by Damien Boyd
‘Can we pick up his back feet?’ he asked.
‘Must we?’
‘If you can.’
Kevin Tanner tied Westbrook Warrior to his hay net and then picked up a front leg. At the same time, Hesp picked up a back foot. Dixon moved in and took a photograph of the underside of the hoof. They then repeated the process for the other hoof.
‘If he’s off balance, he can’t kick,’ said Hesp. Letting go of the back leg and stepping back.
‘Who’s his owner?’ asked Dixon.
‘He’s owned by a syndicate. Most of our horses are these days, although we have some that aren’t. Georgina can give you the names and addresses.’
‘Is that Mrs Harcourt watching from the window?’ asked Dixon.
The question caught Hesp off guard. He spun round and looked up at the farmhouse. The figure in the window stepped back into the shadows.
‘Er, yes.’
‘Perhaps later then. I’ll just have the farrier’s number for now if you’ve got it handy.’
Hesp took out his mobile phone and read off Simon Whitfield’s number. Jane wrote it in her notebook.
‘The straw from the stable will be on the muckheap, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does he eat, apart from hay?’
‘It’s haylage actually. His hard feed is Dodson and Horrell Racehorse Cubes.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Some are on the cubes, others on mix. We’ve got a couple on pure oats too. It varies.’
‘How many horses have you got here?’
‘Sixteen at the moment.’
‘One last question. For now.’
‘Fire away,’ said Hesp.
‘Forgive me if it sounds rude but your results...they’re not good, are they?’
‘We’ve had some bad luck. And a bad run. It’ll turn around.’
‘I’m right though. They’re not good?’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘Thank you.’
They loaded the boxes of Noel’s belongings into the back of the Land Rover and drove slowly down the drive. Dixon rang the farrier.
‘Simon Whitfield.’
‘My name is Detective Inspector Dixon. I’m investigating the death of Noel Woodman. I understand you’re Westbrook Warrior’s farrier.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘We need to speak to you now, Mr Whitfield. Where are you?’
‘I’m on a job.’
‘Where?’
‘On a farm near Wellington.’
Dixon wrote down the address.
‘How much longer will you be there?’
‘About an hour.’
‘We’re on our way. Please make sure you don’t leave until we get there.’
They arrived at West Town Farm on the outskirts of Wellington just before 9.30am. Simon Whitfield was waiting by his van, drinking coffee from a plastic Thermos flask cup.
‘Thank you for waiting, Mr Whitfield.’
‘No problem. How can I help?’
‘We need to have a chat with you about Westbrook Warrior’s shoes.’
‘Plates. They’re called racing plates.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Dixon. ‘Is he usually shod or only when he’s racing?’
‘Michael keeps them shod. Some trainers don’t but he does.’
‘When did you last shoe Westbrook Warrior then?’
‘The day before the accident. He was racing the next day at Taunton.’
‘Mr Hesp told me you took the shoes...plates...off after the accident?’
‘Yes, on the Monday.’
‘Why was that?’
‘He said he wanted them off for safety reasons.’
Jane Winter was taking notes. Simon Whitfield finished his coffee and threw the dregs on the ground. Dixon continued.
‘Where are the plates now?’
‘They were new so I put ‘em on another horse. Waste not, want not and all that.’
‘Which horse?’
‘No idea. Could’ve been any one of a number, I’m afraid.’
‘Is there any way you can find out?’
‘Not really. I’d have re-shaped them and they’d have gone in the forge first too, don’t forget.’
‘Is there anything unusual about Warrior’s hooves?’
‘They’re cut a bit squarer than normal, I suppose, but he’s got a good solid hoof, to be honest.’
‘Size?’
‘Average for a thoroughbred.’
‘Show me one of these racing plates then?’
‘Sure.’
They walked around to the back of Whitfield’s van. He opened the doors to reveal his portable gas forge, which looked like a large black microwave oven, and various wooden boxes containing shoes and nails. He reached into a box and produced a new horse shoe. He handed it to Dixon.
‘This is a normal horse shoe. I buy them in boxes of ten pairs. Cheap as chips. I heat them in the forge and then shape them to the horse’s hoof, once I’ve trimmed it, of course.’
Dixon looked at the shoe. It was the perfect horse shoe shape, dark grey and heavier than he had expected. There were five nail holes either side. On the underside was a deep groove.
‘How much are they?’
‘Ten pairs, twenty quid.’
‘And they come in different sizes?’
‘Yes, that’s a five inch.’
‘Is this one front or back or are they the same?’
‘No, that’s a front shoe. The hinds, we call them, are a slightly different shape.’ He reached into the box and then handed Dixon another shoe.
‘That’s a hind. See the shape? It’s got slightly straighter sides.’
‘Can we keep these?’ said Dixon, handing the shoes to Jane.
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘But this isn’t what Westbrook Warrior had on?’
‘Fuck no,’ replied Whitfield.
He went around to the side door of the van, opened it, and took out a plastic box.
‘This is a Victory EC Queens aluminium racing plate with toe clip.’ He handed two shoes to Dixon. ‘This one’s the front and this one the hind, with two clips. This ridge is called a toe grab. It’s for extra grip.’
‘And these are what he’d have been wearing when he kicked Noel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Same size?’
‘Yep.’
The differences were obvious. It was thinner, narrower and lighter. It also had seven nail holes on each side instead of five and a distinct ridge underneath.
‘Can we keep these?’
‘They’re a bit more expensive...’
‘You’ll get them back.’
‘Yeah, that’s fine then.’
‘What about the nails?’ asked Jane.
‘They’re different too,’ replied Whitfield. ‘Here, have a couple of each.’
‘And Westbrook Warrior himself, he’s aggressive, I’m told?’ asked Dixon.
‘He is. Call it an occupational hazard.’
‘Thank you, Mr Whitfield. You’ve been most helpful.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I forgot my Tramadol,’ said Dixon, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat of the Land Rover.
‘Where are they?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘You burk.’
‘Sympathy and understanding. Just what I need.’
‘We’ll find a chemist in Wellington. It’s on the way.’
Jane drove along Fore Street, and parked on the double yellow lines outside Superdrug. Dixon was deep in thought and yet alert enough to notice the traffic warden making a beeline for his car. He waved her over, produced his warrant card and then watched in the wing mirror as she went in search of another victim.
‘Was that a traffic warden?’ asked Jane.
‘Yes, but she’s gone. You’re alright.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re driving.’
Jane’s reply was lost in the
noise of the old diesel engine starting up. She reached over and dropped a plastic bag into Dixon’s lap. It contained a bacon and egg sandwich, a bottle of water and a box of Solpadeine Max.
‘Breakfast too. You, Jane, are a bloody marvel.’
He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out his insulin pen. Despite the sling, he was able to hold the end of the pen in his left hand and turn the dial to the correct number of units with his right. He then pushed the needle into his right thigh through his trousers and pressed the button with his thumb.
‘I’m not sure I’d ever get used to that,’ said Jane.
‘There’s not a lot of choice.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Right, let’s get over to Musgrove Park and don’t spare the...’
‘Don’t say it.’
The second post mortem was well under way by the time Dixon and Jane arrived at Musgrove Park Hospital. They watched Roger Poland at work from the comparative safety of the anteroom until one of the laboratory assistants spotted them and alerted Poland. He waved at them to go in.
‘Tracey, a mask for the Inspector, please,’ said Poland.
‘No, I’m fine, really.’
Noel Woodman was lying on the slab. He had short dark hair, although most of it had been shaved off, and the top of his skull had been removed and then replaced. Rudimentary stitches held it in place. He had extensive facial injuries that the funeral director had attempted to hide with make up. Decomposition was not well advanced, which Dixon took to be evidence of the effectiveness of the available cold storage facilities. Noel’s chest cavity was open, which turned both Dixon and Jane’s stomachs.
‘I’m on to internal injuries,’ explained Poland. ‘There are several broken ribs and a right sided pulmonary laceration where the rib has penetrated the lung.’
‘He’s small, isn’t he?’ said Jane.
‘Well, he was going to be a jockey, don’t forget,’ replied Dixon.
‘Ideal size for that, I’d have thought,’ said Poland.
‘Are these the samples?’ asked Dixon, looking at a collection of small jars on the metal worktop at the foot of the slab.
‘Yes. Davidson was very thorough. We’ve got blood and tissue samples, stomach contents, the usual stuff, and also two lots of horse dung, one from his nose and the other from his mouth.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘No drink or drugs or anything like that but I haven’t run those tests again. Do you want me to?’
‘No,’ replied Dixon, ‘not at this stage.’
Dixon walked around to the top of the slab and looked at Noel’s head injuries.
‘What about the cause of death then?’
‘Davidson got that right too, I’m pleased to say. Multiple injuries. Any number of which would have killed him on their own. He had the severe pulmonary laceration, of course. Very severe sharp impact head injuries, which penetrated the skull. An epidural haematoma. Massive internal bleeding. Need I go on?’
‘No. I get the picture,’ replied Dixon. ‘What about the cause of those injuries then?’
‘That’s easy,’ replied Poland. ‘We’ll start with this bundle of photos.’ He pointed to a photograph of the left side of Noel’s forehead.
‘What do you see?’
‘The imprint of a horse shoe,’ replied Jane.
‘Exactly,’ said Poland. ‘Tracey, wash the make up off his face, will you?’
‘Where are the others on the body?’ asked Dixon.
‘Two on the back of his head, a partial one on his jaw and others on his back and chest. That one broke the ribs.’
‘Do we have a diagram of them?’
‘I can do one, easily,’ said Poland.
‘Yes, please.’
Dixon and Jane waited while Poland marked the horse shoe imprints on two outline drawings of a human body, one marked "front" and the other "back".
‘I’m assuming we can’t read anything into the orientation of the marks without knowing Noel’s relative position to the horse?’ asked Dixon.
‘And whether Westbrook Warrior kicked him with his front or his back hooves,’ said Jane.
‘That’s right,’ replied Poland, ‘my understanding is that an aggressive horse will attack with its front hooves and teeth and we do have the bite mark as well, of course.’
‘But if Noel was behind him, he’d kick with his back legs?’ asked Dixon.
‘He would.’
‘Which is the clearest imprint?’
‘The one on his forehead. The partial on his jaw is clearish too. Why?’
‘Can we see it?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Poland opened the album again and turned to the last of the photographs. ‘This is it,’ he said, handing the album to Dixon. ‘Here, come and have a look.’
The laboratory assistant, Tracey, had finished cleaning the make up off Noel’s face. Dixon leaned over and stared at the imprint on his forehead.
‘Are all the imprints from the same shoe?’ he asked, without looking up.
‘As far as we can tell, the same type of shoe, yes. Some are blurred due to his clothing, of course, but the force was such that there’s still a clear mark.’
‘But there’s the imprint of more than one shoe?’
‘I’d need to check that. Davidson certainly didn’t look at it.’
Dixon turned to Jane. ‘Open your handbag a second will you, Jane?’
Dixon reached into it and took out a horse shoe. He handed it to Poland.
‘Like this?’
‘Yes, that’s it. You’ve got the deep groove and you can count the five nails either side.’
‘And this is definitely the same type of shoe that killed him?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Because these are bog standard horse shoes. Twenty pence each for heaven’s sake. And very heavy. It’d be like a sprinter running in diving boots.’
Dixon took a racing plate from Jane’s handbag and handed it to Poland.
‘This is an aluminium racing plate and this is what Westbrook Warrior was wearing at the time. The farrier put four new ones on him the day before, ready for the race at Taunton.’
Poland looked at the racing plate. ‘Seven nail holes.’
‘Exactly.’
Poland looked again at the photographs. Then at the racing plate.
‘There’s a ridge at the front here, presumably for extra grip. That’s not imprinted on the body either.’
‘So, Westbrook Warrior didn’t kick him?’ asked Jane.
‘No, he didn’t,’ replied Poland, ‘which gives us an unexplained death, doesn’t it?’
‘Bollocks,’ said Dixon. ‘He was murdered and thrown into the stable to make it look like the horse kicked him to death.’
‘That’s certainly one interpretation of it, yes,’ said Poland.
‘What are the others?’ asked Dixon.
‘Well...’
Dixon continued. ‘Let me ask you this then. Bearing in mind his injuries, is it possible he got in that stable under his own steam before he lay down and died?’
‘No, definitely not,’ replied Poland.
‘So, a person or persons unknown killed him somewhere else and then…’ Dixon’s voice tailed off. ‘Pass me the photos.’
He stared at the photograph of the imprint on Noel’s forehead.
‘Jane, pass me the nails, will you?’
He put the photo album down on the worktop and stood looking at it with the nails in the palm of his right hand.
Dixon nodded. ‘That’s it.’ He passed the album to Poland. ‘What shape are the nail heads, Roger?’
Poland looked at the photograph. ‘Round.’
‘Hold out your hand.’
Dixon dropped the nails into the palm of Poland’s hand.
‘They’re square.’
‘They are,’ replied Dixon. ‘We need to know how many shoes are imprinted on his body, Roger. Can you do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps produce a 3D image of them from the imprints?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Because if I’m right, we’ll find that all of the injuries were caused by one shoe.’
‘One shoe? asked Jane.
‘Yes, I don’t think he was kicked by a horse at all. I think he was hit by a piece of wood with a horse shoe nailed to it, to make it look like he was kicked by a horse. What do you think?’
‘It’s certainly possible,’ said Poland.
‘Either that or he was kicked to death by a one legged horse.’
Poland turned to Jane. ‘He has such a way with words.’
‘He was then thrown into the stable. I’m guessing now but I suspect that Westbrook Warrior was taken by surprise, spun round and bit him.’
‘We need to get the Scenes of Crime team over there as soon as possible,’ said Jane.
‘Looks like I’ve got my work cut out too,’ said Poland.
‘At least you know what to look for now. Will you be able to tell if the bite mark was made post mortem?’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘We’ve still got to get Jon Woodman out of that house, don’t forget,’ said Jane.
‘Yes. C’mon, let’s get over there now. Thanks, Roger. I owe you one.’
‘You do.’
The police car pulled forward to allow Jane to turn into Manor Park just before midday. Dixon had rung ahead to tell both Chief Inspector Bateman and Jon Woodman that he was on his way. He had also asked DCI Lewis to meet them there and could see his car parked in the driveway of a vacant house.
Dixon and Jane were met on the bend by an armed officer, as before, and escorted along the front of the houses to the makeshift incident room in the house opposite number 37. This time Dixon made no effort to "stay low" as the firearms officer had suggested.
He was walking into the conservatory when his phone rang.
‘Nick, it’s Roger. It’s the same shoe.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘One of the nails has a defect in the rim. You can see it as plain as day in each of the imprints on his head. If you’re looking for it, of course.’
‘What about the others on his body?’
‘They’re not as clear due to his clothing. But the head injuries were the immediately fatal ones and it’s the same shoe every time. No doubt about it.’
‘Thanks, Roger.’
