by Jean Chapman
DEADLY
ODDS
By the same author
Both Sides of the Fence
A Watery Grave
Deadly Serious
Deadly Zeal
DEADLY
ODDS
JEAN CHAPMAN
ROBERT HALE
First published in 2018 by
Robert Hale, an imprint of
The Crowood Press Ltd,
Ramsbury, Marlborough
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.crowood.com
This e-book first published in 2018
© Jean Chapman 2018
All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of thistext may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 71982 649 8
The right of Jean Chapman to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
CHAPTER 1
It had all started a couple of weeks before, Cannon thought, bracing himself against the driving wind and the sleeting rain.
Until this point in his life, horses, for a lad from the East End of London, had been those of the Household Cavalry on ceremonial occasions, or police horses, patient, patrolling, keeping order – and if it was an English April day like this you stayed indoors, unless you were mad, or, it seemed, part of this international horse eventing world.
He glanced around; he guessed the countryside, and the eighteenthcentury mansion at the far side of the estate, would be picturesque if you could actually see it. This morning, sheets of rain were driven across the landscape and he just occasionally glimpsed the obstacles dotted all over the distant slopes. Competitors from all over the world had come to jump these.
Hoskins, major domo of this expedition, was enveloped in the most suitable gear: a caped raincoat that reached well down over his Wellingtons and an old cap so greasy no rain would penetrate it.
Cannon had a broad brimmed rain-hat brought back from Oslo the last time he had turned from landlord of a country pub back to ex-Met sleuth. The hat was fine, and his anorak was waterproof, but his jeans were soaked from the thigh down and the water was seeping sock-wards inside his Wellingtons. He spared a thought for a woman in a see-through plastic mac trying to keep her heeled shoes on, and suddenly saw the sense of those green wellies with straps to tighten the tops – and of not listening to the propositions of elderly men like Hoskins, even though he was his best customer at “The Trap”.
He glanced at the old boy, who was watching him and grinning. ‘Archie Granger’s next to go,’ he told Cannon. ‘You’ll be glad you’ve come once you see him gallop cross-country.’
Before Cannon had thought of a suitable reply, loud screeching whistles began blowing from various parts of the course.
‘Come on,’ Hoskins said, ‘he’s off, we’ve just time to go and stand on that rise right near the lake,’ adding mischievously, ‘it’ll be a mite more exposed up there.’
On rough slippery terrain, Alan Hoskins, the most knowledgeable countryman he knew on The Fens, and the best poacher, was difficult to keep up with. Cannon put his head down, held on to his hat, and followed him up to the top of the hillock where a small group of beeches might give some protection. They didn’t, but from this vantage point he could see that a huge log marked with pennant flags had been situated on the far side of a lake. Riders had to take their horses over this into shallow water, then further in was a full-sized overturned rowing boat which must be jumped before coming out of the water on the near side. There was then some twenty metres to cover before the riders came to the obstacle Cannon and Hoskins overlooked. This flagged monster consisted of a deep ditch the side the horse took off, with a large brush fence the other side. It all had to be taken in one leap.
‘Here he comes,’ Hoskins shouted and pointed to where in the murky distance a grey horse and rider came into view. Looking like miniature figures in the drenched landscape, they were covering the ground at a good pace, and cleared every jump they came to without pause. ‘Some of the horses he’s beating cost fifty, sixty thousand pounds,’ Hoskins added as they came nearer to the lake.
Cannon digested this information as he too became caught up in the action, interested in spite of himself, and held his breath for the safety of this young man Hoskins said he had known since he was at junior school, and obviously cared a lot about.
The horse leapt the log into the water and at a great splashing pace, reached the upturned boat, clearing it by an impressive margin, then it was out of the water and thundering past where they stood. Cannon noted the curly auburn hair of the rider beneath his hat, the black number on the white front and back bib he wore. Come on, 339, make the old boy proud, he silently urged, as the horse snorted, pricked its ears, took stock of the obstacle and went for it.
The horse reached the open ditch, took off, but then looked as if it wished it had not; it almost seemed to try to turn away, or back, or …
Hoskins started forward as the rider was unseated by the twisting half-turn the horse made. The onward propulsion took him over the horse’s shoulder and the jump – but the horse landed with its back legs still over the brush fence, straggled, flailing about trying to free itself.
Several officials and Hoskins ran towards the rider, who was winded but struggling to get to his feet to look to the plight of his horse, trying to calm it, as it desperately tried to find purchase with its back legs, and scramble clear.
Whistles were screaming out both nearby and way in the distance. Red flags were being waved, all, Cannon presumed, to stop riders following on. There were anxious officials on their mobiles. He saw a Land Rover with a steward’s flag flying above its roof, that had been around earlier, circling, then a St John’s ambulance and a horse ambulance speeding to the scene.
Archie Granger had managed to catch the trailing reins of his horse, but there was little else they could do except try to keep it calm, stop it seriously injuring itself. Cannon wondered if they would have to cut through the poles that were beneath the brush to enable the horse to be freed. He was also curious to see what had caused this horse, an animal Hoskins had described as a “wonder horse”, to try to back away from an obstacle it was already half over. Cannon had seen it change from a horse keen, enjoying the outing, to one that suddenly behaved as if it had seen a ghost, showed the whites of its eyes as if in terror.
Approaching the ditch, he realized it was deeper than he thought, and wood lined, its elongated shape making him think “grave-like”, and then he caught the raw odour of damaged flesh, kept down by an atmosphere too heavy to let it disperse. The horse was still thrashing about, but the next moment Cannon had forgotten it and was jumping into the ditch, which must be some two metres deep. Once down he could hardly see out – but it was what was in the ditch that concerned him.
Stooping to avoid the metal-shod hooves of the horse whinnying its distress, he skidded in the collected water and mud in the ditch to kneel by the woman who lay at the far end. Her head was thrown back, eyes wide open, staring up. Her face was unmarked, but the rest of her body looked as if she had been crushed – run over – or trampled by horses, before she had finished up in this ditch.
Above his head, the gre
y at last managed to get a hind leg on to something firm enough to lift itself off the fence. He heard something like a half cheer of relief go up from the far side of the jump, followed immediately by cries of alarm and ‘Whoa! Hold’er!’ as the mare pulled free and galloped away from the site of its trauma.
Cannon felt almost solitary in the deep wet ditch, and having put his fingers deep into the marble-cold neck for the chance of a pulse, he closed his eyes, taking just a moment before the turmoil, the distress, and the procedures he knew so well, followed his discovery.
The moment was brief, as he heard more raised voices and gathered the horse had been stopped. Then more immediately above him, he heard Hoskins calling to someone to stop. He looked up to see the youth, rider number 339, right over his head, peering down, then he was in the ditch by Cannon’s side.
‘No! You stay there.’ Cannon gestured Hoskins to stay back, as he too looked likely to try to join them.
‘It is!’ Archie Granger said in a whisper. ‘It is … I …’ and now he too was on his hands and knees by the woman’s side. ‘I knew something had spooked my horse … but …’ He shook his head violently as if to deny all he could see. ‘Is she?’ he questioned fearfully.
‘Yes,’ Cannon confirmed, ‘for some time, I’m afraid.’
‘But she can’t have been, she …’ Archie objected and looked up at Hoskins.
Hoskins too was staring at the woman, his face showing the same shock, clearly they both knew who she was.
Cannon got to his feet and took the elbow of the young rider and tried to urge him to his feet. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do for her,’ he said gently, ‘I’m sorry.’
A course official in yellow visibility jacket now appeared at Hoskins’ side. ‘They have your horse,’ he began, then saw the body. ‘Why it’s, it’s our …’ he began then asked, ‘what’s happened? What’s she doing down there? She looks …’
‘She’s dead,’ Archie Granger said, ‘dead! Why? Why?’ The youth put his face in his hands and only Cannon heard him mutter, ‘But then it’s like a lot of things in my life I don’t understand.’
The steward just shook his head. ‘I checked this part of the course no more than an hour ago, there was nothing …’ He looked down again, but drew back at the same time. ‘… nothing here then.’
More people were beginning to wander in their direction, and Cannon knew more professional policing was required. He told the steward to inform the event officials.
‘This crime scene must be secured immediately,’ he said.
‘Crime?’ the steward repeated.
‘My friend here is ex-Metropolitan Police,’ Hoskins informed him, ‘he knows.’
‘Yes,’ Cannon said firmly, but saw no reason to go into more detail to further distress these people.
He felt it became like a stand-off. A curious ring of people huddling together in the rain, heads nodding to each other and back towards where a couple of stewards, supported by two of the private security staff on duty, began waving all away from the area of the ditch. They also helped Archie and Cannon climb out, and at Cannon’s suggestion, requested a tarpaulin be brought out to erect a temporary cover over the ditch.
There was a momentary distraction as Archie saw two men trying to lead his horse back towards him, and it definitely did not want to come back that way.
‘I must go and see my horse is OK and it should be seen by …’ He shrugged. ‘Not sure what I should do.’
‘No, I don’t know either,’ Hoskins said.
‘What don’t you know?’ Cannon asked. ‘Will one of you explain?’
‘You explain,’ Archie said and ran towards where his mare looked likely to escape again.
‘If there’s a bad fall like this one then the horse and the rider have to be checked over, the horse must be vetted,’ Hoskins told him, ‘and the event’s vet, Tilly Anders, is the lady in the ditch.’
As if to confirm this, a further tannoy message asked if any veterinary surgeon present would please come to the secretary’s tent.
In the distance, police sirens could be heard.
CHAPTER 2
Cannon quickly realized both the police and the private security firm had efficient men in charge. Not only was the crime scene secured, but a decision made that the event would continue, thus avoiding a mass exodus and keeping some sort of control of a thousand people or more, plus hundreds of cars and horse-lorries.
Another announcement stated that due to a serious incident at the far side of the lake, riders would now exit from the lake on the same side as they entered. The course would be one jump shorter.
Cannon silently vowed this would be the first and last such affair he would ever visit, and still he did not know why Hoskins had been so insistent he came. Hardly a question he could ask now they were surrounded by police.
He and Hoskins made short informal verbal statements as the business of setting up forensics in the teeming rain went on. Then, accompanied by a security officer, they were allowed to go back to join Archie at the lines of temporary canvas stables, erected behind the lorry parking area. Here, they found a middle-aged rubicund vet had already arrived. He greeted Hoskins by name as he stood back, watching Archie working on the horse.
To Cannon’s surprise, though it was pouring with rain the horse was being hosed down.
‘To lower the heart rate,’ Hoskins informed him, as excess water was squeegeed away and ice-packs were strapped to the animal’s legs. It was at last led into its stable and the vet began to make a detailed inspection.
There were cuts under the belly and while Archie stood at the mare’s head, the vet extracted small splinters of fence and brushwood from the wounds, then gave an antibiotic injection.
‘She’ll do, rug her up,’ he told the anxious young man and then advised, ‘you get yourself to the Medical Tent for your check-up. I’ll pop over to the farm and have another look at the mare later.’
‘Does everyone know everybody?’ Cannon asked Hoskins as they stood and dripped in the Medical Tent while Archie was seeing the doctor.
‘It’s a bit like that, people who event regularly get to know each other and their horses,’ Hoskins was saying as a sturdy, grey-haired man in his sixties burst through the tent flaps bringing in another flurry of rain.
‘Alan Hoskins!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is my Archie here? I was over the far side of the water and then it was all cordoned off. I’ve been to the stables and someone said …’
At that moment, Archie emerged from the inner section of the facility.
‘I’m all right, Dad,’ he said soberly.
Cannon noted the same hair, short, tight waves, in two colours, red and grey.
‘A few good bruises,’ an elderly angular doctor following him out confirmed. ‘Get him into some dry clothes, then home and early to bed, not a day anyone should be out.’
Cannon warmed to that sentiment and the doctor.
‘We’ll do just that,’ Granger stated and laughed. ‘So horse and rider are both OK?’
When no one answered him, he looked round and decided, ‘You all look a bit stunned. Tea for everyone then. Come on, we’ll soon have the kettle on, then home.’
Hoskins introduced Cannon as they went, but it was not until they had all taken off their boots and dripping coats under the gazebo alongside Granger’s horse-lorry and climbed into the living space, that Steven Granger heard that leaving immediately might be out of the question.
‘Dad, the woman …’ Archie began, ‘the body …’
‘The body?’ Granger froze, then turned slowly to look at his son. ‘What you talking about, boy?’
‘The jump I fell at … in the ditch …’ He stopped, his mouth half open, reliving it all again.
‘What’s this?’ Granger asked sharply. ‘What’s happened? I thought it was just the fence that was damaged. What’s this about a body?’
‘I’m sorry, Steve,’ Hoskins said, ‘but it’s Tilly Anders.’
‘Tilly
! Our Tilly Anders? What do you mean?’ Granger protested, angry, assertive.
‘It is, Dad, it is, I sort of saw and recognized her even as I went over the jump.’ The youth looked haunted as he relived the moment. ‘I froze and that spooked the mare. Tilly was slumped backwards, her face tilted up, like she was looking straight at me.’ Then he suddenly became angry, as emphatic as his father. ‘We never really could afford all this …’ He made a gesture that included not just their horse-lorry but the whole event. ‘And if things start happening at these places as well, let’s quit while we’re still … while … well, not dead like poor Tilly.’
Granger rose, glanced at their guests and said very firmly, ‘Not the time to make decisions, son,’ he stated, then added more gently, ‘and not what Tilly would have wanted.’
‘No, you mustn’t rush into decisions when you’re upset,’ Hoskins endorsed.
‘Oh, we’ve had plenty of practice,’ Archie Granger blurted out.
‘Go and get out of those wet things,’ Granger told him abruptly, ‘and find some trousers and socks for John here, so at least he feels able to sit down.’
In minutes, Archie was back with black tracksuit trousers and long woollen socks. Granger gestured Cannon to go through into his sleeping compartment to change. These horse-lorries, Cannon thought, were like glorified caravans for owners, riders and their horses. This one was neat, well fitted and equipped, but he had noticed the Grangers’ lorry was very modest compared with some of the shiny giants around about.
‘I’ll do the tea,’ Hoskins said, who had emerged dry from under his wet-weather gear.
Peeling off his muddy trousers and soaking socks, Archie’s fleece lined trousers and thick woollen socks were a real comfort, and not a bad fit. He wondered how much he should tell the father, who had muttered a question about how such an experienced woman could have an accident like that.
Cannon knew it was no accident, he had seen the marks around the woman’s wrists. She had been held captive – restrained – and then trampled by horses, is how it had looked to him.
