A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries)

by Frances Evesham

  Henry was looking at his watch. ‘Time for us to be getting back, old thing,’ he announced, taking Ling’s arm. His words were slurring a little. His wife had been drinking only water.

  ‘Thanks for your hospitality, Leo,’ he said. ‘Looking forward to seeing Butterfly run again in – what is it? Three weeks?’

  ‘That's right. If you want to come and watch her one morning on the gallops, just let me know. And Belinda will be schooling her over the jumps, once Butterfly’s rested a little – if she behaves herself and I decide not to kick her out on her ear.’

  His laugh was relaxed. Maybe his bark was worse than his bite. ‘Have to give a young horse time to recover after each race. Don't want to wear them out too soon.’

  Henry snorted. ‘Racehorses. They're like actors. Always on the edge.’

  Adam said, ‘It’s been fascinating meeting you all,’ he said. ‘I can see why you love the racing world. Maybe a few shares in a horse will be a great investment.’

  ‘The best in the world,’ said Henry. ‘Tell you what, why don't we get together one day soon. I'm looking for shares in a different horse at this yard. Maybe you and I could find one together.’

  ‘That would be perfect.’ Adam was keen to know Henry better. Gregarious, friendly enough if overbearing, he didn’t seem a likely candidate as a murderer, but Adam wondered about his interest in racing. He seemed to be in it for the money. Was it a way to get rich quick? And could a young jockey like Alex Deacon have managed to get in his way? Adam thought a successful barrister and hard drinker like Henry might be ruthless, if crossed.

  As Adam started the car for the drive home, Harley heaved a huge sigh of contentment, sending a gust of doggy breath in Adam’s face as he curled up on the back seat and slept, snoring loudly, for the entire drive.

  13

  Journalist

  While Adam spent the day dipping his poorly clad toes into the choppy waters of racing yard culture, Imogen and Steph were cooking up a plan to talk to John Harris, the journalist who'd written the article about Butterfly Charm’s race.

  Imogen said. ‘We need to remember he’ll be upset about his niece’s murder.’

  Steph smiled, rather sadly. ‘He's a journalist. Like me. I'm afraid we develop a thick skin when it comes to news stories. He'll put aside his personal feelings, especially if he thinks there's an opportunity for collaborating on a book. Something about female jockeys, or racing accidents or murders. His article suggests Belinda killed her rival, so I bet he’d jump at that idea.’

  Imogen looked closely at her friend. ‘Steph, are you planning to dangle that in front of him, as a way of getting him to agree to talk to us?’

  ‘You bet. But, I’m putting nothing in writing. I don't want him suing me for anything I publish.’

  ‘Is that quite – ethical?’

  Steph blushed. Her ‘tough journalist’ stance was an act developed over years in a challenging world.

  ‘Of course it is. The newspaper business is incredibly litigious. I’ll offer John Harris an unofficial collaboration, and he can write what he chooses as a result. He’s already treading a fine line in his article. He practically accuses Belinda of killing her rival, which is pretty unethical and unfair. I think there's almost a case for libel there, although he probably consulted lawyers about that.’

  Imogen nodded. ‘We’ll try your offer of collaboration first, then, and see where we get. How do we start?’

  ‘I suggest we do a bit of background research on both him and Alex. The first thing I learned in the school of hard knocks they call journalism, was to do your homework thoroughly first, before talking to anyone. And that’s much easier these days, when everything’s online.’

  So the two women spent the afternoon in the Hawthorn Room.

  Steph rested a brown case on the table, sliding from it a thick notebook and an iPad. ‘I don’t know how we all managed before these machines.’

  Imogen opened her own laptop and they sat in silence, drinking coffee and making notes, both pairs of eyes on the World Wide Web as they searched for information on racing, jockeys and, especially, John Harris.

  It didn’t take long.

  ‘I've got him,’ Steph exclaimed. ‘I'll send you the link to his website.’

  Imogen rose and stretched. ‘I need a break. This man is racing mad, and he talks about people in the business as though they’re all personal friends. I've discovered more than I ever thought I needed to know about movers and shakers in the racing world.’

  Steph said. ‘It's harder to dig out the personal information about our Mr Harris himself. But here are a few titbits. He's not quite as closely related to Alex as we thought at first. It's through his ex-wife, the sister of Alex's mother.’

  She rubbed her eyes and frowned at the screen. ‘He appears to work mostly as a freelancer, sending articles to various racing papers, with the odd piece in national newspapers. He's doing quite well. No books to his name yet, I see. That’s good. I’ll contact a few of the papers he writes for and see if we can winkle out where he might be. If he’s not at a racecourse, he might even be at home, writing.’

  ‘Do we have his address?’

  ‘No, but I bet I can get his phone number out of one of the publications, and I'll take it from there.

  ‘Well, fancy that,’ Steph looked up from a series of text messages with her newspaper contacts. ‘John Harris lives in Somerset, not far from Wincanton, and I have a phone number.’

  She grinned, cleared her throat and tapped in the number. It was answered in moments. She introduced herself. ‘I've been reading some of your work, Mr Harris.’ Her voice oozed admiration. ‘I won't waste your time with flattery, but I'm looking to write a book about true crime in the racing world.’

  She winked at Imogen and put the phone on speaker. A suspicious baritone voice said, ‘Who are you, now? And why would I be interested in your book?’

  ‘I'm offering you the chance to collaborate.’

  ‘Oh, yes. That’s a likely story. I can write my own books, you know.’

  ‘I thought it would be more fun to work together. Combine your knowledge of racing with my experience in criminal journalism.’

  Steph laid out her qualifications. Imogen hadn’t known half of the work she’d done. She’d been published in newspapers and magazines from The Sunday Times to True Crime. She had specialised in the psychology of some celebrated murderers.

  She referred to Harris’s articles in the Racing Post. ‘I thought my experience and yours, as a racing expert—’ Imogen grinned at the flattery.

  Steph went on, ‘If you’d be willing to meet for lunch, in Lower Hembrow…’

  As they talked, Imogen left to organise more coffee. She returned, carrying a tray piled with chocolate biscuits, to find Steph chuckling to herself. ‘Success,’ Steph said. ‘No journalist worth his salt refuses a free meal. It’s practically written into the code of conduct.’

  She helped herself to a chocolate digestive. ‘I told him what a great pub we have in The Plough. I said I’d meet him there at twelve thirty on Friday and I’d bring along my collaborator, an investigator. Do you know what he asked?’

  Imogen shook her head.

  ‘He wanted to know if the collaborator would be male or female.’

  Imogen rolled her eyes. The man would be hoping the assistant would be young and nubile. She was already beginning to dislike Mr Harris.

  14

  Harris

  The Plough was quiet on Friday when Imogen and Steph arrived for the meeting with John Harris. Wyatt was off duty for the day and Adam, dividing his time between manning the bar with Rex and serving food, greeted them with the offer of a free drink and gave them a menu.

  ‘Just things with chips, today,’ he apologised.

  Imogen knew that was all Wyatt would let Adam cook. ‘You’re a great guy, Adam, but you’re no chef,’ he’d said. ‘Your food’ll poison the neighbourhood. Just flip the burgers, right?’

  For t
he strapping young farmers in The Plough, burgers, sausages, and chips were perfect – and the more generous the portions, the better.

  A clatter of nails on wood heralded the arrival of John Harris, preceded by a sturdy bulldog with a bitten ear. Imogen murmured, ‘It’s Bill Sykes. He’s escaped from Oliver.’

  John Harris was stocky, not unlike Oliver Reed in build, with the telltale bulbous drinker’s nose but considerably less hair. In his mid-forties, he wore a typical off-duty uniform of cords, jacket and checked shirt. Two farm workers at their favourite table in the corner looked up at his entrance, grinned as the dog sniffed at their legs, and went back to their food. John Harris fitted in perfectly at the country pub.

  ‘Steph.’ Harris grinned and held out his hand. ‘Good to meet you.’

  He’d picked her out at once. Imogen wasn’t surprised to find he’d done his own research before meeting this possible collaborator.

  He turned his attention to Imogen. A smug smile spread across his coarse-featured face. ‘You’re Imogen Bishop,’ he said. ‘I know you from your photo in the paper when your husband died. Quite a story, that. I’ve read all about it.’ Imogen sighed, inwardly cursing the internet. Her face would be linked to her husband’s murder for ever.

  Rex came from behind the bar, took their orders and returned with their drinks; Imogen’s Coke, an alcohol-free beer for Steph and a large red wine for Harris.

  Harris turned to Steph. ‘That story about The Streamside Hotel murders likely to turn up in this book we might collaborate on?’ Imogen had to control a shudder.

  Steph answered, calmly, ‘No, I think we should stick to racing.’

  Harris’s eyes were small and set closely together, but they were sharp and alert. He was no one’s fool, and not about to throw information around for free. Still, he was here, and that was the first step.

  Imogen said, ‘We’re very sorry for your loss.’ He looked puzzled.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Alex Deacon. Your niece?’

  Harris’s cocky grin faded, replaced by a solemn, unconvincing frown. ‘A very sad day, that was.’ he said, ‘Very disturbing, but an open-and-shut case.’ He shook his head. ‘Those teenage hormones at work. Belinda Sandford should have learned to control her jealousy.’

  Steph said, ‘Why are you so sure she killed Alex? Or that Alex was murdered, for that matter. The police haven’t called it that.’

  He gave an exaggerated snort of derision. Imogen’s hackles rose, but before she could say anything, Adam arrived with three plates balanced on his arms, piled high with chicken and chips.

  Harris smirked. ‘I know who you are, too. Adam Hennessy, isn't it? Ex-detective, righter of wrongs, and master sleuth, I believe. Also involved in solving the murder at The Streamside Hotel. I congratulate you.’

  He looked around the trio and waved at the table’s remaining empty chair. ‘This is quite a team of investigators you have here. Won't you join us, now you’ve got me here? You won’t want to miss our discussion.’

  Adam smiled but his nose twitched. He liked to hide his feelings behind his thick specs and broad smile, but Imogen knew him well enough to recognise when he was on edge. He hadn’t taken to John Harris any more than she had.

  He distributed the plates neatly around the table and said cheerfully, ‘You've done your homework, I see. And you're right. Once a detective always a nosy parker, that's what I say.’

  Harris laughed, but his eyes glittered.

  Adam smiled again, ‘I’ll listen in for a minute or two while things are quiet.’

  ‘I take it I'm not a suspect,’ John Harris said, with an unconvincing laugh. He wasn't quite as confident as he pretended. Adam’s presence unsettled him.

  ‘Not so far.’ Adam’s friendly smile never wavered.

  Breaking into the rising tension between the two men, Imogen said, ‘You were just about to tell us why you think Belinda Sandford killed Alex Deacon.’

  ‘I was, was I? Well, stands to reason, doesn't it? Two girls, rivals on the racetrack, each hoping to make the grade. They’re highly strung, these young jockeys. As bad as the horses. Apprentices see the world stretching before them. They dream of winning the Cheltenham Gold Cup and the Grand National and they'll do anything to get a ride and climb the ladder. Young Belinda found winning wasn't so easy on Saturday. You saw the photo. She cheated, she was found out, and she couldn’t cope with it. That’s why she killed Alex.’

  Adam said, ‘That photo of yours, though. It looked like a set-up to me. Your niece knew you’d be there, and she goaded Belinda Sandford so you could get a good shot. Of course Belinda was upset. It was her first race and she’d thought she'd won, but losing a horse race is no reason to murder someone. Do you seriously think a normal woman would kill someone because they lost a single race?’ Imogen looked at her plate to hide a smile at the sarcasm in Adam’s voice.

  Harris coloured a little. ‘Well, besides that, there's sex in the mix. Professional jealousy is one thing, but Belinda Sandford had also lost her boyfriend to Alex, who would have easily beat her in the race if the Sandford girl hadn’t cheated – well that's enough to spur any girl into rash behaviour. It's easy to see what happened. The two of them quarrel after the race, Belinda goes off in disgrace and probably takes a rocket from Leo. Then she bumps into Alex near the horseboxes. Maybe they had more words.’ Harris had thought this through, Imogen decided.

  ‘In any case,’ he went on, ‘Belinda could have come up behind poor Alex and stuffed her face into the trough. It doesn't take that much force to hold someone's head under water, and young Belinda's a strong little thing. Have to be, if you’re a jockey. Think of the muscles she's gained controlling thoroughbred horses.’

  He forked a mound of chicken into his mouth and said, voice muffled by the food, ‘It’s an open and shut case, if you ask me.’

  He waved the fork in Adam’s direction. ‘Nice chicken, by the way, and not a bad pub. I’d stick to serving if I were you. Keep your nose out of other people’s business.’ The small eyes flashed. The sudden venom in his tone shocked Imogen.

  Steph said, ‘Tell us more about this so-called boyfriend.’

  She leaned on the table, her eyes on Harris. He smiled at her.

  A shiver tracked up Imogen’s back. She and Steph had thought they’d be interviewing Harris, but he’d been keen to meet because he had his own agenda. He had no intention of collaborating with Steph. Why would he? He was a rival. He was hoping to raise hackles and trap the trio into telling him more about Belinda – information he’d be using for his own purposes.

  One of the young farmers was looking around for service. With a grimace at Imogen, Adam left the table.

  Imogen went on puzzling. Why had Harris mentioned Alex’s boyfriend? He wouldn’t give away information with no reason. Could it be an attempt at misdirection, to guide the conversation away from the race itself?

  Adam rejoined them, bearing a new bottle of wine.

  Harris helped himself, liberally, topping his glass up to the brim.

  Steph said, ‘It sounds as though your niece was quite a rising star. That must have been useful to you.’

  For a second, Harris paused, his glass at his lips. ‘How do you mean?’ The small eyes narrowed.

  Steph smiled. ‘She must have been a great source of gossip. You know, which horses are under the weather, jockeys falling out, trainers in competition with each other and trying to poach new owners. That kind of thing.’

  Harris took a long draught of wine and laughed. His nose was growing pinker by the moment. ‘One or two titbits, maybe. A few short cuts, hints. Human interest. All above board. Every journalist has contacts, don’t they, Steph? That’s how we make our living. Remember when journalists spent most of the afternoon in the pub with useful sources? Those were the days. We used to drive home half-cut. Good job you're not a serving policeman, by the way, Hennessy.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Adam said, ‘but I can't let you leave here while you’re over the
drink-drive limit. You're welcome to stay around, though, until you sober up.’

  Harris, unfazed, made a thumbs up gesture. ‘Good idea. Maybe I can take a walk over the road and inspect your gardens, Mrs Bishop. They've been all over the news. As a matter of fact I've been to your other project at Haselbury House. The owner’s a mate of mine.’

  He raised his glass to Steph. ‘Let’s have another bottle, and I’ll tell you all about Ann Clarkson and Leo Murphy.’

  Harris sat, drinking steadily, as The Plough slowly emptied. He’d passed on very little information, just hints that the two trainers had more than a professional relationship. He claimed to have seen them together at the races. Adam wondered whether the hint at a relationship between Leo Murphy and Ann Clarkson was based on any truth. Was Harris simply trying to impress Steph with his inside knowledge? Maybe he’d taken a fancy to her.

  A twinge of jealousy caught Adam by surprise. He tried to ignore it. Steph had too much sense to admire a man like Harris. But then, he was a journalist, like her. They had plenty in common.

  Adam poured himself a large glass of wine.

  At last, the wine bottle empty, Harris tore himself away and followed Imogen across the road to the hotel. He staggered a little as he walked, the bulldog at his heels.

  Adam watched them go, wondering what Harley would make of Harris’s pet.

  Steph remained at their table, twirling a glass between her fingers. She refused Adam’s offer of another drink but showed no sign of leaving.

  She grinned. ‘I wanted to make sure I’m not muscling in on this business. I know Imogen's keen to help young Belinda, and it's right up your street, but I'd hate you to think I'm just hoping to get a book out of it.’

  ‘Like Harris, you mean?’

  ‘Definitely not. Not his kind of book, anyway. There’s a limit to the tittle-tattle I want to write about. Judging by that hint he let slip, about the relationship between Leo and the rival trainer, I’m glad I’m not Mrs Murphy. I’m almost tempted to warn her.’