gingham shirt beneath a navy-blue sleeveless jumper. Tight-fitting moss-green trousers. Knee-high boots of tan suede interrupted by bands of polished brown leather.

Two black Labs trotted beside her. In her right hand she carried a rifle. She stopped a few feet away from Owen. A scowl transformed the face Ford had thought pretty into one harsh and unforgiving.

‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded.

‘My name is Owen Long.’

‘You’re not local, are you? Not with that accent.’

‘I live in London. But my calling brought me here.’

She tossed her head. ‘Oh, it did, did it? Well, I’m calling you to get the hell off this land.’

‘I am offering a testament to Philip Martival’s rapacity.’ Owen spread his hands wide. ‘He would destroy this beautiful—’

‘What Viscount Baverstock does with his land is nothing to do with you. Now clear off!’

Ford watched, transfixed. He knew what was coming, but still hoped Owen would heed Lucy’s warning and get the hell away. Instead he doubled down on his attack. ‘I should have thought someone of his obvious wealth would have little need of such a tawdry moneymaking scheme as this.’

‘Oh, would you? Not that it’s any of your business, but appearances can be misleading. Anyway, this is private land. It’s been in my family for a thousand years.’

There it was. The phrase Jools had somehow dragged out of Gwyneth Pearce. Further proof, if more were needed.

Lucy was still speaking. ‘You must have ignored half a dozen signs to get here. You’re trespassing!’

‘We are all mere trespassers on this planet. I am serving a higher cause. No less than Gaia. To her, a thousand years is as the life of a mayfly.’ Owen’s voice had taken on a preaching quality, and Ford heard the cadences of the pulpit as the former vicar hit his stride.

Lucy snorted. ‘Gaia? Now I get it. You’re one of those bloody climate people, aren’t you?’

Beside Lucy, the dogs were staring at Owen, breaking off only to cast glances up at their mistress. Ford heard their low growling.

‘If you have children, or plan to, you’d do well to join me,’ Owen said, raising his voice. ‘Nurturing a new life while all around you it is being extinguished is a wasted existence.’

The dogs’ growling intensified. Lucy worked the bolt on the rifle. The metal parts emitted a sharp snick-snack.

‘I said, clear off,’ Lucy said, in a