by Damien Boyd
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Louise, we need to know everything about Noel. Background, the lot. Chase up his bank statements and High Tech, will you? We need to know what’s on his iPad and phone. Find his former partner too.’
‘Name?’
‘Philip Stockman. An accountant from Glastonbury way.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And I want a complete list of all of the owners of the horses trained by Hesp. All individuals and syndicate members.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Jane, I want Westbrook Warrior’s veterinary records. And accounts and bank statements for Hesp’s training business.’
‘Ok.’
‘Find out who rides for him too.’
‘Jockeys, you mean?’
‘Yes. Get onto the Jockey Club and find out what you can about them.’
‘Will do.’
Dixon sat at his desk and powered up his computer.
‘We’ll find you an empty desk out here, Louise,’ said Jane, on her way out to the open plan area of the CID Room.
Louise Willmott got up and followed her just as DC Mark Pearce appeared in the doorway.
‘You’re looking well, Sir.’
‘Thanks, Mark.’
‘How’s the arm?’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘We do still need your statement...’
Dixon’s blank expression told Pearce he needed a reminder.
‘Last Sunday. The Allandale Lodge. You got stabbed...?’
Dixon shook his head.
‘Yes, of course. Leave it with me. If I dictate it can you get it typed up?’
‘Yes, no problem.’
‘Sorry, Mark. I’ve been a bit...’
‘So I’m told, Sir. Have fun.’
‘Thanks.’
Dixon’s last case had been an unusual one. It was the first time he had been confronted with a severed head and, whilst he had brought the investigation to a satisfactory conclusion without further loss of life, he had paid a high price for it. He looked down at his left shoulder. The physical scar would soon be gone and he hoped the others would soon follow. Maybe when he stopped taking the damn painkillers and got a decent night’s sleep.
He logged in to the police network and checked his email. Nothing of interest. Then he opened Internet Explorer and searched Google for the British Horseracing Authority. He clicked on Contact Us and then dialled the number.
‘BHA. How can I help you?’
‘My name is Detective Inspector Dixon. Avon and Somerset CID. I am investigating a murder at a racing stables in Somerset and need to speak to someone about them.’
‘About the stables?’
‘Yes. I need to know if there are any regulatory or disciplinary issues outstanding, any current or past investigations, that sort of thing.’
‘That’ll be Integrity Services and Licensing. Please hold.’
Dixon held the phone away from his ear. He hated listening to music when on hold.
‘Hello?’
Dixon explained again who he was and why he was calling.
‘Where’s this yard, again?’
‘Spaxton, Somerset.’
‘That’ll be Adam Spiers you need to speak to. He’s in a meeting at the moment. Can I get him to call you.’
‘Yes, please do. It’s very urgent.’
Dixon left his telephone numbers, office and mobile, and then fetched himself another coffee from the machine. He spent the next twenty minutes searching Google for anything and everything he could find about Michael Hesp and Gidley’s Racing Stables. He found nothing of real interest except for a thread on a betting forum where the general consensus of opinion seemed to be that Hesp’s horses were to be avoided unless laying to lose. Dixon made a mental note to do some research into laying to lose. It was not a term that he was familiar with and that always made him uncomfortable.
Then he reached for his dictaphone and spent the next two hours dictating two witness statements, the first dealing with events at the Allandale Lodge Care Home the previous Sunday morning and the second setting out the events of the Tuesday night inside 37 Manor Park.
He had just finished when his phone rang. He checked his watch. It was just after 11.00am.
‘Nick Dixon.’
‘Adam Spiers. British Horseracing Integrity Services. I gather you wanted a word about a racing yard at Spaxton.’
‘Yes, Gidley’s Racing Stables. The trainer is Michael Hesp...’
‘The message said there’s been a murder?’
‘One of the grooms was found dead,’ replied Dixon.
‘Is this the lad who was kicked by the colt?’
‘Yes and no. He was dead before he was thrown into the stable.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘What can you tell me about Michael Hesp?’
‘Well, I’m not sure I can...’
‘This is a murder investigation, Mr Spiers.’
‘Yes, of course. He runs a reasonable operation. The horses are well looked after so there are no equine welfare issues for us to worry about. We have been looking at his results in the last eighteen months or so though.’
‘What does that mean exactly?’
‘We’ve been looking at irregular betting patterns. We monitor live betting in real time and there have been several suspicious episodes, shall we say?’
‘Is Hesp aware of this?’
‘Yes, we had him in for interview in July I think it was. He denied everything.’
‘Where are you based?’
‘Newmarket.’
‘Shame. I was hoping to meet...’
‘I’m going to be in our London office tomorrow, if that’s any good to you?’
‘It is.’
‘I have two hours clear before lunch, say, 11.00am?’
‘See you then.’
‘I’ll bring the file,’ said Spiers.
‘I can get a court order for its release if that would assist?’
‘No it’s fine. I expect the police would have been getting involved sooner or later anyway,’ said Spiers.
Dixon put the phone down and shouted at the open door of his office.
‘Jane.’
He was about to shout again when Jane appeared in the doorway.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘We need two tickets to London tomorrow morning. We’ll pick up the fast train at Taunton. There’s one eightish that gets in tennish.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To meet a British Horseracing Authority Integrity Services officer. They’ve been investigating irregular betting patterns on some of Hesp’s horses it seems.’
‘Really? You have been busy.’
‘I have. Then get your coat. We’re off to the races.’
‘So, Hesp lied,’ said Jane.
‘He did. But then he denied it when interviewed by the BHA as well.’
‘And he got away with it that time, I suppose?’
‘We’ll find out tomorrow. He’s still being monitored by them from what I can gather, but we’ll see.’
‘What’s an irregular betting pattern, I wonder?’
‘We’ll find that out too. Either way, we’ve got a possible motive,’ said Dixon.
‘Possible?’
‘Assuming that’s what Noel was going to blow the whistle about, yes.’
‘What else could it have been?’
‘No idea. But we can’t jump to conclusions.’
Dixon checked the glove box of the Land Rover for his binoculars as they crossed the River Exe on the M5.
‘We’ve got time for some lunch. Get off at Kennford and we’ll try that pub at the bottom of the hill.’
Jane turned off the M5 at the foot of Haldon Hill and into The Gissons. They took an hour over lunch and then spent twenty minutes in the woods with Monty, arriving at Exeter Racecourse just before 2.00pm. Dixon had checked the racecard online and knew that Hesp had two horses going, Midnight Blue in the 2.40pm and Uphill Tobe
rmory in the 3.10pm. They bought two tickets on the gate and walked across to the grandstand. It was cloudy and dry, with a strong south westerly wind. Perfect racing weather according to the man in the ticket booth.
‘Fancy a flutter, Jane?’
‘Should we?’
‘No, we shouldn’t, you’re right.’ Dixon winked at her. ‘Let’s find the betting ring.’
Jane followed.
‘You done this before?’
‘Once or twice on the Grand National but that’s it.’
‘Me too,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’m sure there must be a more scientific way of doing it than whether I like the name.’
They walked around the side of the grandstand. Dixon noticed the parade ring off to the right, where the horses going in the 2.10pm were being walked around. He could see the stables and various horse lorries behind that. To his left was the grandstand with the betting ring in front. Dixon counted eighteen on course bookmakers, each standing underneath a large and brightly coloured umbrella.
The course itself was laid out on the top of Haldon Hill with the traditional white rails stretching off into the distance. It was completely encircled by trees and appeared to undulate, making it uphill and downhill in parts. The long finishing straight was off the left of the grandstand.
‘It’s a bloody long way round,’ said Jane.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ said Dixon.
He picked up a copy of the Racing Post that had been left lying on the bar. It was already open at the Exeter racecard.
‘I wonder what all these numbers mean?’ said Dixon.
‘Here, let me,’ said the barman. He pointed to one of the horses. ‘That’s the age. That’s the weight it’s carrying and that’s its recent results. Trainer and jockey. The latest odds are on the screens or you can get them from the on course bookmakers out front.’
‘What’s the ‘P’ then?’
‘Pulled up.’
‘Which makes the ‘F’ fell?’
‘That’s it.’
‘What are these?’
‘That’s the Official Rating and that’s the Racing Post Rating. They’re based on the form.’
‘What’s the significance of the weight?’
‘In a handicap the more weight it’s carrying the better the horse. That’s the handicap.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Good luck.’
Dixon looked at the racecard for the 2.40pm. Midnight Blue was five years old and carrying more weight than the other horses in the race. His last five results were 4U3/22.
‘What’s the ‘U’?’ asked Jane.
‘Unseated rider, I suppose.’
‘So, he’s finished second in his last two races?’
‘He has.’
‘The jockey is S McCarthy it says.’
‘That’s Sam,’ replied Jane, ‘I’m waiting to hear from the Jockey Club about him.’
‘Let’s check the odds.’
Dixon walked over and stood in front of one of the wall mounted screens.
‘He’s the favourite. Two to one.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I bet a quid and get two if he wins. Plus I get my quid back.’
‘What’s seven to two then?’
‘I suppose it’s the equivalent of three point five to one,’ said Dixon.
The second favourite was called Hogan’s Missile at odds of seven to two. His results were similar to Midnight Blue’s although he had, at least, finished each race.
‘Which one are you going to go for?’
‘Well, Hesp’s rarely win by all accounts so I’ll go for Hogan’s Missile, I think.’
They stood in the window of the bar and watched the 2.10pm. There was one faller but both horse and rider got straight to their feet.
‘Let’s get down to the betting ring.’
They walked around the ring until Dixon found the best odds on Hogan’s Missile. One bookmaker was offering four to one and Dixon placed ten pounds on the horse to win. He turned to Jane.
‘We need to get somewhere we can see the parade ring.’
Dixon watched through his binoculars from in front of the grandstand. He could see Kevin Tanner leading Midnight Blue towards the parade ring. Behind them walked Michael Hesp. He was wearing tweed.
He watched Tanner take out his mobile phone and dial a number, before putting the phone to his right ear. At precisely the same moment, Dixon heard a phone ringing in front of him, down amongst the on course bookmakers in the betting ring. It was answered by a large man standing under an orange and white umbrella. The sign on his stand read J Clapham Racing. Dixon looked from one to the other. The synchronisation of Tanner and the man speaking and listening was perfect and they both rang off at the same time. Dixon was convinced they had been speaking to each other.
The man turned around and began typing on a keyboard out of Dixon’s eyeline. Dixon watched through his binoculars and noticed Midnight Blue’s odds on the black and orange LED display change from two to one to four to one. Dixon was astonished at how quickly a small queue then formed.
‘Got your notebook, Jane?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘Make a note will you? Kevin Tanner’s mobile phone records and J Clapham Racing. We need to speak to both of them too.’
The horses left the parade ring and made their way out onto the course. Dixon could feel his pulse quicken. Midnight Blue’s colours were light blue with a large white circle in the middle. Hogan’s Missile’s were red and black squares, much like Dixon’s old school rugby shirt.
Then they were off.
Dixon followed the horses through his binoculars. He lost them briefly in a dip on the far side of the course but they soon came back into view heading up towards the turn in the far corner. A lone horse was four lengths clear with both Midnight Blue and Hogan’s Missile in the chasing pack.
As they came off the final bend Midnight Blue and Hogan’s Missile had caught the front runner and all three were neck and neck.
‘Which one’s yours,’ asked Jane.
‘Red and black,’ replied Dixon. He passed Jane the binoculars.
‘He’s winning.’
‘Easy money,’ said Dixon.
By the time they jumped the final hurdle Hogan’s Missile was two lengths clear and he pulled even further away on the home straight. Dixon thought it a bit of an anticlimax.
‘C’mon Jane, let’s rattle Hesp’s cage and see what happens.’
‘Aren’t you going to collect your winnings?’
Dixon took the betting slip out of his pocket and looked at the name on the top. J Clapham Racing. He screwed the slip into a tight ball and threw it on the ground.
‘No,’ he said.
They stood on the far side of the parade ring, right by the railings, so that Hesp and Tanner would see them as they led Uphill Tobermory from the stables at the back.
‘Tell you what, Jane. You go back to the betting ring and keep a close eye on J Clapham Racing. I want to know if he gets a phone call and what he does.’
‘Right.’
Dixon turned to see the horses getting ready for the next race. He could see Kevin Tanner holding a large grey horse. Michael Hesp was helping the jockey up into the saddle. Then they turned and joined the back of the line of horses walking out to the parade ring.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hesp,’ said Dixon. ‘Bad luck in the last race.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hesp, turning to face Dixon. The blood drained from his face when he recognised him. He looked away and ran a few steps to catch up with Kevin Tanner, who was leading Uphill Tobermory.
Dixon stepped back from the railings and disappeared into the crowd, at the same time keeping a close eye on both Hesp and Tanner. Both looked around to where Dixon had been standing and then appeared to scan the crowd looking for him. Hesp then spoke to the jockey and Tanner reached for his telephone.
Dixon made his way over to the front of the grandstand where Jane was watching
the betting ring.
‘Well?’
‘His phone rang. A short conversation then he changed the odds on Uphill Tobermory from four to one to two to one,’ replied Jane.
Dixon looked through his binoculars at J Clapham Racing, who was now sitting at a laptop computer under the umbrella.
‘He’s on the Bet29 website,’ said Dixon.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Jane.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Dixon. ‘Which pocket did he take his phone from when it rang?’
‘Left coat pocket,’ replied Jane.
Dixon rang the mobile phone number on the J Clapham Racing sign and waited. He could hear it ringing and watched as J Clapham reached into his right pocket and produced a telephone. Dixon rang off.
‘Two phones,’ he said.
‘And they’re off,’ said Jane.
Dixon looked up to see the horses in the 3.10pm set off in an anticlockwise direction around the track.
‘If I was a betting man, I’d put my money on Uphill Tobermory winning this one.’ said Dixon.
The race unfolded much as the last had done with one horse several lengths clear for much of the early stages before slowly being caught by the chasing pack. As they came off the final bend two were clear of the field and neck and neck. One was the big grey, Uphill Tobermory.
Dixon passed his binoculars to Jane. Uphill Tobermory stumbled at the second to last hurdle but was still able catch the leader and cross the line in first place by the narrowest of margins.
‘You’re right, this is easy money,’
‘Only if you cheat,’ replied Dixon.
They stayed for the last race at 3.50pm but only so that Dixon could watch the panic unfold in Hesp’s stables. Both of his horses were certified fit to travel by the vet and had been loaded on the lorry before the last race had even got under way. They were travelling north on the A38 before it had finished.
Neither Dixon nor Jane picked the winner of the last race.
‘That’s what happens when you don’t have insider information, Jane,’ said Dixon.
‘And why it’s a mug’s game, I suppose?’
‘Precisely. But if you know what’s going to happen, there’s alot of money to be made, isn’t there?’
‘No shit.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Dixon.
‘Back to the station?’
