A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries)

by Frances Evesham

  ‘Good man.’ Harris looked less than impressed at the prospect of a ride with Adam.

  ‘I'll bring your car over, if you like,’ Steph added.

  ‘Quite the five-star treatment.’ Harris attempted a sneer, but his eyes darted from left to right. ‘I’ll get back to you if I hear anything.’

  What, Adam wondered, was bothering the man?

  ‘Adam.’ A call from his old friend, James, usually brought a smile to Adam's face. Permanently rushed off his feet, the father of a busy household, James lived the fullest life of anyone Adam knew, and still had time to feed titbits to his old friend.

  Since Oswald’s revelations, though, Adam hadn’t spoken to him. For a moment, he was lost for words.

  He gathered his wits and said, ‘What have you got for me today?’

  James's rich chuckle echoed through the ether. ‘Well, I'll tell you, but it will cost you another meal. I liked that last one in the posh Streamside Hotel. How is the lovely Imogen? Still seeing her most days, are you?’

  ‘We meet up often and she’s as nice as ever,’ Adam said, ‘but if you're hinting that there's anything between us apart from friendship, you're mistaken.’

  ‘I believe you, mate. I know your heart belongs to Maria Rostropova, more's the pity.’

  The back of Adam’s neck burned. ‘Actually…’ He stopped. Maybe he’d let James imagine he still pined for Maria. It would protect his feelings for Steph. He wasn't ready to share them, not even with his old friend.

  James said, ‘Actually, what?’

  ‘Actually, I'm hoping you've got a bit more information to share.’

  ‘Nothing exciting, I’m afraid. There's no chance of an autopsy for Ed Collins. The doctor’s convinced it was a heart attack. The man had been to a heart specialist only two weeks before he died and the surgeon was planning a bypass. So, if you've got any evidence suggesting someone engineered his death in some way, you'd better hurry because the body’s been released and the family are planning the funeral. It’s at the end of next week.’

  Adam heaved a sigh. ‘This is all very frustrating.’

  ‘You’re not the only one hitting your head against a brick wall. I hear DCI Andrews is pinning his hopes on the public giving him a few leads into Alex Deacon’s death. The coroner returned an open verdict, so they can’t shut the case. There’s going to be a ceremony at the next Wincanton race day, and the police will be there in force, hoping to jog some memories.’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘Sorry, I have to go. Ring me with details of the next overpriced, ten-course meal you're treating me to. Cheers.’

  As Adam put down the phone, it rang again. DCI Andrews sounded perkier than Adam had ever known him as he detailed the arrangements for Alex’s memorial event.

  Adam did his best to sound surprised. There was no need for the DCI to know that James had already passed on the news.

  25

  Hair

  It was all very well, Imogen thought, saying she would look into the details of Alex's life, but it wasn't easy. Unlike Dan, who had free entry to Murphy’s yard, Imogen had no reason to talk to anyone at the rival racing stables and she wouldn’t intrude on Alex’s family.

  She’d need to approach Alex's circle in a less direct way.

  She could use some thinking time to puzzle this out. Donning her gardening clothes, she went outside. She did her best thinking while she dug, or pruned rosebushes, or spread fertiliser on flowerbeds.

  Harley by her side, she opened the door to the potting shed.

  Oswald was there in his rickety old chair, drinking tea from a cracked mug.

  He beamed at her through two perfect rows of false teeth. ‘Looks like we'll be busy, now the weather’s so mild.’

  ‘I love this time of year,’ said Imogen. ‘Everything is so hopeful. Buds bursting all over the place.’

  ‘You're right there, and no mistake. My eldest's wife is expecting another baby in six months. Life just keeps on coming, don't it, Mrs Bishop? Like I said to that Edwina at the shop, there's never a dull moment.’

  Imogen opened up the lid of a propagator to admire a row of small plants in a peat-free compost and sand mix. ‘I'll pot these foxgloves, shall I?’

  ‘They’re overdue,’ Oswald said. ‘I planted them seeds too late last autumn, so they never got into their pots. They’re about ready to grow on now, though, so I thought we'd move them up to the cold frames and plant them out in a couple of weeks.’

  Imogen loved the feel of compost in her fingers. Delicately, she held each tiny plant by a leaf, eased it out of the seed tray with the end of a pencil, and dropped it in a hole in the compost, one seedling to each pot.

  As she worked, she chatted. ‘Edwina knows a thing or two about the area, doesn’t she?’

  Oswald laughed, with a croak that turned into a cough. Covertly, Imogen watched him. He was getting very old. One of these days she’d have to persuade him to retire. But not yet. Selfishly, she’d miss his company too much.

  He recovered from the cough. ‘That woman knows it all, and no mistake. If you're looking for a chinwag, that's the place to go. If Edwina Topsham doesn't know something, she'll know someone who does.’

  Imogen's hands stopped working. ‘Oswald, you deserve a medal. You've given me an idea.’

  Pausing only to transport the tiny plants to the cold frames, she hurried up to her private rooms to scrub her hands and change into more respectable clothes.

  Harley was asleep in reception, on his back, all four legs in the air. ‘Come on, Harley, wake up. We’re off to the shop.’

  They found Edwina alone. Imogen collected a couple of random items from the shelves. She could easily find a use for Belgian chocolate biscuits and a tin of salmon.

  ‘Mrs Topsham,’ she began politely. ‘When I was in here the other day—’

  The shopkeeper interrupted. ‘Now, then, Mrs Bishop, I promised that old gardener of yours some of this Yorkshire Tea when it came in.’

  Absentmindedly, Imogen took the packet. ‘I'll give it to him, but I wanted to ask you something—’

  ‘His wife likes it, you see. Good, strong, English tea.’

  Resisting the temptation to quibble that English tea was grown in Asia, Imogen ploughed on, ‘I wanted to ask you about one of Jenny Trevillian's daughters. She was in the pony club, I believe.’

  ‘That's right, along with all the horsey girls in the area. Young Sarah, it was. She hung around with Belinda Sandford and Alex Deacon, the poor girl who died at Wincanton. Sarah had a nice little chestnut pony, if I remember rightly. She would have liked to be a jockey but she didn't have what it takes. You have to be tough to work in a stable yard. Long hours, heavy lifting, and all for a pittance.’

  ‘What does Sarah do now?’

  ‘She works over in Camilton at the hairdressers. You know, that posh place in the arcade next to the teashop.’

  Imogen had been there. The place was expensive and full of young professionals having something called balayage, which, to her mind, made their hair look like an unfortunate hair dye error.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Topsham.’

  The shopkeeper scratched behind Harley's ears. ‘Call me Edwina, my dear,’ she said.

  ‘Th— thank you.’ Imogen stammered as she left. The use of Edwina Topsham’s first name was granted to very few. ‘Harley,’ Imogen said, ‘it seems I'm in her good books. Who would have thought it?’

  Back at the hotel, she made a quick phone call to Crimpers, to check that Sarah Trevillian was working that day. As cover, she begged for an emergency appointment, explaining her hair was entirely out of control and she'd been invited to dinner with an oil executive and his wife.

  After a great deal of huffing and tongue clicking at the other end of the phone, the receptionist, in a muffled voice that suggested her hand was over the phone, hissed to an unseen colleague, ‘Can you fit in this Mrs Bishop today? She's got her knickers in a twist.’

  After a few moments of mut
tering, she unmuffled her voice and announced graciously that Sarah would see her if she could get into town within the hour.

  Wishing she’d eaten lunch, Imogen turned Harley over to the care of the receptionist at the hotel, who, judging from the bored expression on her face, had little else to do. She looked at Harley as though he were an annoying toddler pulling at her skirt. ‘Cheer up. Our guests want to see a friendly face,’ Imogen said. The girl flushed and sat up straight. Imogen would have a word with Emily later. Young Kelly wasn’t going to be a receptionist for much longer if she didn’t up her game.

  The journey to Camilton took only twenty minutes and Imogen had time to park the car in the multistorey car park, pop into the cafe next to the hairdresser and eat an egg mayonnaise roll. She washed it down with a bottle of something that seemed unsure whether it was water or fruit juice, and tasted of neither, before entering the hairdressers.

  The place was intimidating. A girl half her age looked her up and down, offered a professional smile and asked if she were Mrs Bishop.

  Admitting she was, Imogen said, ‘And you’re Sarah?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said the girl. ‘Sarah's with a client. Please take a seat. She’ll be with you as soon as she's finished.’

  Imogen sank onto a fashion-forward but uncomfortable chair, picked up a glossy magazine from the coffee table and pretended to read. After two or three minutes, Sarah emerged through the swing door. Imogen was sure she'd been waiting, out of sight, for just long enough to impress on this new client how busy she was.

  Soon, Imogen found herself wearing a nylon smock, flicking through photos of expensive-looking haircuts and choosing between several almost identical shades of brown. ‘You see,’ Sarah explained, holding a strand of Imogen’s hair between finger and thumb, a sad expression on her face. ‘You need something to bring out your highlights.’

  Imogen looked at the strand, dark brown fading gently to grey.

  ‘I think I'll leave it up to you, ‘she said, fingers crossed inside the smock. Praying she wouldn't find herself looking like mutton dressed as lamb, she added, hopefully, ‘Nothing too young.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Sarah said. ‘My mother lets me do her hair. She says, if I didn’t, she'd probably let it grow until it reached right down her back, like her grandmother’s, and she'd have to wear it tucked around one of those rolls women used in the forties. Actually, my great granny looked rather sweet and lovely.’

  Imogen began to like Sarah. For one thing, her fingernails were short, scrupulously clean, and painted a pleasing shade of an in-between colour Imogen believed to be taupe or, possibly, beige.

  ‘Now,’ said Sarah, pointing at two of the little swatches of hair on the colour chart, ‘I suggest we go for a mix of this one here and this other one. We’ll cover your hair all over, and you will see where your hair’s lighter—’

  ‘You mean grey?’

  ‘Well,’ Sarah waggled her head, preferring not to call a spade a spade, ‘those paler bits will look as if you’ve had expensive highlights.’

  Imogen remembered she hadn’t come for the sake of vanity, and submitted with a good grace.

  A trainee scurried off to mix up the potion, and within minutes Sarah was smearing it all over Imogen’s scalp, lifting strands of hair to make sure she covered every single centimetre.

  Imogen said, ‘Your name came up when I was talking to Mrs Topsham at our local shop.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know who you are,’ Sarah sounded thrilled. ‘You live in that gorgeous hotel in Lower Hembrow, don’t you? I’m planning to come and visit your gardens when they open to the public.’

  ‘Well, make sure you let me know when you come and I’ll show you around. We’ve done a lot of work out there. But, I was saying, Mrs Topsham said you were keen on horses.’ The girl’s hands stopped moving for a moment.

  ‘That’s true.’ The warmth had left Sarah’s voice.

  Imogen ploughed on. ‘She said you were friends with Belinda Sandford and Alex Deacon. You know, the girl who died at the races.’

  Sarah gave no reply and Imogen cursed her own tactlessness. Sarah must have been horrified by her friend’s death. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ Imogen said.

  ‘Thank you.’ There was a long silence, while Sarah combed colour carefully through Imogen’s hair and pulled a wheeled electric heater closer. ‘I’m just going to put a little heat on your hair.’ Her voice was distant, professional.

  She adjusted the heating elements so they pointed at Imogen’s hair, and seemed to give in to the urge to talk. ‘I did know Alex,’ she said. ‘We grew up together. I mean, we weren’t at school, but I knew her in the pony club. Everyone around here knew her and Belinda. There were loads of us in the club, but Alex and Belinda were the best.’

  Now, she was a chatty teenager again. ‘Actually, Alex struggled, because she was a bit too tall. Even for a jump jockey. She was always on one diet or another, trying to lose weight. My mum used to say she looked anorexic.’

  She stood back. ‘There, I’ll leave you for twenty minutes. Would you like a coffee?’

  Imogen was left to herself, enjoying the warmth of the heater on her head, sipping excellent coffee and reading last month's edition of Somerset Life.

  By the time Sarah returned, she'd admired houses she couldn't afford, read about a local woman who made wedding cakes, and skimmed a brief report of a concert at a local school.

  Sarah lifted a strand of Imogen's hair and wiped it down, staring for a long moment.

  ‘Not quite ready. I'll give you seven more minutes.’

  Imogen was keen to keep Sarah with her for a moment. ‘I don't know if you heard, but Belinda Sandford's mother asked me and my friends to help her. She’s very worried that Belinda will be blamed for Alex's death.’

  ‘Belinda?’ Sarah gave a little snort. ‘Belinda couldn't kill anyone, even if she wanted to. She'd be too scared. We used to laugh at her in pony club. She’s very – sensitive – I suppose is the right word. Like her mum. You know the sort, if you come up behind them, they jump in the air. Belinda’s better now, of course, she’s toughened up since starting work in the racing yard. We’re all amazed, really, but, although she likes to win, she’s much too gentle to try to hurt a fly.

  ‘Now, if Belinda was killed, everyone would suspect Alex. She was much more likely to be violent.’ Sarah stopped with a gasp. ‘I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said such a thing. What with Alex being – you know…’

  ‘Dead?’ Imogen was deliberately blunt. She wanted the placid Sarah to be shaken up enough to tell her everything she could about Belinda, Alex and their relationship.

  She said, choosing her words carefully, ‘I've heard that Alex could be a little – difficult?’

  Sarah shifted from one foot to the other. Imogen felt sorry for her. It was obvious she hated speaking ill of anyone, but Imogen was sure she knew secrets that could be useful.

  ‘Come on, Sarah,’ Imogen said. ‘Belinda’s mother’s worried to death that her daughter will end up in prison.’

  The stark words did the trick. Sarah gave another little gasp. ‘If there's anything I can do…’

  ‘Tell me about Alex. Any detail might be helpful. She wasn't perfect, no one is, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to kill her. We have to bring them to justice.’

  Sarah said, ‘Look, let's go over to the basins. It's quieter there. I'll wash the colour off your hair myself – and we can talk.’

  Imogen followed her across the room and leaned back in a chair, her head in a basin. It felt odd holding such a serious conversation with a hairdresser, when you couldn't see her face.

  Sarah sprayed water onto Imogen's hair. ‘When Alex was feeling good about things, she was great company; laughing, telling jokes, she was always the centre of attention. All the lads liked her, not just our crowd. I mean the lads in the stable yards.’

  ‘Ann Clarkson’s stables?’

  ‘Not just them. Is the water too hot?’
/>   ‘What?’ Imogen said, startled. ‘Oh, no, thanks, it's great.’

  ‘Well, not just the Clarkson yard. Some of the lads at Leo Murphy’s had been in the pony club with us. They used to hang around Alex as well.’

  Imogen heard the hesitation in Sarah's voice, and waited, holding her breath, sure she was on the verge of hearing something important.

  Sarah let out a sigh. ‘My boyfriend works there. His mate, Tim, went out with Alex for a bit, but then she dropped him when that Callum came along.’

  Imogen stiffened. ‘Callum from Leo Murphy's yard, you mean?’

  Sarah started to talk fast. ‘That's right. Callum was one of the reasons Alex and Belinda fell out. He'd been going round with Belinda – well, he goes through all the girls in Leo’s yard. He's older, you see, and good-looking, too. All that blond hair. Not my type, though,’ she added.

  ‘Let me get this right, ‘Imogen said, wishing these young jockeys didn’t lead such complicated social lives. ‘Belinda had been friends with Tim, but he started to go around with Alex. Belinda and Callum were together for a while, and then Callum also moved on to Alex?’

  ‘That’s right, but, but—’

  Sarah's overdeveloped conscience was at work again, Imogen took a shot in the dark.

  ‘But Alex and Callum had a row? Did you see it?’

  She felt rather than saw Sarah's nod. By now she’d washed Imogen’s hair, combed through conditioner, and rinsed it off. ‘Sit up and I’ll put this towel round your head.’

  Imogen obeyed. Sarah said, ‘It was at a race in Exeter. Me and my boyfriend were there, and Tim Booth as well, come to think of it. We placed a few bets, not that we usually win. But this time, one of our horses won at 4-1, so after the race we went into the bar for a drink. Callum and Alex were there, having quite the barney.’

  ‘And you heard it all?’

  ‘Couldn't help it,’ Sarah said, sounding a little self-righteous. Imogen imagined her growing into the kind of middle-aged mother who'd disapprove of bad table manners, or rolling down hills, or jumping in puddles.