The Stabbing in the Stables

by Simon Brett

  The old insouciance was still in his voice, but the words were blurred, as though some of his teeth as well as his ribs had been broken.

  “Donal, what happened to you?”

  He did the nearest to a shrug his broken body could achieve. “I got into a fight,” he said with mock pathos. “Again.”

  “Who with?”

  “I don’t remember his name. I don’t know if I even knew it. He was just someone in the Cheshire Cheese last night. All I do know is that he was a lot younger and fitter than me.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I suppose I must have walked.”

  “Do you really not remember?”

  “No, I really don’t remember. When I get into a fight, it’s like—you ever hear the expression ‘red mist’? Well, I guess that’s not a bad description for what happens. I don’t see anything else. I don’t think anything else. All I know is I have to lash out, and I do. And sometimes when I come back to myself, I’m all right, though I haven’t a clue what’s happened to the other guy. And sometimes when I come back to myself, well, it’s like today. One thing I know for sure—I lost.”

  What he said did provide some explanation for the way he’d suddenly turned on Ted Crisp. And indeed why he hadn’t mentioned the incident when he next saw Carole and Jude. Maybe his mind had just blanked it out.

  “But what are you going to do now, Donal? Don’t you think you should be in a hospital?”

  “Nah. What good would a hospital ever do for me? There’s nothing broken, nothing that needs setting. And fractures, well, they just heal in their own time.”

  “I imagine you’ve had a few over the years.”

  He tried to laugh. “Few? That’s what might be termed an understatement. If you’re a jump jockey, the falls and the broken bones, they come with the job description. My collarbone’s been broken more times than a politician’s promises. First thing you learn in that business is to heal quick. Otherwise you’re out of a job.”

  “But then, when you get older, with all those broken bones, the arthritis sets in.”

  He looked at her bleakly, recognising the accuracy of her diagnosis.

  “Which is why you drink so much. To deal with the pain.”

  “So?” He looked at her with some of the old cockiness in his one open eye. “To my mind, Jameson’s has got a much better taste than bloody paracetamol.”

  “But would paracetamol get you into so many fights?”

  He attempted another shrug. “I lead my life the way I want to lead it.”

  Looking at him, abject, in terrible pain, lying on filthy sacks, Jude found that hard to believe, but she didn’t take issue. Instead, she asked, “Is there anything I can do for you? You say you won’t go to hospital, but…”

  “You don’t have any Jameson’s with you, do you?”

  “No. Not normally something I carry about my person.”

  “Ah, that’s a shame. I’m feeling shitty all over, but the most painful bit is the hangover. So, if you could fetch me some, you’d be doing a Christian act.”

  “I think a more Christian act might be to get you off the stuff.”

  “No, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know, Donal, there are other ways of controlling pain, apart from alcohol and drugs.”

  “Oh yes? What are they—topping yourself?”

  “No. Massage can help.”

  He spat contempt at the idea. “I had a lot of massages when I was riding. Then they helped. I’m past that now.”

  “And healing…”

  He was silent.

  “You know about healing, Donal. I saw you heal Sonia Dalrymple’s Chieftain. Well, I do a bit of that. And—before you say anything—my results are better with humans than they are with animals.”

  “Bloody have to be, I’d have thought, by the law of averages.”

  “Well, if you ever want to come to me and try a session, just to get the basics of pain management…”

  “Does the process involve Jameson’s?”

  “No, it doesn’t. But it’s a good offer.”

  “A very good offer, for which I am appropriately grateful. But”—he put on a teasing voice again—“I’m a bit wary of these alternative medicines. You hear these terrible stories of people who take up with some quack and give up drinking the Jameson’s altogether. Now that’s not something I would want happening to me. I think it could seriously undermine my health.”

  The argument was not worth pursuing. Jude moved onto another topic. “Presumably Imogen rang you last night?”

  “Yes. Thank the Lord she got me while I was still sober.”

  “She told you what she was planning to do?”

  “She was worried about that little Conker. Got it into her head that the Horse Ripper was after her. I didn’t know, maybe she was right, maybe she did know something. So I told her how to find this place.”

  “But she couldn’t have stayed here forever.”

  “Who’s talking about ‘forever’? Kid wanted to find somewhere to hide the horse, so I told her about this place. Nothing more to it. Gave her a chance to get away from those dreadful parents. She’s a good kid. I’ve got a lot of time for her. She understands horses.”

  Jude, who’d been standing since she arrived in the barn, moved to prop herself up against the remains of an old workbench. Thin ribbons of sunlight, even more diluted than they were outside, made their way down through holes in the tiles to the slimy floor.

  “And Imogen’s father,” she said thoughtfully, “is about to be charged with murder.”

  “Yes,” Donal agreed. “Not that he did it, mind.”

  “I don’t think he did either. But,” Jude asked eagerly, “do you have any reason for saying that, apart from gut instinct?”

  “Oh, I have a reason, yes. I know he didn’t do it.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  A pained chuckle came from the corner of the room. “You don’t give up, do you, Jude?”

  “No, I don’t. The reason you won’t tell me—you know, why you know Alec Potton didn’t kill Walter—is that something to do with your blackmailing activities?”

  “Now why would you think that?”

  “Because I can’t see any other reason why you’d keep quiet about it—unless the information was of some financial value to you.”

  “Well now, that might be a very shrewd observation.”

  “I can take that as a ‘yes’ then, can I?”

  “You’re welcome to do so. But I’m still not going to tell you why I know Alec Potton didn’t do it.”

  “Is it something to do with the Dalrymples?”

  “And why should it be?”

  “Because Sonia’s very tense about something, which could be a threat of blackmail. And if you knew details about her marriage that she didn’t want made public, or even details she didn’t want her husband to find out about…”

  She let the ideas trail hopefully in the air, but Donal only let out another painful chuckle and said, “I’m enjoying listening to how your mind works, Jude, but you’re still not going to get anything out of me.”

  She tried yet another tack. “I know about other people you’re blackmailing.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Very generous of the Brewises to let you camp out here, isn’t it?”

  This time the idea seemed genuinely to amuse him. Jude pressed home her advantage. “Are you going to tell me what you’re blackmailing them about?”

  “Well, I’m a fair man, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t, because the secret in that case is not one I can imagine you spreading around.”

  “So what is the secret?”

  “Would you be surprised, Jude, if I told you that Mrs. Brewis had…a past?”

  “Nothing would surprise me less.”

  “Right. Well, I got this from a Russian horse dealer I do the occasional bit of business with. He was down at Long Bamber with me one day when the Brewise
s were ‘riding out’ and he told me he recognised her.”

  “Oh?”

  “Whore who used to work the Moscow international hotels. Expensive one but still a whore.”

  So Jude’s thought about a “tart’s boudoir” hadn’t been so far off the mark after all.

  “Well, thank you, Donal, that’s most generous. You’re right, though. It’s not information I would use.”

  “I know, but I think it could be a nice little earner for me for quite a while.”

  “Be careful, though. If you get too pressing, I think Victor Brewis could turn nasty.”

  “I’m damned sure he could. Don’t worry, I’ll watch my back.”

  “So, though you’re so generous with the Brewises’ secrets, are you still not going to share the Dalrymples’ with me?”

  “No, I’m not,” he said firmly. Then came a “Damn” when he realised he’d fallen into her trap.

  “Thank you very much, Donal. At least you’ve confirmed that you are blackmailing the Dalrymples.”

  “Ah, but I haven’t given you anything else. I may be Irish, but I’m not entirely stupid, you know.”

  “You’re very far from stupid.”

  “That’s true. Do you know, out of school I got a scholarship to Trinity College, Dublin. To read history.”

  “But—”

  “I never took it up, though. Far more interested in horses. Always was.”

  This was a fascinating insight into Donal Geraghty’s past, and at any other time Jude would have followed up on it. But not right then.

  “Donal, listen. You know that Nicky Dalrymple is a violent man?”

  “I’d got that impression, yes.”

  “He might not take very kindly to being blackmailed either.”

  “I’ll watch my back with that one too.”

  “But it’s Sonia Dalrymple I’m concerned about. Do you have to blackmail her?”

  “Well, a man has to make a living, and that couple are almost indecently well heeled. They’re not going to miss a few thousand”—he smiled wryly—“given to such a worthy cause as the Injured Jockeys Fund. And I can’t pretend I didn’t see what I saw from the hayloft, so…”

  “Donal, all I’m asking is for you to show a little pity. Sonia’s in a terrible state and…”

  They seemed to hear the sound at the same time. Both raised hands to silence the other. Footsteps were approaching the stable block from the side away from the manor house.

  Jude moved softly to the broken window.

  Walking past, almost close enough for her to touch, with his eyes set determinedly ahead of him, was Nicky Dalrymple.

  In his hand was a large kitchen knife.

  37

  EXCEPT FOR GIVING directions, Imogen Potton said nothing to Carole on the way home in the Renault. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her. She shrank into her seat, sniffling occasionally, looking younger by the minute.

  Once at home, all she seemed to want was for her mother to baby her, and her mother, rather to Carole’s surprise, obliged. Having set her guest up with a cup of coffee in the sitting room, Hilary Potton vanished upstairs with her daughter. She was some time getting Imogen in and out of a bath, and didn’t come down till the girl was tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle and on the verge of sleep.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, entering the sitting room with a cafetière. “Can I top you up?”

  “Thank you.”

  Hilary Potton settled down in a frayed armchair with her own cup, and, as usual, there was no problem in getting her to start talking. “Poor Immy. She’s taken about as much as she can take. You know, I often wish I’d never met Alec.”

  “You think all her problems are down to him, do you?”

  “What else is there to think? His constantly going off with other women is what broke up our marriage, which meant Immy had to grow up in an atmosphere of constant rowing and arguments. And now he’s proved to be a murderer too.”

  “That hasn’t actually been proved yet,” said Carole cautiously.

  “As good as. Just needs the court proceedings to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. And what’s that going to do for Immy—having a father in prison for life? No, as soon as this is all over, we’ll move away from Fethering.”

  “Any idea where?”

  “I don’t know. A long way. Australia? New Zealand, maybe.”

  “But if you did that, neither of you would be able to visit your husband in prison.”

  Hilary Potton’s look turned venomous. “Do you think either of us will want to visit my husband in prison?”

  “I can understand why you might not, but Imogen still seems to be devoted to her father.”

  “All the more reason to get her as far away from him as possible,” Hilary snapped. “Cauterise the wound, get rid of all the poison that man has brought into our lives. Immy and I need a completely new start.” She looked defiantly at her guest. “And I’m going to ensure that we get it.”

  Jude thought quickly. There was only one explanation for Nicky Dalrymple’s presence at the old stables. He had been at home when Sonia had taken the call revealing where Imogen and Conker had been found. Nicky knew that the girl spent a lot of time with Donal Geraghty at Long Bamber Stables, and must have deduced that the ex-jockey had suggested the pony’s hiding place. Donal was blackmailing the Dalrymples. Nicky had arrived to silence the Irishman for good.

  “Don’t make a sound,” she whispered, as she hurried out to the main yard. She didn’t know yet the details of how she was going to do it, but she was determined to prevent any harm from coming to Donal.

  In his search of the premises, Nicky Dalrymple had reached the stall where Conker had been hidden. He stood in the doorway, his back to Jude, the knife still in his hand.

  “What are you doing here, Nicky?”

  He turned as if he had been stung, and the face he revealed was a terrifying one. Congested with unreasoning fury, his expression had erased all trace of his good looks. There was something savage, even bestial, about him.

  “I could ask you the same,” he hissed. “I can’t remember what your name is…”

  “Jude.”

  “Well, Jude…” He raised his knife hand as he approached her. Jude backed away towards the main gates, but she knew escape was hopeless. If she ran, a man as big and fit as Nicky Dalrymple would overtake her within seconds. No, argument was going to be a better defence than flight. Still not much of a defence, though.

  The knife blade showed a dull gleam in the pale sunlight. Nicky’s contorted face almost smiled. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘being in the wrong place at the wrong time’? Because I would say you, at this moment, are the perfect example of that.”

  “What—you’re planning to kill me?”

  “I don’t think you’ve left me much alternative. You’re not the kind of person to keep quiet about something like this. Or the others.”

  He was now closing in on her, with his back to the hay-barn entrance. Jude backed away till she came up hard against one of the stables’ rotting gateposts, and tried desperately to think of reasons for him to spare her life.

  “Look, Nicky, nothing’s happened yet. You’re quite safe at the moment. So long as you don’t attack either me or Donal, you’ll be all right.”

  He looked bewildered. “Donal? You mean that tinker and thief who—”

  But that was as far as he got. Suddenly a small demented fury was on his back, reaching strong hands to grip at his throat.

  Donal. Who had somehow found the strength to drag himself up out of the barn and come to Jude’s rescue.

  It was an unequal contest. Nicky Dalrymple was twice the size of his assailant and at the peak of fitness. Donal was still suffering cracked ribs and all the other pains of his previous night’s beating. With almost contemptuous ease, Nicky swung the Irishman round off his shoulders and sent him crashing to the ground next to Jude. At the impact Donal let out a shriek of agony.

  �
��So I’ve got two of you to dispose of now, have I?” Nicky Dalrymple felt the weight of the kitchen knife in his hand. “Two who know rather more than they should about my activities.”

  “I’d be open to negotiation,” said Donal, with some of his old bravado. “I’m sure we could reach a mutually agreeable sum of money that would pay for my silence.”

  “I’m afraid we’re beyond that. This has got very serious now. I’ve got far too much to lose to allow either of you ever to speak to another human being.”

  As he moved towards them, Nicky Dalrymple became calmer. The natural colour returned to his face. He was once again the successful man, the practical man. He was facing a problem, but he had worked out a way of dealing with that problem, and he was about to put it into practice.

  “Now do you feel strongly about which of you goes first?” He smiled graciously. “Etiquette, of course, demands that it should be the lady…”

  He moved towards Jude, the kitchen knife raised.

  “So, Hilary, are you going to go on working at Allinstore?”

  “For the time being, yes.”

  “What, still the same shift? Four to eight every weekday except Wednesday?”

  “That’s it. I haven’t any alternative, Carole. I’m afraid Alec’s earning capacity is rather diminished by being in police custody. But, of course, when Imogen and I move I won’t work.”

  “What will you live on then?”

  “Property prices are a lot cheaper in New Zealand.” Australia was apparently no longer part of the equation. Carole got the feeling Hilary Potton had been planning her escape for quite a while. Probably long before her husband’s arrest made it a real possibility.

  “And then,” she went on, “I’m set to make quite a lot of money from the newspapers.”

  “Really? What, you mean writing about the murder case?”

  “Yes, obviously nothing can appear in print until Alec’s convicted, but I’ve already had exploratory approaches from the News of the World, the Mail and the Express. I’ve been in touch with a very high-profile publicist, who’s going to handle all that for me.”

  There was no mistaking the glee with which Hilary Potton announced this. Not only was she planning to take extreme revenge on her ex-husband, she was also going to attain the kind of media celebrity of which she had always dreamed.