by Elena Forbes
‘Look,’ Dan said wearily. ‘If the killer had taken Mickey’s phone, why would he try and sell it back to me? It doesn’t make any sense.’
There was a heavy silence for a moment and he had the impression they knew something he didn’t. The room was hot and stuffy, an unpleasant, sour smell hanging in the stale air. He didn’t know if it was coming from him or the policemen. They had been at the station for most of the night and none of them had been home for a shower and a change of clothes. He was exhausted. The only consolation was that they must be too. He had managed to extract a cup of milky coffee and a soggy ham and cheese sandwich out of them, but that was all. He felt weak from hunger and lack of sleep and increasingly incoherent. They had taken away his phone. The room had no window and he wasn’t wearing a watch. He had no idea what time it was, but based on his tiredness alone, he imagined it must be getting light outside now.
‘The man said he was a friend of Mickey’s,’ Dan said. ‘I just assumed Mickey had given it to him for some reason.’
‘Which man was this?’ Ginger asked.
‘The younger one.’
He kept thinking about the two foreigners he had spoken to on the phone, one of them the short, swarthy man he had met in Covent Garden called Nasser. He had looked like the sort of hard, desperate person who would pull a knife on you at the drop of a hat. Hassan had sounded softer, more direct, or at least less grasping. Again, he replayed in his mind Hassan’s words. He had seemed genuinely affected by Mickey’s death, Dan was sure. Whatever line the police took, he had to trust his instincts. But what exactly was Hassan and Nasser’s connection to Mickey? He had no idea what went on in Mickey’s personal life, let alone why two such people would have his phone if they hadn’t killed him. But he understood the importance of the phone to the police and their obsession with it. It was the one live connection to Mickey and possibly his murder.
He assumed that they had been tracking it, whenever it was switched on. On. Off. On. Off. It must have driven them mad. They had arrived at Covent Garden very quickly and it suddenly occurred to him in the car on his way to the police station that he must have been under surveillance, probably since the first call made from Mickey’s phone to his. The thought made him shiver. He had a deep mistrust of all forms of authority, not least a self-regulating body like the police, with its track record of cover-ups, incompetence and corruption. No doubt there were good apples amongst the bad, and Eve appeared to be one of them. But the two detectives facing him would have fitted in well in Life on Mars. They were even worse than the previous pair who had interviewed him, lacking any form of finesse, let alone charm. Charm got you a long way in life, he’d always thought, or at least that’s what his mother had repeatedly told him, and she was generally right about most things. Somebody needed to tell this duo that you catch more flies with honey. But they were of the school that believed you needed a whacking great mallet to crack a nut and, by the look of them, they were there for the long haul. He could see the day stretching ahead, the same tedious, repetitive questions. It was as though all ‘suspicious’ people – especially journalists – were tarnished with the same brush. They thought that if they bullied and threatened and wore you down enough, you would eventually cave in. But they were wrong, at least as far as he was concerned. He had been prepared to cooperate, up to a point. He wanted to find Mickey’s killer as much, if not more, than they did. But he soon realized his mistake. He couldn’t trust them to listen with an open mind to what he had to say. Faced with such an onslaught, his instinctive defence mechanism was to hunker down and lie where necessary. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how they would react if he told them about Mickey’s memory stick.
He met the woman’s stony gaze. ‘Anyway, why on earth would the killer be calling me?’
‘Why on earth indeed,’ she replied, with heavy sarcasm. ‘Unless maybe you and this other bloke killed Mickey.’
This was a new angle. No doubt they had been working their snail-like way towards this all the time. Dan sat back in the chair, arms dangling at his sides, and stared across the small table at the pair of them in disbelief. It was so preposterous, he almost laughed, although humour was an alien concept in the police interview room. He’d tried to crack a few jokes earlier, just to lighten up the tone, but they were greeted with brutish silence.
At least there was one big truth to hang onto: ‘I’ve told you before, I had nothing to do with Mickey’s murder.’ He said it with as much righteousness as he could muster, looking from one to the other.
Ginger folded his lily-white hands on the table. ‘Just to get things straight, this man you went to meet in Covent Garden was Mickey’s friend, right?’
He shook his head wearily. ‘That’s what he said, but he wasn’t the one who called me when I was waiting outside the Apple Store. The voice was different. I told you this before.’
‘He was called Nasser, right?’
‘Yes. So he said.’
‘Did you see the other man?’ the woman asked. ‘This Hassan person? The one you say was Mickey’s friend?’
Dan sighed. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ He thought of the boy in the navy jacket outside the Apple Store. Was he Hassan? He looked very young. He had glimpsed all sorts of other people in the crowd who might have been Hassan, but the more he chased the images in his head, the more they all started to resemble the older man who had taken flight. He was too tired to think about it any longer. Maybe if he let it rest – if they would let it rest – something might come to him.
‘So you know what he looks like?’ She had a sly look in her eye, as though she was onto something.
‘NO. Don’t twist my words. I told you, I never met him. I have no idea if he was there. The one who first spoke to me on the phone – the one who met me outside the church – was the older man who said his name was Nasser. Got it? You must know what happened to him? I saw your lot chasing him down the street. There must have been four or five against one. He can’t have got away.’
The detectives exchanged glances but made no reply. Surely they hadn’t let the man give them the slip? Or maybe they were trying to fool him. The piazza had been swarming with police. Of course they had caught the fugitive – which explained the kerfuffle. No doubt, they were grilling him in another interview room, probably along the same corridor.
‘Why don’t you fucking well ask him? He’s the one you should be talking to, not me.’
Ginger moistened his lips. ‘Problem is, Dan. We can’t ask him.’
‘Why’s that?’ He looked from one to the other but couldn’t read anything from their expressions. It was as though they were pregnant with some special knowledge, something that they expected him to know too.
‘And he wasn’t carrying any ID so we have no idea who he is,’ the woman added crisply. ‘You sure you don’t know him?’
The exasperation rose in his throat. ‘Just ask him, for Christ’s sake. He speaks fucking English.’ He decided to say nothing more and call for a lawyer. He should have done it a long time ago instead of trying to cooperate. He stretched out his legs under the table and folded his arms defiantly.
‘Not any more he doesn’t, Danny boy,’ Ginger said. ‘This man, the one you went to meet, who you say you don’t know, who you’ve never met before—’
‘I haven’t,’ he shouted. ‘I don’t know him from Adam.’
‘Well, whoever he is, he’s not talking to anybody any longer. He’s friggin’ dead.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Eve glanced at her watch. It was nearly a quarter to one and she was late for the Westerby Christmas party. The mist had cleared and the frost had all but melted, but a chill still hung in the air and the sky was overcast. The walk along the lane to the yard at the bottom of the hill should have taken no more than five minutes, but her progress was hampered by the deep ruts and puddles, as well as having to frequently step aside onto the muddy verge to make way for the last straggle of guests sweeping past in their cars.
She had bee
n into Marlborough earlier to get some breakfast and had sat outside the coffee shop in her car with her cappuccino and croissant, listening to her voicemails and returning calls. Her barrister had phoned to discuss some details he needed for her disciplinary hearing. Again, she was unable to reach Grace Byrne and left another message. Other than that, there was nothing urgent, no further messages from either Fagan or Dan, and both of their phones were switched off when she tried to call. She was on her way back, just on the outskirts of the town when Grace called again. Eve pulled over and had sat talking to her for a good ten minutes, the conversation incessantly interrupted at Grace’s end by the plaintive demands of her small children in the background. It was clear from everything Grace said that she hadn’t like Jane. She described her as ‘stuck on herself’ and ‘no real fun’. She added very little to what Eve already knew other than to say that Jane was always sneaking off somewhere, without telling her and Holly where she was going and they thought she ‘had someone on the sly’, although they had no idea who. She said she had told the police this, when they contacted her, but they hadn’t seemed particularly interested as she didn’t have any details. She also said she hadn’t spoken to Holly since leaving Westerby and didn’t know how to get in touch with her.
A variety of expensive cars were lined up on the verge for the last part of the way, spilling out into the parking lot beyond, alongside the maroon-coloured Westerby Racing lorries and the two shuttle buses, which had been provided to ferry guests back and forwards from Swindon station. The indoor school was housed inside a huge, modern, metal-clad barn. Melissa stood on the concrete paving just outside the entrance, wrapped up tightly in a dark overcoat and high-heeled boots, greeting the last few guests as they arrived. She nodded politely at Eve, but seemed distracted as she handed her a large, glossy programme. A huge crowd of people were already gathered inside and the noise was deafening. Champagne, Bloody Marys and other drinks were flowing freely, the party in full swing. The sawdust arena had been divided down the middle by a low wall of straw bales, with a row of seating just behind it, which was already fully occupied, everyone else grouped tightly around watching the yearling parade. The area at the back of the arena had been enclosed by a white marquee and was set up with tables and chairs ready for lunch. Harry stood in front of the bales, a mike in one hand, an open programme in the other, his voice blaring over the speakers as he announced each horse as it was led in by one of the grooms. Judging from the numbers he was calling out, it looked as though she had missed most of the action. Eve took a glass of sparkling elderflower from one of the trays being offered around and joined the back of the crowd. They were a motley collection of people of all ages. Although a few were smartly turned out, the majority were dressed for warmth in heavy winter coats and jackets, hats and scarves and she didn’t feel out of place at all. Many of them seemed to know one another and they drank and talked animatedly over Harry’s commentary, as they watched hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of horseflesh circle gracefully around the arena. She spotted Sally Michaels talking to a collection of people in the middle of the throng and Gavin, at the back, with another group of guests. He wore a dark suit and tie and was smiling and shaking hands, his two little blonde-haired boys at his side.
‘Here are my last five – last, but by no means least,’ Harry announced. ‘And aren’t they worth the wait, ladies and gentlemen? Come on, Colin, I know you’ve been eying up the chestnut colt all morning,’ he said, pointing his programme at a stout, red-faced man, who was seated on one of the rows of chairs at the front, with his wife. ‘Don’t let Alison stop you getting your cheque book out.’
Harry seemed relaxed and in his element, with no sign of a hangover or tiredness from the previous night. Gavin had said that he was great at schmoozing his clients and she had to agree. He was a natural, joking and bantering good-naturedly with the audience, outlining each horse’s breeding, its individual qualities, its genetic relationship to famous winners and occasionally giving a relevant anecdote to keep the crowd’s interest. He hyped each horse’s potential to the maximum and they were an exotic bunch, one yearling coming from Kentucky, another from France and another from Australia. To her untutored ears, Harry made each one sound as though it were a dead cert for the Derby in a few years. There was such a competitive buzz amongst the audience, the atmosphere was infectious. She’d read somewhere that racing was highly addictive, and a lot more expensive than class A drugs, and she could see why.
‘Thank you very much to my head lass, Siobhan, and the rest of the team,’ Harry said, once the parade was over, gesturing towards the grooms and the other members of staff who had gathered by the entrance to the arena. Then he turned to the audience. ‘Thank you very much, too, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, for your partial attention. We’ll now move onto the bit you all love most …’ He paused for effect before bellowing, ‘Lunch!’
The inside of the marquee was decked out in the maroon and cream Westerby Racing colours. A variety of multi-coloured racing silks hung on the walls of the tent, with a TV screen placed in each corner, silently replaying Westerby Racing’s successes of the past year. There was a seating plan pinned to a large board at the front of the marquee and Eve found her name and allocated table. Her place was marked with a handwritten card and she sat down between Mike, an affable Australian businessman, there with his much younger girlfriend, and Marion, an elderly widow from the Midlands. Both owned horses, or parts of horses, trained by Harry. Both were perplexed and looked at her in wonderment when she said she had never been racing in her life. Talking to other people on the table, including a romantic novelist called Sandra, who owned a series of horses, each named after one of the titles of her best-selling books, and Max, the yard vet, they seemed to come from a variety of backgrounds, their only unifying factor being a passion for the sport. She also got the impression that winning was a little less important than the wonderful days out and the experiences provided by being part of the racing world. In the course of her various conversations, she managed to discover that nobody on her table had been with Westerby Racing ten years before. She wondered whether it was accidental or deliberate.
Harry’s staff were working flat out, helping the caterers with the food and drink. She thought of Jane McNeil, ten years before and what Grace had told her. Had Jane met somebody at the party, maybe somebody she already knew, and then gone out with them later, once the party had finished? It would explain why she had cried off sick and left early, presumably to go and get ready.
Cheese and coffee were being served when she saw Harry threading his way through the throng towards her. He had been hosting another table at the other end of the marquee and she had barely seen him since they all sat down for lunch. He came up to her and kissed her warmly on the cheek and she thanked him for dinner.
‘I hope you’re enjoying yourself,’ he said, smiling and apparently flushed with the success of the day. ‘As you can see, racing’s all about having fun.’
‘It certainly seems to be.’
‘You know, I really enjoyed our evening last night.’
The image of him standing under the porch-light as he tried to kiss her sprang to mind. She wondered if he really meant it. ‘I’m glad you got home safely.’
‘Sorry if I was a bit …’ He struggled to find the word.
‘The worse for wear?’ She was still convinced that he hadn’t been as drunk as he appeared, but if he wanted to use it as an excuse, that was fine by her.
He smiled. ‘I had a bit of a headache this morning, but nothing that a few pills wouldn’t fix. It would be nice to do it again sometime soon. How long are you here for?’
She was about to reply when Melissa tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You need to come and talk to Bernie. He’s interested in Slow Dancer.’
‘Tell him I’ll be over in a minute.’ He turned to Eve. ‘Before I forget, I promised to introduce you to Stuart Wade. Come with me.’ He took hold of her arm and led her away to anoth
er table on the far side of the marquee, where a middle-aged man, with thick, greying hair, sat entertaining a group of giggling women with a story.
Harry tapped him on the shoulder and, as he looked around, Eve recognized him immediately as the man behind the wheel of the silver Range Rover with Harry, when she first went to Westerby Farm for dinner.
‘Stuart, this is Eve,’ Harry said. Stuart gave him a blank look. ‘Eve’s following up on a murder we had here ten years ago. You remember, Jane McNeil?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Stuart said flatly, with no visible reaction to the name. It was clear he had already been briefed by Harry. ‘Excuse me, ladies,’ he said, with a broad smile and a little, mock bow to the women surrounding him, and got to his feet, turning his back on the table as though it was something not for their ears.
He was very tall, maybe six feet four or five, broad-shouldered and heavy-boned, dressed in a well-cut tweed suit and tightly-knotted silk tie. Perspiration glowed on his deeply tanned face and the smile disappeared from his face as he looked at Eve.
‘This is my son, Damon,’ Stuart said, as a young man of similar height and build appeared at his side. He was equally tanned and wore a sharp, bright-blue suit, with a white shirt and no tie. Amongst the sea of pale, middle-aged faces and drab browns and greens, he stood out, looking as though he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine.
Harry smiled. ‘I’ll leave you three to chat. And I’ll catch up with you later, Eve.’ He gave her a sideways glance, then turned away towards another guest.
‘You want some bubbly?’ Stuart asked, flashing a chunky gold Rolex at his wrist, as he topped up his glass from a bottle in a cooler on the table. ‘It’s not Cristal, of course, but Harry always serves OK stuff.’
She recognized the accent immediately as Manchester, although the look of him was pure Alderley Edge. Harry had described him as being ‘in property’, which could mean anything, from caravan parks to city centre skyscrapers. Whatever it was, it seemed to be lucrative enough.
