‘Right, ladies and gentlemen. Our victim is Jessica Marley, nineteen years old and from Harton Wick. Her parents tell me she was a busy girl – studied part-time at the local agricultural college and worked two part-time jobs, one at the Farriers Arms pub in the village and then two afternoon shifts at the local supermarket. On top of that, she recently started to help out on an ad hoc basis at MacKenzie Adams’ racing stables.’
Mark raised an eyebrow at Jan.
‘No-one mentioned that,’ she said under her breath.
Kennedy paused while Tracy passed him the photographs Mark had taken at the crime scene, then held each one up before pinning it to the board.
‘Thanks to Mark and Jan who attended the crime scene this morning, the pathologist currently has a theory that Jessica was killed by a single blow to the head, although that will have to be confirmed after the post mortem. Any sign of a weapon, Mark?’
‘No, guv,’ he said. ‘There were no vehicle markings near her body, and it’s unlikely any footprints will be found in the long grass. The CSIs will have to confirm what prints they collect from the gallops – the dirt was churned up by the horse and its jockey, as well as the riders who were next around the corner of the course, so it’s going to take them a while to sort it all out.’
‘Okay. Caroline – make a note to keep on top of that report, please. As soon as it’s in, get it distributed.’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘According to Jessica’s parents, she had no enemies and only a handful of close friends. Despite working at the pub, she didn’t socialise much, and was considered an introvert. Happier studying than going to nightclubs, is what her mum said.’
‘Any problems at work?’ said DC Alex McClellan. ‘Difficult customers, that sort of thing?’
‘That’s what I’d like you and Caroline to find out,’ said Kennedy. ‘Speak to Jessica’s manager at the supermarket. When you’ve done that, head over to the college and speak with her lecturers there as well. Mark – I want you and Jan to go and see the parents this morning. They were too distraught to give much of a statement earlier but we need to learn more about her movements this week, and leading up to her shift at the pub last night. After that, have a chat with the landlord of the Farriers Arms. Like Alex said, find out if there were any problems with the patrons there.’
‘Do you want us to re-interview MacKenzie Adams as well?’ said Mark. ‘Jan just pointed out to me that neither Adams nor Brennan mentioned to us that Jessica was working at the stables when we spoke to them on the gallops earlier. Bit of an omission, isn’t it?’
‘Agreed. If Adams gives you any trouble, let me know. He’s got a reputation for being difficult at the best of times.’
Kennedy completed the briefing by working his way around the assembled officers, ensuring any new team members were introduced, and then made his way back to the whiteboard and rapped his knuckles on the surface next to the photograph of Jessica taken that summer.
‘Nineteen years old, hard-working and with her whole life ahead of her,’ he said. ‘Let’s find the bastard that did this to her.’
Chapter Five
Jan exhaled and then rang the doorbell for number six Ashton Close, going over the questions she wanted to ask Jessica’s parents.
She stepped back off the doorstep, nearly colliding with Turpin who was standing with his hands in his pockets staring at the ornamental path that led back to the street, and then ran her eyes over the picture-perfect front garden.
Jessica’s mother was evidently a keen gardener – a window box of primroses and crocuses clung to the front windowsill of the house, offset by colourful displays in pots placed on the tiles underneath. A large magnolia set off a lush lawn bordered by flowerbeds, the first green shoots of daffodils poking through the soil.
The whole effect was one of homeliness, comfort, and safety.
She couldn’t imagine what they were going through. If either of her boys were harmed, she reckoned that rage would drive her to find justice, tempered by a grief that would never leave her. Her jaw clenched.
A blurred figure appeared behind the frosted glass at the top of the UPVC front door, and then it swung open and PC Grant Wickes peered out.
‘Come in,’ he said, gesturing to a door on their left. ‘Mr and Mrs Marley are through there.’
Turpin held up his hand. ‘Before we go in, is there anything we need to be aware of? Updates to their statements?’
‘They haven’t mentioned anything in the past two hours,’ said Wickes, his green eyes troubled. ‘They were formally interviewed at nine o’clock after they were informed of Jessica’s death – I arrived here half an hour after that. Obviously, they’re both in a state of shock, but Mr Marley has already provided us with photographs of Jessica to help with the media campaign and wants to do anything he can to help us find who did this to his daughter. You’ll find him very forthright.’
Jan pulled her mobile phone from her bag and turned it to silent, wondering if Jessica’s father was as stoical as Wickes thought. No doubt his attempts at helping were a coping mechanism for his grief, and she was grateful the experienced Family Liaison Officer was on hand. At some point, Mr Marley would need him.
‘What about the wife?’ said Turpin.
‘Quiet, as you’d expect in the circumstances,’ said Wickes. He brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his jacket sleeve. ‘Distraught by what’s happened but trying to hold it together.’
‘Thanks, Grant,’ said Jan. ‘Could you lead the way?’
She followed the FLO into the living room, quickly running her eyes over the photographs that lined a mantelpiece above a wood-burning stove. The fire within pushed out warmth into the room, an orange glow spilling out over a rug from which a small wiry dog rose to its feet and sniffed at Turpin’s shoes as he introduced them to Jessica’s parents.
Mr Marley pushed himself out of his armchair and held out his hand, taking Jan’s in a firm grip. ‘Call me Trevor. This is my wife, Wendy. Have a seat.’
Jan perched on the end of a three-seater sofa while Turpin took the other end and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he addressed the couple.
‘We’d like to extend our condolences to you both,’ he said. ‘We know this is a very difficult time for you, and we will do all we can to manage our investigation to find out who did this to Jessica.’
‘What can you tell us?’ said Wendy, dabbing at her eyes with a ragged paper handkerchief before dropping her hands to her lap.
‘We want to know everything,’ said Trevor, his voice gruff. ‘I want to know what that bastard did to my daughter.’
Jan opened her notebook. ‘Before we do, please can you tell us about Jessica? What were her interests, hobbies, that sort of thing?’
‘How’s that going to help?’ Trevor demanded.
‘I’d like to know her as a person,’ said Jan. ‘Not as a victim. And, it may be that something you tell us helps to form a picture of what happened to her. It’s important we learn every detail, no matter how small you think it is.’
Turpin nodded. ‘It’s true what Detective West says. At the moment, we understand Jessica studied part-time at the local agricultural college and worked at the Farriers Arms pub in the village two or three nights a week as well as having a job at the supermarket. How did she travel around?’
‘By bus, mostly,’ said Trevor. ‘To college, at least. Then she’d do Tuesdays and Thursdays at the supermarket nearby and get the bus back from there.’
‘Sometimes I’d pick her up on my way home if I’d been working late,’ said Wendy. ‘I work as a bookkeeper at a food distribution company about five miles away.’
‘Did Jessica drive?’ said Jan.
‘A bit,’ said Trevor, ‘but she didn’t have her own car. After she passed her test, she decided to save her money for a while. She was talking about taking a year out to travel before making any permanent plans after her course finished.’
‘What was she studying?�
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‘Agricultural management,’ said Wendy. She straightened, her expression proud. ‘She wanted to work with minority groups in Asia, with a charity.’
‘Did she ever report any problems at work or college?’ said Turpin.
Trevor frowned. ‘You mean harassment?’
‘Anything, really. Did she ever raise any concerns with either of you?’
Both parents shook their heads.
‘Jessica was one of the most easy-going people you’d ever meet,’ said Wendy. ‘She was one of life’s helpers.’
‘Tell me about her relationship with Will Brennan,’ said Jan.
‘He found her, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘The poor lad must be inconsolable. He has no immediate family down this way, did you know that?’
‘No, we didn’t. Where’s he from?’
‘Gloucestershire, originally,’ said Trevor. ‘His parents live outside Cheltenham, and he’s got a younger sister at secondary school. Lovely lad, he is.’
‘When did Jessica start working at MacKenzie Adams’ yard?’ said Turpin.
A tic began under Trevor’s left eye, and Jan held her breath.
‘I wish she’d never got involved with him,’ he said. ‘She had enough to do, what with college work and two jobs. She didn’t need to go and work for him as well.’
‘She wanted the experience, love,’ said Wendy, her tone conciliatory. ‘You know that.’
Trevor scowled. ‘She could’ve done anything with her life. She didn’t need him.’
‘Will didn’t mention it to us when we interviewed him this morning,’ said Jan.
‘They had a falling out about it,’ said Wendy. ‘Nothing too serious, but I don’t think Will wanted her there.’
‘Any ideas why not?’ said Turpin.
‘Adams has a reputation for eyeing up the girls,’ said Trevor. ‘Not underage, nothing like that, but I know from gossip at the Farriers that he’s broken a few hearts over the years.’
‘Goodness knows what he put his poor wife through when she was alive,’ said Wendy, shaking her head. ‘Terrible.’
‘Were you worried he and Jessica––’
‘No, not at all,’ said Trevor. ‘We had a chat about it when he offered her the occasional Saturday morning up there, and she said most of her friends thought he was too old for them. I told her she could always come and speak to us if anything did make her uncomfortable but she never did.’
‘But you were still unhappy she worked there?’ said Turpin.
Trevor’s eyes flashed. ‘It was the gossip,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t matter whether anything happened or not, people can be bastards. They might’ve seen it as harmless teasing to wonder if anything was going on between them, but it upset Jessica. She was just trying to get ahead in life.’
‘And she was head over heels about Will,’ said Wendy. ‘She’d never cheat on him for a start.’
‘How did Jessica get to work last night?’ said Jan.
‘I dropped her off,’ said Trevor. ‘It’s my local so I stayed for a couple of drinks – low alcohol, mind. I left at about nine o’clock.’
‘Did you see Will Brennan there?’
‘Briefly. He left about an hour before me – I suppose he was up early this morning with the horses.’
‘And what were Jessica’s plans for getting home?’
‘She said she’d walk back once she’d finished helping Noah clean up afterwards. Sometimes she stays late and gives them a hand preparing for the next day, you see.’
‘I’m surprised she’d walk home this time of year,’ said Mark, ‘especially given the narrow lane.’
Trevor wiped at his eyes. ‘I know, but she wouldn’t listen. She always said she liked the walk – she said it gave her time to think and wind down after a shift.’
Jan dropped her notebook back into her handbag and rose from her seat. ‘Thank you for speaking with us. We’ll leave you now – Grant here will continue to act as your liaison, so if you have any questions about what’s happening with the investigation, he’ll be able to assist.’
She and Turpin shook hands with the Marleys and then made their way back to the car.
Jan tossed her handbag onto the back seat, then rested her hand on the roof and peered across at Turpin. ‘So, if she didn’t own a car, and she didn’t borrow her mum’s that night, she must’ve got a lift with her killer or was picked up while she was walking home.’
‘Time to have a word with the landlord of the Farriers Arms, I think,’ he said. ‘Find out who was the last person there to see her alive.’
Chapter Six
The Farriers Arms public house wore its history with tired reluctance.
At the front and leading down to the road, a wide garden laid to lawn had been covered with picnic bench tables in strategic places so that in the summer months patrons could make the most of the warmer weather. The benches lay bare now, the bright umbrellas used for sun shade stored away, and the grass beneath them overgrown.
Mark ran a practised eye over the pub’s exterior, taking in the chipped burgundy paintwork surrounding the four windows that faced the cracked and potted asphalt of the car park, which had fared little better over the preceding winters than the quiet country lane that led to it.
The thatched roof of the pub had been replaced at least, although the fresh reeds reminded him of a new haircut that hadn’t yet worn in. Smoke rose from two of the four red-brick chimneys, and the faint aroma of burning logs filled the air as he drew closer.
Originally a fifteenth-century forge, the building had a chimney breast that thrust its way skywards from a dark thatched roof and bore a chiselled inscription of 1922 for its conversion into a public house, the finality of a dying trade stamped upon its brick bones.
Mark followed a crazy-paved path towards the front door of the whitewashed building, the outer walls on each side of the entrance bearing the metal tools of the old farriers’ trade.
He pushed against the dark oak front door, the rough surface scarred and scratched, its centuries-old iron hinges creaking theatrically under his touch as he held it open for Jan.
A silence greeted him – an eeriness he hadn’t expected, which was exacerbated by the lack of music or conversation.
As he crossed the worn flagstones, he peered around at the uneven windowsills lined with bric-à-brac that had seen better days; pewter jugs with dull surfaces, and hardback books whose torn spines only hinted at titles and writers’ names.
A figure stood behind the bar with his back to them, a broad man with a receding hairline who shuffled along to the till and switched it on, oblivious to their arrival.
‘Excuse me,’ said Mark.
The man turned, surprise etched on his round features. ‘Sorry – I was in a world of my own there. Didn’t see you come in.’
Jan held up her warrant card. ‘Are you the licensee?’
The man moved from behind the bar, dropped a yellow duster beside an aerosol can of furniture polish on the table next to them and wiped his hands on the back of his jeans. ‘That’s right. Noah Collins.’
‘We wondered if we could have a word about Jessica Marley,’ said Mark. ‘Got a minute?’
‘Of course. Come on over and sit down.’ Collins jerked his thumb towards the oak bar that swept the length of the room. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘No, we’re fine, thanks.’
Mark waited until Jan had settled on a bar stool then took a seat next to her and cast his eyes over the back wall.
Bottles of liquor were arranged into varieties of gin, vodka, whisky and brandy alongside displays of photographs and more knick-knacks associated with the pub’s history.
Collins caught him staring, and leaned against a glass-doored refrigerator under the till. ‘Are you the ones investigating Jessica’s death?’
‘How did you find out about it?’
‘The driver who brought this morning’s oil delivery. I reckon he
heard it from someone up at the stables – they’re not on mains gas, either.’
‘How long had Jessica worked here?’
‘Since she was seventeen – she started in the kitchen, and then moved to help on the bar after she had her eighteenth birthday,’ said Collins. ‘She used to work here full-time until she started at college. She was doing two to three days a week these days in between other commitments.’
‘What was she like as an employee?’ said Jan.
‘Dependable. Honest. The sort of person you could leave to run the pub on her own of an evening without worrying. She was going to look after the place for us when we go on holiday in May.’ A sadness washed across his face. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do without her. The regulars will miss her, that’s for sure. Always had a smile for everyone, and gave as good as she got when it came to banter.’
‘Well liked, then?’ said Mark.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Any idea why someone would attack her?’
‘No, and it’s been something that’s been going around in my head since I heard she was found,’ said Collins. ‘Jess didn’t make enemies. I think it helped that she only worked here part-time. When she was here, people were so intent on catching up with her, they didn’t think to argue.’
‘No arguments over the past few weeks?’
Collins shook his head. ‘If there were, I’ve never been told about them.’
‘Do you get much trouble here?’
‘It’s a quiet pub. It’s mostly locals who come here, although we do get people dropping by for lunch or dinner. My wife, Sonia, is the chef.’ A sense of pride filled his voice. ‘We’ve won a few pub awards and she’s been featured in a couple of local magazines.’
Mark made the appropriate approving noises, and then cast his eyes around the pub.
Her Final Hour Page 3
