‘I doubt it was anything about you in particular. Just wrong place, wrong time.’
She nodded, frowning up at him. ‘Although, technically, this is the right place. As I’m going to be working here.’ She checked her watch, a multifunction Casio with more dials and buttons than the dash of Ford’s ageing Land Rover Discovery. ‘It’s also 8.15, so it’s the right time as well.’
Ford smiled. ‘Let’s get your ID sorted, then I’ll take you up to Alec. He arrives early most days.’
He led her over to the long, low reception desk.
‘This is—’
‘Dr Hannah Fellowes,’ she said to the receptionist. ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’
She thrust her right hand out across the counter. The receptionist took it and received the same three stiff shakes as Ford.
The receptionist smiled up at her new colleague, but Ford could see the concern in her eyes. ‘I’m Paula. Nice to meet you, too, Hannah. Are you all right? I’m so sorry you had to deal with that on your first day.’
‘It was a shock. But it won’t last. I don’t let things like that get to me.’
Paula smiled. ‘Good for you!’
While Paula converted a blank rectangle of plastic into a functioning station ID, Hannah turned to Ford.
‘Should I ask her to call me Dr Fellowes, or is it usual here to use first names?’ she whispered.
‘We mainly use Christian names, but if you’d like to be known as Dr Fellowes, now would be the time.’
Hannah nodded and turned back to Paula, who handed her the swipe card in a clear case.
‘There you go, Hannah. Welcome aboard.’
‘Thank you.’ A beat. ‘Paula.’
‘Do you know where you’re going?’
‘I’ll take her,’ Ford said.
At the lift, he showed her how to swipe her card before pressing the floor button.
‘If you don’t do that, you just stand in the lift not going anywhere. It’s mainly the PTBs who do it.’
‘PTBs?’ she repeated, as the lift door closed in front of them.
‘Powers That Be. Management?’
‘Oh. Yes. That’s funny. PTBs. Powers That Be.’
She didn’t laugh, though, and Ford had the odd sensation that he was talking to a foreigner, despite her southern English accent. She stared straight ahead as the lift ascended. Ford took a moment to assess her appearance. She was shorter than him by a good half-foot, no more than five-five or six. Slim, but not skinny. Blonde hair woven into plaits, a style Ford had always associated with children.
He’d noticed her eyes downstairs; it was hard not to, they’d been so wide when the drunk had had her backed against the wall. But even relaxed, they were large, and coloured the blue of old china.
The lift pinged and a computerised female voice announced, ‘Third floor.’
‘You’re down here,’ Ford said, turning right and leading Hannah along the edge of an open-plan office. He gestured left. ‘General CID. I’m Major Crimes on the fourth floor.’
She took a couple of rapid, skipping steps to catch up with him. ‘Is Forensics open plan as well? I was told it was a quiet office.’
‘I think it’s safe to say it’s quiet. Come on. Let’s get you a tea first. Or coffee. Which do you like best?’
‘That’s a hard question. I haven’t really tried enough types to know.’ She shook her head, like a dog trying to dislodge a flea from its ear. ‘No. What I meant to say was, I’d like to have a tea, please. Thank you.’
There it was again. The foreigner-in-England vibe he’d picked up downstairs.
While he boiled a kettle and fussed around with a teabag and the jar of instant coffee, he glanced at Hannah. She was staring at him, but smiled when he caught her eye. The expression popped dimples into her cheeks.
‘Something puzzling you?’ he asked.
‘You didn’t tell me your name,’ she said.
‘I think I did. It’s Ford.’
‘No. I meant your first name. You said, “We mainly use Christian names” when the receptionist, Paula, was doing my building ID. And you called me Hannah. But you didn’t tell me yours.’
Ford pressed the teabag against the side of the mug before scooping it out and dropping it into a swing-topped bin. He handed the mug to Hannah. ‘Careful, it’s hot.’
‘Thank you. But your name?’
‘Ford’s fine. Really. Or DI Ford, if we’re being formal.’
‘OK.’ She smiled. Deeper dimples this time, like little curved cuts. ‘You’re Ford. I’m Hannah. If we’re being formal, maybe you should call me Dr Fellowes.’
Ford couldn’t tell if she was joking. He took a swig of his coffee. ‘Let’s go and find Alec. He’s talked of little else since you accepted his job offer.’
‘It’s probably because I’m extremely well qualified. After earning my doctorate, which I started at Oxford and finished at Harvard, I worked in America for a while. I consulted to city, state and federal law enforcement agencies. I also lectured at Quantico for the FBI.’
Ford blinked, struggling to process this hyper-concentrated CV. It sounded like that of someone ten or twenty years older than the slender young woman sipping tea from a Spire FM promotional mug.
‘That’s pretty impressive. Sorry, you’re how old?’
‘Don’t be sorry. We only met twenty minutes ago. I’m thirty-three.’
Ford reflected that at her age he had just been completing his sergeant’s exams. His promotion to inspector had come through a month ago and he was still feeling, if not out of his depth, then at least under the microscope. Now, he was in conversation with some sort of crime-fighting wunderkind.
‘So, how come you’re working as a CSI in Salisbury? No offence, but isn’t it a bit of a step down from teaching at the FBI?’
She looked away. He watched as she fidgeted with a ring on her right middle finger, twisting it round and round.
‘I don’t want to share that with you,’ she said, finally.
In that moment he saw it. Behind her eyes. An assault? A bad one. Not sexual, but violent. Who did the FBI go after? The really bad ones. The ones who didn’t confine their evildoing to a single state. It was her secret. Ford knew all about keeping secrets. He felt for her.
‘OK, sorry. Look, we’re just glad to have you. Come on. Let’s find Alec.’
He took Hannah round the rest of CID and out through a set of grey-painted double doors with a well-kicked steel plate at the foot. The corridor to Forensics was papered with health and safety posters and noticeboards advertising sports clubs, social events and training courses.
Inside, the chatter and buzz of coppers at full pelt was replaced by a sepulchral quiet. Five people were hard at work, staring at computer monitors or into microscopes. Much of the ‘hard science’ end of forensics had been outsourced to private labs in 2012. But Wiltshire Police had, in Ford’s mind, made the sensible decision to preserve as much of an in-house scientific capacity as it could afford.
He pointed to a glassed-in office in the far corner of the room.
‘That’s Alec’s den. He doesn’t appear to be in yet.’