Her Final Hour
A Detective Mark Turpin murder mystery
Rachel Amphlett
Copyright © 2020 by Rachel Amphlett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Reading Order & Checklist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
About the Author
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Also available in audiobook
Chapter One
Winter wrapped its grip around the Oxfordshire countryside, feathering the bare hedgerows of the Berkshire Downs with a dusting of frost, determined to maintain its hold on the hills and valley below.
Will Brennan flexed his hands, and let the leather reins give a little in his grip.
A cold mist blanketed the landscape, creating ghost-like silhouettes of the horse chestnut trees that bordered the training yard, and obscuring the large Georgian farmhouse beyond.
He was losing circulation in the tips of his fingers, despite the weather forecaster on the radio enthusing about the mild start to winter, and despite the thin wool gloves he wore. At least his helmet, covered with a bright green and blue silk cap, stopped some of his body temperature escaping.
Grey light hinted at the approaching sunrise before a cold breeze sent a discarded plastic feed bag tumbling across the concrete. It snagged on the tendrils of an ivy bush that climbed up the side of one of the brick-built stable blocks, fluttering as if to free itself.
The other stable lads called out to each other, swearing as they prepared the horses, their voices muffled by the thick air.
Brennan murmured a greeting to one of them as he passed, a new kid whose name he couldn’t remember, who had the soft facial features of someone who hadn’t yet spent a winter on the Downs, exposed to all its elements. Another year or so and he’d be as ruddy as the rest of them.
Vapour escaped Brennan’s lips, mixing in the air with the heat wafting from the horse’s nostrils, the beast snorting and shaking its head as he led it across ice-covered puddles.
Coffee would have to wait until he returned, and after the horses had been tended to.
At a call from the back of the string, he was given a leg up into the saddle and the horses set off at a brisk pace.
Weak sunlight began to crest the horizon as the string of racing horses entered the lane from the yard, their hooves clattering across the pitted surface while their riders shivered and grumbled.
Not too loudly, though.
After all, MacKenzie Adams was known for choosing a lucky few to ride his horses in races even if, to begin with, those races were at the smaller courses around the United Kingdom.
For many it had been the start of an illustrious career, and Brennan was hungry for the same.
His stomach rumbled loudly, and he cursed the turn of thought. Keeping the weight off was a constant struggle, especially when his girlfriend’s mother insisted on feeding him twice as much as everyone else whenever he was there.
He peered between the horse’s ears, a tight grip on the reins, listening.
At this time of the morning it was unusual to see any traffic, but the lane was narrow with a twisting curve that had spewed out its share of speeding motorcyclists over the summer, touring the Oxfordshire countryside at high speed with little regard for their safety, or that of a horse and its rider.
Half a mile up the hill, they turned onto the gallops through a gap in the bramble hedgerow, and Brennan’s heart rate edged up a notch in anticipation.
From here the view swept over an undulating field, fallow and ready for planting, abandoned hay bales spiky with thick frost. In the distance, clumps of ancient oak and birch trees huddled close within shaded copses.
The hillside swept down through the valley and past the space where the old power station cooling towers had once pierced the horizon, then onwards through the Vale to Oxford.
Years ago, before his time, these had truly been the Berkshire Downs. A flourish of ink, a handshake at local government level, and the boundary had slipped into Oxfordshire.
And on April Fool’s Day, according to his grandfather.
A mud and stone track led across the field to the gallops, and when the horse paused at the bottom of the slope, Brennan loosened the reins before giving him a swift kick that sent the animal trotting towards the open gates.
The lush green grass on either side of the gallops sparkled with frost that reached out to the dirt- and sawdust-layered track, clumps of churned-up earth shadowing a racing line created by yesterday’s training session.
Brennan sniffed, resisting the urge to wipe his nose with the back of his glove. He needed both hands on the reins.
The beast beneath him tended to lose his riders if given half the opportunity, and Brennan had no intention of being the horse’s latest victim. He knew that the rest of the stable lads were running a sweepstake to see how long it would take.
He scowled. They may have been eager to make some money from his misfortune, but he was keener to make MacKenzie Adams sit up and take notice of him.
He glanced over his shoulder to where Adams stood next to a dark-green four-by-four vehicle at the side of the track, binoculars in his right hand, thermos coffee cup in the other, bundled up in a padded jacket and scarf against the elements.
He raised his thumb, and Adams lifted the cup in response.
Brennan turned his attention back to the course and kicked the horse, relishing the sudden power as he leapt into action.
He squinted to see through the swirling mist that cloaked the oval course, and leaned forward as the horse pushed into the first corner, recalling McKenzie’s instructions to him before they had set out from the yard.
‘He’s racing at Newbury on Saturday, so give him a g
entle workout. The last thing we want is an injury.’
The problem was, Empire of the Sun – or Onyx, as he was known in the stables – didn’t understand the concept of a gentle workout.
It was why MacKenzie had sent him out ahead of the rest of the string, given it was common knowledge that any hint of another horse in front of him would send Onyx into race mode. The trainer always joked that the animal possessed two speeds – fast, and faster.
The horse’s withers tensed as his shoulder muscles trembled, and Brennan felt the power beneath the sleek black coat. The temptation teased him as they entered the first straight. It would be so easy to loosen the reins further and let the horse fly over the soft earth.
Almost as if Onyx could read his mind, the horse surged forward, straining at the bit between his teeth.
Common sense prevailed, and, with some reluctance, Brennan kept a tight grip and eased the animal back to a slower pace as they approached the next sweeping corner.
Onyx tensed, and Brennan dug his heels into the stirrups at the sudden deceleration in speed, confused.
He stood and peered between the horse’s ears, and then saw what was spooking the animal.
To the left of the track, under the white metal railing that the horses followed along the gallops, was a discarded bundle of rags.
‘It’s nothing, you idiot. Get on with it.’
He dug his heels in and urged the horse forward.
Onyx reared up and twisted to the right without slowing down, without giving Brennan a chance to correct his position or slow his trajectory as he was catapulted into the air, the reins snapping from his grip.
He had a swirling view of green grass and grey sky tumbling over one another, and then hit the ground.
Seconds later, winded, Brennan rolled over and lay on the dirt, staring at the swirling mist. He wiggled his toes and fingers, slowly working his way along his limbs until he was sure no bones were broken, and then eased into a sitting position.
Onyx stood on the far side of the track, peering down his nose at him.
‘Dickhead.’ Brennan brushed off his jodhpurs and stomped across to the horse, snatching up the reins before it decided to take off without him.
The mist blanketed his position from the start of the training oval and, if he could remount, no-one would know and he’d still have a chance of a race at the weekend.
Except the horse refused to cooperate.
Onyx whinnied, then sidestepped, turning his rear to the course.
‘Bloody hell. Move, will you?’
Brennan tugged at the reins, and then glanced over his shoulder.
Under the soles of his boots, the ground began to tremble a moment before the thunder of hooves reached him.
‘Come on. Please.’
He used all his weight to turn the horse, pushing against his flanks in an attempt to get Onyx to do as he was told for once, and then collapsed against him, sweat pooling under his arms.
‘Right now, I hate you.’
He sighed, and then raised his gaze to the horse’s head, expecting a knowing sideways look from the animal.
Instead, Onyx was staring at the bundle of rags under the railing on the inner side of the course, his ears flat, his hooves planted firmly on the turf, the whites of his eyes glaring in the winter light.
Brennan kept hold of the reins and moved in front of the horse. He opened his mouth to urge him forward, and then stopped as he drew closer to the discarded clothing and realised why the horse was so scared.
Blood had congealed in her hair, the dull red glistening as a beetle wandered across her forehead.
Her hands had been tied behind her, her pink lace knickers twisted around her left ankle, and her blank stare watched the clouds, accusation in the milky film that blurred her eyes.
Brennan let the reins fall, the horse forgotten, and dropped to his knees.
A moment later, he vomited over the lush turf.
Chapter Two
Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin forced the car door shut and cursed under his breath as a biting wind whipped at the hem of his waterproof coat.
He squinted against the weak sunlight that bathed the landscape with a bleached grey while Detective Constable Jan West eased herself from the passenger door and staggered backwards, surprise on her face.
‘Bloody hell, Sarge.’ She gathered her black leather handbag from the back seat and slung it over one shoulder, buttoned up her padded jacket, and then fell into step beside him. ‘I’d have thought the horses would’ve been running backwards in this wind.’
‘At least it’s cleared the air so we can see what we’re doing.’
He ran his gaze over the mist that had receded from the Downs and now clung to the streams that criss-crossed the countryside, and shivered.
Eight jockeys with their enormous horses milled about at the gate Mark had driven through, the animals stomping hooves at the ground, impatient. The sweet aroma of fresh horse dung wafted on the air, reminding him of holidays in the countryside with his daughters when they were younger.
Turning his attention to the plateau where they’d parked, he spotted an ambulance close to one of the patrol cars that had been manoeuvred onto the gallops, both vehicles blocking access to the course, the emergency vehicles’ bright livery a stark contrast to the bleak countryside.
Blue and white striped tape had been stretched behind the vehicles, reiterating the restricted access now imposed.
In front of the cordon two more patrol cars had been manoeuvred off the track and onto the verge, the occupants speaking to each of the horse riders in turn, notebooks out and brows furrowed as witness statements were taken.
Mark strode across the soft turf towards the nearest police constable, a familiar face from the local station.
‘Newton.’
‘Morning, Sarge.’
‘Everyone else here?’
PC John Newton blew on his hands, and then pointed across the gallops to where several vehicles had been corralled in one corner.
Mark recognised the crime scene investigators’ vehicles. Three white-suited figures milled about near the railing in the opposite corner, heads bowed. Next to their van, a grey panel van had been parked facing the cordon, its dark colouring almost fading into the landscape. The mortuary team wouldn’t be allowed to leave until the CSIs were satisfied the victim’s body could be removed. He shook his head at the forced indignity.
‘What can you tell us?’
‘The first jockey in the training string found her,’ said Newton. ‘They all got up here at seven o’clock, just as it was getting light. That’s the trainer over there, MacKenzie Adams.’
‘Is that his vehicle?’
‘Yes. The victim is Jessica Marley, nineteen years old. Lives in Harton Wick and attends the agricultural college nearby. Has a part-time job at the Farriers Arms in the village.’
Mark frowned. ‘You know who she is already?’
‘One of the other lads told us her name. The one who found her wasn’t coherent when we tried to speak with him. Poor bugger’s in shock.’
‘I’ll bet he is.’ Mark peered across to the CSI team. ‘How long have they been here?’
‘About an hour. The pathologist is over there with them. She declared the victim deceased at 8.05 and then stayed. Said she wants to learn as much as possible here before doing the post mortem.’
The police constable tugged at his vest pocket and pulled out a notebook. ‘Just as well one of the jockeys identified her. We found nothing on her – no handbag, no mobile phone, no purse. We’ve been helping the CSIs to check the surrounding hedgerows but have come up empty so far. We’ve got four people on the far side of the gallops over there continuing the search.’
‘Good. Where’s the lad who found her?’
Newton jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘William Brennan. He’s in the back of the ambulance. He was hoping to race at Newbury this weekend. Can’t see how he’s going to manage it now.’
<
br /> ‘What did the other lad say – the one who recognised her – when you interviewed him?’
‘Paul Hitchens. He said he last saw Jessica at the Farriers at eight o’clock last night. He said it was unusual for him to stay that late the night before a training ride but William was catching up with friends he hadn’t seen for a while and they lost track of time. Jessica and another girl, Cheryl, were working on the bar with the owner, Noah Collins, so she wasn’t due to leave until they’d cleared up after closing.’
‘Have the parents been notified?’
Newton’s mouth twisted. ‘Yes, about half an hour ago. There’s a patrol car there now, and a Family Liaison Officer has been arranged.’
‘All right, thanks. Jan – let’s go and have a look, shall we?’
‘Excuse me?’
He turned to see the horse trainer striding towards him, his expression determined.
‘Yes?’
‘MacKenzie Adams. You are?’
‘Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin.’
‘I need to get these horses back to the yard,’ said Adams. ‘They have to be fed, and standing around like this is doing them no good at all, especially the one that was spooked by the girl’s body.’
Mark looked towards the horse to which Adams gestured, a large black beast whose ears twitched back and forth and who seemed more interested in the goings on around it than nervous.
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