‘Thanks.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Mark, as he followed Jan up the stairs to the next level, ‘she reminded me exactly of my old headmistress from primary school.’
Jan slowed her pace until they were side by side. ‘How old do you think she was?’
‘I don’t know. Forty, going on sixty perhaps?’
Jan grinned, then pointed at a door with a glass pane in the middle of it, the letters 4C embossed at head height.
‘This is the one.’
Mark lifted his head and checked the clock on the wall above the door. ‘Ten minutes until his class starts.’
‘Let’s hope he has some quick answers, then,’ said Jan, and pushed open the door.
‘The class is in room 6E this morning,’ a baritone voice bellowed across the expanse of desks.
As Mark’s eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, compared with the muted tones of the corridor, he could make out a figure, head bowed as he pondered a newspaper held up to the window.
The newspaper fluttered closed.
‘Oh. Who are you?’
‘Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin, Thames Valley Police. My colleague, Detective Constable Jan West. Are you––’
‘Wayne Brooks, yes.’ The newspaper was tossed aside onto a desk before the figure advanced towards them. ‘I suppose you’re here about Jessica. Bloody terrible news.’
Mark returned the firm handshake.
‘Where were you last week?’ said Jan. ‘Our colleagues left a message for you, but you haven’t returned their call.’
‘I was going to phone after class this morning,’ said Brooks. ‘I was in Wales, visiting my father.’
‘Whereabouts in Wales does he live?’
‘Near a small place called Tintern. Wye Valley. Very pretty.’ Brooks moved across the room towards a blackboard and then began wiping the chalk scratchings from its surface with methodical strokes using a yellow duster.
Jan wandered across to where he stood. ‘Did anyone go with you?’
She watched with interest as the man’s cheeks coloured, and then his shoulders sagged.
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Well, if you’re asking the question, I’m presuming you’ve already spoken to her. Bethany Myers.’ He shook his head, his gaze finding the floor. ‘I knew the moment our phones started showing all those missed calls that something was wrong. But Jessica––’
‘What was she like, Jessica? As a pupil?’
‘Studious. Hard-working.’ He frowned. ‘Except for the past three or four weeks. I don’t know what was going on – I never had a chance to ask her about it, but she just seemed to lose interest.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘For her, yes.’
‘Did she show any signs of stress, other than her grades failing?’
‘Not really, apart from seeming a little preoccupied sometimes during class. Daydreaming, I mean. I had to call out to her a couple of times in the past few weeks to get her attention. That wasn’t like her.’
‘Were you having an affair with Jessica?’
‘What?’ He took a step back. ‘Good God, no.’
‘But you’re having an affair with Bethany Myers?’
A hunted expression crossed Brooks’ face, his eyes darting to the door. ‘Please, keep your voice down.’
‘Do you know of anyone who might have cause to harm Jessica Marley, Mr Brooks?’
‘No, I don’t. She was a model student. Everyone liked her. I couldn’t believe it when I heard what happened.’
Jan pursed her lips, then pulled out a business card. ‘We’ll be in touch again, but if you think of anything in the meantime that might assist with our investigation, call me.’
His hand shook as he took the card. ‘Okay.’
Jan crossed the room to Turpin and then followed him towards the door as a cacophony of voices began to emanate from the stairwell.
‘Detective?’
She turned, to see Brooks frozen next to the blackboard, her card between his fingers. ‘What?’
‘Please, don’t tell my wife about this.’
‘And her name is?’
‘Well, if you’ve found me you’ve already spoken to her. Angela Spetcroft.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mark floored the accelerator as soon as they reached the dual carriageway and pointed the car in the direction of the Berkshire Downs, keen to reach Dominic Millar’s racing stables while their uniformed colleagues were still conducting interviews.
Kennedy’s frustration at the lack of progress was beginning to make for a fraught atmosphere in the incident room, and Mark was keen to report back with some results by the end of the day.
Next to him, Jan drummed her fingers on the sill of the passenger door, her jaw clenched.
‘Still pissed off with Wayne Brooks?’ he said.
‘Yes. What on earth is he doing having an affair with Bethany Myers? She must be at least twenty years younger than him.’
‘It makes you wonder how long it’s been going on for.’
‘And whether they’ll break it off after what happened to Jessica,’ said Jan. ‘I mean, it’s not going to take much for people to realise they were both in Wales, is it?’
‘Does Brooks live anywhere near Harton Wick?’
‘No – he and Angela have a house about a mile and a half from the college. Caroline said that when she left a message with his wife last week she mentioned he tends to walk to work. I think she has the car – they work different hours and she visits her mother on the way home most days.’
‘They’re a strange couple.’
Jan shuffled in her seat to face him. ‘Do you think she knows about his affair? Angela, I mean.’
‘Hard to say. I do wonder if Jessica knew though.’
‘Do you think she threatened to tell Angela?’
‘Possibly, but for what purpose?’
Jan bit her lip and stared out of the windscreen. ‘Blackmail’s the obvious one. But would Brooks take her threats seriously enough to kill her? Or would Bethany for that matter?’
‘Bethany’s young – probably not interested in settling down yet. I’m not sure about Brooks – he came across as being timid.’
‘Maybe.’ Jan sat forward and pointed at a signpost coming up on the left-hand side of the road. ‘This is the place.’
As Mark pulled into the yard for Millar’s racing stables, he ran his gaze over the two patrol cars already parked outside a stable block, and braked to a halt next to them.
PS Tom Wilcox appeared through the front door of the low-set main house and raised his hand in greeting as they approached.
‘We’re using the kitchen and the office,’ he said. ‘Mr Millar has been very helpful; he only has four full-time staff and three part-timers, and he managed to rustle them all up to be interviewed this morning. We’ve got another three to go and we’ll be done.’
‘Anything of interest?’ said Mark, as he followed Wilcox into the hallway.
‘Not yet,’ said Tom. ‘Mr Millar is in the dining room through there, if you want to have a word with him. I’d best get back to the interviews.’
‘Thanks.’
Compared with the darker decor and traditional furnishings of MacKenzie Adams’ home, Mark was surprised to find that Dominic Millar’s tastes were a stark contrast.
As he walked into the room Tom had pointed out, he ran his gaze over whitewashed walls adorned with framed photographs of racehorses and paintings of local landscapes, interspersed with various objects d’art that had been set upon strategically placed shelves.
A man turned from a large picture window at the far end of the room and held out his hand as they approached.
‘Dominic Millar. I presume you’re the detectives Sergeant Wilcox told me would be coming over at some point?’
Mark made the introductions, then gestured to the photographs. ‘Are these of you?’
Millar’
s mouth twisted. ‘Yes. Another life. I tend to use this room for meetings when I have clients here, so it serves me well to have the old career up on the wall. Take a seat.’
He gestured to the chairs nearest to them, waited until they’d sat down, and then pulled out a seat opposite. ‘I’d offer coffee, but if my lot catch a whiff of that, you’ll never get through the interviews in time for them to make the afternoon training session.’
‘Thanks for getting everyone together.’
‘No problem. I figured it was easier to do it in one go there rather than expect them to come to you. Gets it over and done with, doesn’t it?’
‘Have any of them mentioned to you if they knew Jessica Marley?’
‘I think two of the younger lads might have known her in passing, but only because they drink down the Farriers.’
‘And what about you, Mr Millar? Did you know Jessica?’
‘No. I didn’t drink in that pub. I don’t drink much at all, to be honest, and I certainly don’t go out of my way to socialise with other jockeys.’ He waved a hand dismissively at the photographs. ‘All of that’s behind me now. Besides, it’s never a good idea to drink where your staff do.’
‘Fair enough. We need to ask – where were you between ten o’clock last Monday night and seven o’clock Tuesday morning?’
‘Here. My brother and his wife came over for dinner and ended up staying rather than driving back to Norfolk. They’d been visiting friends in Hampshire that weekend and decided to call in on the way home. We had a late dinner and sat up talking until about midnight, and then I was up at five o’clock to oversee the lads in the yard.’
‘You don’t have a manager?’
Millar managed a smile. ‘I don’t make as much from this as Adams. Yet.’
‘What’s the story with the gallops? You both use them.’
‘Yeah, we lease them from the farmer who owns all the land up at that end of the Downs – Morgan Drake. He’s got a big place out near Hazelthorpe. Well, I say “farmer” – he owns land, but he made his money in some sort of investment firm up in London. I don’t think he actually does any farming. Tends to lease out land for agistment, grazing rights, that sort of thing. Very much a hands-off approach, which suits us fine. At least we can get on and exercise the horses without him sticking his nose in.’
‘Do you ever visit MacKenzie Adams’ stables?’
‘God, no. Not since my accident.’
Mark frowned. ‘Were your injuries sustained there?’
‘I used to ride for Adams. Years ago. I was riding one of his horses when this happened. Stupid bugger of a four-year-old gelding tripped over his own feet approaching a hurdle, threw me and then rolled on top of me. I’m lucky to be alive.’ His gaze travelled to the photographs before he shrugged. ‘That’s what I tell myself on the bad days, anyway.’
‘I suppose going over to the yard would bring up bad memories,’ said Jan.
‘It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d actually supported me more than he did,’ said Millar. ‘As it was, the moment he realised my recovery was going to take longer than the eight weeks we first thought, he got rid of me. I only managed to keep my head above water because I’d saved hard that year.’
‘And all of this?’ Mark gestured to the yard beyond the window.
‘Inheritance,’ said Millar. ‘My father died four weeks after I left hospital. I had to do something with my life, so I figured I’d get back into racing the only way I knew how without actually being on a horse.’
‘We heard Nigel White had a similar mishap when he was riding professionally. Has he shown any animosity towards you?’
‘No, not really. He tends to avoid me if I do happen to see him up on the gallops.’
‘Is that because you had family money to start up your own venture, and he didn’t?’
Millar snorted a bitter laugh. ‘Nigel’s only got himself to blame. If he hadn’t spent all his winnings on stupid things like cars during his racing days, and invested instead, he might have had more money to start over when he couldn’t ride horses anymore.’
‘Is business good?’ said Mark.
Millar’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Yes, it is. It was hard, the first two years, but I had a good reputation as a rider – people know I’m trustworthy. Once word got around what I was doing with the training side of things, the owners started trickling in. And, do you know what? I enjoy it. I don’t have to be out there in all weathers if I don’t want to be.’
He smiled, then glanced up at a knock on the door.
Tom Wilcox appeared, and nodded to Mark. ‘We’re all done, guv, so we’ll head off now. Thanks for your time, Mr Millar.’
‘No problem at all, Sergeant. Thanks for getting that done expeditiously.’
Mark waited until Tom disappeared, and then rose from his seat and slid a card across the table. ‘As PS Wilcox said, thank you. We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.’
‘I hope you find whoever killed that poor girl,’ said Millar. ‘My sister’s only a few years older than her, and I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to her.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Will Brennan shifted his weight as the black horse beneath him lashed out and kicked the side of the starting enclosure.
Steam rose from the animal’s nostrils while Onyx tossed his head from side to side, stamped a front leg, and harrumphed.
The horse to his left whinnied in response, and the rider peered over the barrier to where Will sat with his gaze roaming the floodlit all-weather track ahead of them.
Out the corner of his eye he saw the man grinning, and sighed.
‘What do you want, Charlie?’
‘Didn’t think we’d see you here, Brennan.’ The jockey called across to the rider to Will’s right. ‘Ain’t that right, Connor?’
Will didn’t hear what the other jockey said in response. He gathered up the reins between fingers that were fast becoming numb. ‘I didn’t have a lot of choice.’
‘I’ll bet old MacKenzie is lapping this up.’ Charlie laughed, a brash sound that set Will’s nerves on edge. ‘Did you see his face when he saw all those television cameras around the parade ring? Thought he’d died and gone to heaven, he did.’
Will swallowed, biting back the searing retort on his lips.
It wasn’t the only insensitive comment he had been subjected to since arriving at Newbury.
Incredulous stares and murmured insults had accompanied his walk from the lorry that transported MacKenzie’s two horses and riders to the racecourse from the yard, and the changing rooms were worse.
People wanted to know how he was feeling, why he was there, what the police were doing about it.
And some wanted him to hurt.
Paul hadn’t been any help – he had been riding in the earlier race and had cleared off as soon as he had finished in a comfortable second place, saying he was hungry and wanted a burger from one of the fast food vans that were parked below the public stands.
Will rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to relax.
If he was taut and strung out, Onyx would sense it and then all hell would break loose.
Charlie was right, if rude – MacKenzie Adams had worked his way around the parade ring, a permanent look of sadness on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He had shaken hands with fellow trainers, kissed the hands of several owners’ wives and pointed out Will to anyone who would listen while Will kept his gaze lowered and fussed over Onyx, dread crawling through his veins.
‘Bet he phoned them,’ said Charlie.
‘What?’
‘MacKenzie. Cunning bastard. Bet he phoned the media to let them know you’d be racing tonight.’
Before Will could respond, the front gates swung open and Onyx surged forward.
Too late.
The horse to his right and the one who had started closest to the inner track soon took the lead, and Will cursed under his breath.
Cursed Adams for using him to further his own career ambitions with the media.
He hunkered down into the stirrups, cutting down the wind resistance and tucked in behind the two riders, conscious of Charlie and the others nipping at his and Onyx’s heels.
The horse beneath him was enjoying the race, his pace in keeping with the training sessions they had practised over and over, but Will was conscious of a heavy weight on his chest as they breezed around the first corner of the track.
Was Charlie right?
Had MacKenzie Adams alerted the media to Will riding this weekend despite Jessica’s murder?
What was he telling them in the parade ground?
What would Jessica’s parents think?
The final corner veered into view, and Will gritted his teeth.
It would be worse in the winners’ enclosure.
Bright lights, microphones thrust in his face. The questions––
How do you feel?
It was only a sprint race. Five furlongs maximum, just to show what Onyx could do.
Demonstrate what his capabilities were.
What if?
But could he do it, after everything he had been working for?
The two horses in front cleared the corner, and he tightened his grip on the reins.
What would Jessica do?
Onyx stumbled at the sudden twitch at the bit and Will felt rather than heard Charlie’s mount take advantage – a quickening of hooves, an excited huff of breath, and then his third place became fourth and they were over the line.
He reined in Onyx behind Charlie’s horse, the animal somewhat mollified after the excitement of the race and easier to manage.
In front, he could peer between the colourful caps of the other jockeys.
There were no reporters lying in wait to ambush him, no camera flashes. Just regular members of the public lining the railings that led to the unsaddling area, smartphones aloft.
Will tucked in his chin, hunched his shoulders and focused on the tail of Charlie’s horse, pulling down the peak of his cap to shadow his face from the floodlights above.
Muted conversation flowed between the riders as they dismounted, pulled saddles from the backs of their horses and handed the animals over to the stable hands who would care for them prior to the drive back to the yards spread around the country.
Her Final Hour Page 12
