by Andy Maslen
Wade’s voice sounded friendly, but puzzled.
Callie looked at Stella and nodded. It began here. And, hopefully, ended.
As Callie shut the door, Wade looked round for somewhere to put his briefcase. His head jerked back as he registered Vicky’s presence, and then Stella’s.
He stiffened, and, for a split-second, she thought he might actually turn and run. His mouth opened. The colour drained from his face. Seeing a woman you’d thought murdered alive and well tended to do that to a man. For him, it might have been the first time. For Stella, it was not.
‘Hello, Gordon,’ she said.
He looked from her to Callie then back again. Caught in a trap, the rat had no option but to sit. Breathing heavily, he joined them at the table. Callie followed him.
‘You know Stella,’ Callie said. ‘Obviously. I’d like to introduce you to Vicky Riley. Vicky’s a journalist. So is her husband.’
‘I specialise in investigative journalism,’ Vicky said. ‘I was working with Richard Drinkwater before he was murdered by Pro Patria Mori.’
‘As you can see, Gordon,’ Callie said, ‘we’re all on the same page of the script, so we can skip the polite denials sections of the conversation. Stella, I believe you have something you’d like to show us?’
Stella opened her laptop and swivelled it round to face Callie and Wade. ‘You might need to get the blinds, Gordon,’ she said. ‘Not sure you’re going to want any curious passersby seeing this. Even without the sound.’
He got to his feet, sighing, and pulled the blind cords to shutter them from the outside world.
Once he’d regained his seat, Stella hit the Play button.
Barely thirty seconds long, the video had a profound effect on Wade. The colour, which had flooded back into his cheeks, left again. His stubble stood out on his pale skin, which was sheened with a film of greasy-looking sweat.
Stella shut the laptop’s lid with a sharp clack.
‘The bit I didn’t record was me killing him. I drove his van down to Beachy Head and left it there. The locals’ll be chalking it up as a suicide but you might want to keep an eye on things.’
‘What do you want?’ he asked in a quiet voice.
‘Let’s talk about what you want first,’ Stella countered. ‘I’m thinking, you’d prefer this little video nasty remains away from the public gaze.’
‘And not posted to social media and the main satellite and terrestrial channels, bloggers and online news outlets,’ Vicky added.
He nodded, a tight jerk of his head that spoke volumes of the muscle tension in his neck and shoulders.
‘There’s an accompanying document that lays out all our roles in dismantling PPM,’ Callie said. ‘You, me, those higher up the food chain including Alec Spring.’
‘And it’s all going to stay tucked away where even those annoying little Russian hackers couldn’t get to it,’ Stella said. ‘Unless, and this is where we get to what I want, Gordon, anything happens to me, Vicky, Callie or anyone we care about. Then, and I’m guessing you’ve probably figured this next bit out for yourself, it all goes online. All any of us needs to do is make a call to one of three people and it’s done.’
‘The wee girl’s been awfully clever,’ Callie said, and Stella thought she detected the glimmer of a grin as Callie glanced in her direction. ‘Because even if we were somehow all to die simultaneously in a tragic accident of some kind, the person we’d otherwise call would publish it anyway.’
Wade pulled his tie knot down and undid his top button. Stella thought he looked as if he might be sick at any moment.
‘You’re bluffing,’ he said.
Stella regarded him coolly. ‘Call it, then. See if your friend Spring knows any more disgraced cops looking to earn an extra five grand.’
After a pause of ten seconds, he wiped his top lip. ‘That’s all you want?’ he asked.
‘Not quite,’ Stella said. ‘I also want to go on working. I like catching murderers. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m best at. So you tell whoever needs telling to leave me alone.’
‘How do I know you’ll keep your word?’ he asked.
Stella resisted a sudden, powerful urge to rush him and break something important.
She inhaled slowly, willing her pulse to settle.
‘You’ll just have to trust me.’
© 2021 Sunfish Ltd
Published by Tyton Press, an imprint of Sunfish Ltd, PO Box 2107, Salisbury SP2 2BW: 0844 502 2061
The right of Andy Maslen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Requests for permission should be addressed to the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover illustration copyright © Nick Castle
Author photograph © Kin Ho
Edited by Nicola Lovick
Created with Vellum
Acknowledgments
I want to thank you for buying this book. I hope you enjoyed it. As an author is only part of the team of people who make a book the best it can be, this is my chance to thank the people on my team.
For being my first readers, Sarah Hunt and Jo Maslen.
For sharing their knowledge and experience of The Job, former and current police officers Andy Booth, Ross Coombs, Jen Gibbons, Neil Lancaster, Sean Memory, Trevor Morgan, Olly Royston, Chris Saunby, Ty Tapper, Sarah Warner and Sam Yeo.
For helping me stay reasonably close to medical reality as I devise gruesome ways of killing people, Martin Cook, Melissa Davies, Arvind Nagra and Katie Peace.
For their brilliant copy-editing and proofreading Nicola Lovick and Liz Ward.
And for being a daily inspiration and source of love and laughter, and making it all worthwhile, my family: Jo, Rory and Jacob.
The responsibility for any and all mistakes in this book remains mine. I assure you, they were unintentional.
Andy Maslen
Salisbury, 2021
About the Author
Photo © 2020 Kin Ho
Andy Maslen was born in Nottingham, England. After leaving university with a degree in psychology, he worked in business for thirty years as a copywriter. In his spare time, he plays blues guitar. He lives in Wiltshire.
READ ON FOR AN EXTRACT FROM SHALLOW GROUND, THE FIRST BOOK IN THE DETECTIVE FORD THRILLERS…
Extract from Shallow Ground
Summer | Pembrokeshire Coast, Wales
Ford leans out from the limestone rock face halfway up Pen-y-holt sea stack, shaking his forearms to keep the blood flowing. He and Lou have climbed the established routes before. Today, they’re attempting a new line he spotted. She was reluctant at first, but she’s also competitive and he really wanted to do the climb.
‘I’m not sure. It looks too difficult,’ she’d said when he suggested it.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost your bottle?’ he said with a grin.
‘No, but . . .’
‘Well, then. Let’s go. Unless you’d rather climb one of the easy ones again?’
She frowned. ‘No. Let’s do it.’
They scrambled down a gully, hopping across boulders from the cliff to a shallow ledge just above sea level at the bottom of the route. She stands there now, patiently holding his ropes while he climbs. But the going’s much harder than he expected. He’s wasted a lot of time attempting to navigate a tricky bulge. Below him, Lou plays out rope through a belay device.
He squints against the bright sunshine as a light wind buffets him. Herrin
g gulls wheel around the stack, calling in alarm at this brightly coloured interloper assaulting their territory.
He looks down at Lou and smiles. Her eyes are a piercing blue. He remembers the first time he saw her. He was captivated by those eyes, drawn in, powerless, like an old wooden sailing ship spiralling down into a whirlpool. He paid her a clumsy compliment, which she accepted with more grace than he’d managed.
Lou smiles back up at him now. Even after seven years of marriage, his heart thrills that she should bestow such a radiant expression on him.
Rested, he starts climbing again, trying a different approach to the overhang. He reaches up and to his right for a block. It seems solid enough, but his weight pulls it straight off.
He falls outwards, away from the flat plane of lichen-scabbed limestone, and jerks to a stop at the end of his rope. The force turns him into a human pendulum. He swings inwards, slamming face-first against the rock and gashing his chin. Then out again to dangle above Lou on the ledge.
Ford tries to stay calm as he slowly rotates. His straining fingertips brush the rock face then arc into empty air.
Then he sees two things that frighten him more than the fall.
The rock he dislodged, as large as a microwave, has smashed down on to Lou. She’s sitting awkwardly, white-faced, and he can see blood on her leggings. Those sapphire-blue eyes are wide with pain.
And waves are now lapping at the ledge. The tide is on its way in, not out. Somehow, he misread the tide table, or he took too long getting up the first part of the climb. He damns himself for his slowness.
‘I can lower you down,’ she screams up at him. ‘But my leg, I think it’s broken.’
She gets him down safely and he kisses her fiercely before crouching by her right leg to assess the damage. There’s a sharp lump distending the bloody Lycra, and he knows what it is. Bone.
‘It’s bad, Lou. I think it’s a compound fracture. But if you can stand on your good leg, we can get back the way we came.’
‘I can’t!’ she cries, pain contorting her face. ‘Call the coastguard.’
He pulls out his phone, but there’s no mobile service down here.
‘Shit! There’s no signal.’
‘You’ll have to go for help.’
‘I can’t leave you, darling.’
A wave crashes over the ledge and douses them both.
Her eyes widen. ‘You have to! The tide’s coming in.’
He knows she’s right. And it’s all his fault. He pulled the block off the crag.
‘Lou, I—’
She grabs his hand and squeezes so hard it hurts. ‘You have to.’
Another wave hits. His mouth fills with seawater. He swallows half of it and retches. He looks back the way they came. The boulders they hopped along are awash. There’s no way Lou can make it.
He’s crying now. He can’t do it.
Then she presses the only button she has left. ‘If you stay here, we’ll both die. Then who’ll look after Sam?’
Sam is eight and a half. Born two years before they married. He’s being entertained by Louisa’s parents while they’re at Pen-y-holt. Ford knows she’s right. He can’t leave Sam an orphan. They were meant to be together for all time. But now, time has run out.
‘Go!’ she screams. ‘Before it’s too late.’
So he leaves her, checking the gear first so he’s sure she can’t be swept away’. He falls into an eerie calm as he swims across to the cliff and solos out.
At the clifftop, rock gives way to scrubby grass. He pulls out his phone. Four bars. He calls the coastguard, giving them a concise description of the accident, the location and Lou’s injury. Then he slumps. The calmness that saved his life has vanished. He is hyperventilating, heaving in great breaths that won’t bring enough oxygen to his brain, and sighing them out again.
A wave of nausea rushes through him and sweat flashes out across his skin. The wind chills it, making him shudder with the sudden cold. He lurches to his right and spews out a thin stream of bile on to the grass.
Then his stomach convulses and his breakfast rushes up and out, spattering the sleeve of his jacket. He retches out another splash of stinking yellow liquid and then dry-heaves until, cramping, his guts settle. His view is blurred through a film of tears.
He falls back and lies there for ten more minutes, looking up into the cloudless sky. Odd how realistic this dream is. He could almost believe he just left his wife to drown.
He sobs, a cracked sound that the wind tears away from his lips and disperses into the air. And the dream blackens and reality is here, and it’s ugly and painful and true.
He hears a helicopter. Sees its red-and-white form hovering over Pen-y-holt.
Time ceases to have any meaning as he watches the rescue. How long has passed, he doesn’t know.
Now a man in a bright orange flying suit is standing in front of him explaining that his wife, Sam’s mother, has drowned.
Later, there are questions from the local police. They treat him with compassion, especially as he’s Job, like them.
The coroner rules death by misadventure.
But Ford knows the truth.
He killed her. He pushed her into trying the climb. He dislodged the block that smashed her leg. And he left her to drown while he saved his own skin.
Day One, 5.00 p.m
SIX YEARS LATER | SUMMER | SALISBURY
Angie Halpern trudged up the five gritty stone steps to the front door. The shift on the cancer ward had been a long one. Ten hours. It had ended with a patient vomiting on the back of her head. She’d washed it out at work, crying at the thought that it would make her lifeless brown hair flatter still.
Free from the hospital’s clutches, she’d collected Kai from Donna, the childminder, and then gone straight to the food bank – again. Bone-tired, her mood hadn’t been improved when an elderly woman on the bus told her she looked like she needed to eat more: ‘A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be that thin.’
And now, here she was, knackered, hungry and with a three-year-old whining and grizzling and dragging on her free hand. Again.
‘Kai!’ she snapped. ‘Let go, or Mummy can’t get her keys out.’
The little boy stopped crying just long enough to cast a shocked look up into his mother’s eyes before resuming, at double the volume.
Fearing what she might do if she didn’t get inside, Angie half-turned so he couldn’t cling back on to her hand, and dug out her keys. She fumbled one of the bags of groceries, but in a dexterous act of juggling righted it before it spilled the tins, packets and jars all over the steps.
She slotted the brass Yale key home and twisted it in the lock. Elbowing the door open, she nudged Kai with her right knee, encouraging him to precede her into the hallway. Their flat occupied the top floor of the converted Victorian townhouse. Ahead, the stairs, with their patched and stained carpet, beckoned.
‘Come on, Kai, in we go,’ she said, striving to inject into her voice the tone her own mother called ‘jollying along’.
‘No!’ the little boy said, stamping his booted foot and sticking his pudgy hands on his hips. ‘I hate Donna. I hate the foobang. And I. Hate. YOU!’
Feeling tears pricking at the back of her eyes, Angie put the bags down and picked her son up under his arms. She squeezed him, burying her nose in the sweet-smelling angle between his neck and shoulder. How was it possible to love somebody so much and also to wish for them just to shut the hell up? Just for one little minute.
She knew she wasn’t the only one with problems. Talking to the other nurses, or chatting late at night online, confirmed it. Everyone reckoned the happily married ones with enough money to last from one month to the next were the exception, not the rule.
‘Mummy, you’re hurting me!’
‘Oh, Jesus! Sorry, darling. Look, come on. Let’s just get the shopping upstairs and you can watch a Thomas video.’
‘I hate Thomas.’
‘Thunderbirds, then.’
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‘I hate them even more.’
Angie closed her eyes, sighing out a breath like the online mindfulness gurus suggested. ‘Then you’ll just have to stare out of the bloody window, like I used to. Now, come on!’
He sucked in a huge breath. Angie flinched, but the scream never came. Instead, Kai’s scrunched-up eyes opened wide and swivelled sideways. She followed his gaze and found herself facing a good-looking man wearing a smart jacket and trousers. He had a kind smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ the man said in a quiet voice. ‘I couldn’t help seeing your little boy’s . . . he’s tired, I suppose. You left the door open and as I was coming to this address anyway . . .’ He tailed off, looking embarrassed, eyes downcast.
‘You were coming here?’ she asked.
He looked up at her again. ‘Yes,’ he said, smiling. ‘I was looking for Angela Halpern.’
‘That’s me.’ She paused, frowning, as she tried to place him. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Mummee!’ Kai hissed from her waist, where he was clutching her.
‘Quiet, darling, please.’
The man smiled. ‘Would you like a hand with your bags? I see you have your hands full with the little fellow there.’ Then he squatted down, so that his face was at the same level as Kai’s. ‘Hello. My name’s Harvey. What’s yours?’
‘Kai. Are you a policeman?’
Harvey laughed, a warm, soft-edged sound. ‘No. I’m not a policeman.’
‘Mummy’s a nurse. At the hospital. Do you work there?’
‘Me? Funnily enough, I do.’
‘Are you a nurse?’
‘No. But I do help people. Which I think is a bit of a coincidence. Do you know that word?’
The little boy shook his head.
‘It’s just a word grown-ups use when two things happen that are the same. Kai,’ he said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘do you want to know a secret?’