Her Final Hour

by Rachel Amphlett

  Jan glanced across at Turpin, who gave a slight nod. She turned back to the Marleys. ‘I’m sorry to ask you this, but were you aware that Will was planning to propose to Jessica at the weekend?’

  Wendy began to cry once more, and shook her head as her husband turned pale.

  ‘Was he?’ he managed.

  ‘He informed us when we interviewed him,’ said Jan. ‘You had no idea?’

  Trevor plucked a paper tissue from a box on a side table next to his wife and blew his nose. ‘No.’

  Jan paused while Wendy wiped fresh tears away. Conscious of his owner’s distress, the small dog nudged at Wendy’s elbow, whimpering.

  Trevor stared at the carpet, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. ‘He would have made her so happy.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have a problem with her planning to settle down so young?’ said Jan.

  ‘As long as she was happy, that’s all that would’ve mattered to us.’

  Wendy pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

  ‘Were you aware of Will and Jessica arguing at all lately? Did she seem on edge about anything?’

  ‘Not on edge, no,’ Wendy managed. ‘I do think all the work she was doing on top of her college studies was starting to take its toll, though.’

  ‘Oh? In what way?’

  ‘I got the impression things weren’t going as well there as she tried to make out sometimes. When I tried to ask her about it, she told me she had more important things to worry about than her grades.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About three weeks ago.’ Wendy looked up at her husband. ‘I didn’t say anything to you because I didn’t want you to worry.’

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ said Trevor. He squeezed her shoulder, then turned to Jan. ‘Jessica would’ve told us if there was something bothering her, I know she would have.’

  Turpin rose from his seat. ‘We’ll leave you in Grant’s capable hands, but if you do think of anything – anything at all that might help us – then please phone, won’t you? It doesn’t matter if you think it’s not important. It helps us to understand your daughter and what might have happened.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Trevor.

  Five minutes later, Jan took a deep gulp of fresh air as they walked towards the car. ‘Talking to the parents is always the hardest part, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know.’

  She slid behind the wheel, then waited while Turpin buckled his seatbelt. ‘Have you got anything planned after work, Sarge?’

  ‘No – quiet one for me. Why?’

  She jerked her head in the direction of the house. ‘I’m going to need a drink after that and the post mortem this morning.’

  ‘What about the twins?’

  ‘Scott’s taking them to brass band practice this evening.’

  ‘So, you get away with not having to listen to them?’

  ‘You’ve got me there, Sarge.’

  ‘All right. First round’s on me, though.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mark weaved through the after-work crowd gathered around the bar of the Journeyman’s Tavern.

  He kept his elbows out to carve a path between a group of men who lurched as one towards the space he’d left behind, and tried not to spill the two pints of copper-coloured ale he clutched.

  The place was heaving, and as he made his way back to their table, he spotted the tell-tale ID cards of different companies based at the nearby science park clipped to belts and jacket lapels.

  At half past six, it was already dark beyond the window next to where Jan sat, the inside of the pub reflected in the panes of glass.

  The detective constable had her chin in her hand, her gaze unfocused while she traced an indeterminate pattern across the table with her forefinger.

  Mark had chosen the pub for its position on the river that wrapped its way around the spit of land on which the seventeenth-century building stood, and for the fact that, as far as he was aware, none of their colleagues frequented the place given its distance from the police station.

  ‘Here you go.’

  Jan jerked her head up at the sound of his voice. ‘Sorry. I was miles away.’

  ‘I thought you were.’

  They clinked glasses, and Mark took a long sip before setting down his drink on the table with a sigh. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘Me too. How did you find this place?’

  ‘I stumbled across it when I was out for a walk with Hamish. There’s a huge garden behind the building – it slopes down to the river and there’s a sort of beach there that’s lower downstream than the weirs. Back in September, it was full of kids and dogs playing – it was still warm enough. You and Scott should bring the boys here in the summer. They’d love it.’

  ‘I will, and you’re right – they would. I’ve lived this way for years, and I can’t believe I haven’t been here before.’

  They fell into a companionable silence for a moment, and Mark cast his gaze around the pub.

  A group of regulars clustered at one end of the oak-panelled bar, an elderly man on a stool holding court while he balanced a small terrier on his lap. The dog’s eyes watched the men gathered around, and he snapped greedily at the crisps and savoury biscuits that were broken up and handed to him as they talked.

  ‘How are you holding up, Sarge?’ said Jan, breaking into his thoughts.

  He took a sip of his drink first.

  ‘All right, under the circumstances.’

  ‘Have you had a chance to speak to your girls about it?’

  Mark grimaced at the memory.

  Debbie had phoned the night before and he had spoken with his youngest, Anna, first.

  The twelve-year-old had been tearful, argumentative – and it hurt to hear her pain. She had calmed down after a little while, after he and Debbie had made sure she understood that she would still see him on a regular basis and that he and his ex-wife were still friends, and then Louise had taken the phone from her sister.

  At fourteen, the girl had a way with words and left him under no illusion as to what she thought of her parents’ divorce.

  He managed a small smile at the memory. His older daughter was growing into a formidable character, and he had no doubt that she would hold him accountable if he let them down.

  ‘They’re all right,’ he said to Jan. ‘Or they will be, at least.’

  ‘Did Louise kick your arse?’

  He laughed. ‘She did.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be okay, Sarge. I get the impression from the way you talk about them that they’re mature for their ages.’

  ‘Thanks, and call me Mark while we’re out, okay?’

  ‘Cheers. It was interesting what Wendy Marley said about Jessica’s grades.’

  ‘And her comment that she had more important things on her mind. Do you think she’d found out about Will’s proposal?’

  ‘Perhaps. From what everyone’s told us about her, she sounds as if she was quite canny.’

  ‘Would that affect her college work, though?’

  Jan leaned back against the wooden pew that served as a bench seat, her gaze falling to the pitted surface of the table.

  ‘It’s hard to say. I mean, I look at the amount of homework my two get every week, and they’re not even at grammar school yet. Maybe Jessica’s grades had been slipping because she’d simply taken on too much.’

  ‘And perhaps she didn’t want to acknowledge that.’ Mark shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  Jan raised her glass to her lips, then paused. ‘Do you think she would’ve survived if someone had found her out there on the gallops?’

  ‘Don’t.’ Mark held up his hand. ‘Don’t do that to yourself. Jessica died because some bastard whacked her across the head with a blunt instrument. That’s what we focus on. That’s what we investigate. If you start thinking about what could’ve been, it won’t do you any good at all.’

  Her face fell. ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s okay. It’s all right to feel lik
e this. I know if anyone harmed Anna or Louise, I’d want answers. We’ll get there.’

  She managed a smile, and clinked her glass against his. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Leaving Jan in the car with her phone to her ear as she received an update from the incident room, Mark cast his gaze around the walls of the brick stable block and whistled under his breath.

  The whole building had been converted from a bay of six stalls into an open breakout area for the jockeys and stable lads who worked for MacKenzie Adams.

  Central to the space were eight long tables, bench seats alongside in various states of disarray, as if the occupants had left in a hurry and couldn’t be bothered to tidy up after themselves.

  Near the door, next to where he stood, a cheap kitchen had been installed with two microwaves, a dishwasher, hob, and a sink cluttered with piles of crockery. A waft of stale coffee emanated from one of the percolators plugged in on a worktop that ran the length of the wall to the first of four windows.

  Beyond the panes of glass, Mark could see the sweeping brow of the Berkshire Downs poking through a curling mist that enveloped the surrounding countryside, and then shivered.

  It seemed Adams’ attempts at providing a canteen for his staff didn’t extend to proper insulation or heating.

  ‘Budge over, I’m dying for a cuppa.’

  Mark stepped aside at the sound of the voice, then looked down as a compact man in his twenties pushed past and hurried over to the electric kettle.

  The man reached into a cupboard, then held up a chipped china mug.

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Are you a copper?’

  ‘One of them, yes.’

  ‘Saw a bunch of uniforms turn up fifteen minutes ago. This about Jessica, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The kettle started to rumble on its stand, and the man flicked the switch before it had boiled. ‘Wastes electricity otherwise,’ he said, then shrugged. ‘That’s what my old man always told me, anyway.’

  He bent down and opened the refrigerator next to Mark, sniffed an open carton of milk, then shrugged again. ‘It’ll have to do, I suppose.’

  He stirred it into his tea, tossed the spoon into the sink with a clatter, and then held out his hand. ‘Paul Hitchens. You must be Turpin. She said I’d find you in here.’

  Mark wondered what Jan had made of Brennan’s housemate, and pulled out his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin.’

  Hitchens jerked his thumb over his shoulder at a long table near the window, weak sunlight stretching across the pine surface. ‘Do you mind if we sit over there? It’s warmer.’

  ‘After you.’

  Hitchens sat on a bench with his back to the window and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck as Mark sat opposite. ‘That’s better. I reckon I must’ve been a lizard in a past life. I can’t feel my fingers and toes until I get some sunshine on them, especially this time of year.’

  ‘Doesn’t Adams turn the heating on in here?’

  Hitchens choked out a bitter laugh. ‘No point, not with that door opening and closing all the time. Besides, look at the state of the place. It’s not like we spend a lot of time in here. He doesn’t pay us to sit on our arses unless we’re on the back of a horse.’

  Mark peered across at the clutter and mess that covered most of the tables. ‘Who cleans up?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Hitchens frowned, and then took a sip of tea. He scowled. ‘Fuck. Milk’s off.’

  Pulling out his notebook and a pen, Mark flipped to a clean page and cleared his throat. ‘Did you know Jessica Marley?’

  ‘Only in passing. Will never brought her back to the cottage. You’ve seen it, right? Can’t blame him.’ Hitchens shoved the mug of tea to one side. ‘I only ever saw her down the pub.’

  ‘The Farriers Arms?’

  ‘Yes. Mind you, I didn’t know they were boyfriend-girlfriend. Not until he came back down from Yorkshire.’

  ‘You saw her in the pub before Will worked for MacKenzie?’

  ‘Well, it is my local. I suppose I didn’t really notice her. I mean, we go there to drink and have a laugh. She weren’t my type, so I suppose I––’ He broke off and scratched at his ear. ‘Seems strange, talking about her like this.’

  ‘We understand that she worked here before she was killed.’

  ‘Only recently.’

  ‘But you just said you only saw her down the pub.’

  Hitchens crossed his arms and leaned on the table. ‘That’s right. By the time she turned up for work, I was already out on the gallops, exercising the horses. She were only here part-time. Shovelling shit and stuff. Christ knows why – Will says she had two other jobs on top of her college course. Talk about being overambitious.’

  ‘Do you think she took the job to spend more time with Will?’

  Hitchens snorted. ‘Doubt it. Like I said, by the time she turned up for work we were up there on the Downs. And she’d be gone before we got back. I think she was doing two or three hours at a time. I mean, she might’ve got some more hours given to her in time. I mean, if she hadn’t… Christ.’

  He leaned back in his seat and cast his gaze to the ceiling, before his eyes found Mark’s once more. ‘Do you know who did it?’

  ‘It’s an ongoing enquiry.’

  ‘Which means you don’t.’

  ‘Where were you between six o’clock Monday night and seven o’clock Tuesday morning?’

  Hitchens threw up his hands. ‘Oh, great. Here we go.’

  ‘Answer the question, Paul.’

  ‘I went to the Farriers on Monday night. Will and Nigel were with me. I left with Will at about eight ’cause we were riding out early the next day.’

  ‘Who drove?’

  ‘I did. I don’t like drinking much. Makes me sick.’

  ‘Did you come straight back?’

  ‘Yes. Back to the cottage.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Nothing. I was sat watching one of them real-life cooking programmes or whatever. Stupid, really. They always make me hungry and I’m on a diet at the moment. I tend to put on too much weight between races otherwise.’

  ‘Where was Will?’

  ‘Upstairs. In bed, I suppose. He went up more or less as soon as he’d had something to eat. Said he was tired. Occupational hazard.’

  ‘And where were you between Monday night and seven o’clock Tuesday morning?’

  ‘Asleep. My alarm went off at four-thirty and I put the kettle on. Me and Will had a cuppa and then headed off to the yard. We got there at five-thirty, and started getting ready to ride up to the Downs.’

  ‘What happened up there, on Tuesday morning?’

  Hitchens swallowed. ‘Of all the people to find her––’

  ‘Why did Will go first?’

  ‘Because MacKenzie had him riding that nutter Onyx. He has to go before everyone else, otherwise the dumb animal takes off after everything and anything in front of him.’

  ‘What happened when Will found Jessica?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there when he found her. Like I said, Onyx needs to be out there in front to blow off some steam before the rest of us start. One of the older lads, Stephen, was the one who found Will. Said he looked like he’d seen a ghost. ’Course, after that, all hell broke loose.’

  ‘Did you see her?’

  ‘No, thank God. As soon as Stephen came riding back, we could see something was wrong. MacKenzie told us all to wait by the gate to the gallops while he phoned the police. Then your lot turned up.’

  Mark drew two straight lines under his notes, and then pushed the bench seat back so it resembled the other castaways.

  He handed Hitchens a business card. ‘Let me know if you think of anything else, Paul. Anything at all.’

  The jockey turned the card between his fingers and then lifted his chin. ‘You find the bastard who did that to her, Detective Turpin. She didn’t
deserve to die like that. No-one does.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nigel White glared at Jan as she crossed the stable yard towards him, Turpin at her side.

  A woollen hat covered White’s head, and he had bundled himself up in a thick padded coat and scarf, his jeans partially hidden in a pair of well-worn black riding boots. He peered down at her with piercing blue eyes as she approached.

  ‘Mr White?’ Jan flipped open her warrant card and held it up. ‘We need to have a few minutes of your time. Routine questions.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to the police,’ he said. He turned back to the exercise machine at a loud bang on the side of the galvanised metal panelling. ‘Easy, boy.’

  ‘Mr White, we can do this here or down at the police station. It’s up to you.’

  He ran a hand across the grey stubble covering his jaw, then turned back to her. ‘You’ll have to get up here, then. I need to watch this one.’

  Jan took the proffered hand, and climbed onto the viewing platform next to him while Turpin wandered around the circular structure to another platform on the opposite side. His head and shoulders appeared a moment later, and he rested his arms along the top of the barrier as he watched the horse inside.

  She followed the animal’s anti-clockwise progression for a moment, and then turned to White. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Pulled a tendon at Newmarket the other week. He’s on the mend, but this allows us to exercise him without aggravating that injury. If we tried to put a rider on him and send him up to the gallops, there’s no knowing what he’ll do. It’s all about patience with these creatures.’

  ‘So how does this help?’

  ‘It keeps the exercise consistent.’ He gestured to a set of controls to his right. ‘We can adjust the speed and direction from here, and it gives me a proper look at how he’s moving and whether there are any other issues we need to be mindful of during his recovery. Plus, it’s cheaper than having several of the lads out here walking him around.’