A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries)

by Frances Evesham

Imogen had been sitting quietly, listening. ‘There’s one more person we need to consider.’

  They all turned to look at her, puzzled. She grinned. ‘John Harris. He’s Alex’s uncle – well, almost – he’s in the racing world, and he was very keen to meet Steph and me to talk about Alex’s death. He didn’t believe the story about writing a book, and he’d taken care to find out all about us before we met.’

  She took a pen, wrote his name on the board and underlined it. ‘He was also keen to hint that something more than business was going on between Ann Clarkson and Leo Murphy. Let’s find out more about him, shall we?’

  19

  The Plough

  Adam spent the next morning at The Plough. Rex Croft had come in early, to fill him in on business from the night before.

  ‘That Maria Rostropova came in last night,’ Rex’s grin split his face from ear to ear. ‘Not bad for her age, that one.’

  Adam opened his mouth to warn him off. Maria had an unusual moral code. She’d love a short dalliance with Rex but Adam would hate to see her break the young lad’s heart.

  Rex had read his expression. ‘Don't worry, Mr Hennessy.’ Always polite, he never used Adam's first name. ‘She's not my type. She wanted to get me involved with some basket weaving.’ He snorted loudly. ‘I passed her on to Belinda. I thought she needed cheering up.’

  ‘Was Belinda here?’

  Rex blushed. ‘She drops in for a drink, from time to time.’

  Adam gave a non-committal nod, hiding a twinge of anxiety. What if Rex was serious about Belinda and she turned out to be a killer? She was still a suspect, if Alex had been murdered.

  He sighed. Detection was more complicated when you lived close to those involved.

  ‘Are you okay, Mr Hennessy?’ Rex asked.

  Adam said, ‘You like Belinda?’

  ‘She’s okay. We get on fine. She’s in a state at the moment, thinking the police have her down for Alex’s death.’ He tossed his head. ‘Stupid cops. Can’t see beyond their noses. But she said you’re on the case, doing a spot of off-the-books detective work. Her mother arranged it.’

  Adam didn’t try to deny it. ‘She’s worried about Belinda, of course, but the police have no evidence of foul play, so far as I know.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. She’s a typical fussy mother, that Diane. Always in a proper state. Doesn’t think I’m good enough for her daughter. So, don’t you go telling her we’re seeing each other—’

  ‘You know me better than that.’

  ‘True. You listen, don’t you, but you don’t give much away? Like in the evenings, in here. The locals have a pint or two, and start telling you their life story. I reckon that’s why you bought The Plough – for the information.’

  Adam laughed. ‘There’s something in that. Just don’t tell anyone. And, while we’re on the subject, did you also know Alex Deacon?’

  ‘Not really. At least, I know Tim, Alex’s boyfriend, he was, at one time. He used to be with Belinda before that. He works for Ann Clarkson, at her yard.’

  ‘I don't want to talk to him in his workplace. I’m planning to catch him at home. Does he live with friends, like Belinda?’

  ‘No, with his parents. They’re both a bit the worse for wear. His father has early onset dementia and his mother was diagnosed with cancer a few months ago.’

  ‘Poor lad. That's quite a burden.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Rex said, ‘here’s his address.’

  Adam called in on Imogen, partly to thank her for the meal in the hotel but mostly to see Harley. ‘Great food, as ever,’ he said.

  They were in the reception area. Imogen smiled, ‘Glad to see you're none the worse. I always worry when my friends eat here. I know hygiene in the kitchen is as good as it gets, but even so, I get nervous. I couldn't bear to find we'd given anyone indigestion, let alone any kind of—’ she leaned in and whispered, ‘food poisoning.’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘We never say that aloud. It's our worst nightmare.’

  Harley greeted Adam in the usual way, like a puppy instead of the middle-aged fellow he was.

  Despite their best intentions, Adam and Imogen had never discovered where he'd come from. It seemed he was a genuine stray, with no chip. Adam wondered if he’d escaped from a dog farm, but as Imogen said, ‘Who would want to breed from a mutt like Harley? He’s lovely, but there must be a dozen different doggy types in his family tree.’

  ‘It’s hybrid vigour,’ Adam remarked, ‘no inbreeding. It’s a good thing.’

  He threw Harley’s rabbit for the dog to chase.

  Imogen said, ‘I'm about to spend an hour or two in the garden. Oswald and a couple of lads from the village are planting trees where the orangery used to be.’

  She avoided Adam’s gaze. They’d found her husband, Greg’s, body there.

  ‘I think you were right to pull the building down,’ Adam said. ‘Trees will be a much better memorial.’

  ‘I thought I might put a tiny plaque on one. Greg would like that, I think.’

  As Imogen shrugged into a warm coat, she met Adam’s eye. ‘You know, I’m starting to remember the good things about Greg. Our marriage was a mess towards the end, but we did have fun together once, even though he wasn't the perfect husband. But I wasn't the perfect wife, either. It takes two to make a marriage, doesn’t it?’

  Adam chuckled. ‘Don’t ask for marriage guidance tips from me. That’s one road I’ve never travelled.’

  They walked through the gardens to the clearing where the orangery had once stood, while Harley chased to the river and back, searching for sticks.

  Every trace of the building had disappeared, and Oswald's boys were busy digging planting holes. ‘I thought I'd stick to old English woodland trees,’ Imogen said. She pointed to the row of hawthorns lining the stream. ‘I want them to merge with those old thorns, and look as though they've always been here.’

  Oswald stopped work and stretched, watching Harley snuffling through the undergrowth. He looked far too old and frail to be out in the wind and rain, but he found the indoor life unbearable and his wife encouraged him to spend his days outside, leaving her to potter happily in her kitchen, baking bread and cakes.

  ‘Beech,’ he said to Imogen. ‘We should plant beech, hazel, and willow here. Native trees. What do you think, Mr Hennessy, sir?’ His Somerset accent refused to acknowledge the letter S, replacing it with a buzzing Z.

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ Adam said.

  Buds were visible on the hawthorns, blurring their outlines and promising spring.

  Adam pointed. ‘Look at the daffodils over there. Quite a sight, aren’t they?’

  ‘Ah,’ Oswald grinned, showing a set of well-worn dentures, ‘They’re nearly over now. They’re always the first out. Every year, no matter what. It gives you hope, doesn't it?’

  He pushed his cap back on his head and leaned on his spade. ‘Talking of which, I saw that James Barton that comes into The Plough was having dinner here with you, t’other night. He’s a good man, is James, for a Londoner.’

  ‘I owed him a meal.’

  ‘Funny though. His wife came for dinner a few weeks ago. With another man.’

  Oswald grinned at Adam’s shock. ‘Thought that would surprise you. She’s been here before. I reckon your friend needs to keep an eye on his missus.’

  Adam’s head reeled. ‘Are you sure it was James’s wife?’ he asked, but he knew the answer. Oswald was a regular at The Plough, and James sometimes drove over during the summer with his wife and daughters for a pint in the beer garden, watching the sun go down over Ham Hill. It was Elinor, his wife, who’d suggested Adam could expand his own courtyard garden to give himself a bit more privacy.

  Of course the gardener recognised her. You couldn’t drink in The Plough more than once without Oswald knowing all about you.

  Oswald chuckled. ‘When you get to my age, you notice these things.’

  Adam’s spirits fell. Was James’s marriage in danger? He and Elinor had a
lways seemed happy. But it would explain his recent change of mood.

  Oswald had returned to his saplings, but Imogen held up a warning finger. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Adam, but don’t you dare tell James. He must work things out for himself.’

  She was right, of course. Instead, Adam would distract himself with the racing murder case. He wanted to find out more about the syndicate members, Henry and Ling Oxon, before he met them again.

  Putting James’ troubles out of his mind, he decided to start, reluctantly, with the internet. He hated sitting at a computer. When he'd been a DCI, he'd delegated online research to detective constables who enjoyed nothing better than a quiet morning at the desk.

  These days, he had no team to instruct. He would have to do the grunt work himself.

  ‘Why don't you get Steph to help?’ Imogen suggested. ‘She’s easily the best of us at online research.’

  Adam pictured Steph sitting with him in his living room at The Plough drinking coffee and eating pastries, while they trawled through the internet together.

  Imogen said, ‘Come on, you know you want to. Shall I suggest it to her?’

  ‘I can manage,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I suggest you phone her, and then she can't see you blush.’

  Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘And are you seeing Dan today?’

  She grinned. ‘We’re just a pair of overgrown teenagers, aren't we?’

  They worked in companionable silence for a while. Imogen selected a sturdy-looking silver birch and held it in an enormous hole, while Adam shovelled earth around it. ‘I feel like Prince William, planting commemorative trees,’ he said.

  Imogen grinned. ‘It's good to have you around, Adam. I don't know what I would have done without you.’

  He felt a blush creeping up his neck, but Harley arrived to save his embarrassment, stick in mouth, ready for a tug of war. Adam grabbed one end. ‘We make a decent team, don't we?’

  20

  Henry and Ling

  It was the day of Adam’s lunch with Henry and Ling Oxon at their house in Wedmore. He’d spent a morning of research with Steph, drinking in the sight of her head as she peered over reading glasses at her computer, two small frown lines between her eyes. He’d never seen a lovelier sight.

  They’d stuck strictly to business. Maybe that was best. No embarrassing declarations, no chance of Steph turning him down.

  When she’d left, The Plough seemed cold and unfriendly, only the daily arrival of the young farmers livening the place up.

  At least, today, he would be out of Lower Hembrow. He reviewed the information Steph had found on the Oxons. There was little of interest beyond birthdates, lists of Facebook friends, a few self-important papers written on obscure points of law and many photographs of Henry, posing thoughtfully.

  As Adam drove through Wedmore, he spotted the Oxons’ sparkling Range Rover. He drew to a halt outside their home, a luxurious sprawling building on the outskirts of the village, the front garden laid out neatly, conventionally, with well-trimmed evergreen bushes, and perfectly manicured lawns.

  Ling had seen him arrive and the door was already open. She wore an embroidered jacket and slim pink silk trousers. Her slippers, too, were beautifully embroidered.

  Adam instinctively liked women who were smaller than he was, and Ling's smile was warm. ‘Come inside, it's cold today.’ She gave a little shiver. ‘I thought we were into spring weather at last, but I was wrong. Still, at least we’re in March. January and February are so dark in England, and they seem to last for ever. I don’t know how we’d get through without the racing to cheer us up.’

  Adam followed her through into a huge room with a wall of glass that looked out over more immaculate gardens and on, towards open fields. The sun shone through the glass, warming the room.

  An oval oak table was laid simply, with bowls and chopsticks.

  Ling said, ‘I like to serve Thai food. Henry laughs at me, because it's not what he likes. He’s a meat and two veg man, but I'm afraid of forgetting how to cook my native dishes, so I use my guests to practice.’

  Henry arrived, casual in an open-neck shirt, crew-neck sweater and cords. ‘Sorry, I was on the phone to a client.’

  He held out a giant paw and enclosed Adam's hand in a wince-inducing grasp, ushering him into a huge, soft armchair angled to give the best view of the garden.

  ‘Great to have you here, Adam,’ Henry said. ‘Leo wants me to persuade you to join one of his syndicates, but I don't want to put pressure on you. Now, before we get down to business, what are you drinking?’

  Adam indicated his car outside. ‘Low alcohol beer?’ he suggested. ‘If you have it? Or maybe tonic water?’

  Henry’s face fell. He hesitated, as though about to protest, finally nodding reluctantly. ‘Good choice.’ He was being polite. He clearly preferred a ‘proper’ drink. He disappeared, returning with glasses and two bottles of beer. ‘Ling says we have ten minutes until lunch. Will that do for you?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Adam said.

  Adam wondered whether Henry believed his cover story of investing in racehorses. The man was sharp – very bright, and probably not easily fooled – but he gestured to a pile of glossy brochures on a side table. ‘You're welcome to take these away with you,’ he said. ‘There are dozens of horses on offer and you can choose to invest in almost any number of shares. They start out at about three hundred pounds a share, or you can pay up to thousands. Of course, the younger the horse and the more untried, the bigger gamble it all becomes. But, for those of us who've been doing this for a while, the rewards are definitely not financial.’

  He poured his beer into a glass and took a long swig. ‘Okay, you get a portion of the prize money for your horse, but the fun’s in the feeling of ownership. The owners’ boxes, the special events, the trips to the yard, like the one we had. That one was a bit unfortunate, though, wasn't it? What a kerfuffle that was. Good job Diane wasn’t there to see it. Let’s hope Belinda’s calmed down.’

  Adam picked up the top brochure and flipped through it. ‘The horses look fit,’ he commented.

  Henry said, ‘I truly believe they're some of the most beautiful creatures on earth. Far better than we humans. I’ve met the worst of humanity in my line of work. Fraud, money laundering, identity theft – and they’re at the lower end of the scale. Once you get into violent crime, rape and murder, you get to see some of the worst people in society.’

  He took a gulp of his beer. ‘Having said that, many people in court are foolish, weak, and often simply vulnerable. Most of them don't set out to be bad.’ He put the glass down on a marble coaster. ‘But you know all this, don't you, Adam? As an ex-policeman, I mean.’

  Adam gave a slow nod. The internet, again. Of course, Henry had looked him up.

  Ling returned, placing bowls of steaming, wonderfully scented food in the middle of the table, and the two men settled at their places. Adam’s stomach growled. ‘Ling, did you really cook this wonderful feast yourself?’

  ‘Oh yes. All Thai girls learn how to cook this way.’

  Henry said, ‘I was blown away the first time Ling cooked a meal for me. It made me ashamed of my love of steak and kidney pudding.’

  ‘But, darling, there are times when a steak and kidney pudding is perfect,’ Ling soothed. ‘At the end of a race day, when it's drizzled for hours and your horse has struggled at the back of the field, you need good, hearty English food.’

  Henry smiled at Adam. ‘Ling,’ he said, ‘has an appetite as enormous as Butterfly Charm’s, though you'd never believe it to look at her.’

  ‘Now, then.’ He waved chopsticks at Adam, ‘about young Alex Deacon’s death. It strikes me that Belinda could do with some representation. I’ve recommended a solicitor who deals in most of the crime at our practice. Just in case it turns out to be murder, and the local plod try to pin it on Belinda.’

  Adam said, ‘I expect Diane told you she’s spoken to me and I'm undertaking a spot of detective w
ork on her behalf. She was worried that Belinda might get the blame, and mightily relieved to hear the police view that Alex’s death was probably an accident.’ No need to tell the Oxons about DCI Andrew’s doubts.

  ‘But you’re not so sure?’ Henry peered into Adam’s face.

  Adam smiled, gently. ‘Not yet, and I want to be certain. No harm in that.’

  Henry acknowledged this with a nod. ‘No smoke without fire, you mean. So, you have no official status in this?’

  ‘None at all,’ Adam said. ‘I’m a private citizen. But Diane asked for my help and I was willing to give it.’

  ‘Good man, good man,’ Henry murmured. ‘Best we all pull together, get this cleared up as soon as possible, put an end to any stupid gossip about Belinda. What have you found out?’

  As though, Adam thought, they were in some kind of partnership, on the same side and sharing information.

  With an innocent smile, Adam said, ‘Just in case it turns out not to be an accident after all, I'm hoping you can help. You know the racing world in this part of the country.’

  A faint smile crossed Ling's face, as though she was enjoying the way Adam handled her husband. Or, was there another reason for her enigmatic expression? She might be slight, but Adam was willing to bet she could have held Alex under water – especially while the jockey was high on drugs.

  Henry paused, as though considering how much information to share. His lawyer’s instincts would warn him to say as little as possible, but if he were innocent, he’d want to help Adam find the truth. Unless, of course, he was covering for Belinda or Ling, or another of his friends.

  Henry finished his beer, replaced the glass on the table at his elbow and steepled his fingers together. ‘I don’t think I can help much. There’s a culture within the racing yards of folk looking after each other. You'll get the most information from Belinda and Alex’s circle, but they may find it hard to talk frankly.’

  He nodded. Enjoying his own performance, Adam thought.