by Elena Forbes
She tried to call Dan but his phone was switched off. It was too late to call Grace back, but she pressed play and listened to Fagan’s message.
‘Hi, Eve. It’s Andy. Can you give me a bell please, soon as you get this? Need to give you the heads up on something.’ She picked up an urgency in his tone and wondered, with a sinking heart, if there was any connection with Dan’s text.
She phoned Fagan but he, too, didn’t answer. No doubt he was at home, tucked up in bed with his wife. She left a brief message explaining that she didn’t have much of a signal and would try again in the morning, then stood for a moment looking out at the sky. There was a distant, yellowish glow on the horizon from the direction of Swindon, otherwise it was clear and black and full of stars.
She was about to go back inside when she heard a noise. It sounded like the snap of a branch and it came from the woodland area just beyond the cottage boundary. She stood still and listened. Silence. A cold winter moon had slid out from behind a patch of cloud. It was almost full and shone brightly on the frosty fields and garden below, but the woods were black and she couldn’t make out anything beyond the perimeter. She heard another sound, some sort of hurried rustling in the undergrowth, followed by the crack of another branch. It could be deer, or maybe a badger, something largish and relatively weighty, but she wanted to make sure. Using her phone as a torch, she followed the path around to the side of the house where the hedge finished and a makeshift fence started, and shone her torch into the trees beyond. The beam of light was weak, but she picked up a movement.
‘Who’s there?’ she shouted.
No answer. She grabbed one of the posts and climbed up onto the fence, stepping carefully over the barbed wire that ran along the top rail and dropping almost silently onto the stretch of rough grass on the other side.
‘Hello? Who’s there?’ As she started walking towards the woods, she heard the crack of breaking branches, the noise now further away, moving swiftly up the hill in the direction of the main road. Even a large deer wouldn’t make such a din. Someone had been watching her.
TWENTY-FIVE
Eve woke early the next morning. She had barely slept, lying awake for much of the night listening to the wind in the trees and the sounds from the lane below. Occasionally a car would go past and made her wonder if whoever had been watching her had come back. What was the point of spying on her? What did they want? Her first thought was that it might be a journalist from London, still looking for an angle on the shooting, although it wasn’t clear how they could have found her. If not, maybe it was something to do with the Sean Farrell appeal. Perhaps she had stirred up something unpleasant, which would at least mean she was heading in the right direction.
She opened the bedroom curtains and gazed out at the dark, misty fields opposite. Other than a couple of lights dotted here and there, it was difficult to see much beyond the lane. Somebody could easily have stood out there, watching her all night. Again she felt the isolation of the place and thought of Jane McNeil, on her own in the cottage for the last few days of her life, after the other girls had left. Had she minded? Had she felt nervous, or afraid? Had she any idea that she was in danger?
Eve showered and dressed quickly, wanting to go for a walk to clear her head as well as to see if she could trace the path that the intruder had taken. The cottage was chill and damp, the heating only just kicking in, with the old pipes rattling and groaning. But at least the boiler was still working. Harry could be thanked for that. Downstairs, when she made coffee, she could still smell his stale cigarette smoke lingering in the air. She wondered how he was feeling this morning.
As soon as it was light enough to see, she put on her coat and boots and went outside with her phone in order to get a torch from her car. There was a heavy mist and the overnight frost had turned the garden completely white. She walked around the house, checking the few small flowerbeds under the windows, but there was no sign that anybody had been there looking in. She went back into the front garden to where she had stood on the lawn the previous night with her phone. She could just make out the faint shape of footprints pressed into the stiff, white grass. Whether they were from the night before or that morning, she couldn’t tell, but they looked far too big to be hers and they led towards a gate at the perimeter of the woods. An old, faded notice pinned to a tree beside it said: Private. Keep out. Trespassers will be prosecuted.
The gate was fastened by a long, lever catch, which was stiff and rusty and a struggle to open. The gate had to be lifted up on its hinges to pull it free and as she swung it back, it made a loud creaking noise. In the quiet of the country, it was as good an alarm as any and she was sure she hadn’t heard the noise the previous night. Sheltered by the trees, the ground on the other side was soft and brown and free of frost. A large puddle of water had collected in a hollow in front of the gate, now covered in a thin, unbroken film of ice. She noticed a couple of partial footprints in the muddy ground around it, toes pointing forwards, as though somebody had recently stood there, looking over the gate towards the cottage. Judging from the size, they were a man’s boots, with a deep outdoor tread. They could have been made by an innocent walker, but she took out her phone and photographed them just in case, using her own foot as a makeshift yardstick.
The cottage sat at an angle to the woods, facing across the road. Anybody standing at the gate would have had a clear view of the front garden, as well as through the side window into the sitting room. Thank God she had closed the curtains when she went in there with Harry, after dinner. The kitchen, her bedroom above, and the bathroom were on the other side of the house and she reassured herself that she had drawn all the curtains and blinds as soon as it got dark. It was a stroke of luck she had gone out with her phone to make calls after Harry left, otherwise she might never have known she had been being watched. A narrow, overgrown footpath led through the trees up the hill. The track was covered in a thick, soft layer of leaf mould, which deadened any sound, and although there were traces of footprints here and there, it was impossible to say when they had been made. None were clear enough to be matched to the other footprints. She followed the steep path until finally she reached the top. She climbed over a small stile and came out into the open. A heavy mist filled the air, softening the slowly brightening landscape. She could just make out the road that ran through the estate and the Marlborough-side gates in the distance. The public car park was just beyond, she remembered. Anyone could have easily parked their car there and climbed over the gates without being noticed, although why they had bothered to approach the cottage through the woods was another matter. Perhaps they were worried about being spotted in the lane or in the fields at the front, where it was more open.
She was about to go back down the road to the cottage to pick up her car, when she heard a series of high-pitched whistles. A moment later, a dog shot out of the mist and ran up to her, panting. It was some sort of a whippet, brindle-coloured, wearing a thick, red, leather collar, with a heart-shaped brass tag. As she bent down, it licked her hand as though looking for treats. She was just about to check the tag, when there were more blasts of the whistle and the dog took off back across the road, this time in the direction of the farmhouse.
‘Hey, Eve,’ a man shouted. The voice came from the direction of fields on the opposite side of the road. ‘Over here.’
It sounded like Gavin’s voice. Scanning the misty horizon, she could just make out the dark smudgy shape of somebody running towards her over the brow of the hill, beyond the gallops. She walked over to the track and waited. Gavin moved quickly and, a moment later, had crossed the gallops and was ducking under the rail beside her. He was wearing a black tracksuit, the bottom of the legs and his trainers soaked from the long grass. He unplugged a set of earphones and put his hands on his thighs, bending forwards momentarily to catch his breath.
‘Didn’t expect to see you up so early on a Sunday,’ he said. ‘You going for a run?’
He was breathing heav
ily, nowhere near as fit as he used to be, she noticed. It was what age and a desk job, as well as a comfortable, unchallenging home life, did to you. She had been a pretty fast runner, but nothing compared to him twenty years before. Looking at him now, she thought she could easily outrun him.
‘Not this morning. I just needed some fresh air.’
He stood up, frowning as he studied her more closely. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, deciding not to mention what had happened the night before.
In the strange, grey light his face appeared unusually drawn and he looked dishevelled, still unshaven, his blonde hair messy and dark with sweat. His eyes were particularly weary, as she met his gaze, and she thought he appeared troubled.
‘What about you? Are you alright?’
His expression shut down. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said a little sharply, still breathing heavily. ‘I just haven’t had much sleep, that’s all.’
His tone was unusually brusque and she wondered why he seemed so on edge. She knew him too well to let it go. ‘Nothing’s wrong then?’
‘No. I’m just tired. Melissa came home early with a headache and went to bed. I had a load of constituency emails to catch up on, then I ended up watching a couple of rubbish films until very late. Probably had a few too many whiskies as well. It’s good to get out here and clear my head. But now the bloody dog’s run off again.’
‘I saw a brown-coloured whippet a minute ago.’
‘That’s the one. Snippet the whippet. Stupid name, but it’s what the boys called him. He’s Melissa’s and he pays absolutely no attention whatsoever to me. I think he’d rather I stayed in London.’
‘He ran off towards the house.’
‘That makes sense. He’s a practical sort. Now he’s had his morning run, he’ll be wanting his breakfast. He couldn’t give a damn about me. I finally understand why Harry has Labradors. They do what they’re told. He doesn’t tolerate disobedience.’ He glanced down at the torch in her hand then peered at her. ‘Seriously, Eve. You look very pale. Is anything the matter?’
She didn’t want to alarm him but she decided it would be better to explain. ‘Like you, I also didn’t get much sleep. I—’
‘You enjoyed your dinner with Harry, then?’ Again, the same sharpness of tone.
It struck her that maybe Harry had a reputation where women were concerned, not that it mattered. Whatever Gavin thought had gone on between her and Harry, she wasn’t going to spell it out for him, let alone correct any misapprehensions.
‘Yes, I did,’ she said, holding his gaze. ‘Something came up I wanted to ask you about. What exactly is race-fixing? I mean, I know what it is in general terms, I just want to understand the specifics. Why would anybody want a horse to lose?’
Gavin raised his eyebrows. ‘May I ask why?’
Although surprised, his reaction was very different to Harry’s the night before. ‘Humour me. Please.’
He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. ‘OK, not that I’m an expert, of course. For starters, a trainer may deliberately pick a course that doesn’t suit the horse – say it’s too long or short or the incline isn’t what the horse likes, so that it doesn’t do well. It loses a few times, which means it then has a lower handicap when you then pick the right race and track, where it has a much better chance of winning.’
‘That’s not illegal?’
‘No, not at all. Just tactically clever.’
‘I’m talking about dishonest reasons to stop a horse. I presume it’s so that another horse wins?’
‘Yes, or again to keep the handicap down for another race in the future. There’s also another reason. In the old days, you could only bet on horses winning or being placed, but thanks to Betfair you can now bet on a horse losing. With computer systems, it’s a lot easier to spot if something funny’s going on, but it still happens, from what I gather.’
‘So how do you stop a horse?’
He was looking at her curiously, his head a little to one side. ‘You can nobble it …’
‘Dope it?’
‘Yes, that’s one way, although it’s much easier to pick up these days, with all the checks. Or you can get the jockey to throw the race, maybe ride it out in front when it likes to come from behind, or just not try hard enough. There are all sorts of possible excuses for riding a bad race, such as the horse didn’t feel right, or something along those lines. Racecourse stewards are always on the lookout for that type of thing, but of course it still happens and some things are very difficult to prove. There are jockeys who are not only very good at winning, but also losing, if you get my drift.’
‘I assume it’s all about money.’
‘Of course. Where there’s brass, there’s muck. However glamorous racing appears from the outside, it’s an intensely competitive and often cut-throat sport. The majority of trainers and jockeys make little money, if any. There’s always somebody who’ll be open to making a dishonest buck. Why are you so interested in all of this?’
‘Just curious. Harry wasn’t very helpful when I asked him about it last night.’
He shrugged again and looked away, as though it was unimportant.
‘In fact, he seemed rather touchy about the whole subject. Any idea why?’
‘No.’ It was clear from his tone he wanted to leave it there.
‘Do you have CCTV anywhere on the farm?’ she asked after a moment.
He turned to face her again. ‘CCTV? Why? Is something wrong?’
‘Possibly.’
‘There are cameras on the yards and around some of the barns. What’s happened?’
‘I think someone was watching me last night.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Watching you? Where?’
‘Someone was out in the woods just behind the cottage.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard noises. I think I saw someone.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘I just saw a movement, but I don’t think it was an animal.’
‘Probably poachers.’
The idea of poachers hadn’t occurred to her, but from the little she knew, they didn’t hang around. They didn’t stand still at a gate, watching a house. If anything, it was more likely to be a would-be burglar, although there was nothing in the cottage worth taking.
‘We’ve had a few problems recently. I’ll mention it to Harry,’ he said abruptly.
‘I don’t think it was poachers.’
He was about to say something else when, from nowhere, she heard a dull, drumming sound coming from the right. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘You’ll see. You’d better stand back.’
The noise was getting louder and they moved a couple of feet away from the railings, just as a string of horses and riders appeared from out of the mist at the bottom and came galloping up the hill towards them. As the group flew past, the ground shaking, sand and fragments from the track flying up in the air, she smelled the horses’ sweat and felt the adrenalin surge of speed. Then they were gone, disappearing as swiftly as they had come over the brow of the hill and back into the mist.
Gavin looked around at her. ‘Why would someone be watching you?’
‘It’s possible a reporter followed me here. They’ve been hassling me since the shooting in London. It could also be something to do with the Sean Farrell appeal.’
He frowned. ‘Are you serious?’
‘It’s easily possible.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you want to call the police?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Not at the moment, anyway. I can look after myself.’
‘I’m sure you can, but you shouldn’t have to. Really, don’t worry. I still think it’s more likely to be poachers, but if it happens again, we should call the police.’
TWENTY-SIX
‘So this mystery man calls you out of the blue from Mickey Fraser’s phone. He tells you not
to call the police and you trot along to Covent Garden, like a good little boy, to meet him,’ the first detective said. He was the older of the two, maybe fifty, give or take a year or so, with an old-fashioned ginger brush of a moustache and surprisingly feminine, long-fingered hands. Even across the table, he smelled of stale cigarettes.
‘Yes,’ Dan said. ‘That’s what I said. He wanted some money.’
‘In exchange for the phone?’
‘I didn’t want the phone. I just wanted to talk to Mickey’s friend.’ He had the impression that any form of payment for the phone of a murder victim was a major crime.
‘But he thought you’d gone there to buy the phone. Yeah?’
‘No. There was no mention of any payment when I spoke to him. As I told you, all I wanted was to talk to the man who said he was Mickey’s friend.’
‘But the other man thought he could get some money out of you?’
‘I don’t know what he thought, but I just wanted to talk to Mickey’s friend. OK?’
‘You didn’t think it was just a wee bit suspicious?’ the other detective chipped in. ‘Did it occur to you that maybe the killer had taken Mickey Fraser’s phone?’
She was a short, butch-looking Scot, with a surprisingly high-pitched voice and prim, thin lips, lined in an unpleasant shade of dark red. She had an irritating habit of emphasizing certain words and raising her eyebrows meaningfully at the same time. He couldn’t decide which of the detectives he liked least.
Naturally it had occurred to him, but as he kept telling himself, the other man, the younger one, who had called himself Hassan had sounded genuine. There had been real emotion in his voice when he said the words ‘I am very sad’. If he had killed Mickey, why would he bother to say that? There must be some other explanation. Both detectives were staring at him.
