by Gwyn GB
‘He’s a good bloke, you know,’ Mark said. ‘Built this place up into one of the top yards in the country out of almost nothing.’
Harrison knew why he was saying it, and it was why he also knew Mark wouldn’t be running the case for much longer. He changed the subject to save him any further awkwardness.
‘Does he own the tracks over there too?’ Harrison nodded across the far paddock to where a long straight grass track could be seen stretching into the distance. A small group of horses were just visible, bunched like ants following a trail back to their nest.
‘No, that’s the Jockey Club Estate’s training gallops. All the trainers use them, they’ve got two and a half thousand acres of grounds around Newmarket. The town revolves around racing, there’s something like eighty trainers based here. You can’t move without seeing a horse.’
The conversation broke the awkwardness, and it wasn’t long before they’d arrived at the cottage and walked behind the hedge which separated it from the narrow lane. There, the DS handed Harrison a forensic over suit, boots and gloves.
‘I don’t have my body cam because I came straight from home, so I’m going to use my mobile phone camera. I’m glad you’re here. You’re an independent witness in case some smart-arse lawyer tries to rule out any evidence we might find in there inadmissible because of my relationship with Richard.’
Harrison nodded. Mark was right. He needed to cover all eventualities.
Once they were both suited and booted, Mark switched on his mobile phone video and started recording.
‘The time is 3.51 p.m. on Saturday 2nd October. Myself, Detective Sergeant Mark James of the Major Crimes Unit, based out of Huntingdon, and Dr Harrison Lane, from the Met’s Ritualistic Behavioural Crime Unit, are about to enter the property of Paul Lester, who we have reason to believe has been murdered.’ Mark scanned his phone camera across to Harrison, and then back to the front door of the cottage. As he stepped forward with the key to open it, both of their hearts were pounding, ready to face the bloody evidence of Paul’s demise.
5
Pools of sticky dark red blood coloured both men’s minds as they pushed open the front door with gloved hands and carefully entered. They were met by the sight of a hallway bordered by a row of riding boots in various degrees of cleanliness and age. Riding crops and whips poked out from their tops, and here and there were other detritus of horses and riding, including a pile of saddles. The hallway carpet wasn’t exactly hoovered and spotless, but it showed no signs of a bloody exit, just mud and the odd fleck that looked suspiciously like it could be horse manure. Photographs and paintings of horses, some antique, covered the walls.
Harrison let DS James lead the way. He would have liked to hold back and walk around alone, to focus, but he knew Mark was relying on him to witness the fact he hadn’t tampered with anything in the house. He couldn’t let him out of his sight.
In front of him, the DS was giving a running commentary to his mobile phone video recording. They stepped carefully around, touching as little as possible. By the front door, Harrison noticed a dish with loose change and supermarket receipts in it. He suspected it was probably where Paul would also toss his car keys when he walked through the front door. There was no post stacked up, and it didn’t look like the local free papers or junk mail made it to this out-of-the-way cottage.
In through a door on their left. The sitting-room. A rectangular shaped area that would look just like anybody else’s lounge areas if it wasn’t for the huge bookcase at the far end that was weighed down with horse racing cups, trophies, and ribbons. On the wall in this room was also a large framed photograph of Paul atop a winning horse as he’d just crossed the finish line, arms raised in triumph, his steed’s nostrils flared, muscles pumped.
Mark was videoing some plates and glasses on the coffee table in front of a large wide-screen TV. Paul had been entertaining. Harrison’s eye was caught by something on the sideboard. A leather-bound book. He crossed the room to take a closer look. It was yet more proof of what he already knew. There were only about ten other books in the room, ‘Seabiscuit: An American Legend’, by Laura Hillenbrand and A.P. McCoy’s ‘Winner. My Racing Life’, plus a selection of books on horse care and management.
Using a pen from his pocket, he poked at some paperwork nearby in the vain hope it might contain some further evidence of what he also suspected. It was just various correspondence from the Jockey Club and courses around the country. A bronze sculpture of a prancing horse served as a paperweight to more paperwork. He didn’t want to touch it before forensics had been in, and anyway, they looked like more of the same.
The size of the TV, a discarded PS3 box, and latest iPhone box on the floor all gave Harrison the impression that this was a man who had started to come into some money. It fitted with what Richard said, that he was a rising star. That would raise suspicions of a jealousy motive, but Harrison knew otherwise. The person who had cut Paul Lester’s heart out hadn’t done it because he was jealous.
The room was moderately untidy, a classic bachelor pad that hadn’t seen the swipe of a duster or been visited by a vacuum cleaner in some time. That meant no attempt at a cleanup. The murder scene hadn’t been in this room.
They moved back into the hallway and to the end of the corridor, which led into the kitchen. The moderate mess theme continued. Paul obviously hadn’t been a regular one for washing up, and there was nothing to suggest a struggle or any other criminal activity. Four dirty mugs were on the side, all with various horse related cartoons and photographs on them. When Mark looked in the kitchen cupboards, there was only one clean mug and a few wine glasses left.
The kitchen was small, with basic facilities, and the fridge contained only a few things. A calorie-controlled fish pie, a bag of carrots, and a couple of apples, with almond milk, and a clutch of eggs in the door. On the table were several copies of the Racing Post and a skull cap without a silk cover. A washing machine sat flashing at them, a batch of clean clothes finished and ready to be emptied. In front, another pile of dirty jodhpurs and jeans were waiting for their turn. There was no doubting a jockey inhabited the cottage. Wherever you looked, there was horse paraphernalia. To Harrison this wasn’t a man who just loved his job and saw the animals only as beasts to ride, he seemed to have a great deal of respect for them. He also had obviously not intended to be away for any length of time.
They started up the narrow staircase, the wooden steps creaking with their weight. At the top, they were faced with just three doors. Mark went to the left, which turned out to be the main bedroom. A double bed with its blue tartan duvet thrown back dominated the room. Clothes were across the back of a chair and in piles on the floor, while a wooden wardrobe held what looked to be the smarter clothes a rising star jockey might need, including a black dinner suit and bow tie. Harrison crossed to the window and looked out. The view was across the paddocks and to the staff accommodation block. The top windows were clearly visible. From here, he could also see where the renovation works were taking place to the roof. He made a mental note to get Mark’s team to find out if any of the staff had seen anything unusual going on at Paul’s cottage yesterday.
Harrison carried on scanning the room while Mark took the video and looked for any signs that could indicate a murderer had been there. Nothing stood out. Everything looked as you might expect it to.
Then Harrison saw it. The proof that he’d been after. On Paul’s bed was an envelope with nothing written on it except 15:00. It looked empty, but when he got closer, he saw a long thick black hair poking out. Paul had clearly thrown it onto the bed before he’d left and after getting up yesterday. Next to it was a pair of riding jodhpurs. He’d got changed before going out. That fitted with what Richard had said about Paul riding out with them in the morning.
‘Mark,’ Harrison said, interrupting his commentary. ‘We need to bag that envelope and hair, it might be key.’
Mark followed Harrison’s line of gaze and swung his phone
camera around to look too. He turned back, frowning.
‘An empty envelope?’
‘It’s not empty. It’s a message, an invitation. There’s a horse tail hair inside. We need it secured.’
‘OK,’ Mark replied, although his voice didn’t sound convinced. ‘Hold this, would you and film.’ Mark handed Harrison his phone, and he watched through the small screen as Mark took out an evidence bag and tweezers and carefully put the envelope and hair inside.
The second door turned out to be a small box room. The spare bed was unmade and in here were more trophies—presumably the lesser important ones that didn’t merit public display downstairs. Mixed in with them were Pony Club photographs of a beaming little boy holding red rosettes. Paul had obviously started young. The last door led to a small bathroom and toilet. It was a good option for someone who wanted to commit a bloody murder, but it was in the same state as the rest of the house, moderately clean. It was obvious that nobody had committed, or tried to hide, a murder in here. There wasn’t a speck of blood or bleach.
‘OK, so I think we can safely assume he wasn’t murdered here,’ said Mark, as they pulled the front door closed behind them.
‘It will be somewhere like a barn, which is away from other buildings,’ Harrison said. ‘An old traditional barn rather than a modern structure.’
Mark stopped and looked at him.
‘How could you know that?’ he asked incredulously. ‘There’s no way you could work that out. He could have been killed anywhere.’
‘He was summonsed. That envelope you have was the invite. He got changed before he left. He would have gone to a barn, and that’s probably where he met his killer.’
Mark still didn’t look at all convinced, but there was no time for him to argue.
‘Let’s get back to the incident room and brief the team.’ He looked at Harrison through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Absolutely,’ Harrison replied and headed back to his Harley. It was always the same when he worked with someone for the first time. Mark would learn.
6
‘I’d like to introduce Dr Harrison Lane, head of the Met’s Ritualistic Behavioural Crime Unit. He’s kindly agreed to give up his Saturday to review our victim and circumstances and has some—’ Here DS James paused momentarily in front of the dozen-or-so expectant police officers and support staff. It wasn’t such a long pause as to alert the room, and most importantly his boss, DCI Robert Whittaker, that he had started to have serious doubts about how he and the rest of the team were going to receive the next ten minutes.
Harrison saw it.
‘Some interesting insight into how and why Paul Lester was killed.’ Mark nodded to Harrison for his cue and gave him a look which almost pleaded with him to be kind. Not to mention too much about toads and witches. For his first SIO case, why couldn’t he have had a simple drug gang hit, or domestic, why did he have to be given a well-known body on the Fens with a herd of horses standing vigil over it, and a connection to his cousin? He thought he’d at least pulled a trump card by getting such a well-respected expert involved, but now his face told a different story.
Harrison didn’t share the DS’s nerves. Most people would experience some kind of activity in their stomach right now at the prospect of standing up and talking to a bunch of strangers—and potentially strangers who were indifferent, if not downright belligerent, towards what he was about to say. The anxiety and expectation in the speaker’s brain would travel down the superhighway of the vagus nerve to their gut. Dr Harrison Lane was well used to sceptics and smart-arses. He knew that his nickname back at the Met was the ‘Witch Doctor’. He also knew he was dealing with the human mind and scientific facts. Both of which he was comfortable with.
It wasn’t arrogance that kept his stomach still or helped him stand up and start talking with a steady voice. It was confidence. He knew what he saw, and he understood the motivations behind it. He had, of course, studied Freud and Piaget, Carl Jung’s model of the psyche, and in particular the shadow and its relation to evil. Damasio’s emotional decision making and Wason’s confirmation bias. He’d considered the placebo effect, cognitive therapy, psychosis and evolutionary, and behavioural psychology, cognition and gender identity. He’d also studied societal beliefs and rituals, religions and cults, from the early days of man to modern times. The fears, the devotions, and the blind beliefs that shape human behaviour. The biggest fear of all was the unknown, whether that be what happened after death, or the fact Cambridgeshire police were dealing with a secret society of Horsemen who, probably for traditional reasons, and a sprinkling of hope, believed in the magical power of toads and lore passed down the generations. Harrison got on with it.
‘The victim, Paul Lester, is a horse racing jockey. He’s fairly early in his career but has had two good years which means he’s now in demand. I’ve already read several interviews online where not just his expertise with horses, but the bond he seems to have with them, has been mentioned and that’s an important fact to bear in mind.’
So far, so good. The men and women in the room were all still watching and listening. Now to get onto the interesting stuff.
‘He was killed by somebody who believes he used magical powers to control horses.’ There was a gentle ripple around the room at the mention of magic. ‘The first clue to this is the bone around his neck.’ Harrison looked behind him to a photograph on the board of the small bone attached to the leather cord.
‘What? A wishbone?’ one of the female detectives said and then looked as though she hadn’t meant to say it out loud and pulled her lips together in an attempt to reel it back in.
‘It’s not a chicken wishbone,’ Harrison said to her reassuringly. ‘It is, in fact, the ilium, or pelvic bone of a toad.’
The officer raised her eyebrows but listened intently.
‘Folklore said that if you took the body of a toad and put it into an anthill until the flesh was eaten away, then threw its skeleton into a stream or river, the bone which floated up would give you power over animals and even people. The details of the practice were highly secretive, passed down only by word of mouth. Very little is written about it but some believed those who carried out this ceremony also made a pact with the devil to get those powers.’
Harrison had emphasised the word believed and looked to DS James. He could see this was completely out of his comfort zone, but he pressed on.
‘It’s superstition of course,’ he confirmed, and saw the detective’s face relax a little. ‘Horses were incredibly important in the times they believed this. The lands around here relied on them for ploughing and there were the Ploughmen or Horsemen societies which sprung up among those who cared for them. The Horsemen often used toad bones to control their horses and it was a secret society. You had to undergo an initiation by invitation only. Those in this inner circle were a bit like what we’d consider horse whisperers nowadays. In reality, it’s thought these societies had the best interests of the horses in mind, they probably shared information on best practice as well as protecting their own incomes. But they were also revered by ordinary people for their so-called powers.’
‘Great history lesson, but how does all this relate to our victim?’ An older detective spoke up now. He was in his early fifties, a smoker, or ex smoker, and a heavy drinker. Harrison could see the telltale results of both habits on his skin, the smoker’s wrinkles around his mouth and the inflamed skin of too much acetaldehyde, the byproduct his body produced from alcohol. He suspected the latter issue was why he was still a DS and working under Mark at this stage of his career.
‘These Horsemen societies are revived now and then, and it’s been known for young apprentice jockeys, desperate to further their careers and immersed in the horse world, to also revive the Toadman ritual. Paul Lester was doing well. He not only had the bone around his neck, but in his cottage, I saw a copy of the book, The Toadman by Nigel Pennick. That’s a limited edition, toad skin bound book which describes th
e practice of toadmanery and costs around a thousand pounds. He took it seriously. Then there’s the scented oils. He carried a small bottle of a mixture which I suspect was irresistible to horses.’
DS James looked shocked at this.
‘It’s been thought for a long time that one secret of the Horsemen related to using scent to control. Horses have excellent senses of smell, not as good as dogs, but far better than ours. There are certain scents which are attractive and certain ones which repulse them. When Paul was found, there was a herd of wild ponies around him. They appeared to be standing vigil over his body. I smelt something unusual and a broken bottle confirmed my theory. They’d been drawn there by a scent. To anyone who didn’t know about this trick, it could seem magical. It certainly would have spooked the killer. They probably started gathering shortly after he’d arrived on the Fen, perhaps interrupting his disposal plan. To him, it was evidence Paul was controlling them from the grave.’
Harrison turned round to the images of the Fen behind him.
‘Paul was summonsed to where the Horsemen hold their rituals and meetings. It’s likely to be a barn, away from other buildings, and traditional in style. He was hanged and his heart was cut out. When you find the killer, you will find the heart. It’s been taken as a form of protection against what the murderer thinks is Paul’s magic powers.’
There was a murmur around the room now.
‘The body would have bled out and was then transported to the Fen by the killer to dispose of it away from consecrated ground. He wasn’t a particularly strong man. He took the body from his car via a wheelbarrow. The iron horseshoes placed over Paul’s wrists were there to prevent him from rising and going after the killer. Iron was thought to be a metal that stopped bad spirits, as too are the branches of birch which were gathered and placed over the body. They weren’t to hide it, they were to protect the man who had brought him there. He was spooked when he saw the horses come to stand around the body. You can see that in the pattern of his footprints. He ran from that scene.’
