Chapter Nine
The next morning, Jan took the stairs up to the incident room two at a time, brushing past an older uniformed sergeant carrying a cardboard archiving box before she weaved in front of a pair of administrative assistants, their heads bowed as they gossiped in low voices.
At the top of the stairs she turned right and hurried along the dimly lit corridor, checking her watch.
She was twenty minutes early, adrenalin buzzing after an early morning spin class, and determined to get a head start on her emails before DI Kennedy began the morning briefing.
Mark was already at his desk and held up his hand in greeting, his other clutching the phone pressed to his ear.
His eyes were bloodshot, exhaustion etched across his features, and she wondered if he had slept at all that night.
Frowning, Jan turned away before he caught her staring.
She swung her handbag onto the floor next to her chair, signed into her computer and then glanced across the screen at Mark as he finished his call and swore under his breath.
‘What’s up, Sarge?’
‘I was trying to get hold of MacKenzie Adams so we could interview him today. Turns out he’s gone to Ascot – won’t be back until after nine tonight.’
Jan frowned. ‘After what happened yesterday?’
‘I know. You’d think he’d show a bit of decorum in the circumstances.’
‘I suppose he’s still got to make a living.’
Mark’s top lip curled. ‘I don’t think there was ever a risk of him losing money over this, Jan. I can’t help feeling he’ll be revelling in the extra attention. Just you wait – I’ll bet his face is all over the news tonight.’
Jan sighed. Mark was right. Her first impressions of the racehorse trainer had been that he was self-serving, reinforced by Brennan’s comments regarding his future job prospects at the yard.
‘Do you think he killed her? I mean, after all, Jessica’s parents said he has a reputation for being a womaniser, and he didn’t tell us about Jessica working for him.’
‘I’m not ruling it out,’ said Mark. ‘By the way, have you seen the email from Gillian? She’s scheduled the post mortem for Friday morning. I said to Kennedy that we’d go if he was up to his eyeballs – that all right?’
‘Sure.’ Jan hit “send” on another email in her mailbox and then glanced over her shoulder as Kennedy wrenched open his office door and stalked across to the whiteboard at the end of the room.
She pushed back her chair and followed Mark over to the detective inspector, who moved to a nearby desk and leaned against it while he waited for his team to assemble.
‘Thanks, everyone,’ he said. ‘Let’s begin with an update from Caroline and Alex. How did you get on at the supermarket where Jessica worked?’
Alex cleared his throat, then tugged a notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket and flipped it open. ‘We spoke to her manager, Annie Hartman, and a full-time member of staff called Isaac Fisher who supervises Jessica on a day-to-day basis. They confirmed Jessica worked two afternoon shifts. She worked the checkout register in the delicatessen area on Mondays and then often helped out in the petrol station on Thursday afternoons.’
‘Any problems with other members of staff?’ said Kennedy.
‘None whatsoever,’ said Caroline. ‘And there are no complaints from customers on record, either. When we spoke with Isaac Fisher about her shift last Thursday in the petrol station, we asked if there were any problems in case there was anything that warranted a closer look, but he said it was a quiet afternoon; just the usual commuters and shoppers. He and Jessica spent time restocking the shelves in between serving customers, and she left on time at four o’clock that afternoon and travelled by bus to her home in Harton Wick in time for her shift at the Farriers Arms.’
‘They were all shocked to hear about her death,’ said Alex.
Kennedy wrote a précis of Jessica’s supermarket shifts on the board before re-capping the pen and turning back to the two detectives. ‘What about the college?’
‘We’ve left a message with her form tutor to give us a call. He wasn’t there, and isn’t due back in until Monday. He only teaches part-time. We tried phoning him, but there’s no answer on his mobile and when we phoned his wife she said he’s visiting his father in Wales and won’t be back until later tonight.’
‘Keep on top of that,’ said Kennedy. ‘Liaise with Mark and Jan if you need help.’
‘Will do,’ said Caroline.
‘Mark, Jan? How did you get on speaking with the landlord of the Farriers Arms?’
‘It sounds like Jessica was the model employee there as well,’ said Jan. ‘Nothing to report by way of altercations. Noah Collins – the licensee – said that Jessica left the pub after work Monday night at eleven-thirty. The other staff member lives in the opposite direction at Hazelthorpe and had finished earlier, so Jessica said she’d walk home – one of the regulars offered her a lift an hour before, but she couldn’t leave early because they were still clearing up. According to Collins, the road is well-lit between the pub and the Marleys’ house and she’d often walked home in the past. It’s a little over a mile, though, and there’s no pavement in parts.’
‘Okay, get yourselves over to Harton Wick stables this afternoon and speak with the jockey, Will Brennan, again. Go over his initial statement, see if there are any discrepancies or additional information he can give us to work with. Interview MacKenzie Adams while you’re there, too.’
‘Can’t, guv. Apparently he’s at the races today.’
‘Arsehole. All right. Just make sure you get to him as quickly as possible.’ Kennedy ran his gaze over the assembled officers. ‘I don’t need to tell you, but we’re now approaching thirty-six hours since Jessica was murdered. We need to speak to people while their memories are still fresh, so I want to begin before lunchtime today. We’ll reconvene here at six o’clock tonight. Dismissed.’
The team began to disperse from the area beside the whiteboard and then assembled around Caroline, who called out team leaders for the enquiries and coordinated with the administrative support staff.
Jan set her shoulders before crossing to her desk in Mark’s wake.
He swiped a set of car keys from on top of a motorbike magazine and then tossed them to her. ‘Can you drive? I want to read through the statements Caroline and Alex put together while we’re on the way over to Harton Wick.’
‘No problem.’
Chapter Ten
Jan swore under her breath as the car lurched forward, keeping a tight grip on the steering wheel while she followed the stony track from the lane.
The potholed surface was covered in deep puddles and ruts that shook the car’s suspension and spat out stones from the tyres as she tried to pick her way along the quarter-mile route.
Rain lashed the car, and a moment later a harsh wind buffeted against Turpin’s door, rocking the vehicle from side to side.
He seemed oblivious to the movement of the car and stared out of the window across the barren landscape, lost in thought.
‘Everything all right, Sarge?’
His head jerked around. ‘Sorry, what? Miles away.’
‘Is something the matter?’ she said. ‘You didn’t look too good this morning. I wondered if you were coming down with the flu or something. It’s going through the boys’ school like wildfire at the––’
‘Debbie wants a divorce.’
Hitting the brakes, she turned to face him. ‘Bloody hell, Mark. Sorry.’
He shrugged, glancing at her, and she saw a sadness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. ‘It is what it is.’
‘If you need anything, if Scott and I can help out––’
He managed a smile. ‘Thanks. Do me a favour? Keep it to yourself for now.’
‘No problem. My lips are sealed. What are you going to do?’
‘I’m not going to make it difficult for her. She’s right – we’ve drifted apart since I was attacked,
and it’s not fair on the girls, not this limbo we’re living in. I suppose it just took one of us to be sensible about it all, and Debbie was always the sensible one.’
‘Are you going to be okay?’
‘Yes. Shall we?’
Jan nodded. She could take a hint.
As she accelerated away, she glanced at the low hedgerow that separated the track from a fallow field, the brambles and nettles doing little to protect them from the onslaught passing through the countryside.
Stunted trees bore evidence to the windswept terrain, their branches leaning away from the track as if trying to escape. Twigs broke away, striking the bodywork before tumbling into the thin weeds on either side.
She braked for a gentle curve, worried she might encounter a vehicle coming the other way, and then relaxed as the track widened out in front of a two-storey house.
Jan applied the handbrake and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, peering through the windscreen at the ramshackle cottage.
Tendrils of ivy clung to the brickwork, the dark green a stark contrast to the washed-out paintwork that peeled from the window frames and front door. A cascade of water plummeted from a broken gutter under shattered roof tiles and slopped onto the threadbare garden below, splashing the side of the house with mud.
‘I hope to hell they’ve got heating,’ she said, and flicked off the wipers.
The whole property exuded an air of something temporary, its residents only passing through on their way to chasing their dreams of fame on the racing circuit.
‘How many of them live here?’ said Turpin. ‘Just Brennan and the other jockey – what’s his name?’
‘Paul Hitchens. There’s a third bloke, too – older. Nigel White. I think he helps out with exercising the horses but doesn’t race anymore.’
‘All right. Let’s see if Will’s in.’
Turpin buttoned his coat and then shoved the door open before dashing towards the front porch, water splashing under his feet and coating the hems of his trousers.
Jan pulled up the hood of her waterproof coat and launched herself from the driver’s seat, aiming the key fob over her shoulder as she dodged between puddles to join him.
She shoved her hands in her pockets while Turpin banged his fist against the door, then turned her back to the field as a fresh blast of wind and rain smacked against her face.
Thankfully, the door opened within seconds and Will Brennan peered out.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Can we come in?’ said Turpin.
‘Sure.’
Jan closed the door and wrinkled her nose.
Dampness clung to the plasterwork walls, and it was evident the jockeys’ priorities didn’t stretch to cleaning the place on a regular basis. A stack of Racing Post newspapers filled a corner behind the door, the pages browning with age. Thick dust covered the staircase balustrades, while the carpet suffered from scuff marks, cigarette burns and ages-old muddy boot prints.
Will hovered next to the stairs, his arms wrapped around his stomach and his mouth downturned. ‘I’d offer you a cuppa, but the milk’s off. Paul’s meant to be buying some on his way back later.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Turpin. ‘Is there somewhere we can sit and have a chat?’
‘In here.’
Will gestured to a doorway opposite the staircase.
As she stepped inside, Jan tried to imagine what the living room had looked like when the cottage was first built, and failed.
Yellow damp patches clung to a ceiling that had once been slathered in layers of white paint and decorated with swirling patterns. Wallpaper hung in strips from darkened corners of the room, and a blue-grey fog of old cigarette smoke lingered in the box-like space.
She glanced over her shoulder at Turpin and raised an eyebrow.
He shook his head; evidently the stench wasn’t enough to aggravate his damaged throat – yet.
She turned back to Will, who was gathering up discarded magazines, a laptop computer and various items of clothing from the dilapidated sofa before dumping everything onto an armchair tucked into the far corner of the room beside a chimney breast.
A wood-burning stove emitted a faint orange glow within the hearth, and as Jan ran her gaze around the rest of the room she realised there were no radiators.
‘No central heating?’
‘No, and it’s fucking freezing here this time of year,’ said Will. He moved away from the sofa, pointing at it. ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’
He moved to a large wicker basket to the left of the hearth and pulled out two logs before opening the cast-iron doors to the stove and shoving the fuel inside. After stoking the flames and coaxing another blast of heat to escape into the room, he slammed the doors shut and turned his back to it, his red-rimmed eyes accentuating his grief-stricken features.
‘Please. Have a seat,’ he said.
Jan eyed the sagging cushions, and then perched herself on the edge of the armchair nearest the fireplace. Turpin elected to sit on the arm of the sofa, his hands clasped loosely in his lap.
‘How are you holding up, Will? Have you got anyone you can talk to?’
The jockey shook his head, lowering his eyes to a brown and red rug that partially covered the wooden floorboards. ‘All my family are back in Gloucestershire. Not that I’d really want to talk to them about this anyway.’
‘We need to ask you some more questions, Will. Do you want to sit down?’
‘No. I’ll stand, thanks.’ A faint smile crossed his face. ‘It’s warmer here. Can’t you feel the draught coming off the window behind you?’
‘Who owns this place?’ said Jan.
‘MacKenzie. He owns this one, and two others near here.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘It’s solid. Nothing’s falling off it, yet. Like I said to you before, it’s cheaper than renting anywhere else around here anyway.’
‘Will,’ said Turpin, ‘when we spoke to you yesterday, you stated you’d met Jessica on Monday night while she was working. What time did you get there?’
‘Early. About six o’clock, or thereabouts. Paul and me didn’t want to be out late because we were due to be up early the next day to exercise the horses.’
‘That’s Paul Hitchens?’
‘Yes – he drove there and back.’
‘Who else lives here with you?’
‘Nigel. Nigel White.’
‘Where are they now?’ said Jan.
‘Nigel will be over at the yard – he’s got a cushy seven-to-five job with MacKenzie now he’s retired from racing. Helps out rehabilitating any horses with injuries, overseeing the stable lads, that sort of thing. Paul’s got a race this afternoon so he won’t be back until late.’
‘When you saw Jessica on Monday night, what happened?’ said Turpin. ‘Did you argue?’
‘What? No!’
‘What did you talk about then?’
‘Just the usual stuff, I suppose.’ He ran a hand down one arm, and shivered. ‘I wish I could remember it word for word, I really do. We were making plans for the weekend – I was due to race on Saturday, but I had Sunday off. If the weather was good, we were going to go for a ride on the motorbike. Maybe over to Uffington or Waylands Smithy, take a picnic, that sort of thing. She couldn’t talk much, though – I mean, obviously she was working and they were busy on Monday.’
‘Unusual for a pub to be busy that time of the week, I’d have thought,’ said Jan.
‘Yeah, I think it caught them all off guard. Just one of those things, I suppose when everyone orders their meals at the same time.’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘Eight, like I told you. I remember that, because there’s a sodding big clock behind the bar, next to the bell for last orders.’
‘Did you talk to Jessica before you left?’
Will tugged his sleeve over his fist before wiping at his eyes. ‘Only quickly – Paul was keen to get moving.’
‘Why?’
> ‘I don’t know, he just was. He’s like that – couple of pints do for him, and like I said, he was driving. He gets bored if he has to sit around watching everyone else drink and he can’t.’
‘Did Paul ever argue with Jessica?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Will sniffed. ‘Why would he?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish, because somebody knew Jessica was going to be walking along that lane on Monday night after leaving the pub. Somebody who was familiar with her shift patterns.’
‘Did you come straight back here when you left the pub?’ said Jan.
‘Yeah. MacKenzie keeps a couple of horses in the field on the other side of the car park out there and says we’re to keep the noise down after midnight. I’m usually out like a light by eleven o’clock, anyway.’
‘What did you do when you came back?’
Will shrugged. ‘Cooked some beans on toast, then read my book for a bit. Like I said – early night.’
Turpin rose to his feet and peered out of the dirt-smeared window. ‘And you didn’t leave the house again after that?’
‘No.’
‘Did you speak to Jessica after coming back here?’
‘No, I just sent her a text to let her know I’d call her in the morning about the weekend. The one I showed you. I sent that at eleven before I put my light out.’
Turpin turned back to Will. ‘Did you harm Jessica?’
The jockey paled. ‘Why would I kill her? I loved her. I was going to propose to her this weekend.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Guv, got a minute?’
Mark stuck his head around Kennedy’s office door and eyed the paperwork strewn across the detective inspector’s desk.
He ran his gaze over the framed certificates, commendations and photographs depicting the DI with various dignitaries and senior officers. A newspaper article took pride of place in the middle of the display; a report about the bravery award the DI had received whilst a probationary constable. Mark had heard the story while settling into the station six months ago, and knew the senior officer kept in contact with the man he’d rescued by jumping into an icy river to haul him to safety.
Her Final Hour Page 5
