by Jean Chapman
‘We could sit and talk,’ he suggested. He took off the tracksuit top he had slung around his shoulders, spread it on the ground, and invited her to rest. The ex-policeman recognized the importance of her decision – once seated, she was less likely to hurry away, story still untold.
She stooped, put one hand to the ground, sat and established herself on his top: knees drawn up to her chest; arms tight around her legs, balled up, tight, tense. This story was not going to be easy for Babs Beale, he could see that, but there were others involved, others he owed allegiance to.
He sent a fleeting thought to Austin and Betterson: I’m on the case.
CHAPTER 13
‘I’ve got to tell this slow,’ Babs said. ‘I’ve never told everything before – not to anyone – not even my son knows the full story.’
Cannon sat down on the grass beside her, and watched her look to the far side of the meadowland where several horses were still being lunged or grazed.
‘Horses have been my life. My grandfather, who I hero-worshipped, built on his family’s beginnings, bought land, a ranch, raised his own horses. He always said he knew his stock just as well as he knew his family. Though …’ She stopped, kicked out at a clump of grass. ‘… though he probably didn’t know me as well as he thought he did.’
‘Grandpa Tom,’ she went on reflectively, ‘he always said his horses talked to him. I certainly heard him talking to them. He made it sound just like a conversation, only the horse’s bit was silent, but Grandpa’s questions and answers always made it clear what it was about.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Do you think I’m mad?’
‘I’ve heard of horse whisperers,’ he said, ‘I’m no sceptic.’
‘But you are an ex-policeman, still with many contacts, and I’m … well, I’m not sure what I’m doing, but it kinda feels like clearing out an old storehouse where’s there’s been dangerous secrets hidden for a long time.’
‘And there’ll be a reason why this feels like the right moment to do it,’ he suggested quietly.
‘Yes! Everything that’s been happening to Archie Granger and his family, and now there’s Charlie Brown!’ she said decisively. ‘It is time. I won’t let him ruin anyone else’s life.’
‘Him?’ Cannon queried.
‘Kevin Spracks,’ she said bitterly, ‘Mr Spracks of Morbury Hall.’
He looked at Babs with fresh eyes, and an idea came to him that made his heart thump. Was the loose thread that had so puzzled him about to be taken up, woven in to that background that had taken Betterson to London, Austin to America, Paul to near death?
He watched, waited, for her to find the way into her story.
After a time Babs said quietly, ‘The land of lost content, that is what Kevin Spracks took from me,’ and she went on to quote:
‘“That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.”’
‘A. E. Housman.’ Cannon sighed his appreciation. ‘A very English poet.’
‘I’ve been over here a long time.’
‘And the land you lost?’ he queried.
‘The land of my childhood, the ranch, the stables. I spent all my free hours outdoors, in the paddocks, riding the horse my grandpa gave me on the day I became a teenager. I loved galloping along by the shining white fences on the ranch, it always made me feel as if I was flying.’
He watched the memory, and then the joy fade, as she went on, ‘It was not so much the land I lost, as the life I had taken from me.’
‘So Spracks, was he in America when—’
‘I was eighteen. This dark, handsome man, this Englishman. I’d somehow got the notion into my head that all Englishmen were gentlemen. I’d heard my grandpa talk about landed gentry and I thought this was what this man was. He was so self-assured, so worldly wise, made me feel like a hick.’
She pushed her legs out straight, brought her hands down on her knees with a sharp slap.
‘He’d come to Kentucky with his men, his entourage,’ her tone was bitter but businesslike now, ‘bringing two mares to be served by a stallion called Annuity my grandpa had bred. This horse had a growing reputation for siring winners, there’d been stories in racing papers all around the world. The details of the winners were painted up in big white letters on a blackboard outside Annuity’s stable.’ Her voice softened as she added, ‘Grandpa used to say he was well named because he was his security for his old age.
‘So the mares were served, and we all thought Kevin Spracks would just leave, but in the meantime he met my outspoken, statuesque, older sister, Jane, and was just as mesmerised by her, as I was with him! Jane on the other hand disliked him immediately. He talked big about his land and estates, the chances he could give any horse “or anyone” who threw in their lot with him. Jane made a joke of it all, put her arm around my shoulders and said, “Tell it to the leprechauns,” in as broad an Irish accent as she could manage.
‘From that moment, I was the one he concentrated on. I realized much, much, too late, it was to spite her he began to give me gifts – jewellery, perfume – and take me places. It was secret, exciting.’
‘Pre-internet grooming,’ Cannon suggested.
‘Yeah, you’ve got it! Then he offered me a position in his stables, first to supervise the mares on their return to England. He said I would be able to oversee the birth of Annuity’s foals. He was so clever, that so appealed to me! Jane tried to warn me, but when he left for England I travelled with him. Not with anyone’s blessings but with a poke of money from Grandpa. I was supposed to keep this to one side, so I could fly back home at any time I wanted to …’ She faltered, her voice fell to no more than a whisper. ‘And boy, did I want to … so many times … but I never did … never have.’
‘Never?’ Cannon said.
She shook her head sadly. ‘Never. I was no more than a stupid, conceited child, who could not admit she was wrong. I knew all about horse breeding, but sex education outside school biology – relationships outside our tiny family – zilch! Jane and I lost our parents and our grandmother when our light aeroplane crashed on the ranch, way, way back. I don’t remember them. Our dear, old-fashioned grandpa was the centre of our lives.’
And, Cannon thought, these two granddaughters would have been the centre of Tom Beale’s.
Babs sighed, and for long moments the only sounds were those of the evening breeze in the trees; a screech owl hunting early in the nearby copse; the muted noises of horses being led to their stables, and occasional voices calling a last message of the day.
‘I never got to Morbury Hall, never saw the foals born. Instead he took me to a kind of rooming house in Peckham, London, while he “made arrangements”.
‘That’s the story really, and as the saying goes, he used and abused me – but it was not until I began to be sick in the mornings that I and the landlady realized I was pregnant. She heard me sobbing, tapped on the door—’
‘So …’ Cannon interrupted, he still wanted to hear Babs put into words what was perfectly obvious, ‘so you are saying that…?’
‘Kevin Spracks is Jonathan’s father. Yes.’
‘So what happened when you told him?’
‘I didn’t. My landlady was a real Cockney lady, practical in every sense of the word. She had chickens in her back yard, and a cockerel which she put into the kitchen cupboard every night so its crowing didn’t upset the neighbours early in the mornings. She dealt with things in her own unorthodox way. She told me she knew other young girls had been housed roundabout by the same man, and if I had any sense I’d get out of his clutches.
‘She asked me what I was good at, then bought me copies of a magazine called Jobs with Horses. Escape seemed impossible, but she helped me. I applied for, and got, a job as a groom in a teaching yard. I didn’t care how long, or how hard I worked, as long as accommodation was part of the deal. I struck lucky that Mr and Mrs Woodford were a homely, car
ing couple, and I had a tiny cottage all to myself.’ She dropped her voice, sounded very humble as she went on. ‘When they realized I was pregnant, they let me stay on. It was not easy, but I managed, and I found babies like lying in managers.’ For a moment her face lit up at the memory. ‘I was content, even happy in a way.’
‘So how did Spracks eventually come to know he had a son?’ Cannon asked.
‘I had written a letter to my Peckham landlady, sent her a picture of Jonathan when he was a few months old. I never heard back, and I never knew what happened, but when Jonathan was nearly eleven and in the top class at primary school, I became aware that I was being watched. I caught a man taking photographs outside the school. I reported it and the headmaster ensured that Jonathan waited in school with a teacher, and was always handed over to me at home times. Then I heard from Spracks’s solicitors. They said something to the effect that their client would like to help with Jonathan’s further education. The offer came with a list of schools he could go to. It was impressive.
‘I talked to Mr Woodford. He said the solicitors were a reputable local firm and I should go to see them. I did. My son was apparently going to be the only child Spracks would ever accomplish. I didn’t ask why, certainly didn’t want to know. I made no decision then but later that same year, Mr Woodford died, the property had already been passed onto their two sons, but one wanted his money out and the whole lot had to be sold.
‘I could work and keep myself but I never found another position, or employers, like the Woodfords. It was a hand to mouth existence There was no way I could give my son the kind of advantages Spracks was offering. So through the solicitors we made terms. His father was allowed to go to school events to see Jonathan. It went on until he was sixteen, then Jonathan told his father he wanted to leave school to work with horses. He is so like my grandpa,’ she added softly.
Cannon heard all the gentle yearning in her voice for her old home, for the grandparent who had never met her son, the great grandson he did not know he had.
‘So he went to a top class riding establishment. He finished that course last Christmas and was lured back to Morbury Hall by a stable full of horses.’
‘But he does not forget his mother,’ Cannon said.
‘Never, but Jonathan asks more and more questions about things he sees done, about the men he sees working there and visiting. He’s begun to keep a log on his iPhone.’
Cannon gave an involuntary gasp, behind his pub counter he had stood and listened to the consequences of things stored on iPhones, of messages meant for one person’s eyes being seen by another. Homes had been broken and partnerships split by such ill-advised practices.
‘Not a wise thing to do,’ he said, ‘phones are always in youngsters’ hands or back pockets, so easy to see – or snatch, but …’
‘What?’ Babs asked.
‘Any information he does have might be of great interest to the police.’
Now she got to her feet. ‘Of course,’ she declared, ‘this is why Jonathan was so keen for me to meet you. He and I both know we can’t be on two sides of the same old ranch fence.’
‘Or sit on it,’ Cannon suggested.
‘No,’ she said, ‘no! Certainly not after hearing Charlie’s story.’
‘The sooner your son is away from Morbury Park the better,’ Cannon said. ‘The men who work for Spracks, whatever else, won’t be fools. They’ll know if they’re being watched – and judged.’
‘And if the police move in?’ she asked.
‘Double jeopardy perhaps,’ Cannon said briefly, looking over towards the car park where Babs said her car was. He could just see the lane that curved out from the exits to the roadway proper. Then he stretched up, stood on his toes to see better.
‘What is it?’ Babs asked. ‘Something wrong?’
‘That looks like the Team Jonathan lorry leaving,’ he said, ‘a blue and silver monster, turning out onto the main road now.’
‘Could be more than one blue and silver lorry,’ she said.
‘Possible, but I think we should check,’ he said, leading the way back towards the lorry park, Babs having to run to keep up.
A tall, tanned young man was filling hay nets by one of the first lorries they came to. Cannon asked ‘See that great old oak tree at the top of that rise, they’re near that. Tell Jonathan, Sam says he looks forward to seeing him tomorrow.’
They made their way along and between the lines of lorries, until they came to the dark shade under a tree Cannon judged Lord Nelson might well have had his good eye on to help build his fleet.
There was a lorry just beyond its canopy, an empty lot next to that. In this gap lay a folding chair that looked as if it had been driven over, and there was a newspaper scattered under and around its twisted frame. Automatically Cannon began picking up the newspaper, litter was not a feature of such events, everyone ensured that.
As he did so, the door of the next door lorry opened and a man looked out.
‘You with Team Jonathan?’ he asked.
‘Just thought I saw their lorry leaving,’ Cannon answered non-committally.
‘You did,’ the man replied, ‘nearly took the back end off our lorry they left in such blinding hurry. Ran over one of their own chairs,’ he said, ‘littering the place up.’
Cannon, who held the newspapers in one hand, now picked up the mangled picnic chair. ‘I’ll get rid of it,’ he said. ‘Do you know why they left so quickly?’
‘No idea, saw the lad being bundled into the lorry and in no time they were away. Something happened somewhere I should think.’
‘Bundled?’ Babe queried sharply. ‘You mean pushed? Forced?’
The man looked surprised at her brusqueness. ‘Well, urged, hurried, I don’t know. He didn’t try to fight his way out if that’s what you mean.’
‘Thanks anyway,’ Cannon said, and turning to Babs, added, ‘come on, we need to go back.’
As they went, he was aware Babs began several questions and protests as she walked and ran to keep up with him, but they came to nothing and he kept walking.
When they arrived back, Babs’s reappearance, and the story she so anxiously blurted out, caused real concern.
‘But they can’t have,’ Archie began, looking to his father, ‘we’ve just seen Jonathan’s horse in the stables.’
Steve nodded, frowned. ‘Sure it’s his lorry that’s gone?’
‘We went to the site, talked to the man next to where they’d been,’ Babs said.
‘What’s with the chair?’ Liz asked.
‘It’s one of theirs, they ran over it as they left – in a hurry,’ Cannon said.
‘There’s a roll of bin liners in the caravan,’ Liz said, ‘I’ll get one.’
The others exchanged glances and Steve asked, ‘More forensics?’
‘Probably,’ Cannon said.
‘And the newspaper?’ Steve said.
‘Never neglect anything people who are doing a runner leave behind,’ Cannon said grimly.
CHAPTER 14
It was Charlie who ushered Babs to the bench in the caravan, as she asked of no one in particular, ‘What shall I do?’
‘Jonathan should be safe with Spracks’s men,’ Cannon emphasized, ‘it’s what they’re paid for.’
‘And his horse is OK for the night, has feed and water,’ Archie added.
‘I don’t think you should go back to that hotel tonight,’ Liz said, adding, ‘that bench makes up into a bed.’
‘Good idea,’ Cannon said, thinking of the impersonality of hundreds of rooms lining endless corridors in those short-stay hotels, ‘and while you do that, I want to look over this newspaper before I speak to Betterson.’
He was quite sure the DI should know Babs Beale’s full story as soon as possible.
‘Is someone going to make a cup of tea?’ he asked.
Charlie and Babs both rose, politely got in each other’s way, as Cannon reassembled the sheets of newsprint. He found it was that week�
�s edition of the International Horse Owners’ News.
He expected nothing. Just felt it was something he should check out before speaking to Derek Betterson – but when he reached the centre page spread, his lips parted in astonishment, his breathing quickened as he read.
Again, facts jigsawed in his mind, clicking into place, forming a pattern, and in that pattern – reason, motive. He read on. Then as he came to a subheading near the end of the article, puzzling gave way to a more positive emotion – anger. The noises of pots clinking, of subdued chattering all fell away as he made a new review of all that had happened to Paul, to Charlie, the Grangers, Babs. His anger hardened into resolve, as he determined that just like the mills of God, he would grind inexorably and exceeding small … until justice was done.
‘John. John!’
He became aware that Liz was sitting by his side, Charlie and Babs were sitting opposite him and there were mugs of tea on the table.
‘What is it?’ Liz asked quietly.
He reached for his tea, cross that his hand shook and he had to steady the brimming mug with his other hand.
‘John?’ Liz repeated.
He looked from one to the other, and times when he had tried tactfully to break traumatic news to people, brought memories of shocked and distraught families, parents, partners; an older officer telling him he must learn not to care too much, or he would not be able to do his job. The man had been right, in the end he had cared too much about a fellow officer, Liz.
He sipped his tea, replaced the mug carefully beyond the edges of the newspaper.
‘It’s something you’ve read, isn’t it?’ Liz said.
‘Just tell us,’ Charlie demanded, ‘don’t keep it to yourself.’
Cannon glanced at the farrier, he would have that man’s anger to deal with, as well as his impatience, by the time all was told. He did not look at Babs.
‘If you remember,’ he said, leading them in from the beginning, from a fact they all knew, ‘there was mention of a message from “the boss”. I think the boys of Team Jonathan either read, or were told, what was in this newspaper, and then …’
