Shallow Ground (Detective Ford) by Andy Maslen (interesting books to read for teens TXT) 📗

probably the only man in the country with that particular moniker, so he should be easy enough to find.’

Olly nodded, making a brief note. ‘Yes, guv.’

‘The rest of you, keep digging into Abbott’s background. I want everything on him that exists anywhere. Our systems, Home Office, GMC, any disciplinaries for sexual touching, inappropriate behaviour. Any juvenile criminal record, school expulsions, animal cruelty, yes?’

A chorus of ‘yes, guvs’ filled the air.

‘Thanks, all. Let’s find Nick Abbott before it’s too late.’

The heat plaguing the country for the previous month and a half had intensified. The station car park felt like a furnace as Ford climbed in beside Jools in her sporty A3 hatchback. The black leather upholstery seared his skin though his sweat-dampened shirt. He switched on the air conditioning as Jools powered out towards Britford.

‘Olly, Mick, call me the moment you find anything, OK?’ he said into his radio.

‘Yes, guv,’ ‘Yes, boss,’ their answers crackled back to him.

Jools flipped a switch on the dash and blue flickers reflected back to them from the shiny paintwork of the Honda Jazz in front on the congested ring road. She tapped the steering wheel and a siren sounded, a series of stuttering whoops that had the Civic swerving right, the Astra on its left mirroring the manoeuvre to give them space to nose through.

Two and a half minutes later, she slid to a stop in Britford’s main street, right outside the Abbotts’ house.

‘Nice driving, Jools,’ Ford said as he exited the car.

‘Thanks, guv.’

Inside the house, Ford stopped to think. Where would I keep a man I intended to bleed to death? Scullery? Utility room? Basement?

‘Take the inside, Jools,’ he said. ‘When the others get here, you direct them.’

‘Guv.’

Ford ran through the kitchen and out through the French doors, grabbing a set of keys off a hook by the back door.

He could see a large garden shed, one window obscured somehow. An octagonal brick-and-glass summerhouse. The boathouse down on the riverbank.

He ran to the summerhouse. It was empty. The shed next. The door was padlocked. He looked at the keys in his hand. There were over a dozen, all Yales, Chubbs or Ingersoll, typical of high-end residential locks.

He didn’t have time to try them all so he reared back and kicked out at the door over the hasp. The wood, dry but thin, splintered. He kicked again, smashing the metalwork off the door. He wrenched it open and went inside.

The body was prone beneath a tarpaulin.

‘Shit!

He leaned over and pulled back the tarp.

‘Nick!’ he shouted.

Then he stopped.

‘Oh, for Chrissake.’

He stood up and kicked the torso.

DAY TWENTY-TWO, 4.59 P.M.

Abbott had stored a full-size medical training dummy in his shed. The insides of both thighs were marked with dotted lines and crosses in blue marker pen.

Ford turned and left. He ran down to the boathouse, but it was a simple shelter, walled on two sides but open at the front and back, containing just a rowing boat, empty save a pair of oars.

He scraped a hand over his mouth and chin. He walked back the way he’d come, only to meet Jools halfway down the lawn.

‘Any sign, guv?’ she asked.

‘No. They’re all empty.’

‘Us the same. We’ve been all over the house. No basement, but Trev’s gone up into the loft. The place is clean.’

Ford checked his personal and work mobiles. Nothing from Mick or Olly. ‘Bugger it! I was sure he’d have him somewhere he owned or controlled.’

They walked back to the house and found Hannah taking samples from the kitchen.

‘Any luck?’ she asked, switching off an alternative light source.

Ford shook his head. ‘The dad’s not here.’

She pointed at the bunch of keys. ‘Any of those look like they’d fit a lock-up or an industrial unit’s padlock?’

‘Don’t think so. They all look like car or house keys to me.’

‘Can I have a look?’

Ford handed the keys over. He and Jools watched as Hannah examined them in turn. She stopped at a silver key with a thick plastic grip.

‘This is a Squire. Squire make heavy-duty padlocks.’ She handed it to Ford.

‘OK, listen up, everyone!’ he shouted, then waited until the searchers had gathered in front of him in the kitchen. ‘I think Nick Abbott is somewhere on the premises, but he’s behind a door padlocked with a Squire padlock. Is there a cellar we’ve missed? A door behind a curtain or something? Check now, please.’

He called Mick. ‘Where are you?’

‘On the M5. Abbott’s got a little cottage outside Padstow. I’m on my way there now.’

‘OK, good work. Listen. When you get there, look for a door secured with a bloody great Squire padlock.’

‘Sorry, boss, you broke up there. Say again?’

‘A padlock, Mick. Look for a door with a big padlock. A Squire. I think that’s where he’s holding him.’

Ford ended the call and hit Olly’s speed-dial number. ‘Anything?’

‘Yes, guv. I’m at seven Sarum Avenue, out Pitton way. Nicholas Abbott’s place. Heavy security at the front. Window bars and a monster front door. No rear access. I’m waiting for an MOE team. Gary tried to kick the door in and broke his toe.’

‘I think he’s behind a padlocked door. Jools and I’ll meet you there. Mick’s too far away.’

Thanks to Jools’s spirited use of all the A3’s engine, transmission and steering had to offer, she skidded to a stop outside Nicholas Abbott’s house just nine minutes after leaving Britford. Infuriatingly for Ford, as he scanned the houses on the even-numbered side of the street, all hid behind high fences or had wide extensions to the edge of the property line.

Ford leapt out. The roadway was choked with police cars. As he ran up the path, the MOE team’s Skoda Yeti pulled up and a uniformed sergeant emerged.

‘Hi, Danny,’ Ford said. ‘Get your kit ready, but I’ve got some keys here. Let me try them first.’

The sergeant nodded and started briefing his team.

With Olly and Jools watching over his shoulder, Ford tried each of the keys, bar the Squire, in the front door. One