Land Rites (Detective Ford)

by Andy Maslen

  ‘Of course. You’re in luck. We’re going to press this evening. Can you give me some more details?’

  Ford spent ten minutes running through the details of the case, securing a promise to have the story in the following day’s paper. Then he went to find Jools.

  ‘We’ve got the bullet. It’s a .308 ballistic tip.’

  ‘Wix told me. It just arrived from the hospital.’

  ‘I want you to start canvassing local gun shops, starting with Berret & Sartain in the city centre. We need lists of customers who bought that type of ammunition.’

  ‘On it.’

  Ford wanted to know who owned the land where they’d found the body. He’d asked Olly to look at the Land Registry database, but in the meantime he figured that in a small place like Salisbury, locals often had the answers he needed. Some additional background might be helpful, too.

  Twenty minutes later, he wandered into a pub on a road running along one side of Ball’s farm. He asked the barmaid which of her regulars knew the local area best.

  ‘You’ll be wanting Old Dan. Eighty-nine and he’s been drinking in here every day since he were sixteen. He’s there, love, by the fruit machine.’

  Ford looked over and saw the man in question, large of belly, wild of hair, sitting beside a flashing, dinging, bleeping fruit machine. Ford wondered how he could stand the noise. He made his way over and introduced himself.

  Old Dan shook Ford’s proffered hand, simultaneously using his left to raise his pint glass to his lips and drain the remaining beer. He replaced it on the thickly varnished tabletop with a meaningful look.

  ‘Get you another?’ Ford asked.

  Old Dan grinned, revealing a great deal of pink gum and three or four yellowing teeth. ‘Summer Lightning. And some cheese and onion crisps. Please,’ he added, the grin widening further.

  Ford wondered how the man was going to manage crisps with such limited dentition. Smiling, he returned to the bar.

  With beer for Old Dan and a lime and soda for himself, Ford raised his glass and they clinked rims. Old Dan stuffed a handful of crisps into his mouth, gummed them enthusiastically, then took a long pull on his drink.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said finally, leaning back in his chair and stroking the blue jumper that stretched over his belly. ‘What exactly is it you want to know?’

  ‘Who owns the land around here?’

  Old Dan’s bushy white eyebrows crawled upwards. ‘That all? Thought it’d be something a bit more difficult. You’d be wanting that Lord Baverstock. He owns all the farmland hereabouts.’

  Interesting. Ford made a note. In the space of a single answer, Old Dan had drawn a line from the criminal underclass through the ranks of middle-class farmers to the aristocracy.

  ‘What’s he like, then, this Lord Baverstock?’ he asked, dropping easily into Old Dan’s country way of speaking.

  Before answering, Old Dan drank some more beer.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s a good question, isn’t it? His dad was what you might call old-fashioned. Never ’ad much time for the likes of me. Or you, come to that. But the new lord, now, he’s more of a man of the people. Or wants to be, leastways.’

  Ford smiled encouragingly. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know, gives you a nice “good morning” if you see him out on his horse. Treats his staff well. My grand-niece works up at Alverchalke Manor. She’s a maid but they calls her a housekeeping assistant.’ Old Dan uttered the job description as if it were a foreign phrase.

  ‘What else?’ Ford prompted.

  Old Dan drank some more beer. Ford wondered how much he’d had before they started speaking. But the man held it well, that was the point. He was lucid, once you penetrated his thick Wiltshire accent, and delivered his answers confidently.

  ‘Ex-army, like a lot of ’em. Brave man, too. Got the Queen’s Gallantry Medal. And I can tell you, they don’t give those out for collecting the tops off Cornflakes packets.’ Old Dan threw his head back and laughed at his own joke, revealing the toothless cavern of his mouth. He rubbed at his chin and, as his sleeve slipped, Ford saw the edge of an old indigo tattoo.

  In that moment, Ford saw a different side to Old Dan. He followed his instinct. ‘Were you in uniform?’ he asked.

  Old Dan put his drink down. ‘I were eighteen when I signed up. The Glosters – that’s the Royal Gloucestershire Regiment. I were in Korea, Aden, Kenya, Cyprus, Swaziland: all over.’

  ‘So does Lord Baverstock like old soldiers, then? Is that why he says hello to you?’

  Old Dan rubbed his chin again. ‘I suppose he must do. His gamekeeper’s been in the forces, too, Lily says. She’s my grand-niece. The housekeeping assistant,’ he added, presumably in case Ford had forgotten.

  Old Dan excused himself, levered himself out of his chair and headed, none too steadily, towards the toilets.

  Ford reflected on what Old Dan had told him and how it fitted with what he already knew.

  Someone had shot a local gangster with a high-powered rifle round and dismembered the body, acts requiring a cool head. Both the landowner on whose estate the body had been found and his gamekeeper had military experience.

  The stats said the murderer was most likely known to the victim. Ford’s instinct was to look higher up the social ladder.

  Feeling he’d got what he needed, Ford thanked Old Dan when he returned to the table, bought him a fresh pint and left the pub to make a call from his car. On the way out, he spotted a copy of Salisbury Life with Lord Baverstock’s photo of a goldfinch on its cover. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm.

  A quick Google search revealed that Lord Baverstock, officially the Viscount Baverstock, lived with his family on the Alverchalke estate in the Chalke Valley. The valley comprised unspoilt pastoral land following the River Ebble for eleven miles, from Salisbury towards Shaftesbury in neighbouring Dorset.

  Ford called Alverchalke Manor.

  ‘Alverchalke,’ a woman’s voice announced in the crisp upper-class tones Ford associated with period TV dramas.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Ford, Wiltshire Police. May I speak to Lord Baverstock, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s out with the dogs at the moment. I’m Lady Baverstock. May I help, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m sure you can. A man was murdered on land that I believe you and your husband own. I’d like to come out for a chat, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Oh, how dreadful! And of course you must come. Whatever we can do to help. When were you thinking?’

  Ford checked his watch. ‘It’s two now. Could we say three thirty?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll call my husband. Make sure he’s back by the time you arrive.’

  Something about aristocrats made Ford uncomfortable. He’d been to charity fundraisers at the Guildhall with Lou, as well as the occasional mayoral dinner and regional police functions as a representative of Bourne Hill. At all of them, titled people swanned around as if they owned the place. Which, Ford reflected ruefully, they probably did.

  Inverted snobbery? That’s what Lou used to say, teasing him afterwards in bed. ‘My working-class hero,’ she’d say, laughing and pulling him close.

  He knew the problem. They gave off a vibe that said, We’re untouchable, beyond your reach, masters – and mistresses – of the universe. Leave well alone or you’ll be sorry.

  Wanting a second pair of eyes and ears for this particular interview, he headed to Bourne Hill to collect Hannah. On the way there, his phone rang: the Journal’s news editor.

  ‘Inspector, it’s Emily Latimer. We’re running the story tomorrow, but we can’t use one of the images.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The nudie one breaches our family-friendly editorial policy. Sorry.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s OK. The other three were pretty distinctive.’

  Ten minutes later, with Hannah sitting beside him, he turned the Discovery towards Alverchalke.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Gravel poppe
d and crunched beneath the Discovery’s tyres as Ford pulled up in front of the grand house at the centre of the Alverchalke estate. A patchwork of sandstone and flint diamonds and sections of chequered red and black bricks, it had been modified, or repaired, multiple times over the years. At the front left-hand corner, a circular tower rose above four sets of three octagonal brick chimneys, giving the whole edifice a lopsided look. An ancient wisteria climbed over the first storey, flooding the leaded windows with a waterfall of pendulous purple flowers that emitted a sweetish, spicy scent.

  He contrasted the house with the Bolters’ gaudy ranch-style home. They were affluent, too, in their way, but had nowhere near the wealth that oozed from between the stones of Alverchalke Manor.

  Ford stretched his neck in the too-tight shirt collar he’d buttoned on the way over. He looked down at his M&S suit trousers. Noticed a small coffee stain near the left knee. Was JJ right? Should he upgrade his wardrobe?

  Yes, because cleaning blood, shit and vomit off a designer suit would be a really useful way to spend his time.

  With Hannah beside him, he marched up to the oak door and yanked a wrought-iron bell pull connected to a wire that ran through a hole in the stonework. From somewhere deep inside the house he heard the tinkling of a bell.

  While they waited, Ford caught the sound of hoofbeats. From around the tower, a huge black horse, its coat flecked with foamy sweat, trotted towards them. A young woman sat astride it. She nodded down at them. No riding helmet, Ford noticed. In her early thirties, he judged, and built along substantial lines.

  Cream jodhpurs emphasised muscular thighs. The sleeves of a royal-blue T-shirt did the same for her broad shoulders and upper arms. Blonde hair held back by a black velvet Alice band revealed a high domed forehead. Her tanned face bore a friendly smile.

  Ford walked towards her, intending to introduce himself. He reached into his pocket for his ID and held it out in front of him.

  Something in his movement must have spooked the horse. It shimmied sideways, tossing its head. Then, without warning, it reared up in front of him, whinnying loudly.

  He stepped back hurriedly, out of range of its hooves. The young woman shifted her weight and rode out the storm before the horse’s forefeet came down with a double clop on the gravel.

  Leaning forward, she stroked its neck and whispered something into its pricked-up ear. Whatever she said did the trick. The wild-eyed animal that had looked ready to trample Ford into the dirt a few seconds earlier now appeared as docile as a riding-school hack.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, looking down at Ford. ‘Woodstock’s normally pretty friendly around strangers. Can I help you?’

  ‘We’re here to see Lord and Lady Baverstock,’ Hannah said. ‘Are you their daughter?’

  ‘That’s me.’ She dismounted and led the horse over to them, where it stood snorting and shaking its silky mane. She held out her hand. ‘Lucy. But everyone calls me Loopy.’

  ‘Do you live here?’ Ford asked.

  ‘Yah. The old ancestral seat’s big enough for the whole fam. Mummy, Daddy, me and Stodge.’

  ‘Stodge?’ Ford asked, imagining a silky-coated golden retriever.

  ‘Yah. Stodgy Stephen. He’s my brother. What are you, anyway? Bankers?’

  ‘Police,’ Ford said. ‘Detective Inspector Ford.’

  She frowned. ‘Police?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hannah said. ‘Although technically I’m police staff, which means I’m not warranted. I’m Dr Hannah Fellowes, deputy head of forensics.’

  Ford caught the flash of confusion that clouded Lucy’s high forehead then disappeared. Hannah’s detail-obsessed mind could catch people unawares. It was a useful, if unconscious, trait.

  ‘Oh, yah, of course. How do you do?’

  ‘We’re investigating a murder,’ Hannah said.

  Lucy flinched. ‘Murder? Oh God, how absolutely awful!’

  ‘The body of a young man was found on the land of one of your tenant farmers,’ Ford said. ‘His name was Tommy Bolter. Did you ever meet him?’

  Lucy looked at him for a couple of seconds, then turned away and nuzzled the horse’s cheek. ‘Tommy Bolter, Woody. Did we ever meet him?’ She turned back to Ford and Hannah. ‘He says no. Soz.’

  Hannah pointed at the horse. ‘You’re using a Western saddle. Why is that?’

  Ford looked. The bucket-shaped saddle had a horn at the front and a lot more padding than those used by the mounted cops he’d worked with.

  Lucy smiled at Hannah. ‘He can be a handful, as you’ve just seen. I like the extra security.’

  A young woman opened the door dressed in a forest-green uniform of skirt and jacket over a white blouse. Sensible low heels on her feet and dark tights despite the warm spring weather. Ford wondered if she was Old Dan’s grand-niece.

  ‘OK, well, have fun with the old folks,’ Lucy said. She clicked her tongue. ‘Come on, Woodstock, let’s get you rubbed down.’

  She led the horse away, its soft nickers audible all the way to the far end of the house.

  Ford turned to the woman who’d opened the door and showed her his ID. ‘Detective Inspector Ford and Dr Hannah Fellowes. We’re here to see Lord and Lady Baverstock,’ he said.

  The maid – what had Dan called her, housekeeping assistant? – or whatever rich people called the servant they paid to admit visitors, smiled. The expression dissipated the severe impression created by the sober uniform. ‘They’re expecting you. Please follow me.’

  She led them into a wood-panelled room, large enough to house a grand piano as well as a seating group of two tan leather Chesterfield sofas and several armchairs covered in yellow and grey chrysanthemum-patterned chintz.

  Tall windows gave on to a landscape so artful Ford wondered whether it had been designed by human hands rather than Mother Nature’s: a winding river, sparkling in the middle distance, beyond which a forest of deep-green trees rolled away to the horizon. To one side, a ruined classical temple. Closer to the house, an ornamental pond with a two-tiered fountain playing on to its water-lilied surface.

  ‘Inspector Ford?’ A woman’s voice.

  He turned, smiling – going for the genial look he’d seen Mick use on people he unironically referred to as his ‘betters’.

  The woman in her late sixties who had just entered the room wore a creased navy sweatshirt over faded jeans. Below tousled, honey-coloured hair, the suggestion of a smile lingered on an intelligent face. She shook hands with Ford. Her skin felt rough and dry against his.

  Hannah pumped Lady Baverstock’s hand in what Ford had come to think of as her ‘signature shake’ and introduced herself.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us at such short notice, Lady Baverstock,’ Ford said.

  She took one of the armchairs and motioned for them to sit. ‘Do take a sofa. And please call me Coco. Lady Baverstock makes me sound like some ghastly old bat out of an Austen novel.’

  ‘My colleagues call me Wix,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s short for Wikipedia.’

  Lady Baverstock smiled. ‘Are you something of a brainbox, then?’

  Hannah nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve always been clever. Cleverer than most people, in fact. Some people find it off-putting, but in my work it’s actually very useful.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, my dear.’

  ‘We met your daughter outside with a very big black horse named Woodstock. Is that after Edward of Woodstock, the Black Prince?’

  Lady Baverstock’s social smile widened into the real thing. ‘Well, technically she’s my stepdaughter, but nonetheless, how very clever of you! Now I can see why your colleagues awarded you such a brilliant nickname.’

  Hannah beamed. Ford marvelled at the easy charm the upper class could deploy. Must learn it at their posh private schools was his conclusion.

  Lady Baverstock’s features assumed a serious expression. ‘You said a man was murdered? Do you have his name?’

  ‘Tommy Bolter. Did you know him?’

  She sighed. ‘It’s pro
bably better you wait for Bumble. He’s just cleaning up.’

  Ford frowned. ‘Bumble?’

  ‘My husband. It’s his old boarding school nickname. Like the bee? He used to hum when concentrating. I think it even stuck when he went into the army.’

  ‘I sometimes talk to myself to help me concentrate,’ Hannah said.

  While Lady Baverstock engaged Hannah in small talk, Ford’s phone buzzed. A text from JJ.

  Find my brother’s killer. I meant what I said.

  Fighting down the brief surge of adrenaline that elevated his heartbeat, he pocketed his phone just as Lord Baverstock walked in. Tall and, like his wife, dressed casually, he sported a crumpled denim shirt and mustard-coloured cords over boat shoes with knotted laces. Old-fashioned glasses with heavy black frames magnified a questioning gaze. He ran a hand through damp hair: short and dark brown, with a little grey at the temples.

  ‘Inspector Ford, isn’t it? And you’ve brought a colleague. Excellent. Two heads better than one, eh?’

  Ford and Hannah got up to greet him. Hannah advanced and deployed her signature shake.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, please. Didn’t my wife tell you to call me Bumble?’

  ‘She did, yes.’

  ‘Well, then! Can’t have you both calling her Coco and me “sir” or “Your Lordship” or whatever, can we?’

  Lord Baverstock took the armchair beside his wife’s and motioned for Ford and Hannah to sit.

  Ford decided to press on with his reason for coming. ‘As I told your wife—’

  ‘Coco,’ she interrupted.

  ‘—Coco, a man was murdered, and then dismembered. He’s been formally identified as Tommy Bolter. The body parts were put down a badger sett on land farmed by Mark Ball. I believe he’s one of your tenants?’

  ‘That’s right. I should tell you, Inspector,’ Lord Baverstock said, ‘I did actually know Bolter.’

  Ford maintained a bland expression. People like Tommy Bolter didn’t exactly move in the same social circles as Salisbury’s landed gentry.