A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries)

by Frances Evesham

  Dan said, ‘Not surprising. Who would want to be known as a killer’s father or brother?’

  ‘Or even worse,’ Steph said, ‘their mother.’ She gave a small shiver.

  By common consent, they turned to the newspapers, poring over details, soon realising that, thanks to the police visit to the hotel and Diane’s plea to Adam, they already knew more than any of the journalists did.

  ‘Look at this one.’ Dan jabbed a finger at the byline of the paper he was reading. A line of blue paint showed on the edge of his sweater, as though it had brushed against one of his paintings.

  He flipped his paper round on the table so that Imogen could read it.

  John Harris.

  The name meant nothing. ‘This is a pretty damning description of the race,’ Dan said. ‘According to this chap, who seems to be a racing journalist and self-styled expert, Belinda Sandford was riding dangerously and was only let off the hook through sympathy from the stewards for an inept beginner. Here, this is what he says.

  To discover poor Alex dead, later this same day, is a tragedy. No doubt the police will get to the bottom of this unfortunate death of an accomplished rider with a wonderful future ahead of her.’

  He read on,

  Did Belinda Sandford nurture animosity towards the up-and-coming Alex Deacon, a welcome addition to the small group of highly talented women on the racing circuit? Was her disappointing performance in her first race the final straw?

  Steph shook her head. ‘It’s almost an accusation, although he’s keeping on the right side of the law.’

  Dan said, ‘Look at the photo.’

  The camera had caught the two jockeys face to face. Alex had her back slightly turned to the camera but Belinda was caught full face. Fury had distorted her features into ugliness and she gripped her whip at shoulder height, as though about to use it on her rival.

  Steph said, ‘Clever camera work. It makes Belinda look terrible doesn't it?' She smiled grimly. ‘I'd love to talk to this John Harris character. He seems to have already decided Belinda killed Alex. I wonder why.’

  Dan was nodding. ‘Could you arrange a meeting with him? After all, you're both in the business. It sounds like he’d love the opportunity to dig his knife even further into poor Belinda.’

  Adam shook his head. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said, ‘let’s slow down. There’ll be an autopsy soon and James, my old pathologist friend, will let me know what they find. Or I could even talk to DCI Andrews. Imogen and I got to know him over her husband’s murder.’

  ‘He doesn’t think much of me,’ Imogen pointed out, with a wry grin, ‘but I bet he’d listen to you. You were a detective chief inspector yourself.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Steph said, ‘and I don’t see any harm in nosing around a little. Besides, I can’t resist a story and you never know, maybe I’ll write it up and make a fortune. True crime’s popular these days, and it would save me the trouble of working out my own plot.’

  Imogen said, ‘Then, we’re agreed, are we?’

  Adam looked at each face in turn. He’d seen enthusiasm like theirs in newly arrived detective constables. It could be infectious. ‘So long as we’re careful,’ he said.

  Steph punched the air. ‘Let’s get started, then.’

  Dan said. ‘I can't imagine I’d be much good at interviewing. But if you're interested in Leo Murphy’s racing yard, where Belinda works, I might be able to add something, because, as it happens, I’m in the middle of a commission for Leo. He asked me to paint some of the horses in his yard. That famous one, Pink Gin, who won the Gold Cup at Cheltenham last year, and a couple of the young and up-and-coming yearlings – or two-year-olds – or something like that. Leo saw a painting of my donkeys, Smash and Grab, and he seemed to like it.’

  Steph said, ‘Dan, that's a brilliant idea. You can visit the yard and go on painting or taking photos or whatever, while you keep your eyes and ears open. You’ll hear the rumours – what the stable hands think about Alex’s death – that kind of thing. They probably all knew her. You can find out what sort of person she was.’

  She turned to Adam. ‘That can’t do any harm, can it?’

  Adam said, reluctantly, ‘It’s worth a try.’

  His arms were folded and he was frowning even as he nodded. ‘Just take care, everyone. If this is murder, there’ll be a killer out there. And they won’t want us finding them.’

  Dan and Steph left with the light of battle in their eyes, excited by the prospect of taking action. Adam and Imogen remained in the room, sitting across the table from one another.

  Imogen said, ‘I think I should put a locking filing cabinet in here. One would fit in the corner. We don’t want any information we may gather getting into the hands of guests.’

  Adam took a breath. ‘Let’s not get carried away.’ The arrangement bothered him. The others were just amateurs, setting themselves up to solve a real crime, and even he was no longer a police officer. He decided to contact Andrews, the local Detective Chief Inspector, and drop a hint in his ears, just to let him know they wanted to help the police if they could.

  ‘I’m not sure the others are taking this seriously,’ he said. ‘I know Steph is excited. She’s a journalist so she can’t help it, but at least she’s worked on crime stories before.’

  He swallowed. He needed to tread delicately, ‘But Dan’s an artist, with no background in crime. He could easily get himself into trouble.'

  Imogen’s eyes flashed. ‘I don’t know why you’re so set against Dan. He’s very intelligent, he’s willing to help and he’s much nicer than you think. Anyway, all we’re going to do is gather information.’

  Adam sighed. ‘I know.’ The truth was, he was afraid Dan would break Imogen’s heart. She’d told him about their past; they’d met at school, but had somehow never got together. Then, after uni, while still a young struggling painter, Dan had been engaged by her father, Councillor Jones, to paint the hotel’s gardens. Imogen had spent many hours with him as he painted, but just as they realised they had real feelings for each other, Imogen’s father had fired him.

  Hurt and embarrassed, unaware of the true reason he’d been sacked – because his painting revealed some of the Councillor’s illegal activities – Dan had disappeared without a word and stayed away, eventually marrying and living in France.

  Could he be trusted not to hurt Imogen again? Adam loved her like the sister he’d never had. Let Dan put one foot out of place…

  Imogen reached across the table and put her hand on his. Her fierce expression had softened. ‘I’ll talk to Dan, make sure he doesn’t rush into anything.’ Her cheeks were quite pink.

  ‘Tell him to be careful,’ Adam said. That was the best he could do.

  ‘Trust me,’ Imogen smiled. ‘Anyway, you once told me most murders are domestic affairs. This one – if it is a murder – looks no more complicated than a fight over boyfriends or girlfriends that went too far. I bet the culprit is one of the stable hands who lost his temper in the heat of the moment, and it will all be over in a couple of weeks. Of course, it could be Belinda, losing her temper over the race. She looked furious in that photo…’

  Adam nodded, unconvinced. ‘I hope you're right,’ he said, but responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders. He’d keep an eye on things, try to make sure none of the quartet did anything too foolish. Especially Dan.

  9

  James

  On Tuesday, Adam spent an hour coaching Wyatt on how to calculate the supplies needed for the next week’s food.

  When Wyatt said, finally, ‘Got it, boss. Can do,’ Adam was in dire need of a lungful of two of fresh air.

  He nipped over the road to borrow Harley. ‘Not up to a run, today?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘Too late. I might be seen. I only run before people are around and I don’t fancy making myself Joe Trevillian’s laughing stock.’

  ‘He’s a horrid man, isn’t he, very aggressive? Steph did a good job of keeping him in his place, yesterday.’
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br />   ‘Nothing like a journalist for digging up the past. She gave him quite a shock.’ Adam replayed the look on Joe’s face when Steph had confronted him. ‘I think he’s harmless, though. Jenny seems to be the boss in their house, despite Joe’s bluster.’

  The dog by his side, Adam set off around the village. Wyatt could serve the lunches unsupervised. He’d already mixed up some tempting spices for the borrowed beef. It was only arithmetic – or math, as he called it – that caused him problems.

  Rex was in charge behind the bar, helped by a local farmer’s son. Adam knew he could be trusted, so long as Joe didn’t come in and wind him up.

  Today’s walk kept Adam away from the tempting lunch on offer in his pub and assuaged his guilt for not having his run this morning. He was already behind schedule with the fitness programme. ‘I’ll catch up another day,’ he told Harley, who couldn’t have cared less.

  He thought about the dead jockey, Alex Deacon. If Adam were in charge of the case, he’d be gathering as much information about the victim as possible, but he was no longer an officer. He wasn’t entitled to read pathologist’s reports or interview Alex’s parents. The police would look after them, advising them not to talk to anyone else. Steph planned to use some old contacts to find out about, and if possible attend, any press briefings, but as they knew, official information was likely to be kept deliberately scarce.

  His friend James’s contacts, on the other hand, were more promising.

  He leaned on a gate, letting Harley run through the deserted field, and called James. He caught him eating lunch in a noisy pub somewhere in Birmingham. James agreed to pass on any information he could glean from his fellow pathologists. ‘I knew you’d be all over this business at the racecourse,’ he said. ‘Regretting leaving the force, are you?’

  Adam took barely a second to consider that. ‘No, actually. There’s plenty about being a policeman I never want to do again – the meetings, the jostling for power and promotions, the endless paperwork…’

  James groaned. ‘Tell me about it. I spend twice as much time writing reports as I do dissecting my cadavers. And then there are the court appearances. That’s what I’ll be doing this afternoon.’

  He sounded depressed.

  ‘Got problems?’ Adam asked.

  ‘Just juggling a few things; fixing the wife’s mother’s broken TV, keeping an eye on our two girls and their endless love lives with the wrong types of guy, fighting with a new Chief Executive at the Trust I work for, who’s a bigger prat even than the last one, and toiling through a tricky drugs court case where the defence are trying to call me a liar and querying my qualifications.’ He drew a breath. ‘But I’m not downhearted. Just counting the time to retirement, when I can swan around in the countryside like you. A bit of sleuthing on your behalf will cheer me up a treat.’

  ‘I’m grateful. Not to mention smug, as I’m enjoying Somerset while you slowly choke in smoggy Birmingham.’

  James’s usual sense of humour bounced back. ‘Treat me to dinner in The Plough and I’ll forgive you. I’ve taken quite a fancy to Wyatt’s fried chicken, not to mention that Maria who borrows money off you. She’s a cracker. Now, got to go and listen to this barrister droning on about how “substance abuse disorder” is a valid excuse for robbery with violence. Heigh-ho.’

  Adam slid his phone back into his pocket. He’d never known James so downbeat. Maybe he’d find out why when they had dinner.

  Meanwhile, he’d keep away from Alex Deacon’s family and leave them to the police. He’d concentrate instead on Belinda Sandford.

  He gave his approach some thought. If her temperament was anything like her mother’s, she must be in a state. No one feels good after an interview with the police, no matter how sensitively handled the interview or how innocent they may be.

  Was young Belinda as squeaky clean as her mother assumed? Adam longed to find out.

  Diane had given him Belinda’s details, so he could phone her to introduce himself. No, that would give her the chance to refuse to meet him. Another disadvantage of his amateur status. Instead, he should take her by surprise.

  Harley returned at that moment, a stick in his mouth for Adam to throw, and Adam had an idea.

  Belinda was a horse lover, and he’d never met a horsey person who didn’t also adore dogs. He would use Harley to break the ice. ‘Fancy an outing, tomorrow, old fellow?’ he asked.

  Harley dropped the stick, reared on his hind legs and did his best to lick Adam's face. Neither Imogen nor Adam had managed to break him of that habit. ‘Funnily enough,’ Imogen was fond of saying, ‘He never jumps up at anyone else. Just you.’

  Adam complained, but deep down a flicker of pride warmed his heart. He didn’t understand dogs. He’d made that perfectly clear. Harley was best off staying with Imogen. But it was good to know he’d forgiven Adam for giving him away.

  ‘Get down, you idiot.’ Harley subsided long enough for Adam to fit his lead in place on his collar. He led him back to The Plough, looked in to check lunch was in full swing and watched Rex cheerfully trotting to and fro with huge plates of beef. Happy that the bar was in good hands, he took Harley back home, and begged Imogen to take him out tomorrow, before devoting a long afternoon to the boring but necessary administration involved in keeping a business afloat. A country pub was never going to make Adam rich, but all he asked was to do slightly better than breaking even.

  The hours of paperwork made his head ache, but he persevered, until he could flip his laptop shut with a clear conscience. After so long spent dealing with budgets, forward planning and VAT returns, he could hardly wait for a day of investigation in Harley’s company.

  10

  Belinda

  Next morning, Adam loaded Harley into his ancient car, bribed him with dog biscuits to lie quietly on the back seat, and drove out towards the row of ex-farmworkers’ cottages near Leo Murphy’s racing stables, planning to catch Belinda at home in the tiny house she shared with two other stable hands.

  He had no idea whether or not she was likely to be there. Did stable hands ever get a day off or were they like farmers, responsible for making sure the animals ate every day? But it was worth a try.

  He drew to a halt outside Belinda’s small house, pulled on the handbrake, let Harley jump out and followed him along a short path to the house.

  He knocked on the door, and caught sight of the flick of an upstairs curtain. Belinda must be taking care not to speak to reporters, but at last she opened the door. She was a small, neat girl, slim but strongly built. She wore jeans, a chunky jumper and a gilet, a pair of hefty boots, a scarf wound two or three times around her neck, a woolly hat and a pair of strong leather gloves.

  ‘Belinda?’

  She blinked, hesitant, maybe thinking about shutting the door in his face. ‘Who are you?’

  Her eyes slid to Harley. As Adam had hoped, Harley put on a show of bright-eyed delight at the sight of a new human being, his body a-squirm with enthusiasm.

  Unable to resist his charms, Belinda leaned down and offered her fingers. Harley sniffed, she tickled him behind the ears, and his tail thrashed with joy.

  She straightened up, looked at Adam, and her smile faded.

  Telltale bags underscored her eyes. No wonder. Innocent or guilty, sleepless nights must be guaranteed after the past few days.

  ‘What do you want? I’ve nothing to say.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘I'm not the press,’ he said, trying to look unthreatening, blinking behind his spectacles. ‘Your mother gave me your address.’

  Belinda nodded, her face impassive. ‘Adam Hennessy?’

  ‘That's me.’

  ‘The ex-detective. My mother said you'd be coming. I suppose I'd better let you in.’

  She bent over to pat Harley. ‘You come in too. I'm sure we can find you a biscuit or two.’

  Adam hoped he might be offered a biscuit. Well, at least she’d let him into the house. He stood, awkwardly, just inside the door which opened int
o a tiny living room.

  She said, ‘I was on my way out. I have to get back to the stables soon, but I can talk for a few minutes.’

  ‘Your mother tells me you’re innocent of anything to do with Alex Deacon's death.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she sighed. ‘I just wish the newspapers didn’t keep pointing the finger at me. Mum says not to read them, but I can’t seem to help it.’

  She looked exhausted, and tightly wound.

  She waved a hand towards one of three shabby corduroy covered chairs grouped around a wooden table. The surface was cluttered with newspapers, magazines – he spotted a copy of Horse & Hound – and used coffee mugs. Belinda gathered the mugs into one hand.

  Adam sat, keeping his coat on. The room was almost as cold as the weather outside. Stable hands, he supposed, earned very little and were hardy creatures, not bothering with central heating. ‘I gather you share with two other people?’

  ‘Simon and Jane are out this morning. We all work at the yard. This house is cheap – we don’t earn much – and the three of us can split the costs. Living together means we can share lifts and things, and we can talk about horses.’

  For a moment, her face lit up. Horse mad, Adam realised.

  She offered him tea and encouraged Harley to follow her into the kitchen. Cups clattered, a kettle boiled loudly and she returned bearing two different mugs, each containing a teabag on a piece of string with the milk already added. She clutched a packet of custard creams under one elbow and dumped a mug in front of Adam. ‘Sorry, we don't have sugar.’

  ‘Don't need it, thanks.’ The tea looked disgusting, even to Adam, who wasn't fussy. He hated what James called ‘pseuds’ teas, and stuck to dark brown English Breakfast. But even he drew the line at adding the milk before removing the teabag.