A Very Private Murder

by Stuart Pawson

We fell into an awkward silence until I said: ‘Tell me about Threadneedle. How did you meet him?’

  Curzon smiled at the memory. ‘Ha! He organised a soirée, didn’t he. He and his relatively new wife had moved into a house over in Dunkley, near Malton, that had been owned by a racehorse trainer called Jonty Hargrave. You may have heard of him: he trained some good winners. There was a stable block and Threadneedle had ambitions to obtain his trainer’s licence and keep the yard going. Unfortunately it’s not that easy. You need a lifetime’s involvement to get your licence and owners won’t risk their horses with anyone. He ended up as just another livery yard, catering for the local hackers and pony club kids.’

  ‘He went downmarket?’

  ‘That’s right. It must have been a disappointment to him. Then there was a fire and he lost the lot.’

  ‘Tell me about the fire.’

  ‘Not much to tell. One horse died, I believe, and most of the block was destroyed. Arson was suspected, but nothing ever came of it. Someone may have had a grudge against Threadneedle, or possibly against Jonty Hargrave, not realising he’d moved on. Horse racing is a tough business, as you probably know. Fortunes are at stake.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Was there an insurance payout?’

  ‘No idea.’

  I skirted round the subject for a few minutes, prompting him here and there, inviting him to tell me again about the time he nearly owned one of racing’s aristocrats. I’d heard it all before but he enjoyed telling the tale and I’m a patient listener when it suits me. The punchline hadn’t changed, though: owning a horse like that was a fantasy, a daydream, that’s all. I said: ‘Were there many more soirées with the Threadneedles?’

  ‘Only one, perhaps a couple, if I remember rightly. Janet – Mrs Threadneedle – was a classicalflute player. Listening to her was magical. She was a beautiful woman and a lovely person. She and Laura – my wife – got on so well. I was so sorry when you told me about her problems.’

  We collected Toby and strolled to the tearoom, discussing the weather. Apparently it was about to break in the south, with us following shortly after. Thunderstorms were due. I confessed to being a painter, saying that I’d like to set up my easel in the grounds sometime and see what I could make of the view. They both thought it a great idea, and so did I: it gave me an open invitation to come and visit any time I liked.

  I paid the bill – ‘my treat’ – and left as soon as I could, saying I had a long drive home. Out on the highway I studied the map to see the quickest way to Dunkley, home of Jonty Hargrave, racehorse trainer to the aristocracy. Driving there I ran the day’s events through my mind. It had been reasonably fruitful, but it was one of little Toby’s comments that was uppermost. She’d said that her sister, the beautiful Grizzly, ‘was impressed’. I was grinning so hard I nearly missed the turn-off.

  The Beware Racehorses road signs reminded me that this was gee-gee country. The hedges and verges were all neatly trimmed and beyond them I could see post-and-rail fences curling off into the distance. A set of traffic lights marked a crossing put there just for the horses, and every cottage and house had a 4x4 and trailer, or a horsebox, standing on the drive.

  There was a post office, which simplified things. I signed the petition to save it and asked about Mr Hargrave. He was still alive, a postmistress straight off a packet of wholemeal flour told me, adding, after consulting the clock, that I’d probably catch him ‘in the Alice’.

  ‘The Alice?’ I queried.

  ‘The Alice Hawthorne. It’s the village pub. Can’t miss it.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  She was right. He was and you couldn’t. Two old-timers were having a game of fives and threes for pennies, with the landlord looking on. Otherwise the pub was empty. One of them was big and prosperous-looking, wearing a jacket and cravat in defiance of the heat; his companion angular and awkward, with misshapen teeth and a laugh like a jackdaw passing a kidney stone. I guessed which was my man.

  I seated myself between them as Jackdaw shuffled the dominoes, and said: ‘Jonty Hargrave?’

  ‘Might be,’ Cravat replied after a moment’s hesitation.

  I showed him my warrant card. ‘DI Priest, Heckley CID. Mind if I interrupt your game and have a word?’

  ‘Looks like I don’t have much option.’

  The landlord said: ‘Hey hey, Jonty. Looks like your past has caught up with you at last.’

  Jackdaw held my wrist and studied the card as if it were a thing of wonder until I pulled away. I pointed at their glasses and asked the landlord for refills, with one for himself and an orange juice for me. It was turning into an expensive day.

  ‘You sold your stables to a man called Arthur George Threadneedle,’ I began, after we’d all taken a long sip.

  ‘Cheers. Happen I did, happen I didn’t.’

  The landlord started laughing. ‘Maybe he wants his money back, Jonty. You said he was greener than a Sammy Ledgard bus.’

  ‘Cheers. Let’s happen you did,’ I insisted. ‘You might be interested to know that he was murdered yesterday.’

  That caught their attention. ‘Murdered,’ Hargrave echoed. ‘How?’

  ‘He was shot in the head. What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘Next to nothing. He was obviously a townie with more brass than brains. As soon as we’d completed I was off to my daughter’s in France. Stayed two years but it didn’t work out. Came back to Dunkley, didn’t I? Never saw him again.’ He raised his pint of Black Sheep and took a long draught.

  ‘Was this after the fire?’

  He stiffened and the pint glass hit the table hard as he lowered it. ‘You know about the fire?’

  ‘I’ve done my homework.’

  ‘It was just after the fire. I didn’t go to look: it would have broken my heart.’

  The landlord said: ‘There was a lot of bad feeling in the village about the fire. They said a horse died. That’s worse than paedophilia in a place like this.’

  I looked at Hargrave. ‘Would he be insured?’

  ‘I suppose so. He’d be an idiot not to be.’

  ‘Did he take over your insurance when you sold it to him?’

  ‘Come to think of it, yes he did, but I don’t think it had long to run.’

  ‘Maybe he renewed it. That would be simplest. Can you remember the company?’

  ‘Aye. They’re called Doncaster Equestrian, underwritten by the York & Durham. One of the biggest in the game.’

  ‘Right. Now tell me this: was there a humane killer in the inventory?’

  I rang Dave from the pub car park and told him to find out what he could from the insurance company. The distance between Heckley and Ogglethorpe was about seventy-two miles, so I exercised my brain with some mental arithmetic as I drove, and calculated that a return journey would earn me about thirty pounds in expenses. On the other hand, Mrs Smith would only charge me a discounted twenty pounds for B&B. I needed to be back in the village tomorrow, so it would save the firm ten pounds if I stayed overnight. Mr Wood didn’t see it that way when I phoned him to explain, but he eventually gave one of his sighs and told me to do whatever I thought was best.

  Jonty Hargrave had owned a humane killer but had passed it on when he sold the house and yard. ‘Was it fixed bolt?’ I’d asked him, and he told me no, it fired a bullet.

  ‘Did you hold a licence for it?’

  ‘It didn’t need one.’

  ‘It did if it fired a bullet,’ I assured him.

  ‘That’s news to me. But it was always kept in a locked box, same as I would with a shotgun.’

  ‘Did you tell Threadneedle it didn’t need one?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He was silent for a while, considering just how helpful to be. Or unhelpful. Playing dumb, acting slow, is a Yorkshire characteristic, and I suspected he was an expert.

  ‘You know, Inspector,’ he began, leaning forward as if to reveal some great confidentiality, ‘here in the country we work to a different set of rules to what yo
u do in the city. But that doesn’t make us dishonest. We believe in doing what’s right, and that means that sometimes we stray outside the written law, if you understand what I mean.’

  I understood all right. Who minded if a gamekeeper poisoned a few birds of prey if it helped the pheasant shoot? Or snared the badgers that might or might not transmit TB? Or if Farmer Giles slaughtered the pig he hadn’t registered, in his barn, with an axe?

  ‘I need to know about the two or three years he had the stables,’ I said. ‘I need names: people who knew him; friends and enemies. Was he involved in any betting scams, or playing fast and loose with somebody’s wife? What did the village gossip say? Who did he upset enough for them to want him dead?’

  Hargrave shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘I was down in the Dordogne, sampling the old vin rouge.’

  ‘You know more about him than I do,’ I insisted.

  ‘Sorry, but I can’t help you.’

  The landlord had been standing, leaning on the fireplace, while we talked, listening with a slightly amused expression on his face. But now he looked puzzled. He leant on the table and said: ‘What about old Motty? Wouldn’t he be able to help?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Hargrave, giving the landlord a glare that would have frozen a piranha’s heart.

  The landlord got the message and fell silent, but they’d reckoned without Jackdaw. ‘Tha knows!’ he blurted out. ‘Old Motty Dermot. He was thy head lad for long enough. Doesn’t tha remember?’

  Hargrave nodded, as if the knowledge had just come back to him. ‘Oh aye,’ he said.

  ‘Motty Dermot,’ I repeated, looking at Jackdaw. ‘Does he live in the village?’

  ‘Aye, but thou’ll get no sense from him. He’s fell on his head once too often.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ I turned to Hargrave again, saying: ‘Meanwhile, what happened to the humane killer?’

  ‘Nay, don’t ask me. I presume you haven’t found it.’

  ‘No, but we will.’ I decided to take the offensive. ‘Tell me: did you make many enemies while you were training horses? Did you have any dissatisfied customers?’ Where money is involved, big money, there are always dissatisfied customers.

  The self-assured complacency slipped from his face like the duvet sliding off your bed on a winter’s morning. ‘You mean …?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Mistaken identity. Perhaps somebody got the wrong man. It’s a possibility we always have to consider.’

  ‘That’ll give him something to think about,’ I said to myself when I was back in the car, after another visit to the post office. Served him right for calling me a city boy.

  Phyllis Smith gave me lasagne and cherry pie with custard, and afterwards joined me for a glass of wine in her front room. I told her about the murder but she’d never met or even heard of Threadneedle, never made it to one of his soirées. Jonty Hargrave was well known, but she hadn’t been invited to join his circle of friends, either. I telephoned Jeff Caton and told him I’d probably be in about noon tomorrow. He’d studied the route taken by the graffiti artist and was organising a fingertip search of the plots of garden that decorated the car parks at the Curzon Centre. West Pennine had complained that we were holding evidence back about the pit bull robberies, but he’d fobbed them off. That was all. I was up to date and sipping good red wine, enjoying a chat with a personable lady who cooked like an angel. What more could I ask for? OK, so I knew the answer, but three out of four isn’t bad. When it was dark I announced that I was going for some fresh air and left the house.

  My route took me to the Curzon estate, via a bridle path that was a more direct route than the road. The moon hadn’t risen and the meadow I crossed was blacker than the inside of a Co-op undertaker’s top hat. I didn’t trip over any sleeping cows but I could hear them snuffling and grunting in their sleep. Do cows sleep? Eventually I made it to the stile that put me back on the lane right outside the estate. I slipped under the barrier and headed up the driveway, walking flat-footed, like an Indian, to make less noise. The trees on either side were looming black canyon walls, but high above me the strip of sky blazed with the light of the Milky Way. I turned and walked backwards for a few steps, wondering at my shadow, cast by the light of a billion stars.

  The car park faced the front of the house, with picnic tables at irregular intervals around the edge. The same two windows were illuminated as before. The full sky was visible now, but the spring and summer constellations are not as familiar as the winter ones. Eventually I identified the Plough, upside down to its winter position, and from it the Pole Star, and that was about it.

  I sat on the bench bolted to one of the tables, facing the house with my back against the table. The stars were there every night, I thought, and most of us never took the time to appreciate them. The greatest free show on Earth, and we couldn’t be bothered. There was a vociferous movement amongst astronomers to control light pollution, because children were growing up in ignorance of the wonders that were right there on their doorsteps, give or take a few million light years. Maybe I’d join them, write a letter to the Gazette.

  I didn’t know what I was doing there, but looking at the sky was good enough reason. I had, in the past, camped overnight on Blea Fell to watch the meteor showers that were predicted but never materialised. That brought a smile to my face. I was with the girl who was to become my wife for a couple of years, before the pseudo-glamour of being married to a cop faded into a routine of missed meals and late nights. Things were good for a while, though, I remembered, and we’d found ways of compensating for the lack of meteors.

  There were others, too, that I’d shared my knowledge of the skies with, some of it true, some of it hastily invented. And one who knew far more than I did, who had gone to her own place up there, in the cosmos, whence we all came.

  Perspective. That’s what it was all about. Quality time. It was good to be alone sometimes, with your thoughts. Helped you appreciate what you had, and the difference between what you wanted and what you needed. A shooting star, a modest one, fell silently through the sky for a brief moment before slipping away. It had been in at the birth of the solar system, four and a half billion years ago, before burning up in the atmosphere of the insignificant planet we call the Earth.

  I was wondering if anyone else in the whole world would have witnessed its demise, its one second of glory, when, away to my left, the unmistakeable sound of an automatic pistol being cocked brought me crashing back to reality.

  CHAPTER NINE

  My spine became an icicle as I rose to my feet and turned towards the sound. I was, I reminded myself, in the middle of a murder investigation. Someone had killed once, and it was easier the second time, especially if the net was closing in. I had two options: face him or flee. If I fled – the favoured option – it could either be towards the house or into the wood. The wood was the better prospect. I’d easily lose him in there, unless his shooting was lucky. Then the sound of another pistol being cocked, away to my right, caused me to think again. I looked in the directions of the noises. Two dark figures, guns held close and pointing skywards, stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Inspector Priest, I presume,’ one of them said, placing his gun back in its holster.

  ‘Jeesus,’ I hissed, sitting down again. ‘You scared the living daylights out of me.’

  They were the crew of an ARV based in East Yorkshire, detailed to keep an eye out for strange vehicles around the village in response to my tip-off. They’d identified my car outside Phyllis’s B&B and linked me to it when the indicators flashed as I used the remote locking. The rest was just for their amusement, at the expense of the hotshot DI from Heckley.

  ‘We come here all the time, don’t we, Dave?’ one of them was saying.

  ‘Oh, all the time,’ his partner agreed.

  ‘See that top window? Well, Ghislaine usually opens the curtains and takes her kit off in it about this time of night. That right, Dave?’

  ‘That’s right, Bri.�
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  ‘In your dreams,’ I said.

  They offered me a lift back to the village but the back seats of ARVs are not the healthiest of environments and I’d had enough of their double act, so I declined. They wandered off back to their Volvo and I rested against the table again to give my heart rate chance to settle.

  The moon had risen, was playing peek-a-boo over the tops of the trees behind the house when I saw the light. It was in the doorway but hardly visible. After a few seconds a figure emerged from the shadows and headed purposefully towards the gardens, away from me. When it was out of sight I jumped to my feet and raced after it.

  She’d turned the flashlight off but was plainly visible in the middle of the broad path that led between the walled garden and the tea shop and out towards the furthest corner of the grounds. I kept to the shadows, dodging from one patch to the next. Suddenly she did a left turn, through a gate, and was lost in the darkness. I slowed to a standstill and listened. She wasn’t making much noise but I could just about hear her. Slowly, picking my footfalls as carefully as possible, I headed in the direction she’d taken and soon found myself on the edge of a clearing. The moon had broken free from the trees and was behind me now, but she wasn’t within sight. I counted to a hundred while my eyes adjusted, but I still couldn’t see her.

  The ground was uneven, criss-crossed with ridges and mounds, picked out by their moon shadows. Here and there bits of stone wall protruded from the earth for a few feet and clumps of thistles grew everywhere. I’d been here before, on my first visit to Curzon House. It was the deserted medieval village of Low Ogglethorp.

  ‘Toby,’ I called, very softly. ‘It’s me, Charlie. Where are you?’

  ‘Charlie?’ I heard her reply, almost under my feet. ‘What are you doing here?’ She was sitting on the ground in a pool of shadow, back against a fallen tree, legs sticking out in front of her. Nestling between them was something I didn’t like the look of.

  ‘That looks suspiciously like a shotgun,’ I said.

  ‘That’s because it is a shotgun.’