by Andy Maslen
‘Push-along or ride-on?’
Abbott frowned. ‘Ride-on. Why?’
‘No reason.’ He took a half-step closer to Abbott. ‘It won’t take long.’
Abbott groaned. ‘Oh, very well.’
Pausing at the sink to drink off a tumbler of water from the tap, Abbott held a second, empty, glass out towards Ford. ‘You want one? It’s awfully hot out there, isn’t it?’
‘No, thanks.’
Abbott shrugged and gestured for Ford to take a seat at the kitchen table. Then he sat facing him, spread his hands out in front of him on the gleaming oak surface and lifted his chin.
‘Well?’
Ford noticed a dark spot on the inside of Abbott’s left shirt sleeve, about halfway between wrist and elbow. Filed it. ‘He attacked another food bank customer the day before yesterday.’
‘Attacked? Not murdered?’
Ford shook his head, scrutinising Abbott’s face for a twitch, a flicker of the gaze, anything that might betray his inner landscape: innocent, guilty, sane, psychopathic. Saw nothing.
‘He picked the wrong victim. She’s ex-army. Gave the bastard a hiding.’
‘Good for her,’ Abbott said with a smile.
‘She got a good look at him, too.’
‘Did she identify him? That would be a good lead, I’d imagine.’
‘She said he looked like you, Mr Abbott.’ Ford kept his face straight as he delivered the lie.
‘Really? What – average height, average build, brown hair, brown eyes? That sort of thing?’
Ford felt his gut twitch: an unpleasant sensation as if he’d swallowed something alive. ‘A bit more than that. And here’s the thing. The attack took place in the morning.’
Abbott smiled a lazy smile. ‘I sense you’re building up to something.’
‘Where were you on Wednesday morning at eleven forty-five?’
‘Why do I get the feeling you already think you know the answer?’
‘At SDH?’
‘No,’ Abbott said, drawing out the word with the falling/rising inflection of someone explaining something simple to an idiot. ‘I was at Revelstoke Hall Hospital.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘I doubt it. I was working in my office on a paper for the British Journal of Haematology. It’s a very prestigious journal.’
‘How about hospital CCTV?’
‘They have it, of course. But not on the consultants’ corridor,’ he added.
Ford made a mental note to check the footage. He pointed at the spot on Abbott’s shirt sleeve. ‘Cut yourself?’
Abbott rotated his forearm outwards and looked down. ‘Brambles. Bloody things are taking over down by the riverbank.’
‘We have a few in our garden, too,’ Ford said. ‘Want me to take a look? I’m a trained first-aider.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! It’s a scratch, not a knife wound.’
Ford held out his hand. ‘Please.’
Shaking his head in evident disbelief, Abbott unbuttoned his cuff and took his time folding it back on itself. He extended his arm, the tender skin on the inside surface uppermost. A series of ragged scratches extended for a span of about four inches, beaded with dark-red clots like the inky pearls of blackberries.
‘As I said,’ Abbott drawled, ‘I’m fairly sure I’ll survive this . . . insult.’
Evidence. Sandy had asked for it. And now it was staring Ford in the face.
All he needed was a single epithelial cell from Lisa Moore in one of the scratches, or Abbott’s DNA in the tissue retrieved from under her fingernails, and he had his man down cold.
‘I’d like you to come into Bourne Hill Station, Mr Abbott,’ he said in as calm a voice as he could manage, wondering if he was staring into the emotionless eyes of a serial killer. Heart racing. Stomach churning.
‘Why? Do you have a new first-aid kit you want to try out?’
‘Because there are aspects of this case that lead me to believe you may’ – he paused –‘know something about the murders.’ Like the fact that you committed them. ‘And I’d like you to provide a DNA sample.’
‘What aspects?’
‘It would be a voluntary interview. No need for lawyers. Or cells,’ Ford added.
Abbott’s left eye twitched. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Like what?’
‘To get me into an interrogation room without my lawyer present.’
‘Firstly, we call them interview suites’ – Abbott barked out a short, mirthless laugh – ‘and secondly, if it would make you feel more comfortable to bring a legal representative, that would be fine with me.’
It was a gamble. Any half-decent lawyer would advise his client to say nothing. Ford wiped the sweat from his forehead. Felt his mouth fill with saliva.
‘You know what?’ Abbott said, getting to his feet. ‘What I feel like is finishing my lawn. It’s very, very big and I’m only a quarter done.’
Ford stayed sitting. He looked up at his quarry. One more push. ‘I really would like you to come in. If for no other reason than to exclude you from our investigation. A DNA sample would take care of everything.’
Abbott sneered. ‘And, as I think I just said, I really want to continue mowing my lawn. After which I intend to open a very expensive bottle of Sancerre and enjoy a glass or two looking over the fields. So if there’s nothing else . . .’
‘I could always arrest you.’
‘I doubt that. I already gave you my alibi. I think you’re overstepping your authority.’
Ford took his second gamble. ‘Your alibi for Wednesday looks shaky in the absence of CCTV or witnesses, and courts assign minimal weight to spousal alibis. Without anything stronger than your wife’s word that you were binge-watching Orange Is the New Black—’
‘Game of Thrones.’
‘—on the dates of the other murders, there’s enough circumstantial evidence to place you under arrest right now.’ Ford stood. ‘What’s it to be?’
Finally, he saw a crack in Abbott’s disdainful facade. His eyes flicked upwards. ‘You can’t.’
‘I can.’
Ford watched him. Waited for him to make a decision. Ignored the tickle as sweat ran down his ribs from his armpits.
Abbott slumped in the chair. ‘I wasn’t at Revelstoke Hall, and I wasn’t watching Game of bloody Thrones with Lucinda either,’ he muttered.
Ford made a show of cupping his hand behind his right ear. ‘Say again? I didn’t catch that.’
‘I wasn’t here,’ Abbott said, louder this time. His eyes flicked left. ‘Or at Revelstoke Hall.’
Ford tensed. Was Abbott about to run? He looked fit, and he claimed to play tennis. If he went for the French doors, Ford would have to negotiate the kitchen table to give chase.
‘Then where were you?’
‘Christ, man, isn’t that enough? I’ve admitted I lied. Would a serial killer do that?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never met one before.’
‘Look,’ Abbott said, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. He dropped his voice. ‘We’re men of the world, aren’t we?’
‘Are we?’
‘I mean, you’re experienced in the way things are in the real world. You’ve seen it all, I should imagine.’
‘I’ve seen all sorts of things. Some of the most recent will live with me for ever.’
‘Exactly. Look, if I explain to you here, in confidence, what’s been going on, man to man, you need to respect that and keep it to yourself.’
‘What is it you want to tell me, Mr Abbott?’ And if you say you killed them, I’m going to knock you down. Pre-emptive force in exigent circumstances.
‘I was with an escort,’ Abbott blurted.
‘An escort?’
‘Yes, man, you know. A call girl. A prostitute. A tart!’
‘On each of the dates I gave you, when you claimed you were either here watching the telly with your wife or working at Revelstoke Hall?’
‘Why did you lie before?’
‘Why do you think? I have a reputation to preserve. I hardly think being known for associating with prostitutes gets one invited to the better parties.’
‘Name?’
‘What?’
‘Her name. This escort. What is it?’
‘Oh. Yes, of course. But, as I said, you’ll keep this under your hat?’
‘I think we’d better just have it.’
Abbott hesitated. He sighed and spoke the name on the outbreath. ‘Zoe.’
‘Last name?’
‘She said it was Denys, but, you know . . .’ He smirked. ‘It could be a nom d’amour.’
‘And Mrs Abbott will confirm this, will she? That you weren’t here after all?’
‘Of course she will. We have’ – he paused – ‘an understanding. I’ll go and get her.’
Abbott stood and turned towards the door.
Ford was round the table in a second. He placed a restraining hand on Abbott’s right shoulder, aware, even in this moment of heightened stress, that technically, he’d just used force and might be asked to complete a form at the nick if Abbott complained.
‘No. If she’s upstairs, shout.’
‘She’s not. She’s in the garden. Down by the river, I think.’
‘Does she have her phone with her?’
Abbott returned to his chair and fished out his own phone. ‘I think so. Never goes anywhere without it.’
‘Call her, then. Ask her to join us.’
Five minutes later, Ford sat facing both Abbotts. Ford marvelled at Lucinda Abbott’s ability to come in from a garden in rural Wiltshire looking as though she had been on a beach in the south of France. Today, she wore a bronze bikini, over which she’d tied a gauzy, dark-blue sarong. A gold pendant lay against her breastbone. The translucent sarong heightened rather than diminished the impact of her figure. Her bee-stung lips, frosted in heavy pink gloss, curved upwards just a little as she caught him staring.
He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Abbott, your husband has just told me that he was not, in fact, here with you watching Game of Thrones on the dates I have previously mentioned, as you and he have claimed.’
Her lips parted.
Ford held up a hand. ‘Would it surprise you to know he now claims he was in the company of a sex worker named Zoe Denys?’
She smiled. ‘Not at all.’
DAY EIGHTEEN, 2.05 P.M.
Ford managed to avoid letting his mouth drop open. She’d blindsided him.
‘My husband had been working rather hard recently, Inspector,’ she said with a confiding smile. She took Abbott’s hand in her own, enfolding it so that her long turquoise nails rested on his knuckles. ‘He’s been under enormous stress. From time to time, poor Charles feels the need to let off a little additional steam. With Zoe. It’s not ideal, but tell me, what marriage is?’
‘So, you’re confirming that when you provided your husband with an alibi, that was a lie.’
‘I was trying to protect his reputation,’ she said indignantly. ‘As a loyal wife.’
Ford had had enough of being given the runaround by this would-be local power couple.
‘And how do you think his reputation will look – and yours – if I decide to charge you both with obstruction and wasting police time?’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Try me.’
‘Look, Inspector,’ Abbott said. ‘There’s no need for that.’
Ford looked at Abbott, who was all smiles now, his features once more arranged in that infuriatingly smug expression that had been winding Ford up since their very first encounter. He didn’t need the aggravation of booking them both, but he did want information.
‘I need contact details for Zoe Denys, now.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ Abbott said, the corners of his mouth drooping in a parody of sadness.
‘This is your alibi we’re talking about here.’
‘I know. And I wish I could help you. But I can’t.’
‘You must contact her when you want to see her? What’s her phone number? Or do you use email?’
‘I place a classified ad in the Telegraph. In the Announcements section. You know, ‘Mr X is getting married to Miss Y,’ that sort of thing. She calls me and we fix up a meeting.’
‘So you have her number in your phone.’
Abbott shook his head. ‘She calls me via the hospital switchboard at Revelstoke Hall. Untraceable, you see. She values her privacy just as much as her clients value theirs.’
‘So, what you’re telling me is that you are replacing your old alibis – that you were here watching TV with your wife, or working – with a new one: that you were having sex with an untraceable prostitute in a hotel.’
‘Shamefully, yes. I’m not proud of myself.’
‘Which hotels do you use?’
‘It varies. Usually country-house places, boutique spots on the coast.’
‘I’ll need you to give me a list, and the names under which you registered.’
‘I’ll try to remember and get a list to you.’
‘Try hard. I’ll give you twenty-four hours. We’ll contact the hotels to ask for their registration files and CCTV. If we don’t find you there, you’ll be seeing me again.’ Ford stood. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr and Mrs Abbott.’
Abbott stayed seated, but his wife stood and smiled, ushering Ford out of the kitchen and down the wide hallway to the front door, where she paused.
‘I’m so sorry you had a wasted trip. Poor Charles. I think he might be having some sort of breakdown. I’ll be calling our doctor as soon as you’ve gone.’
Once the detective’s car had disappeared round the bend at the end of the main road through the village, Lucinda stormed back into the living room, where her husband was sipping from a large cut-glass tumbler of whisky.
‘That went well,’ she said, hands on hips.
He smiled up at her. ‘He was on the point of arresting me, darling. I had to come clean about Zoe. He wasn’t buying our binge-watching story so I decided he should have the truth.’ He spread his hands. ‘A bit of police station gossip about my little peccadilloes will be infinitely preferable to me being hauled down to the police station in handcuffs. And we don’t want them discovering that I’ve been pinching blood from work for our little games, do we?’
She stared down at him a moment longer. He was right, damn him. Charles was always right.
DAY TWENTY-ONE, 8.30 A.M.
Ford waited for everyone to fill the meeting room. He checked his watch. No excuses to be late first thing on a Monday morning. Sandy had ordered him to take the weekend off. He’d intended to spend time with Sam, but Sam had spent most of the two days ‘hanging out with my friends, like I usually do’. Still, it had allowed Ford to catch up with paperwork, and to think about Abbott.
Jools had urged him to keep an open mind when he’d called her on Sunday morning. ‘I know you have this feeling for murderers, guv. But the evidence isn’t anywhere near strong enough. You’ve got to go by the numbers. It’s how the majority of cases are solved.’
‘Yes, Jools. It is how the majority are solved. But the majority of victims know their killers. Ours were killed by a stranger. By a psychopathic stranger. That calls for a different approach.’
‘Fine, but you should know, people on the team are starting to question your fixation with Abbott.’
‘And by “people”, you mean Mick, right?’
‘I’ve heard others, too.’
‘Just as long as they remember I’m the lead investigator. I’ll deal with the backstabbing.’
‘It’s not backstabbing, guv! They just want a result.’
‘And they’ll get one, Jools. They will.’
He shook his head to dispel the memory. Everyone had arrived, and he was eager to get the meeting underw
ay. He surveyed the room, assessing, as far as he was able, the state of mind of each member of his team. Mick looked fed up, doodling on his pad. Jan, ever diligent, sat with her pen poised over her notepad. Jools and Olly sat next to each other on his right: any closer and they’d be sitting on his lap.
Hannah sat at the far end of the table. Her eyes never left his. She smiled when he swept his gaze over her. Sandy had begun attending the morning meetings. She commanded the left side of the table, flanked by Alec Reid and a couple of other DSs, drafted in to help cover the multiplying bases of Operation Shoreline.
‘Charles Abbott told me he lied about his original alibis.’ A murmur of excitement built in the room. Ford patted the air. ‘But before you suggest I rush round there with my iron bracelets, he came up with another one.’
‘What is it, guv?’ Olly asked.
‘Who. One Zoe Denys. A high-class prostitute, apparently. Same basic story, though,’ Ford said, frowning. ‘Jools, I need you to keep on top of this one. Abbott’s supposed to be sending me a list of hotels he and this Denys woman used. As soon as I get it I want you to start follow-up with the hotels.’
‘Sure, guv.’
‘How about the DNA from Lisa Moore’s fingernail scrapings, Alec?’ Ford asked.
‘It came back on Friday. When you arrest him or he volunteers for a DNA swab, we’ll be able to compare the two,’ he said.
‘If the new alibi checks out, Abbott’s in the clear, then,’ Sandy said. ‘Who else are you looking at?’
‘The only other person of interest is this hospital porter, Matty Kyte.’
‘Go on.’
‘He’s strong. I felt his grip. And he’s a good fit for the killer size-wise. He’s connected to all four victims by the food bank.’
‘Any tortured animals in his garden shed? Vampire films in his DVD collection? Serial killer books in his bedroom?’ she asked.
‘We interviewed him at SDH and here, but that’s a really good point,’ Ford said.
‘What about his alibi?’
‘He confirmed it earlier today. It’s the same as Abbott’s first one. At home with the missus.’
‘DNA?’
‘He hasn’t got a record. We’ll work on securing a sample from him.’ He flicked a look at Olly, who blushed.