Her Final Hour

by Rachel Amphlett

  Kennedy looked up from his computer and beckoned. ‘I’d rather have an update from you two than deal with these budget figures. At least you’ll be talking sense.’

  He gathered up the documentation and shoved it into his filing tray as Mark and Jan dropped into the seats opposite his desk.

  ‘How did you get on with Will Brennan, then? I presume that’s what this is about?’

  ‘Apparently he was going to propose to Jessica Marley at the weekend,’ said Mark. ‘Had it all planned out – motorbike trip over to Uffington, picnic at Waylands Smithy, the lot. Sodding great engagement ring, as well – he showed it to us before we left.’

  ‘It must’ve taken him months to save for it on his wages,’ said Jan. ‘Trainee jockeys don’t earn that much, do they?’

  Kennedy reached out for a pen and scrawled a note on a pad next to his keyboard. ‘I’ll get the finance team to take a look into Brennan’s income and expenditure in case there’s something amiss. Mind you, he said he’d moved down here to be with her, didn’t he? He could’ve been saving for some time.’

  ‘I think it’s worth having them check anyway,’ said Mark. ‘At least to rule out anything dodgy.’

  ‘He’s probably managing to save more by staying at the cottage,’ said Jan, wrinkling her nose. ‘The place was a hovel.’

  ‘Oh?’ Kennedy dropped his pen. ‘Any health and safety concerns?’

  ‘I don’t think so, guv. It could do with a bloody good clean, though. Looks like it’s been left to go to rack and ruin.’

  ‘I suppose if Brennan and the others rent it cheap, and Adams is happy to let them do so, it works well for everyone involved. I’ll flag the rental arrangements to finance when I speak to them and ask them to make sure it’s all above board. Back to the engagement – did anyone else know?’

  ‘A friend of Jessica’s, Bethany Myers,’ said Mark. ‘Apparently Brennan roped her in to help spring the surprise at the weekend to make sure Jessica was free on the Sunday. Myers occasionally works at the Farriers Arms on a Sunday if they need extra cover.’

  ‘Was she on the list Noah Collins provided?’

  ‘Yes. I spoke with uniform – she’s been away since Friday and out of mobile range. We’ll try to speak to her as soon as she gets back.’

  ‘The poor woman’s going to get a shock when she finds out about Jessica,’ said Jan.

  ‘What was your impression of Brennan now that you’ve had another chance to speak with him?’

  ‘He came across as genuinely shocked,’ said Mark. ‘I mean, he’s only a young lad, he’s just found his girlfriend dead and I didn’t see anything resembling a temper or anything while we were interviewing him.’

  ‘He looks like he’d blow away on a wisp of wind,’ said Jan. ‘I realise he’s got a lot of upper body strength from riding those bloody huge horses, but I’m not sure he’d have the stamina to carry Jessica’s body a long way if he killed her. And, as for motive––’

  ‘Might’ve got cold feet?’ said Mark. ‘Or, he’s lying about their perfect relationship.’

  ‘Having cold feet’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it, Sarge? Anyway, we’re stuck until we get to speak to Myers. Maybe she can shed some light on his state of mind when she last saw him.’

  ‘I’ve left a message on her voicemail asking her to call me the moment she picks it up,’ said Mark. ‘I don’t want her talking to Brennan before we’ve interviewed her.’

  ‘Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way,’ said Kennedy. He pushed his chair back and led the way out of the office and across the incident room to the whiteboard. He clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Perhaps she was struck by a car when she was walking home from the pub, and whoever hit her dumped her body,’ he said, and then wrote the thought on the board next to the other avenues of enquiry. ‘I’ll speak with Tom Wilcox in the morning while you’re interviewing MacKenzie Adams and task him with expediting the house-to-house enquiries along the route Jessica should have taken home from the pub on Monday night. We’ll get a second group to do the same for one mile from the Farriers Arms towards Hazelthorpe in case anyone saw her that side of the village. As soon as you’re finished with Adams, get yourselves over there to coordinate any findings with Tom.’

  ‘Will do, guv.’

  ‘While you’re doing that, I’ll get someone to speak with the bus company that runs the route through Harton Wick. Apparently, the council has been running a late service trial for the past two months to test demand. Find out who the driver was on the last shift and the one who took the first shift the morning after, and see if we can get the camera footage from the vehicles as well.’

  ‘What about Jessica’s parents, guv?’ said Jan. ‘What do we tell them about Brennan’s intended proposal?’

  Kennedy’s lips thinned. ‘Nothing. Not until we’ve interviewed Bethany Myers. We’ll take another look at the situation then. I don’t want to cause them more pain than they’re already suffering.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Frustration swept through Mark as he closed his front door.

  To date, there was little by way of progress or breakthrough into their enquiries about Jessica’s death, and the teenager’s brutal murder plagued his thoughts.

  Until they found evidence to the contrary, Will Brennan would remain on his list of suspects. During his career he had seen similarly grieving spouses turn out to be cold-blooded killers, and all too often in domestic violence cases.

  The racehorse trainer, MacKenzie Adams, had seemed more upset by the inconvenience of interruption to his routine than having a dead girl’s body on the gallops, and Mark ground his teeth at the memory of the man’s officious attitude at the crime scene.

  And what of Brennan’s two housemates? Had jealousy driven Paul Hitchens or Nigel White to murder?

  Mark sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he kicked off his boots.

  He made a fuss of Hamish, let him out of the back door into the garden, and then fetched the dog’s food bowl and filled it while the mongrel ran back and forth across the darkened lawn, chasing imaginary foes.

  At the sound of the can opener he tore back inside, tongue lolling while Mark refilled his water bowl and then ruffled his fur.

  ‘Get stuck in.’

  Mark made his way upstairs, tugging at his shirt and tie. Changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, he finally felt his shoulders start to sag a little.

  He wouldn’t relax until Jessica’s murderer had been charged, but a seeping tiredness crawled through his body. He pulled out his mobile phone, rang the local takeaway to place an order for one, then wandered down to the kitchen.

  He popped the metal cap off a bottle of Bishop’s Finger ale, closed the refrigerator door with his foot, and padded along the narrow hallway to the living room.

  As he picked up the television remote control, Hamish raised his chin from the bed next to the radiator under the window, his eyes quizzical.

  ‘Chinese takeaway tonight, m’ boy. And if you’re lucky, there’s half a vegetable spring roll with your name on it when it gets here.’

  The dog licked its lips.

  Mark grinned, leaned down and scratched him between his ears.

  The familiar opening theme for the late evening news finished, and he sank into a worn black leather armchair with a sigh before taking a long swig of beer as the newscaster began to run through the day’s headlines.

  He had missed the local news earlier. Alex McClellan had phoned to say MacKenzie Adams had featured prominently, and Mark wanted to get the measure of the man before interviewing him in the morning.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck as the newsreader turned her attention to the main news story of the day – a meeting of global leaders being held somewhere exotic, expensive, and paid for by taxpayers – and ran through the events following the house-to-house enquiry.

  His eyes snapped open at the sound of a familiar name, and he refocused on the television screen as the scene changed
from the newsroom to an interview that had been recorded earlier that day.

  The male reporter stood with a notebook in one hand and a microphone in the other, and repeated the words Mark had already seen in the latest press release issued that morning. In the background, Mark noticed the white railings and tall hedges of a racecourse. A steady stream of people passed behind the reporter, casting curious stares at the outside broadcast.

  ‘One man who does know more about this murder and who has been personally affected by Jessica Marley’s death is MacKenzie Adams. MacKenzie, what can you tell us about what happened yesterday with the discovery of Jessica’s body on your training gallops?’

  Mark leaned forward, clutching the beer bottle between his hands, and gritted his teeth as the camera swung to the right, bringing Adams into shot.

  ‘Well, obviously it is a terrible shock for everyone,’ said the racehorse trainer. ‘I can’t imagine what the poor girl’s family are going through right now.’

  ‘We understand that it was one of your jockeys who discovered her body?’

  ‘Yes, yes – that’s right. He was riding what we hope will be the favourite to win on Monday.’

  ‘What’s the current state of people’s minds in the area?’ said the reporter. ‘Are the police any closer to finding out who was responsible for Jessica’s murder?’

  Adams’ chest broadened, and he cleared his throat. ‘No, the police don’t appear to have any good leads. As you can imagine, with so many young people living in the area, it’s a worry for us locals. Nothing like this has ever happened to us, so we’re all very concerned.’

  ‘And moving on to your plans for the weekend, can you give us any indication as to which of your horses will be racing in the Cup?’

  MacKenzie chuckled, then launched into a blatant self-promotion spiel about his winning chances.

  Mark lowered his gaze as his mobile phone began to ring, and saw Kennedy’s number displayed.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Are you watching the news?’

  ‘Yeah. Adams is revelling in the attention, isn’t he?’

  ‘Callous bastard.’

  ‘Some people know no bounds, guv.’

  ‘Well, make sure when you talk to him tomorrow you make it quite clear from me that I’m not impressed. And, if he gives you any grief or you’ve got any reason to suspect him of anything more serious than stupidity, bring him in and we’ll formally interview him.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Enjoy your evening.’

  Kennedy hung up as the doorbell went, and Mark drained the dregs from the bottle.

  ‘Stay,’ he said to Hamish, who had jumped to his feet and was pointing his nose towards the hallway.

  Mark greeted the takeaway driver, handed him a tip and then hurried to the kitchen as his stomach rumbled.

  Helping himself to another beer from the refrigerator, he popped open the cardboard lids, placed the foil containers on a tray and grabbed a fork before wandering back to the living room.

  Hamish sat with his back to the television, his tail a blur.

  ‘No good looking at me like that. You’re not getting anything until I’ve finished.’

  Mark dived in, ravenous. He was taking a sip from the beer when his phone began to ring once more, but this time the caller ID made him smile.

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘Hello. Got any more of those boxes unpacked since I last saw you?’

  ‘I have. And I found the vacuum cleaner. There’s hope for me yet.’

  A husky laugh reached his ear. ‘You’ll be fine. You’re a landlubber. You would’ve frozen your arse off if you’d stayed on the boat. It’s no wonder O’Reilly can’t get a tenant over the winters. He never will if he doesn’t put in a wood-burning stove, or something like what I’ve got.’

  ‘Who’s looking after the boat while it’s empty?’ he said, and took another sip.

  ‘No-one. He took it out of the water earlier this month to get the hull checked and it’s been in his yard ever since. I don’t know whether he’s going to rent it out again in the spring. You were one of his better tenants – I don’t know whether he’ll want anyone else there now; you’ve softened him up. Anyway, you’re eating your dinner and it’s getting cold. What’ve you got?’

  ‘Szechuan chicken.’

  ‘Oh, spicy. Just the way I like it.’ That laugh again.

  Mark put his fork down, and took a deep breath.

  Should I?

  Then: why not?

  Debbie had made it clear that there was no going back, and he was tired of being alone.

  ‘Look, do you fancy coming over to dinner one night soon?’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Really?’ He exhaled.

  ‘Yes, I would. I miss our chats in the evenings.’

  ‘So do I. How about next Thursday? I’ve got some late nights coming up, but––’

  ‘Thursday would be perfect. I’ll bring the wine.’

  A shiver of excitement, anticipation and nervousness flittered across his shoulders. ‘We’re in the middle of an investigation at the moment, so if anything crops up that means I’ll have to change the day––’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. The wine won’t go off.’

  He smiled. ‘Fantastic. See you about seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up on the way home to save you walking.’

  ‘Sounds good. See you soon.’

  Mark ended the call and tossed the spring roll to Hamish.

  ‘Date night, dog. You’d better be on your best behaviour.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Early the next morning, Jan waited for the security barrier to rise, and then steered the pool car out into the road and pointed it in the direction of the Berkshire Downs.

  Soon, the urban sprawl faded into narrow lanes and bare hedgerows, the traffic reducing to the occasional tractor or bus heading in the opposite direction, and Jan turned her attention to the impending interview.

  ‘How do you want to approach it?’ she said.

  Turpin turned away from the window and dropped his mobile into his coat pocket. ‘I was thinking about that. I reckon it’d be a good idea for you to lead the questions. I spent some time watching old interviews of his on the internet after dinner last night. He’s interesting – he has a different way of answering questions if there’s a woman involved. With male reporters, he’s jocular, one of the lads. I’d like to gauge how he responds to a woman being in control of the situation – to see if there’s any indication he has the reputation we’ve been led to believe by Jessica’s mother.’

  ‘Okay. How does he react to women in the interviews you watched?’

  ‘He’s a flirt. He deflected awkward questions by complimenting them on what they were wearing. If that didn’t work and they pushed him, he became defensive. But he definitely comes across as if he thinks he’s a ladies’ man – do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Ugh, yes. A dinosaur, then?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Right.’ Jan flexed her hands on the steering wheel. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  ‘Thought you might.’

  Half an hour later, she turned the car between a pair of moss-covered gate posts and into a wide yard. Parking next to a large shed, its open doors displaying row upon row of saddles and bridles, she climbed out and pocketed the keys.

  A magpie cawed as it ducked and swooped overhead before landing on the roof of the Victorian farmhouse.

  Jan bundled her scarf around her neck and cast her gaze around the yard.

  The first of the stable blocks began a discreet distance away from the main house. A low-slung building with timber cladding and a tile roof, the building housed six stables. Three horses peered out from open doors, their ears twitching as they eyed the newcomers.

  The sweet scent of horse dung and fresh hay lingered in the air.

  The second of the stable blocks appeared deserted; all of the doors were open, and at the far end a young lad raked dirty str
aw bedding towards a wheelbarrow.

  Beyond the stable blocks, an exercise ring was in use, a horse tethered to the frame as it walked in a circle. A lone man in woollen hat and padded jacket stood on a metal viewing platform, his arms resting on the top of the railing.

  Jan held up her hand. ‘We’re looking for MacKenzie Adams.’

  ‘In the main house,’ the man called.

  Turpin met her on the doorstep and rang the bell.

  Jan huddled into her jacket as they waited. A cold wind from the hillside above the property swept through the yard, blowing strands of hay into the drainage gullies around the concrete hardstanding.

  After a while, she heard footsteps, and the door was hauled open.

  MacKenzie Adams peered at her over reading glasses, his dark-grey hair tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it. He rested one hand on the doorframe, the other clutching a tablet computer. ‘Detectives. What do you want?’

  ‘Just a few routine questions please, Mr Adams.’

  ‘Oh, do they let the girls out to do that?’

  ‘I’d advise you to treat my colleague with courtesy,’ said Turpin, taking a step forward. ‘Otherwise, we’ll continue this interview formally under caution at the station. It’s up to you.’

  Adams raised an eyebrow, but moved back. ‘No need to be like that, detective. We’ll use the study. Less chance of being interrupted.’

  Jan caught Turpin’s wink as she brushed past him and followed Adams along the hallway. She squared her shoulders, and ran through the questions she wanted to ask the racehorse trainer as he stopped and held open a door.

  A large wooden desk faced the room, the window behind it providing a view of the busy stables and yard beyond. Framed photographs covered the wall to her right; a mixture of horses racing past winning posts, and their trainer shaking hands with various dignitaries and owners.

  A cluster of four leather armchairs faced the desk, and it was to these that Adams gestured to before placing the tablet computer on a leather-bound desk planner. ‘I’m a very busy man, Detective West. I hope this won’t take long.’