by Andy Maslen
‘Did you get her to help you dispose of the body?’
‘Only as far as getting it into the Land Rover. She returned to her BMW and I went to the woodshed I’d prepared. Joe helped me butcher the body – then, alone, I drove out to the badger sett and dumped him down. I told my deputy estate manager, chap called Cox, to fill it in. I said it was a risk to walkers.’
‘Why not use the river again?’ Ford asked, silently thanking Cox’s country-sense for having led him to disobey his master’s orders.
Martival opened his eyes. ‘I didn’t want to push my luck. Thought I’d lessen the risk of discovery by using different methods and locations. Might even have suggested two killers to you lot, eh?’
‘You’re being unusually candid, Philip, for which I thank you. Just to be perfectly clear, do you admit that you murdered Tommy Bolter and disposed both of his body and that of Owen Long?’
‘I think I just said that, didn’t I? But if you need it stating in plain language, yes, I do admit that. I would also like it to go on the record that neither my wife nor my son knew anything of what transpired between Lucy and me and Tommy Bolter and Owen Long,’ he said, dragging a hand across his face. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I should like to rest. I have just confessed to murder and learned that my daughter nearly died. I believe I’m within my rights to request a break.’
Ford checked his watch. ‘Interview suspended at 4.21 p.m.’ He nodded to Jools, who turned off the recorder.
‘Inspector?’ Martival said. ‘Before you go?’
‘Yes?’
‘I did it to protect her, you know? She’s my flesh and blood. My child. Do you have children of your own?’
‘A son, yes.’
Martival nodded. ‘Then you know. A father will do anything for his children. Even murder.’
Ford swallowed. Of course he did. Hadn’t he threatened JJ with just that? ‘And it doesn’t bother you? That you murdered a man in cold blood?’
‘The men of my family have served their country in war, all the way back to Waterloo and beyond. Some died in battle, but they did so with grace, fighting for an ideal in which they believed,’ Martival said. ‘Bolter and his kind embody the absolute opposite of that spirit. They steal, they poach, they brawl, they run dog fights and course hares: they give nothing and take everything.’
‘Lucy didn’t seem to think so.’
Martival sat back in his chair and his arms flopped down by his sides. He blinked rapidly three or four times.
Ford glanced at Jools. She was staring at him. Even Rowbotham, the master of the impassive stare, had registered his words with an expression of shock.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ford muttered. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
Then he stood and left the room.
Ford nodded towards his office. Jools followed him in, disapproval written all over her face. He knew why. The crack about Lucy was unworthy of a senior detective. Yet he’d been unable to hold it back in the face of Martival’s arrogance.
‘I want Hibberd charged with preventing a lawful burial and wasting police time,’ he said. ‘The CPS will throw out anything else so don’t bother asking. And if you’re thinking of saying anything about what just happened, don’t.’
She nodded, and left him alone.
Ford spent the rest of the day completing his policy book, filing a separate report on Lucy Martival’s injuries during arrest, and dozens of other necessary pieces of documentation. His last calls of the day were to JJ Bolter and Ruth Long, informing them he’d arrested the murderers of their loved ones. In JJ’s case, he reiterated his warnings about interfering with the legal process.
In his cell, Philip thought about his family. Not as he imagined Ford would think of his own family. Dad, mum, children. Couple of uncles and aunts, maybe a grandparent or two.
No. Philip was thinking of the family. The Martivals. A thousand years on the land gifted to an ancestor by William the Conqueror. There when the cathedral was just a plan and some shallow trenches in the ground. There as the new city grew up around it. There when wars were fought and invasions repulsed.
The family was more than any single member. So much more.
In that, if in nothing else, he could see how the Bolters and the Martivals obeyed a deeper code of justice than that pursued at all costs by Ford.
Philip had screwed up. He knew that. But he was insignificant compared to the Martival name. His confession would preserve the family, he hoped, from too much lip-licking interest. But either way, it would endure long after he had joined Long and Bolter in the ground. Another thousand years at least, God willing.
JJ stared at his phone. So it was the lord of the manor who’d killed Tommy. Not the gamekeeper. Not the posh-totty daughter. Lord Baverstock. From what Ford had said, it was a cold-blooded execution. He’d get life, with hopefully a nice long tariff to go with it. Ford had asked if JJ was satisfied. If he’d pull back from his threat to deliver his own brand of justice.
JJ had said yes. JJ had lied. JJ could wait.
He called his source.
‘What do you want? I thought we were done. I fed you all that intel about the case and we got the guy – and his daughter. I’m free and clear.’
‘That’s what you think. You’re mine until I say you’re not. From now on, my operation is free from police interference, understand? Any raids, any plans to put the squeeze on me, I want to know. In advance. Don’t worry, this is a commercial arrangement. I’ll keep paying you.’
‘I can’t! It’s too risky!’
JJ smiled at the sound of panic in the copper’s voice. ‘No, no, no. I’ll tell you what’s too risky. Not doing what you’re told. Because then I’d have to have a word with your boss. And I can just imagine how he’d take that little piece of news. One of his team, as bent as a nine-pound note?’
‘Fine. But just the small stuff, OK? Drugs, nicking, even the dog fights I can help you with. But you get into anything serious and I can’t.’
JJ smiled. He had him right where he wanted him. ‘Let’s see how we go, shall we, Mick?’
He ended the call.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Home, Ford grabbed a beer from the fridge and yelled out for Sam. No reply. Recently, he’d taken to sitting in the driver’s seat of the Jag watching climbing videos on YouTube.
Ford opened the door that led directly from the kitchen into the garage. He found Sam slumped in Izabella’s worn red leather driver’s seat, head down over his phone. Ford opened the passenger door and sat next to his son.
‘Hello,’ Sam said, freezing a man halfway through a roped descent.
‘Hi. What yer watchin’?’
‘Abseiling. It’s so cool. I think we’re going to be doing it.’
Ford nodded. ‘It’s fun. Scary, but fun. How was your day?’
‘Fine. Out with Josh. How was your day?’
‘I found a video in the Cloud that showed Lord Baverstock’s daughter, Lucy, shooting Owen Long. Then we arrested Lord Baverstock and he confessed to murdering Tommy Bolter, because Tommy was blackmailing Lucy.’
Sam turned in his seat. ‘Result!’
‘Yeah. Although when we went out to Alverchalke Manor to arrest Lucy, she tried to escape on a horse. It threw her off and now she’s in hospital.’
Sam’s eyes widened. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
Ford nodded. ‘Once the doctors say she’s well enough, I’ll go up there and arrest her for Owen Long’s murder.’
Ford found he didn’t want to dwell on the day. There’d be an enquiry into Lucy’s arrest and no doubt unpleasant questions from Professional Standards. He pushed the thought away. ‘Fancy a road trip?’
Izabella’s straight six howling, and Sam grinning beside him, Ford smiled as they tore along the Coombe Road that ran south-west from Salisbury. After twenty minutes, they reached a viewpoint. Ford signalled, decelerated and pulled off the road into the gravel semicircle, bringing the car to a stop at the fence.
Ford stood side by side with Sam before an etched steel map of the surrounding countryside. He gestured at the rolling hills on the horizon. ‘Not bad, is it?’
‘It’s cool. I like it. I’m going to take some photos. We’re doing town and country in art.’
Ford watched his son snap away with his phone. He remembered days when he and Lou had walked down the narrow path from here, picnic blanket under Ford’s arm, the infant Sam in his mother’s.
His phone rang. It was Hannah.
‘Hi, Wix,’ he said, watching Sam lying on his belly to take more photos. ‘What’s up?’
‘Now the case is closed and congratulations by the way would you like to come to dinner at mine because I think it would be nice.’
Ford blinked at this rush of words. He sensed how much it had cost Hannah to invite him to her house.
‘That would be lovely. Just let me know when.’
‘OK, I will. We’ll have something to eat and some nice wine and we’ll have a cocktail to start and then there’s something I want to show you that I think you’ll find interesting. Oh! No, I didn’t mean—’
She hung up.
Ford frowned as he pocketed the phone. Didn’t mean what? Didn’t mean to say that? What could she have to show him that couldn’t be done at work? The report about the risks of mountaineering on her PC flashed before his eyes.
Now he saw it. Maybe the document he’d seen on her PC really was for Sam. But there must be a second one. This was about Ford. And Lou. Oh Jesus, what was she doing, digging into the past like that? Was she going to show Sam, too?
Sam ran back to him, holding up his phone. ‘What do you think? I used an unusual angle to make the landscape look like a model.’
Ford looked at the image on the screen. ‘It’s good. Great. Weird, but great.’ He placed all thoughts of Hannah and her report into a folder and slammed it into a steel drawer. ‘Listen, I’m going to take some proper time off. You want to go and buy some climbing gear next weekend?’
Sam’s face lit up. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Yes. What do you say? Find you a decent helmet, some boots, a rucksack, whatever you need.’
‘That would be awesome. Thanks, Dad. I love you.’
Ford risked tousling Sam’s curls. ‘I love you, too, Sam. A lot.’
He saw Lou’s smile on his son’s lips. He thought she would have approved of him letting Sam go climbing. Despite his fear. Because Philip Martival was right.
A father would do anything for his children.
Anything.
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 sharing his knowledge of the gamekeeper’s life and calendar, Tim Weston of the National Gamekeepers’ Organisation.
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 sharing their insights into autistic spectrum disorder, Amanda J. Harrington; and childhood anxiety and resilience, Dr Hazel Harrison.
For lending Hannah’s cat her name, Uta Frith, Emeritus Professor of Cognitive Development at UCL Institute of Cognitive Neuroscience.
For her advice on strategies for detecting lies, Professor Dawn Archer, Research and Knowledge Exchange Coordinator for Languages, Information and Communications, Manchester Metropolitan University.
For their patience, professionalism and friendship, the fabulous publishing team at Thomas & Mercer: Jack Butler, Gill Harvey, Russel McLean and Gemma Wain. For his fantastic, evocative cover, Dominic Forbes.
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 http://kinho.com/
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.