Shallow Ground (Detective Ford)

by Andy Maslen

  ‘Leave her alone, you bastard!’ Matty shouted.

  Ford heard rather than saw Matty launch himself towards him, arms outstretched. Hannah dropped to her knees and punched Matty hard between the legs. Matty emitted a high-pitched scream and toppled sideways, clutching his groin.

  ‘I’ve got him, Henry!’ Hannah yelled.

  Taking it on trust, Ford shoved his right palm against Jen’s cheek, forcing her head over sideways. She’d dropped the tomahawk, but her long nails were clawing towards his eyes. Keeping his face out of range, he dug his knuckle into a spot behind her jaw known as the mandibular angle pressure point. She squealed with pain as he bore down on the bundle of nerves that ran behind the bone.

  ‘Stay down, Jen!’ he shouted.

  Whimpering, she complied. As Ford pulled her arms behind her and slapped the Quik-Cuffs on her wrists, he had enough time to witness an extraordinary sight.

  Hannah had folded Matty’s right arm up behind his back in a classic law-enforcement hold. She straddled his prone form, panting and muttering something under her breath, then pulled a thin belt free from her trousers and tied Matty’s wrists behind him, jerking the leather tight against the buckle.

  Ford pushed Jen down against the carpet. ‘Stay there,’ he barked. ‘You OK, Hannah?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Henry,’ she said, grunting with the exertion.

  Ford formally arrested the Kytes for murder then pulled out his radio and called it in.

  Back at the station, while Matty and Jenny Kyte were being booked in by the custody sergeant, Ford turned to Hannah.

  ‘Those were some impressive moves you pulled,’ he said, massaging his bruised arm.

  ‘I learned from a former marine at Quantico on a weekend self-defence course,’ she said.

  Ford smiled, storing away another small fact about Hannah’s past. Wondering what it meant. ‘I’m glad you studied it so thoroughly. You saved my life back there. I thought Jen was going to scalp me.’

  She blushed. ‘You’d have done the same for me.’

  ‘Yep. But not with as much style.’

  She pointed at his arm. ‘How is it? It looked like she really walloped you.’

  Ford rubbed the spot where Jen Kyte had smacked him with the tomahawk. It was sore and he suspected he’d have the mother and father of all bruises to show Sam at some point. But thanks to Hannah’s warning shout, the blade hadn’t inflicted anything more permanent.

  ‘It’s OK. That came out of nowhere, though, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t spot the signs.’

  ‘Hey, this isn’t on you. I don’t think there were any signs.’ Seeing Hannah was struggling with her emotions, he searched for a way to lighten the mood. ‘I tell you what, that woman has some severe anger-management issues.’

  Hannah smiled, but the expression seemed to cost her. ‘I need to go home now, Henry. That was all very overwhelming. I need some peace and quiet. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘OK, Hannah. Get some rest. And thanks again. I’m going to go home too, for an hour or so, while Kyte’s brief gets here.’

  With Hannah gone, Ford went back to rubbing his injured arm. Half a second later and I’d have been invalided out of the force. Shit! I was the one at fault, not Hannah. Lou’s voice echoed inside his head, sending the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. Yes, you should have seen it coming.

  Ford knocked on Sam’s door.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me. Can I come in?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Sam was sitting on his bed, leaning back against a pillow. Earbuds dangled round his neck. The shelves and drawers of the IKEA furniture were all shut, squared off and newly free of the stickers that he’d applied as a kid. Not a T-shirt or pair of pants on the floor, not a chocolate-bar wrapper or empty crisp packet in evidence.

  Ford nodded appreciatively. ‘Smart,’ he said, sitting on the swivel chair by the matching desk.

  ‘I tidied it.’

  ‘No shizzle!’

  ‘Did you want something, Dad? Only I’ve got homework to do.’

  ‘Is that what you’re listening to on your phone?’

  ‘Funny. It’s a politics podcast.’

  ‘Sorry. I need to ask you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You do Latin, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t know why they make us, though. It’s a dead language. It’s no use for getting a job or anything.’

  ‘Uh-urrh! Incorrect! What does de motu cordis mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘De motu cordis.’

  ‘Ever hear of Google Translate?’

  ‘Yes. But I wanted to ask you. If you must know, I wanted an excuse to chat to you. It’s been a long day.’

  Sam smiled. ‘You wanna hug?’ he said, holding his arms out.

  ‘Actually, yes, please. That would be great,’ Ford said, kneeling beside Sam’s bed and allowing his son to wrap his arms around his shoulders. They stayed like that for a few seconds, then Sam pulled back.

  ‘OK. Weird now. What was that bit of Latin again?’

  ‘De motu cordis.’

  ‘De means “of”, or “about”. Motu means “motion”. Cordis is easy. It’s “heart”. So de motu cordis means “of the motion of the heart”.’

  ‘Next question – who was William Harvey?’

  ‘He discovered the circulation of the blood.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Sam.’

  ‘Wait! What the hell?’

  ‘Tell you later.’

  ‘You’re going?’

  Ford felt it again. That tug. Between being there for Sam and being there for the victims. ‘I’m sorry. I have to.’

  Sam shot a hard-eyed look at Ford. ‘Go on then. Just remember to tell your big boss I did the translation.’

  DAY TWENTY-ONE, 8.45 P.M.

  Back in Major Crimes with a mug of coffee and a Mars Bar for energy, Ford was immediately surrounded by his team. Everyone was smiling. People came up to slap him on the back.

  Ford patted the air for silence. ‘We have Matty and Jen Kyte in custody. That means the PACE clock is ticking. I want a team over to their place right now to start searching. Jan, can you organise that, please?’

  ‘Yes, guv. What are we looking for?’

  ‘Evidence of blood transfusions. Needles, big ones. They’re called trocars. Blood bags, tubes – you’ve seen the A&E programmes on the telly.’

  ‘What about the trophies, boss?’ Olly asked.

  ‘Get the contents of their food cupboards,’ Ford said.

  ‘Who’s going to do the interviews, guv?’ Jools asked.

  ‘You and I’ll take Matty.’ He turned to Mick. ‘You and Olly take Jen. I think she’s the one doing the transfusions. They’re a team. And they’re in it up to their necks.’

  Everyone dispersed. Olly stopped at the door and came back to Ford. ‘One thing more, guv. I traced Scheherazade Abbott’s Polo. No joy, I’m afraid. It’s been at her school all this term.’

  Ford and Jools entered Interview Room 4 at Bourne Hill Police Station at 9.00 p.m. Refreshed by a cup of strong coffee and eager to get at their man, Ford paused at the door.

  ‘Softly softly, catchee monkey, OK?’

  Jools nodded.

  Ford had his pick of interview rooms, and others were far more welcoming. But No. 4 was his favourite when interviewing murder suspects. Somehow it had retained the smell of fear-sweat, despite the nightly attentions of the cleaners. Windowless, its light came from a single unshaded bulb dangling from a foot of grimy flex in the centre of the ceiling.

  Sitting on the far side of the table were Matty Kyte and one of the duty solicitors drawn from the South Wiltshire pool. The solicitor, Gillian Kenney, had a careworn but kind face, and short, dull auburn hair. In her forties, she was dressed in a simple black suit and a snowy-white blouse.

  Ford had met her professionally and socially on a few occasions and liked her. She was there to do a job and
he knew she’d do it to the best of her abilities and with her client’s best interests at heart. She always used a yellow legal pad in the American style, and she wrote her notes with a green lacquer fountain pen with a gold nib.

  She nodded to him. No smile, but there was a professional’s regard in her eyes.

  Kyte smiled at Ford. His own clothes having been removed for examination, he was dressed in pale-blue sweats and athletic socks turned grey from much washing.

  ‘This is all a mistake,’ he said, as soon as Ford sat down.

  Kenney laid a hand on his left forearm. ‘Don’t say anything yet, Matty.’

  Ford reached over and switched on the interview recorder. Other forces used digital kit nowadays, he knew, but Wiltshire was either too slow or too cheap to issue it, so they were stuck with ribbons of magnetic tape.

  The bleep finally ended.

  After the formal noting of the time and date of the interview, the Home Office-prescribed caution and the names of all participants, Ford began.

  ‘You interested in blood, Matty?’

  Matty shrugged.

  ‘Could you answer out loud, please, for the recorder?’

  ‘Not especially. Why?’

  ‘I think you are. You were seen drawing a face in it, as we all agree. And you’ve got a book on your shelf among the thrillers called De Motu Cordis by William Harvey. He’s the man who discovered the circulation of the blood.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. That one. It’s not mine.’

  ‘No? Whose is it?’

  ‘It belongs to Jen.’

  ‘Why does she have an old book like that, Matty?’

  ‘It was her auntie’s. The one who left her the house? It’s rare,’ Matty said with – what? – a hint of pride? ‘I said we should sell it on eBay. You know, to put towards our deposit. But Jen says it’s an heirloom and we should keep it.’

  ‘Why did you kill them, Matty?’

  Matty shook his head, smiling. ‘I didn’t kill anyone, Mr Ford.’

  ‘Why did you write numbers on the wall in their blood?’

  Matty frowned. ‘I didn’t! It wasn’t me.’

  Ford watched Kenney’s pen dancing across the ruled sheets of her notepad. Matty’s eyes flicked left, right, up, down, unable to settle on a single point of focus in the room. He crossed then uncrossed his arms. Touched the back of his head.

  ‘The adult victims were all food-bank users.’

  ‘Yes, you told me that, Mr Ford.’

  ‘They were murdered on, or shortly after, the last time they visited the food bank.’

  ‘Not by me.’

  ‘And in each case, the murderer took a grocery item with him.’

  ‘Is that why your assistant talked about my darts trophies?’

  ‘She’s not my assistant, Matty. She’s our senior crime scene investigator. Tell me what you know about trophies.’

  Matty smirked. ‘Sorry. She didn’t say much, so I just assumed, you know, she was your junior. She’s quite attractive, isn’t she?’

  ‘Trophies, Matty?’

  ‘Serial killers take them, don’t they? On the TV, the FBI guy always says how they take their victims’ ears, or their knickers or whatever,’ said Matty. ‘I watch a lot of TV. On account of Jen and me saving. Is Jen all right? I don’t know what came over her. I think she was just in shock when you arrested me.’

  ‘She’s fine, Matty. Two of my officers are talking to her right now. Among other things, they’re asking her why she attacked me with a tomahawk. Do you know what this serial killer took?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘Tesco penne. Waitrose tomato ketchup. Sainsbury’s teabags – English breakfast. Garlic and salt crackers from Lidl.’

  ‘Couldn’t make much of a meal out of that lot, could you?’ Matty said with another infuriating smile.

  ‘My colleague saw Tesco penne in your kitchen cupboard, Matty. Do you want to tell us how it got there?’

  Matty shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Jen does the shopping.’

  ‘Bit odd to have one thing from Tesco when everything else comes from Sainsbury’s, isn’t it?’

  ‘She cuts out coupons. Maybe they were on offer.’

  ‘Why have you got an autoclave in your kitchen, Matty?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An autoclave. It’s that thing in the corner that looks like a pressure cooker.’

  ‘I thought it was a pressure cooker.’

  ‘It’s an autoclave. They use them in hospitals for sterilising surgical instruments.’

  ‘Oh, yes! Now you come to mention it, I’ve seen them at work.’

  ‘Why is it there, Matty?’

  Matty’s eyes flicked left, then right. ‘I don’t know. Jen does all the cooking. Maybe she got it off eBay for pot roasts, or from the care home. She buys cheap cuts because we’re saving—’

  ‘—for a deposit. Yes, you told me,’ Ford interrupted, losing patience.

  ‘Exactly!’ Matty agreed with a grin.

  ‘You seem to have established merely that my client’s wife buys her groceries from different supermarkets and uses an autoclave as a pressure cooker,’ Kenney said. ‘It’s unusual, but hardly incriminating. Do you have any more substantive questions for my client?’

  Ford nodded, acknowledging that his interest in the contents of the Kytes’ kitchen might be considered less than relevant. ‘You’ve already admitted you lied about your alibi, Matty. We can place you at the scene of Angie and Kai Halpern’s murders. Did you kill them?’

  ‘No! I already told you, Mr Ford. It wasn’t me!’

  ‘How about Marcus Anderson? How about Aimee Cragg? How about Paul Eadon? Did you murder them and drain their blood out?’

  ‘No! Why won’t you believe me? All I do is try to help people.’

  ‘And you didn’t attack Lisa Moore?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lisa Moore. She’s an ex-soldier who gave her attacker a good hiding. That wasn’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  Ford took a breath. Stared at Matty, who offered a nervous smile in return.

  ‘How did you get the scratch on the inside of your forearm, Matty?’

  Matty turned his wrist over and pulled up his cuff. He blushed. ‘Jen did them. We were’ – he looked down and lowered his voice – ‘you know, role playing. In the bedroom. A bit of fun, that’s all. Nothing dodgy, like.’

  ‘Sorry, Matty, you’ll have to speak up for the recorder. Are you saying your wife dug her fingernails into your arms during sex so hard she broke the skin?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No. You attacked Lisa Moore, and when she fought you off she got your blood and skin under her fingernails, Matty. She saved it. Clever woman bagged her hands. We sent the samples off to a DNA lab. We took a sample of your DNA in the custody suite. What will you tell me when it comes back a match?’

  Kenney leaned over and spoke behind her hand to Matty.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘If you confess now, Matty, make a clean breast, it will look better in court.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Ford smiled. ‘Interview suspended at’ – he checked his watch – ‘9.14 p.m.’

  He stabbed a finger at the tape controls and the recorder switched off with a clack. He got to his feet and left the room, Jools following.

  ‘Let’s get a coffee,’ he said.

  While they waited for the kettle to boil, Ford hissed out a breath. ‘Until we get the DNA match, all we’ve got is a lot of high-quality circumstantial evidence, Jools. But that’s it,’ he said. ‘No forensics, no witnesses—’

  ‘What about Lisa Moore? She said it could have been Matty.’

  ‘A defence lawyer would shred that in seconds. We need to put him inside one of the victims’ homes. When we go back in, I want you to take over. Get him to talk about the blood drive. I’m sure that’s how he selected his victims. He needed to match their blood groups to his so he could use their blood as a transfusion. If I want to jump in, I
’ll lean forward.’

  Jools nodded, stirring the two coffees and adding milk.

  The recorder restarted and the formalities dealt with, Jools smiled at Matty as Ford leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Not many people are as public-spirited as you, Matty, are they?’ she asked. ‘I mean, you volunteer at the food bank, and from what I hear, you go above and beyond your duties at the hospital.’

  ‘I do my best.’

  Jools nodded. ‘I’m amazed. With your job and your volunteering and Jen, you still found time to organise the blood drive.’

  ‘Mr Abbott organised it. I just helped him out.’

  Ford made a note.

  ‘Did you give blood yourself?’ Jools asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I wanted to, but I was on antibiotics.’

  Ford made another note.

  ‘You know we could check that with your GP, Matty,’ Jools said. ‘There’s no point lying about it.’

  ‘I thought the medical records were confidential?’

  ‘They were. Right up to the point when you and your wife attacked me and Dr Fellowes,’ Ford said.

  ‘What’s your blood group, Matty?’ Jools asked, speaking fast.

  ‘My blood group?’

  ‘Yes. You know, A, B, O, all that. Which one are you?’

  ‘B-positive,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s my motto!’

  ‘Not A-positive?’

  ‘My client has answered your question, Detective Constable. You need to move on.’

  ‘Of course. It’ll show up on your DNA profile, Matty,’ said Jools. ‘You know that, right?’

  He nodded.

  Ford leaned forward. ‘We believe the killer is conducting blood transfusions. Taking a litre from each of his victims and putting it into his own veins. How much do you know about blood transfusions, Matty?’

  ‘Nothing. At work, I sometimes have to fetch units from the blood bank, but that’s all.’