The Horsemen: A Harrison Lane Mystery (The Dr Harrison Lane Mysteries Book 2)

by Gwyn GB

  ‘So, we’re looking for a madman who believes in magic?’ One of the officers spoke up. ‘Surely he should be easy to spot.’

  ‘Whoever killed Paul believes in the powers of the toad bone and the Horsemen rituals, and I think they’re still very scared. It will be fed by superstition and fear, but there might be your standard human motivations for crime behind it too. It’s almost certainly someone in the horse racing world, perhaps a rival. The shoe size is quite small, it fits with somebody who is shorter than average and not a heavy build. I’ll write up a profile for you, but for now I’d concentrate on the places Paul works. The usual tensions you would investigate. He will be an obsessive, compulsive personality, quite possibly openly superstitious, and display ritualistic behaviour. There are others who might know or have suspicions, such as the members of the secret society of The Horsemen. Find them and they could lead you to your killer.’

  ‘You think one of these Horsemen could be the murderer?’ the female detective asked him.

  ‘It’s more likely to be someone outside of their circle. They’re all privy to the same secrets, and in theory the same powers. This is somebody who sees Paul’s success and puts it down to the magical secrets he has. Somebody who’s frightened by those powers, or perhaps wants them for himself. But I have concerns. We need to wait for the post-mortem, but how did the murderer manage to hang Paul? He’s light, no more than about 115 to 120 lbs, but so too is the person who brought his body to the Fen. A little heavier, probably at around 140 lbs, certainly smaller than an average male. How did he overpower him and then lift him enough to hang him? There is something, or perhaps somebody, missing which we can’t yet see. It could be simple, like he was drugged, but I’m not so sure.’

  ‘How can you be so sure about the size of the person who took his body there? It could be more than one person. Or it could be a woman.’

  ‘There’s only one set of footprints, they’re small and the depth of the imprints in the peat show they’re not heavily built. The only other footprints belong to the ranger who found the body and the first responders. Despite the churned ground around where Paul was found, because of the horses, you can see that in the approach to it.’

  ‘Dr Lane has tracking expertise,’ DS James jumped in. He could see the suspicion on the faces of his team and he’d done his homework on Harrison. He knew all about how he’d been brought up by a Shadow Wolf, one of the elite Native American trackers who patrol the borders of the USA and Mexico for drug runners. It was often one of the most helpful factors on a case because he could immediately see signs that it would sometimes take the forensics teams days to confirm.

  ‘As for being female?’ Harrison continued, ‘I’d say highly unlikely but in theory, not impossible.’

  ‘Why hanging?’ another detective asked. ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘It was a common mode of killing witches, along with burning at the stake and sometimes drowning, although the latter was usually as a result of an attempt to see if they were indeed witches. Hanging and burning were post-sentencing. It’s also said there’s a fake hanging as part of the Horsemen’s initiation ceremony. It could be related to that.’

  ‘Nice…’ the detective replied. ‘And you really think that in our modern society there’s someone who believes all that stuff?’

  ‘Oh yes. Trust me, I come across them every day.’ Harrison smiled. ‘Many are mentally ill, or under the influence of drugs, but some are what we might think of as being completely sane. Power, faith, and money are tremendous motivators.’

  ‘OK, thank you, Dr Lane,’ DS James jumped in. He needed his detectives out there and on the phone, not discussing the methods of killing witches or practicing folklore. ‘As I mentioned, we’ve been to Paul’s cottage and there are no signs of suspicious activity, although he had been entertaining and Dr Lane asked me to bag something he felt was significant. We’ve got forensics over there now. Any signs of his car?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ a young constable spoke up. ‘But there was no mobile phone on the body and we’ve just received the tracking data for it. It’s still switched on. They’ve sent me over the triangulation coordinates.’

  ‘Let’s get them up on the screen then,’ DS James said eagerly.

  The young officer walked up to the laptop and typed in some information, and a map appeared on the TV screen in front of them.

  ‘It’s between these three mobile masts,’ the young officer said.

  ‘That’s Fordham Woods in the centre,’ one of the team spoke up.

  ‘It’s going to take us a while to search and it’s getting dark.’ DS James’s face had dropped.

  ‘Sir, I walk my dog in those woods,’ the detective constable at the back of the room said. ‘There’s an old barn on the outskirts, on the Newmarket side. Dr Lane said the murder site could be an old traditional barn away from other properties. I’d say that one fits the bill exactly.’

  DS James threw a glance at Harrison. ‘OK, take a colleague and get over there pronto. I’ll get a search team up and running in the meantime, but if you strike lucky, let me know.’

  Mark James wrapped up his briefing and waited for his boss, DCI Whittaker, to walk towards him. This next bit was going to be the painful part.

  ‘Interesting briefing, Dr Lane. Thank you for assisting us with this,’ DCI Whittaker said to Harrison, extending his hand.

  ‘Sir, could I have a word,’ DS James said, ignoring whatever the DCI meant behind his choice of the word, ‘interesting’. ‘I have something I need to talk to you about.’

  Harrison felt for Mark. His shoulders already showed the disappointment that was about to be landed on them. He sat at the desk he’d been shown to earlier, and got on with writing his report on who he believed the team should be looking for, and the reasoning behind it. He knew that after DS James’s chat with his boss, the case was likely to take a new turn. In the meantime, he’d do what he’d come there to do.

  Fifteen minutes later, DCI Whittaker came back out of his office and walked over to the detective in his early fifties, the one who’d spoken up earlier in the briefing. Harrison sighed. Maybe his time here had been wasted after all. If he was Mark’s replacement, he couldn’t see him taking his advice seriously. The pair walked out of the incident room together, deep in conversation.

  Moments later, the call came in that the murder scene had been found. The barn on the edge of Fordham Woods had a large pool of dried blood on its floor, and a hangman’s noose lying close by. At the news, it was like someone had stirred up a bees’ nest. All around him, the room began to buzz and swarm. Progress. Perhaps now they’d find their killer.

  Harrison knew he’d done all he could for the day. Forensics would need to get into the barn and seal it off, which would preclude him from taking a look just yet. With the rain hammering against the window like it had for the last hour, there was no way he was going to try to get back home tonight. He had a hotel room booked anyway, and tomorrow he’d see if his services were still required.

  7

  Harrison checked into the Premier Inn and went straight to his room for a shower. The room looked clean enough. Every establishment had upped its game since the Covid pandemic swept the world. Amazing how even an innocuous television remote control was now seen in a different light. How many hands had touched it, and had they been washed? Many people, certainly those over a certain age, viewed the world through Covid tinted glasses now, seeing potential hazards where before they wouldn’t have thought twice. The remote wasn’t an issue for Harrison. He rarely turned the TV on. He also didn’t need luxury, but he wasn’t keen on some modern budget hotels because invariably the windows were small and wouldn’t open at all or would only open a fraction for safety reasons. Consequently, the first thing he did was turn off the heating. The room felt dry and overly warm. If he wanted to sleep tonight, he needed cool air.

  This was the first time today that he’d been able to stop and let his mind rest. Viewing a crime scen
e was exhausting, a bit like doing a giant dot-to-dot puzzle when you didn’t know which of the dots in front of you should be included. He was presented with a myriad of clues and useless pieces of information, and he had to work out which were the critical gems, and then connect them together. It involved all he had learnt about psychology and criminal profiling, tracking and the vast bank of ritualistic and religious behaviours that humans had practiced over the generations. He had to ask, what had taken place to cause the person’s death? Who was involved, and what motivation or belief had led to the consequences he was now investigating?

  He got undressed and went into the bathroom, wrapping a towel around his waist. For a moment he lent on the sink, staring at the man in front of him. His eyes looked bloodshot, tired from the ride up and the detailed examination of the crime scene. Harrison rubbed his face, feeling the hard bones of his jaw underneath a fresh scattering of stubble. His neck sloped into smooth broad shoulders, with his clavicle bone a curved ridge topping the bulk of his pectoral muscles. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, but although he had barely eaten today, he didn’t feel hungry. Focusing on work often had an appetite killing effect, possibly helped by the usual hazard of having to look at the remains of people who’d met their ends in often quite unpalatable ways.

  Harrison pushed himself upright off the sink and saw his triceps flex and ripple. It reminded him of the horses today at the stables and he felt the urge to exercise and test his body; to feel the energy coursing through his system. If he’d been at home, he could have gone on his treadmill, or run along the bank of the River Thames, pushing himself until every muscle screamed and his lungs hurt with each breath. He’d come away without anything suitable to wear for a run, but he could at least do some endurance floor exercises: abdominal crunches, push-ups, and planks.

  For an hour, he squeezed and flexed his muscles, controlling his breathing, focusing on overcoming the pain threshold. As the air in the room grew cooler, his body got hotter, building up the sheen of a sweat, until the veins rose on the surface of his glistening skin, just like the racehorses he’d seen earlier. Finally, he’d had enough. He knew a hunger would soon arrive in his stomach, and sleep would come easier this evening. Harrison had his shower, enjoying the hot water on his body and the endorphins settling into his brain from the exercise as they relaxed him and brought a sense of peace. Nature’s feel-good drug.

  He wasn’t oblivious to what he was doing, and the reasons why. Harrison was able to analyse the behaviour of murder suspects and decipher their motivations. He was just as capable of analysing himself. The need to keep pushing himself to his limits, exercising to exhaustion, and the absolute fear of being distracted. He was terrified of failing. Terrified of losing control. A natural loner, but he did get lonely. He craved love, but he rejected it. He believed that if he allowed himself to fall for someone, then it would cloud his mind, alter his instincts, and prevent him from tracking down his mother’s killer. Nothing could interfere with that. It was his entire reason d’être for everything he’d done with his life. He wouldn’t let her, or any other victim down again.

  Harrison contemplated room service, but the thought of having to eat in the small room, cramped on the tiny table and then the lingering smell of stale dinner, drove him to head down to the hotel restaurant. He left his aubergine furnished room with its plain purple carpets for the patterned wood flooring of the downstairs communal areas and breathing space. At the entrance to the restaurant, a young woman, probably about thirty, greeted him. She appraised the handsome man in front of her within seconds and decided that the evening had just got a lot more interesting.

  ‘Table for one?’ she asked with the tilt of one eyebrow, as Harrison took a pump of the hand gel.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he replied, and hoped that she wouldn’t keep trying to hold a conversation with him. He’d brought an academic paper to read. It was interesting new research into the evolution of African witchcraft and how it had morphed into focusing on targeting children. The woman didn’t look like it was a subject she’d be interested in. She had no wedding ring on and her make-up and hair had been carefully prepared. Harrison felt like a deer under the gaze of a leopard. He didn’t want attention, he wanted to meld into the background and not be seen. Perhaps he should have ordered room service.

  The young woman showed him to his table. She chatted away pleasantly about her day and asked him if he was something to do with horse racing or here as a tourist. He answered as economically as possible without being rude, and asked to be seated as far away from other diners as possible. He didn’t want their conversations interrupting his thoughts, but he didn’t tell her that. Today’s case was attempting to dominate his mind again. There was something he couldn’t quite see which niggled him. A missing piece to his solution. A dot that eluded him and left a line dangling. He hoped that the murder scene might throw some light on the answer and that he could get access to it tomorrow.

  There was something about these hotel restaurants, the ones only frequented by travellers and never locals on a night out. It was the anonymity of the atmosphere, like a masquerade ball where you could be anyone you wanted to be. You could present yourself as your alter ego and nobody would know any different. It was a liberating feeling, a disconnect between the here and the realities of responsibility which awaited you at home. Harrison recognised that feeling and knew it to be a compulsive one. It didn’t last long.

  He’d just sat down when his mobile phone buzzed to tell him a text message had been received. Harrison was expecting it to be Mark James, but instead Dr Tanya Jones’s name flashed up. Hi, are you around this evening?

  Harrison’s heart and stomach gave a little jump in unison. Tanya was a woman who threatened his resolve. One of the lead forensic officers back in London, they’d worked together on a big case recently, and he’d been impressed with her on more than a few levels. He knew Tanya was worried about a potential stalker, and he’d made a promise to be there for her if she needed him. His personal interest was stifled by concern for her welfare.

  Out of town in Newmarket. Is everything OK?

  He was waiting for her response, for the status bar to tell him she was typing, when the waitress came over to ask him if he was ready to order a drink.

  ‘Sparkling water, please,’ he’d said.

  ‘You don’t want a beer or a glass of wine?’ She encouraged.

  ‘No. Thank you,’ he replied firmly, keeping his eyes on his phone screen in the hope she’d get the message.

  Tanya was typing. The waitress left. Harrison wondered if he should offer to ride back to town.

  I’m fine. No worries. Let me know when you’re back. I’d appreciate your opinion on something.

  Harrison breathed in relief. It was probably something to do with work.

  Back tomorrow afternoon. Give me a call.

  Will do. Enjoy your weekend.

  As he put his phone down, the waitress returned with a small bottle of fizzy water and a glass. ‘Are you ready to order your food?’ she asked, smiling into his eyes. The message hadn’t got through.

  ‘Sorry, I was just texting my girlfriend,’ Harrison replied. He didn’t want to be cruel, but he was relieved when he saw the slight downtick of disappointment on her face. He skimmed the menu. ‘The sirloin, please, medium rare with salad.’

  ‘Any sauces with that?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Harrison picked up the academic paper from the table and turned the page. He looked at it, but he didn’t see it. He had allowed himself to fantasise. His mind had an alternative scene in play, one where he was sitting at this table with Tanya opposite him, chatting. Her blue eyes would be looking into his from under their curtain of thick, long lashes; and her full lips, which often wore a hint of pink lipstick, would be smiling. Tanya’s porcelain skin would be framed by her long brunette hair and the light would be just catching some of the golden highlights, making individual strands shimmer as she moved. He could almost smell her pe
rfume. In his mind’s eye, they would enjoy their meal before returning to his room together. He had to get a grip. Harrison forced his eyes to focus on the paper in his hand, almost testing himself about what he’d just read to ensure his brain was processing it. He needed to keep his knowledge up to date. He had a job to do and there was nobody else in the country who could do it like him. He had to keep focused.

  8

  In London, Dr Tanya Jones stood in her kitchen, still holding her mobile phone after sending the text to Harrison. It had taken her a minute to press the send button on a message that was the exact opposite of what she actually wanted to say. She stared at the card in the plastic evidence bag in front of her. To most people, it was an innocuous thing, a pink card with hearts that read: To my wonderful wife on our 1st anniversary. Our love story will never end. It would be a nice card to get if you were happily married, but Tanya wasn’t. She wasn’t even in a relationship. She knew the card was from him—her stalker—but she had absolutely no idea who ‘him’ was. Needless to say, it hadn’t been signed.

  The second she’d opened it and realised what it was, she’d bagged it for evidence; but if she was right about this man, he knew exactly what she did for a living and so the chances of finding any identifying forensic evidence on the card or envelope were going to be slim. She suspected the only DNA she’d find was from the postman who’d delivered it.

  Right now, she’d dearly love to know that Harrison was on his Harley heading her way, but there was no way she was going to drag him back to London just because she’d received a card. She wasn’t that pathetic.

  Tanya had told him about the stalker when they’d worked on their last case together. In her head she’d rationalised telling him because he’s a psychologist. At first, she’d thought the stalker had all been in her own mind. In her heart she also knew she’d told Harrison because she’d like nothing more than having him around looking out for her. He was a good-looking man with a fit body, what wasn’t to like? But Tanya wasn’t some air head who just went for handsome, it was inside the head that counted. Harrison intrigued her. He was intelligent, confident, independent, and scientific in his approach to life. A sure-fire magic potion for her to fall in love with. Problem was, he didn’t seem to feel the same way. Occasionally there was a connection that she thought was stronger than just colleagues. She’d glimpsed a bubbling, overwhelming passion in his eyes that she knew could consume her whole; and which she’d gladly give herself up to; but then it would disappear and an invisible barrier would return.