‘I hoped Belinda would still be here.’
Imogen raised an eyebrow. ‘Why? Did you want to cross-examine her?’ Her lips curved in a knowing smile. ‘Are you going to get involved?’
‘Not likely. I’m retired, and I want to stay that way. But I’m just as nosy as the next man.’
Imogen gave him a look that his friend, James, would describe as ‘old-fashioned.’ It involved raised eyebrows, pursed lips and a brief shake of the head.
Adam ignored her and attacked a tall branch of dogwood, his secateurs slicing neatly through the stems.
She said, ‘To be honest, I don't know any more details. Just that this other jockey, Alex Deacon, was found dead in the stables at the racecourse. I tried very hard – well, moderately hard – not to eavesdrop when the police were talking, but I did hear something about her body in a trough of water.
‘She’d just won a race, rather acrimoniously, I believe. It depended on a Stewards’ Enquiry and Belinda was deemed to have obstructed Alex’s horse. There’s no love lost between the girls, I hear.’
‘Who told you that?’
Imogen had the grace to blush. ‘One of the guests at Belinda's table. There were two couples, plus Belinda and her mother. They all have shares in the horse, Butterfly Charm.’
‘Quite a set of potential suspects by the sound of it. Did you hear anything about them?’
Imogen wrinkled her nose. ‘Belinda told me their names. She’d thought the police were about to arrest her, and she was so relieved after they left that she couldn’t stop talking. Let me think, now.’
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. ‘They sat at the big round table by the window. Belinda’s mother, Diane, sat with Laura Wilson, a glamorous blonde, on one side and Laura’s husband, Magnus, on the other.’ She broke off to think. ‘Yes, that’s right. Then, a noisy, opinionated barrister, Henry Oxon, sat on the other side of Laura with his Thai wife, Ling.’
She grinned. ‘There, are you impressed with my memory?’
‘Brilliant. Anything else strike you about the syndicate?’
‘Well, the champagne flowed rather freely and things became a bit rowdy. I thought the barrister was going to start a fight but his wife headed it off. Belinda’s mother was necking the wine like water. She was a touch wobbly on her pins when we went up in the lift, and a bit hysterical about her daughter.’
‘Anything about the other couple?’
She nodded. ‘The man, Magnus, works at the hospital. He sees himself as something of a ladies’ man, I think. After the meal, he tried to persuade Emily to join him in a glass of whisky.’
‘And did she?’ Adam was curious.
‘Not Emily. She’s far too sensible to drink on duty. In any case, he was with his wife, so it was all perfectly innocent.’
Adam, with a grunt of satisfaction, removed a long, bright red stem of dogwood, and laid it on the pile. Harley sniffed at the branch, sighed, and lay down.
‘Exhausted, are you?’ Adam asked. It was good to see Harley contented. There was plenty of space to run here. Not that Harley showed any inclination to move at the moment.
Imogen looked at her watch and straightened up, one hand on her back. ‘Ouch. Getting old.’ She shot Adam a glance, smiling mischievously. ‘By the way, Steph's coming tomorrow for the Spring Fair committee meeting. They call it the Spring Fair, although it doesn’t happen until early May, so shouldn’t it be called the Summer Fair? Anyway, we’re holding it outside in the hotel garden. Optimists, all of us.’
Adam laughed. ‘With alternative arrangements in case of rain?’
‘Of course. Marquees. Big ones. You’re coming to the meeting, aren’t you?’
Adam made a face. He’d forgotten all about it. In a weak moment, he’d agreed to join the committee, his arm twisted by both the energetic vicar, Helen Pickles, and Imogen. Finally, Maria Rostropova, known in The Plough as the Most Glamorous Woman in the Village, had battered down the rest of his defences.
He hadn’t known Steph would be there.
He turned away to keep his face hidden. He thought about Steph, one of Imogen’s old school friends, far more than he’d admit to anyone, even Imogen.
Steph was bright and lively, a journalist who’d made her living delivering witty columns for magazines but planned to write a book. ‘All I need,’ she often said, ‘is a decent subject.’ Her face, with its upturned nose, large brown eyes and wide mouth always on the verge of laughter, surfaced much too often in Adam’s daydreams. He grew tongue-tied in her presence, like a schoolboy. It was all quite ridiculous for a man of his age.
He glanced at Imogen, wondering what she thought, about to confide in her, but lost his nerve at the last moment and drew back.
It’s blindingly obvious, he told himself, that Steph, the successful journalist, is not going to be interested in a middle-aged ex-copper who's spent his entire adult life proving himself unsuccessful with women.
He snapped the secateurs shut and stuffed them in a pocket.
6
Coffee
On Monday morning, Harley greeted Imogen by dropping his disgusting toy rabbit, covered in dribble, at her feet. Michael, Emily’s deputy, had given the thing to him and he was meant to keep it in his basket. Imogen often had to steal it when he wasn’t looking, leaving him bereft and puzzled while she threw it in the washing machine.
One of the disadvantages of ‘living over the shop,’ as she called residence at the hotel, was that Imogen felt on almost permanent show.
Harley, on the other hand, loved the guests. On Saturday, Imogen had only just prevented him dropping his rabbit on Laura Wilson’s ivory silk skirt.
Laura had roared with laughter in an earthy, deep voice, startlingly at odds with her elegant appearance. ‘Gorgeous dog,’ she’d enthused. ‘We had two or three mutts like him on the farm while I was growing up. Mum and Dad still keep a couple of sheepdogs.’
Imogen wiped Harley’s drool from her shoes just as Steph arrived for the Spring Fair committee meeting.
Small, dark-haired, and dressed in cheerful blue and yellow, Steph waved the morning paper in Imogen’s face, bubbling with excitement. ‘What do you know about Wincanton? It’s all over the papers – one of the jockeys died in suspicious circumstances on Saturday. Have you heard anything? And have you seen Adam? I’m eaten up with curiosity and he gets inside information from his friendly pathologist, doesn’t he?’
Nothing excited Steph more than hot news.
‘You can ask him yourself,’ Imogen grinned as Adam arrived, spruced up with neatly combed hair and, Imogen could swear, a new pair of horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Let’s go up to the Hawthorn conference room. I booked it for this morning’s meeting. Emily will show the others up when they arrive.’
The Hawthorn Room was one of Imogen’s favourites, for the window looked out over her beloved gardens and the sun peeked cheerfully through the window. When the room was unoccupied, Imogen often sat there alone, drinking coffee and planning.
As she led the way to the lift, past the dining room where Emily was overseeing preparations for lunch, a commotion in the foyer stopped her in her tracks. A high-pitched voice was shouting, ‘I don’t care, I’m going to ask him.’
Diane Sandford, face distorted, hair unkempt, ran to Adam and clutched at his sleeve. ‘Please help us,’ she sobbed. ‘Everyone thinks my daughter killed that jockey, but Belinda wouldn’t hurt a fly. They told me you’re a policeman…’ The rest of her sentence disappeared in a flood of tears.
Adam glanced at Imogen. 'Can we use the office?' he asked.
She nodded and he ushered Diane Sandford away from the fascinated gaze of the guests in the foyer, mentally rehearsing his response to her plea. Despite years of dealing with anxious, distraught members of the public, his heart still went out to parents whose child was under threat – no matter how old the child.
He motioned for Diane to sit down, but she stayed on her feet, pacing restlessly backwards and forwards ac
ross the room, hands clasped. Her face was white and Adam could see that tears threatened. ‘You have to help us,’ she begged.
'I'm no longer a police officer,' Adam pointed out. 'I know this is hard for you and your daughter—'
She faced him, 'That's just it,' she said. 'Belinda isn’t taking it seriously. She says she has nothing to worry about – but if that’s so, why did the police come?' Her voice tailed off.
'Please sit down,' Adam said, firmly.
Emily's face appeared at the window. 'Coffee?’ She mouthed. Adam nodded his thanks and gestured at the chair. 'Take your time and tell me what happened.’
At last, Diane sat, hovering on the edge of the chair as if ready to run away at any moment. ‘Belinda’s a jockey at Leo Murphy’s stables,’ she said. ‘She loves the work – every moment of it. She was born to ride. My husband encouraged her.’
They paused as coffee arrived. Diane heaped sugar into her cup.
'Your husband?' Adam queried.
'Rupert died,' Diane said. 'Eighteen months ago. It was cancer, of course. It all happened so quickly. Luckily, Belinda kept busy at the stables.’ She tugged at a gold chain around her neck. ‘That sheltered her a little from – from most of it.'
She winced. 'I don't see much of Belinda these days, because she’s doing so well. She's ridden for the yard once or twice as an apprentice, but Saturday's race was her first proper, professional ride.’
She leaned forward, keen to explain clearly. ‘She wouldn't earn much money from it, but winning would take her higher up the ladder.'
Adam knew almost nothing about this arcane world of horse racing. How did you even become a jockey? He’d assumed only wealthy people rode, but Diane didn’t look rich. Her husband had been a barrister, but Adam knew criminal lawyers outside big cities often earned far less than their clients imagined.
He sat quietly, letting Diane talk. She was getting into her stride. The tears had dried up and her hands lay still in her lap.
‘Belinda was so excited. The race was her dream come true. I don't think anyone expected her to win. Not on her first ride. In any case, Butterfly Charm isn't the best horse in the yard. That's why I could afford to keep my shares after Rupert died.’
She blew her nose and sat up straighter. ‘Henry and Ling have been very kind. I sometimes think they only hold on to their shares in Butterfly Charm to keep me company.'
'And Henry is?' Adam asked, gently. Diane’s take on the other syndicate members would be useful.
'Oh dear, I'm not telling this very well, am I? Henry was the head of my husband's chambers. Rupert had known Henry for years and they’re almost like family there. They look out for each other. Henry was always trying to persuade Rupert to drop the legal aid side of the work, but he wouldn’t.'
She took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. 'Sorry, I'm rambling, aren’t I? You don’t need to know all this.’
'Tell me about the race,’ Adam suggested. ‘I gather there was confusion over the outcome.'
Diane sniffed and blew her nose, tucking her handkerchief away in her pocket. 'That’s one way of putting it.’ She tried a watery smile. ‘Belinda made a silly mistake at the end of the race. It was such a shame. She says she lost concentration for a split second, when she was in the lead. I suppose she got overexcited, and who can blame her? It was her first race, wasn't it? I mean, anyone can make a mistake…'
'Of course they can. It's all part of the learning process,' he soothed, wondering how serious a mistake Belinda had made.
Diane nodded, her hungry eyes fixed gratefully on his. 'I knew you'd understand. But the stewards said she’d impeded the other horse.’
She shook her head, angrily. ‘Belinda came in first, but they gave the race to Alex Deacon.'
Her eyes blazed, suddenly. ‘All the cheering stopped and there was this awful announcement, saying there was going to be a Stewards’ Enquiry.’
She shuddered and her voice shot up the scale. ‘I didn't know where to look. It was as though Belinda had committed a crime.'
She frowned, and her eyes flashed. ‘Henry thought Alex Deacon – the girl who died – held her horse back deliberately, to make Belinda look bad. Cheating, I’d call it.’
She shrugged. 'Still, what’s done is done. We decided we'd carry on with our dinner.' She gave an unconvincing attempt at a laugh. 'Henry had already ordered the champagne.’
Adam tried to keep her on track. ‘What happened after the race?’
She paused a moment, as though trying to remember, and then the words flooded out, tumbling over one another. ‘We all stayed at the racetrack while Belinda went back to check on the horse, before one of the stable lads drove it back to the yard. Then, we came back to Lower Hembrow for dinner together, all six of us – that’s me, Belinda and the rest of the syndicate. We’d asked Leo, the trainer, but he couldn’t make it. Just as well, I suppose. It would have been embarrassing, wouldn’t it?’
With a sudden, jerky movement, she grabbed her cup to gulp down the coffee, replacing it with such force that Adam feared for the hotel’s elegant saucer. ‘Belinda could only stop for one night, but I stayed for the rest of the weekend. I enjoyed my spot of luxury. Rupert and I often spent the weekend in a country hotel.’
She was on her feet again, moving restlessly from one foot to the other. 'We were eating dinner, trying to enjoy ourselves, although Henry was – well, Henry likes an argument when he’s had a drink. Then, the next thing we knew,’ she finished with a rush of words, ‘two policemen arrived to talk to Belinda and it turned out the rider of the other horse, Alex Deacon, was dead.'
She swept the back of one hand across her eyes and Adam edged a box of tissues nearer to her. Her handkerchief must be soaking wet by now.
'Can you imagine? It was such a shock. At least the officers didn't stay very long. They just wanted a few facts from Belinda, because she knew Alex. After they left, Belinda said it was nothing to worry about. She did know Alex but they weren’t really friends. They rode for rival yards, you see.’
She was talking earnestly, now, trying to explain, ‘Belinda is with Leo Murphy, while Alex rode for Ann Clarkson. But then, then,’ her breath shuddered, she sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes. 'This morning the police telephoned and asked Belinda to go into the station again. And I just know, after the way that race ended, that Belinda is going to be their main suspect.'
She looked directly at Adam, her eyes red from crying. ‘Mr Hennessy, if there's anything you can do to help prove her innocence, please do it. Henry will do what he can, I know, but he has his position to think of.'
That sounded very much like a quote from the man himself. Diane seemed desperate, searching for someone – anyone – to lean on, in the absence of her husband.
Adam couldn't be that person, but he wasn't about to make her feel worse. 'As I said, Mrs Sandford—' he began gently.
‘Please call me Diane. And I can pay, of course. I can’t afford a lot, but…’
Adam held up his hand.
'There’s no need for that, Diane. I'm not a policeman any more, I'm just the landlord of The Plough over the road, and I wouldn’t dream of taking your money. You should stop worrying. The police are very thorough, very honest and always determined to find the truth.'
He resisted the temptation to cross his fingers behind his back. The police had been willing to jump to conclusions when Imogen's husband died, and he had a suspicion that if he had not intervened, Imogen might even now be in custody, accused or even convicted of her husband's murder.
'I'm not sure there's much I can do,' he said, as much to himself as to Diane. 'But I'm sure your daughter has nothing to worry about.'
As long, he thought silently, as she's telling the truth and didn't shove her rival into a trough of water in a fit of jealousy. He kept that thought to himself. If it were the truth, Diane Sandford would know it soon enough.
7
Committee
Next morning, Helen Pickles, the vicar,
threw open the door of the Hawthorn Room. ‘The perfect place for our committee meeting,’ she hooted, arms aloft, as though offering a blessing.
Harley trotted past her, made a brief visit to Imogen and Steph, and then settled down close to the door as though on guard.
Helen processed across the room, stately as a Thirties cruise liner, while the assistant manager, Michael, breathless, staggered in her wake with his arms full of boxes.
‘Wonderful, Michael. You are a true star, and will have first choice at the vicarage stall.’
Michael left, less than thrilled at the prospect of buying some of the second-hand donations. Harley trotted at his heels in the hope of a titbit or two.
Helen flipped open the lid of the top box in the pile. ‘Just a few bits and pieces from last year in here.’
She dived into another box. ‘Bunting,’ she muttered, ‘banners, balloons – the job’s already half done.’
Imogen said, ‘How many are we expecting this morning?’
‘Good point. I have a list. It’s in one of the boxes.’ Helen frowned. ‘But, which one?’
After rummaging for a few tense moments, she abandoned the effort, sank into a chair, and took a deep breath. Catching sight of the plate in the centre of the long table, she clapped her hands. ‘Cakes,’ she exclaimed. ‘Imogen, you are cruel. Once again, you tempt me with brownies, when you know I give up chocolate for Lent every year, and it only began last week. There is a long time to go until Easter. However,’ she looked more closely, ‘I spy an almond slice. That will do. You are forgiven.’
She leaned back and closed her eyes in bliss, munching. Imogen waited for the verdict. Finally, Helen swallowed and brushed crumbs from her fingers. ‘Delicious. Now, since the dratted list has gone AWOL, I must think. Our committee this year consists of me, of course – it comes with the job. I’ll chair, as usual, if you like.’
A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries) Page 4
