by Elena Forbes
‘Do you mind if I look around outside?’
‘If you like, I can give you a quick tour of the yards before I go.’
‘I understand that Jane was last seen at a party here,’ she said, following Harry back outside into the cold.
‘That’s right. The owners’ Christmas party. We do it every year. Always the first weekend in December. My father started the tradition. We put up a marquee in the indoor school over there.’ He pointed towards one of the huge barns in front of them, just as a small string of horses and riders clattered past, heading towards the open entrance.
‘So what happens at one of these events?’ she asked, her eyes stinging from the wind.
‘It’s really just a jolly for the clients, as well as potential new clients, with some family and friends thrown into the mix. It’s always packed. Apart from the fun and games, the main purpose is to show off the new batch of yearlings we buy at the sales and sell shares in them.’ He strode towards another group of buildings and she had to push herself to keep pace with him.
‘How many people are we talking about?’
‘It varies, but usually a good two hundred or so. There’s a sit-down lunch after the yearling parade. We wine and dine them well and it goes on all afternoon. It can get very lively, if you get my drift.’ He looked around at her. ‘We’ve got one coming up tomorrow if you want to come and see what happens.’
‘That would be helpful, thanks.’ She felt an outsider in a very alien world and, ten years on, the trail was stone cold. But at least she could soak up the atmosphere and get a feel for what might have happened the day Jane disappeared.
‘I understand Jane was helping out at the party.’
‘We use outside caterers, but all our staff lend a hand.’
‘But she was taken ill and went home early.’
‘So I’m told.’
‘Do you remember what happened? Who she talked to before that?’
He stopped in front of a high wall, which acted as a windbreak, and turned to face her, hands jammed in his pockets. His face looked ashen in the hard, grey light and the scar on his cheek was livid.
‘Look,’ he said, as though trying to choose his words carefully. ‘I’d really like to help, particularly if Sean Farrell’s innocent, but this was all a long time ago. I can barely recall what went on last year, let alone ten years ago.’
‘But I imagine you gave a statement to the police at the time.’
‘Yes, of course I did. We all did. Not that any of us could add much. Father was still alive and running the show then, but it’s always a scrum. I’d have been tied up with clients the whole day. I really don’t remember who was there and who wasn’t. If you come along tomorrow, you’ll get the picture. Also, my father died shortly afterwards and that was all any of us could think of for a long while. I’m afraid Jane’s death paled in comparison.’
He clamped his mouth shut and she realized she would have to let the subject drop. She didn’t care if she upset him, but she couldn’t compel him to talk. Again, the timing of Tim Michaels’ suicide struck her as an odd coincidence. She would speak to Gavin later and see if his recollection was any better. Harry turned away and started marching towards the group of older-looking buildings.
‘That’s Old Yard over there,’ he said, striding through a wide arch, under a clock tower, into a large, cobbled quadrangle. It was framed on all four sides by stables, with windows and lofts above. The soft, red brick was weathered and the green-painted stable doors were peeling in places. Most of the occupants were tucked away out of sight, although she heard the odd whinny and the air was filled with the tang of hay and manure and their pungent smell, whichever way she turned. People were coming and going, some with forks and wheelbarrows, others busy sweeping and clearing the ground with leaf-blowers.
‘Is it always so busy?’ she asked, watching as a small, dark-skinned man tied up a chestnut horse outside a stable.
He turned to face her again, this time smiling. ‘The flat season’s over, but there’s never a quiet time. We’ve got sixteen horses in training for the jump season, plus all the yearlings to break. Work in a racing yard never stops.’
‘Where do you find your staff?’ she asked, hearing two girls talking to one another in a foreign language she didn’t recognize.
‘My head lass, Siobhan, is from Tipperary, and several of the riders are also Irish, but a lot of the yard staff are Eastern European and Mr Singh, over there, is from Rajasthan. They all live on site in the hostel we built after my father died.’
‘How many horses do you have?’
‘In this yard, just over twenty. This is where it all started, back in the late nineteenth century. As you can see, it’s pretty old-fashioned. That’s one of the tack rooms.’ He pointed towards a huge, half-open metal door, studded with rivets. ‘People are always trying to steal stuff, so it’s alarmed. We have three yards in total. This, and Armandio Yard, which you can see through there, are the oldest.’ He pointed towards another arch opposite, with an almost identical quadrangle beyond. ‘It’s named after my great-grandfather’s Grand National winner. There’s also an American barn on the far side, which my father built just before he died, where most of the horses are housed.’
‘It’s all much bigger than I imagined,’ she said, following quickly behind.
‘It has to be. We have well over eighty horses here in peak season, mostly for flat racing, which is my passion, although I still look after several of my father’s old National Hunt clients. The gallops are about half a mile away, up on the Downs. We’re lucky to have several different surfaces, including an all-weather Polytrack, which we use depending on the time of year. My father spent a lot of money improving the facilities and they’re as good as any in the UK.’
Although he was giving her the sales spiel, she saw genuine pride in his eyes. The office was just ahead of them and she realized the tour was nearly over.
‘Just one quick question. Were you by any chance at Ascot last Saturday?’
He stopped and turned around. ‘Last Saturday? Yes. I was with one of our new owners and his wife. Why?’
‘Do you remember seeing this man?’ She pulled out her phone and showed him a photograph of Mickey, which she had found on one of the dailies’ websites. She had no idea how recent it was, but if the Met had released it to the press, it had to be relatively current.
Harry glanced at it, then shook his head. ‘There were several thousand people there. Who is he?’ His expression gave nothing away, but she had the feeling he was lying.
‘Just someone who was doing some work on behalf of the charity helping with Sean Farrell’s appeal. I’d also like to speak to a couple of former clients of yours, if possible. Lorne Anderson and Stuart Wade.’
He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘They both called Jane the week before she died.’ It was more than she wanted to say, but she couldn’t see any way around it.
‘There could be any number of perfectly legitimate reasons why. Surely the police checked this out at the time?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’
He still looked sceptical. ‘Lorne Anderson took his horses away when Father died, but Stuart Wade still has a few with me. I can speak to him, if you want, although I’m sure he talked to the police. Actually, better still, he’s coming to the party tomorrow. I’ll introduce you and you can ask him yourself.’
‘How do I get hold of Lorne Anderson?’
‘No idea. Sorry. Now, I really must press on.’
‘I imagine it’s a very expensive business owning a racehorse,’ she said, keeping pace with him as he started marching towards the car park.
‘It can be, although a lot of our clients choose to participate as part of a syndicate. It’s basically like a partnership. The syndicates usually own two or more horses, so it’s a way of spreading your bets, as well as getting all the fun of ownership at a fraction of the cost.’
‘Were either Lorne Anderson
or Stuart Wade members of a syndicate?’
He shook his head. ‘No. They’re both sole owners. They’ve got a lot of money to invest. Lorne was a successful venture capitalist – I imagine he still is. And Stuart’s in property.’
‘Are all of your clients wealthy businessmen?’
‘Lord, no. They come from all sorts of backgrounds, from plumbers and farmers and shop-owners, to footballers, golfers and actors. Lots of people are into racing, you know.’
For Eve, the world of racing conjured up polar opposites: on the one hand, men attired in top hats and tailcoats and women in colourful outfits and ridiculous hats at Royal Ascot, the images sprayed across the front pages of the tabloids every June; on the other, the seedy betting shops, reeking of a mixture of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol, full of desperate old men, where she had been dragged by one of her mother’s boyfriends on her way home from school. Like any walk of life, there were many versions of reality, she imagined.
The clock in the tower chimed the hour and Harry glanced at his watch. ‘Damn thing’s running slow again. I’m afraid I’ve really got to dash now.’
He had said all along he was short on time, but he now seemed in even more of a hurry. Whether it was the mention of Mickey or one of the Westerby clients, she couldn’t tell, but she sensed discomfort. They were almost back at the office when a canary-yellow Lamborghini burst through the gap between the barns and screeched to a halt in the middle of the parking area. A girl jumped out, hip-hop blaring from the car speakers. Without even bothering to turn off the engine or close the driver’s door, she strode towards them.
‘Why won’t you return my calls, Harry?’ she shouted in a shrill, nasal voice, the accent strong Northern Irish. ‘I’ve left shedloads of voicemails. I need to speak to you right now.’
She was tiny and skimpily dressed, in jeans, high-heeled ankle boots and a green satin bomber jacket, apparently oblivious to the cold.
Harry held up his hands, palms towards her, like a policeman stopping the traffic. ‘Sorry, Stacey. It will have to wait.’
‘It can’t fuckin’ wait.’
‘Can’t you see, I’m busy?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Well I do. As I said, I’m busy.’ He glanced meaningfully towards Eve.
‘When, then?’
‘I’ll call you later.’
She came right up to him and put her hands on her hips. ‘You said that before. I need to speak to you. It’s fuckin’ urgent.’ A mass of strawberry blonde curls framed her pretty, freckled face, but her eyes were red and swollen and it looked as though she had been crying.
‘Not now. Eve here’s with the police,’ he said forcefully. A flicker of surprise crossed the girl’s face and she glanced over at Eve, then back at Harry.
‘What’s goin’ on?’
‘Nothing that concerns you. We’re busy discussing an old murder case, that’s all. I’ve told you I’ll call you later, and I shall. This afternoon. I promise.’
‘You’d bloody well better. Otherwise there’ll be trouble.’
‘I promise.’
With a toss of her curls, she stomped off back to her car and, giving Harry a final, meaningful look over her shoulder, climbed in and slammed the door. The tyres squealed angrily as she turned on the tarmac.
Harry turned to Eve with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘She seemed very upset about something.’
‘She’s got herself in a spot of bother, that’s all,’ he said.
She held his gaze, intrigued, wondering what their relationship was. Stacey could easily have been his daughter. ‘She didn’t react well to hearing I was with the police.’
‘Stacey’s a jockey,’ Harry said, by way of explanation. ‘She’s just a bit highly strung.’
‘So I see. What does she want so badly with you?’
‘I don’t mean to be rude, Eve. But it’s none of your business.’
‘Nice car.’ Eve made a mental note of the distinctive personal number plate as it disappeared from view. The car looked brand new. The latest model, worth a couple of hundred thousand pounds at least. ‘She must be incredibly successful.’
‘She’s a decent jockey, but it’s her boyfriend’s. He’s a jockey, or at least he used to be.’
‘Would I have heard of him?’
‘Probably.’
Eve looked at him inquiringly, amused that he was being so cagey, still wondering what lay behind it. ‘So? Who is he?’
‘You’re very curious, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose there’s no harm in telling you.’ He mentioned a name she recognized.
‘She’s very young. He’s old enough to be her—’
‘When has that ever stopped anybody,’ he said sharply. ‘Anyway, she’s older than she looks and knows exactly what she’s up to. Now, I really must go.’
She followed him to his car. ‘Just one more thing. Would you be able to give me the names of the members of the Come What May syndicate?’
Harry stopped again and stared at her for a moment, one eyebrow raised, as though it was on the tip of his tongue to say something very rude. Then he cracked a smile. ‘Look, Eve. There are forty people in that syndicate. You don’t honestly think you can gain anything by talking to all of them?’
‘I didn’t realize there were so many. I told you, I know absolutely nothing about racing.’
His expression softened a fraction. ‘Of course not. Why should you? I’m sorry to be in such a rush and I really do want to try and help.’ He put his head a little to one side and gave her an appraising, provocative stare. ‘Look, why don’t we have dinner this evening, if you’re free? We’ll have more time and you can then ask me whatever else you want. OK?’
NINETEEN
It was nearly lunchtime and Marlborough’s broad High Street was buzzing with activity. The lamp posts were festooned with unlit Christmas decorations in the shape of swans and the pavements below were crowded with shoppers. It appeared to be market day, the centre of the road occupied by a long line of stalls selling all manner of things from cheeses and other farm produce, to ornamental plants, Christmas wreaths, and fancy wicker baskets and dog beds. A queue of cars inched along on both sides of the street, some drivers holding up the traffic as they tried to find parking spaces, others gawping through their windows at the goods on display. It took Eve a while before she eventually found a parking space near the church at the far end, close to the Rising Sun. She got out, put on her jacket, and made her way slowly along the pavement, skirting around the little knots of mothers with pushchairs and groups of uniformed school children, who were gathered chatting outside the various cafés and shops.
A young man stood behind the till of the Blue Cross charity shop, sorting through some items of jewellery in a display case. She asked to see the manager, explaining that she was looking for Annie. He disappeared for a moment into a room at the back, then re-emerged, along with a middle-aged woman, who joined him at the counter.
‘You came in yesterday, didn’t you? I’m sorry but Annie isn’t in today. Can I help?’
‘It’s personal. Is there any way I can get in touch?’
‘If you leave me your name and phone number, I’ll give her the message.’
‘I’m only here for a couple of days,’ Eve said, as the woman wrote down her number. ‘So it’s pretty urgent.’
‘Can I say what it’s about?’ the woman asked.
‘Just tell her it’s about Jane McNeil.’ There was no reaction in the woman’s eyes to the name. Most likely she was new to the area. Marlborough was a small town and it was unlikely such a murder would be forgotten, even after ten years.
‘Anything else?’ the woman asked, as she scribbled the name down on the piece of paper.
‘Say it’s to do with Sean Farrell’s appeal.’
As Eve repeated the name, the woman looked up. ‘You know, I’ve heard that name before. There was a man in here abo
ut a week ago, asking for Annie. I’m sure he mentioned that name, or something very similar.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t really notice. We were quite busy at the time.’
Eve pulled the photo of Mickey out of her bag and held it up. ‘Is this him?’
The woman peered at it short-sightedly, then nodded. ‘I think so. He left a business card with me. He was some sort of private investigator. I passed it onto Annie when I saw her, but I’ve no idea if she called him back.’
Eve walked out of the shop and down the high street towards her car, wondering if Mickey had managed to speak to Annie, and if Dan had known about it, and had kept it from her for some reason. She was due to meet Gavin at two thirty at the cottage. She bought a coffee and a bacon and avocado sandwich from a café, went back to her car and switched on the engine, turning the fan up high to get rid of the mist of condensation that clouded the front window. She called the number Harry had given her for Grace Byrne but it went straight through to voicemail and she left a message. As she reached for her coffee, her phone rang. The number on the screen was withheld.
‘Just getting back to you about the Mickey Fraser case.’ DCI Andy Fagan’s deep voice crackled distantly over his hands-free. It sounded as though he was in his car, driving, or being driven, somewhere through the London traffic. ‘I tried calling you a couple of times.’
Even over the phone, she could tell he was chewing gum, which had replaced a lifetime of smoking Silk Cuts. She pictured the perennially weary look on his pudgy face, the creased suit, the crumpled tie, spotted with yesterday’s lunch. With three children under the age of five, and a wife who worked, she had no idea how he kept it all together.
‘I’m not in London,’ she said. ‘There’s next-to-no signal where I am at the moment.’
‘Lucky you! It would be nice to be out of range for a few days. So what’s your involvement in all of this, Eve?’
‘Mickey Fraser worked as a freelance PI for the charity 4Justice. You’ve talked to Dan Cooper and I understand he filled you in about the Sean Farrell case, which has been referred to the CCRC—’
