Kickback

by Damien Boyd

  ‘Found anything?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Jane.

  ‘Find out when Hesp started training Westbrook Warrior then.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘Use your initiative.’

  Jane took her phone out of her handbag and rang Kevin Tanner. Dixon listened to her end of the conversation.

  ‘Mr Tanner, it’s Detective Constable Winter.’

  Silence.

  ‘I was hoping you could answer a simple question for me?’

  Silence.

  ‘When did Mr Hesp start training Westbrook Warrior?’

  Silence.

  ‘Thanks...yes that’s it. Thanks again.’ Jane rang off and turned to Dixon.

  ‘A year ago, when he came over from Ireland.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Morning all,’ said Louise, from the doorway.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ said Dixon, ‘come in and sit down. Saves me going through it twice.’

  Louise sat at Janice Courtenay’s desk.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  ‘We have some progress, which narrows it down for us. Where are your notes on the owners, Louise?’

  ‘Bottom drawer of my desk.’

  ‘Ok. We know from Freer that roughly eighteen months ago Noel started appearing in the car park on the A39 again and on a fairly regular basis. We also know that he had a regular client. Right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jane.

  ‘Then about a year ago he stopped going so often. Freer tells us that Noel said he no longer needed the money...’

  ‘He had a new meal ticket.’

  ‘He did, Louise.’

  ‘This coincides almost exactly with the start of the telephone calls passing between the unregistered pay as you go and Noel’s phone. Not only that but the dates of the calls, leaving aside the close season…’ Dixon paused. ‘…exactly match the dates of Westbrook Warrior’s races.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Precisely, Jane.’

  ‘Now we find this morning that Hesp began training Westbrook Warrior a year ago, when the horse came over from Ireland. We can check the exact dates, of course...’

  ‘So, what d’you think happened?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Noel has a regular punter. An anonymous suit. Noel knows nothing about him, not even his name. All he knows is the car he drives, of course. Then one day, a year or so ago, this suit turns up at Gidley’s Racing Stables with his shiny new racehorse and meets the groom...’

  ‘Noel.’

  ‘Yes. Now let’s say this proud new racehorse owner is accompanied by his wife and perhaps the other members of the syndicate too?’

  Jane and Louise were both nodding.

  ‘You can just see the cogs going round in Noel’s head, can’t you?’

  ‘You can,’ said Louise.

  ‘Which makes Noel’s new meal ticket one of Westbrook Warrior’s owners?’

  ‘It does, Jane.’

  ‘I’ll get the file,’ said Louise, jumping up from her chair.

  ‘It really is blackmail then,’ said Jane, shaking her head.

  ‘Well, he paid a heavy price for it,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And we’ve still got to prove it.’

  Louise reappeared carrying a brown file. She began sorting through the papers and produced a plastic wallet.

  ‘These are Westbrook Warrior’s,’ she said, passing the documents to Dixon.

  Dixon read aloud.

  ‘Brian and Mary Mayhew, Simon and Jean Somerville. Lady Ruth Winton. Mean anything to anyone?’

  ‘No,’ said Jane.

  ‘Not known to police,’ said Louise.

  ‘The Mayhews live in Exford, the Somervilles in Trull. Is this it?’ asked Dixon, holding up three pieces of paper in his right hand.

  ‘I’d not got to them yet,’ replied Louise.

  ‘What about Lady Winton?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Stoke Gabriel, Devon. It says here she’s ninety-one. Is that right, Louise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ok, Jane you take the Mayhews and, Louise, you concentrate on the Somervilles. Anything and everything you can find out about them.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Then we’ll pay ‘em a visit.’

  ‘Shall I ring them?’ asked Jane.

  ‘No. We’ll go unannounced,’ replied Dixon.

  Westbrook House, Trull, was set back off the road with ornate stone pillars and large wrought iron gates at the entrance. They were open. Jane turned into the drive and followed it around to the right, parking directly in front of the property, next to a silver Land Rover Discovery.

  ‘Not short of a bob or two, are they?’ said Jane.

  Dixon looked up at the house. It was whitewashed with black painted timber framing over an open porch. Bay trees stood in pots on either side and, under cover, large stacks of firewood had been stored within reach of the front door. A Virginia Creeper covered the wall to the left of the porch.

  ‘No.’

  Dixon rang the doorbell. It was a small white plastic box stuck onto the door frame. It had a soft grey rubber button and a green light flashed when he pressed it.

  ‘I hate these bloody things. You can never tell whether it’s rung or not.’

  They waited. No sound came from inside so Dixon knocked on the front door. This time they could hear dogs barking at the side of property, closely followed by shouting. A woman’s voice.

  ‘Come here. Pepper, come...oh for heaven’s sake.’

  Monty was barking and scrabbling at the side window of Dixon’s Land Rover. Dixon and Jane turned just in time to greet two black labradors. The dogs began jumping up at them just as the woman appeared.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that,’ she said, hooking her fingers in the dogs’ collars. ‘They’re quite friendly, just a bit bouncy.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Dixon. ‘We’re looking for Mrs Jean Somerville.’

  ‘That’s me. And you are?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Dixon and Detective Constable Winter, Avon and Somerset Police. May we have a word, please?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘We’re investigating the death of Noel Woodman, Westbrook Warrior’s groom.’

  ‘Wasn’t that an accident?’

  ‘No,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Oh. You’d better come round the back. The kitchen door’s open.’

  ‘Is your husband in?’

  ‘He’s down at the orchard, tidying up. Do you want me to get him?’

  ‘We’ll have a word first, if that’s ok.’

  They followed Mrs Somerville around the side of the property. She was crouched over with her fingers still hooked in the dogs’ collars and once in the back garden she let them go. Dixon looked along the back of the property. A timber framed conservatory stuck out into the lawn and beyond that was a large bay window.

  ‘What a lovely garden,’ said Jane.

  ‘Thank you. Mowing the lawn was a bit of a pain till I bought my husband a sit on mower. Tremendous fun.’

  The back door was open.

  ‘Come in. Do sit down,’ said Mrs Somerville, gesturing towards the kitchen table, ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

  Dixon turned to Jane.

  ‘Notice the uniform?’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Blue Barbour jacket, green wellies, Burberry hat.’

  ‘Tweed on race day?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Guaranteed.’

  Mrs Somerville reappeared. The hat and coat had gone revealing long grey hair tied up in a bun, grey pullover and jeans. Dixon estimated that she was in her early sixties.

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ replied Dixon, ‘thank you.’

  Jean Somerville spoke while she filled the kettle. Jane was taking notes.

  ‘So, if it wasn’t an accident, what happened to him?’

  ‘He was
murdered,’ said Dixon, matter of fact.

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Who? Why?’

  ‘We were hoping you might be able to help us with that.’

  ‘You don’t think that I...we…had anyth...?’

  ‘There are certain questions we have to ask everyone, Mrs Somerville,’ replied Dixon. ‘Procedure.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tell me about Lady Winton.’

  ‘She’s my aunt. Housebound now but loves to watch him run on the television. Keeps her going, I think, following the racing.’

  ‘And your husband. What does he do for a living?’

  ‘Retired now but he was a property developer.’

  ‘Did either of you have much to do with Noel?’

  ‘Not really. We saw him at the races and on the odd occasion we went to Spaxton but that’s it.’

  ‘Ever see him outside racing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, you weren’t friends?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Indignant.

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning then,’ said Dixon. ‘When did you buy Westbrook Warrior?’

  ‘Just over a year ago. Simon and Brian...Brian Mayhew, went over to Tattershalls Ireland and bought him. They brought him back and put him with Michael Hesp.’

  ‘Why Hesp?’

  ‘We wanted a local trainer so we could keep in touch with him and he had a vacancy.’

  ‘Was Noel working there at that time?’

  ‘Yes. We were there when the Warrior arrived in the lorry and so was Noel.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘When we brought him over?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not much to tell, really.’ She laughed to herself. ‘It was a bit embarrassing. He was going berserk in the lorry. Put a couple of dents in the side of it. No one would go in and untie him. So, Noel went in. Calm as anything, untied him and led him down the ramp.’

  ‘Is the Warrior aggressive?’

  ‘He can be.’

  ‘But not with Noel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They had a special relationship?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Didn’t you think it a bit odd then that the Warrior kicked him to death?’

  ‘I did, to be honest.’

  ‘Did you say anything to anyone?’

  ‘Only to...’

  ‘Can I help?’

  Dixon and Jane looked over to the back door. A green Barbour jacket and green wellies.

  ‘Simon, this is the police. They’re asking about the groom, Noel.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was murdered, Sir.’

  ‘Murdered? You’re joking, surely?’

  ‘No, Sir. How well did you know him?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Hardly at all. We saw him on race days but that’s about the extent of it.’

  ‘Did you ever see him anywhere else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How would you describe Westbrook Warrior’s temperament?’

  ‘No one could go in his stable, that’s for sure. I tried it once and only just got out in one piece. And he gives the farrier a hell of a time by all accounts. Vicious little...’

  ‘What about Noel?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tell me about his relationship with Westbrook Warrior. Did he go in his stable, for example?’

  ‘No one did, unless he was tied up. That was the golden rule.’

  ‘And his results?’

  ‘We expected better, I think it’s fair to say.’

  ‘Have you ever tackled Michael Hesp about them?’

  ‘Once or twice. He fobbed us off with some rubbish about false splints.’

  ‘Splints?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘It’s damage to the splint bone in the lower leg. It causes a bony lump to form.’

  ‘I’ve felt his leg. There are no splints,’ said Mrs Somerville.

  ‘We’ll be changing trainer as soon we can,’ said Mr Somerville.

  ‘I think you will,’ said Dixon.

  Mrs Somerville handed Dixon and Jane a mug of tea each and then placed a sugar bowl on the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jane.

  ‘You’ve told me about Lady Winton. What about Mr and Mrs Mayhew?’

  ‘We’ve known them for years...’ said Mrs Somerville.

  ‘Brian and I worked together for many years before I retired. Property development, that sort of thing. He’s still at it but I got out before the crash. More through luck than judgment, I might add.’

  ‘What sort of developments?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Big, little...?’

  ‘The biggest we did was one hundred and twenty houses on the edge of Taunton. He’s into some even bigger stuff now though.’

  ‘Right, well, thank you for your time,’ said Dixon. ‘We’ll be in touch again in due course.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just routine, Mr Somerville. And thank you for the tea.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ said Dixon, as they walked back around the side of Westbrook House to his Land Rover.

  ‘Are you...?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. No painkillers today.’

  Jane passed him the keys.

  ‘What did you make of that?’ asked Jane, as soon as the car door slammed shut.

  ‘Their reactions seemed genuine enough but I’m wondering who Mrs Somerville spoke to about Noel’s death.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘There’s another conversation to be had there. And preferably when the bloody husband is out.’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘Let’s get over to Exford,’ said Dixon.

  The drive from Trull had taken a little under an hour but Dixon had always loved Exmoor and enjoyed the trip, despite the heavy rain. He looked across to Dunkery Beacon but it was shrouded in low cloud. Jane was on her mobile phone talking to Louise but her signal went as they dropped down Church Hill into Exford.

  ‘Useless thing. She was about to say something about Mayhew.’

  Jane looked up at the White Horse as they drove through the village. ‘Looks nice.’

  ‘We’ll pop in there for lunch on the way back,’ replied Dixon.

  Dixon followed the road over the bridge and up out of Exford. The river beneath the bridge was a raging torrent of water.

  ‘What river is that, I wonder?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Well, given that this is Exford, the River Exe would be a canny guess,’ replied Dixon.

  Jane rolled her eyes.

  The road climbed steeply out of the village, forcing Dixon to change down into first gear. The Land Rover lurched forward. Monty woke up in the back and started barking.

  ‘Would you like me to drive?’ asked Jane.

  Dixon glared at her.

  Dixon made a sharp right turn before continuing the steep climb up to the moor itself. Jane’s phone rang just as he turned into the entrance to Ferndale House.

  ‘Voicemail,’ said Jane, listening to the message. ‘That was Louise. It seems that Mr Mayhew sits on the Exmoor National Park Authority planning committee. He’s also a magistrate and sat on the old Police Authority before it was disbanded.’

  Dixon smiled. ‘Well, let’s get it over with.’

  ‘D’you think he knows we’re coming.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ferndale House was surrounded by trees, giving it some protection from the open moorland weather. It was sideways on to the road, two thirds of the way up the hill, overlooking Exford in the valley below. Dixon could see various outbuildings and stables, which appeared empty. A black BMW four wheel drive was parked outside the garage off to the left.

  Dixon rang the doorbell.

  ‘Nobody could miss that,’ he said.

  ‘No barking,’ said Jane. ‘Fancy living out here and not having a dog?’

  ‘There are some very strange people about, Jane.’

  Dixon heard
footsteps on a tiled or stone floor. Then fumbling with the lock. The door opened to reveal a woman in her late fifties. She had dyed hair and wore no makeup. Her eyes were bloodshot and Dixon noticed that she was carrying a large glass of white wine.

  ‘Yes?’ Her speech was slurred.

  ‘Mrs Mary Mayhew?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Dixon and Det...’

  ‘My husband’s in his office.’

  ‘Is that here or elsewhere?’

  ‘Here. Follow me.’ Mrs Mayhew was holding on to the door to stop herself swaying from side to side.

  ‘Actually, we’d like a word with you first, if we may?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘May we come in?’

  She stood to one side allowing Dixon and Jane into the hall.

  ‘This way.’

  She opened the door to her left and stepped into the drawing room. Dixon and Jane followed.

  ‘We’re investigating the death of Noel Woodman.’

  ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ Mrs Mayhew was standing by the fireplace holding onto the mantelpiece.

  ‘Westbrook Warrior’s groom.’

  ‘Bloody horse kicked him...’

  ‘He didn’t, actually.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Noel was murdered.’

  ‘You’re joking, surely.’

  Dixon waited. Mary Mayhew was swaying backwards and forwards.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal that at the present time.’

  ‘At least the bloody horse didn’t do it, I suppose. There was me thinking it was our fault somehow.’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘Hardly at all.’

  She took a large swig of wine from the glass and then collapsed into a small chair to the left of the fireplace.

  ‘Are you alright, Mrs Mayhew?’ asked Jane.

  ‘You want to try living out here. It may look nice but it’s...’

  ‘Inspector Dixon?’

  Dixon turned around to see a man standing in the doorway.

  ‘Mr Mayhew?’

  ‘Yes. Simon told me you were coming. Please forgive my wife. It’s usually mid afternoon before she’s in this state. It must be the weather.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Come through to my office, will you?’

  Dixon and Jane followed Brian Mayhew along the hall. Dixon looked back at Mrs Mayhew before he left the drawing room. She was sitting with her eyes closed, tears streaming down her cheeks. He looked into the kitchen as he walked past and spotted an open bottle of wine on the kitchen table. It was half empty.