Adam whistled softly. ‘Stay out of other people’s marriages, that’s my advice. You’ll end up hated by both parties.’
‘And with my reputation for serious journalism gone for ever.’
She grinned at him, brown eyes twinkling.
He swallowed, suddenly as tongue-tied as a teenager.
He removed his glasses, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, breathed on the lenses and rubbed at them enthusiastically. Without them, he could hardly see Steph's face. It was just a blur. He almost preferred that. He hoped he wasn’t blushing.
His phone rang.
With a sigh and an apologetic glance at Steph, he replaced his glasses, read the name and answered the call. James. His pathologist mate and provider of useful information.
‘Hey James, fancy hearing from you today. What can I do for you?’
‘More what I can do for you, mate,’ James boomed, in his loud North London accent. He sounded jauntier than during their last conversation – almost back to his old self. ‘This possible murder on your patch. Even supposing none of your immediate friends and family is in the frame for it this time, I thought you might be planning a spot of extracurricular poking around.’
Adam laughed. ‘Have to admit, it's tempting.’
‘Well, being a nosy old bloke like you, I talked to a colleague of mine. I don’t think you know Mike, the forensic pathologist in your neck of the woods. He had a look at that unfortunate jockey and I thought you'd be interested in what he found.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it seems that it was just what it appeared to be at first sight – a nice straightforward dunk and drown, though not sadly in the proverbial butt of Malmsey, like a royal after a bad night.’
‘Go on then,’ Adam said. ‘What’s the twist?’
‘Well, you know how you expect horses to be nobbled in a race?’
‘Come on, stop leading me down the garden path.’
‘Well, it seems our young victim was also on something. Mike isn't sure, yet, what it was, or whether she'd taken it before the race or after, but it seems young Alex had a hefty dose of stimulants in her body when she died.’
‘Interesting.’ Adam let the thought sink in to his brain.
‘Thought you'd want to know,’ James said. ‘I'll tell you if I hear any more.’
‘Thanks,’ said Adam. ‘So, she was drowned, just as it appeared. Not strangled or smothered.’
‘I’ll leave it with you,’ James said. ‘I’ve got a couple of unfortunates to deal with myself now. When will these kids stop swallowing every tablet they’re offered at a party? You owe me that meal, by the way. Or two. Any chance of meeting up soon?’
‘Sure.’ It sounded as though James had something to share. It must be something personal, unconnected to the case. ‘Tomorrow? Here in The Plough?’
‘I’ll text you.’ James rang off.
Steph was wriggling in her seat. ‘Come on, what did he say?’
Adam relayed the gist of the call. ‘The plot thickens,’ he said. ‘Drugs in the victim's system. What do you think of that?’
‘Really? Don't they test jockeys for drugs before letting them ride? And, probably, afterwards. When they weigh them, or something?’
‘Good question,’ said Adam. ‘I suppose they concentrate more on the horse for drugs. In any case, a young jockey, especially one with a conditional licence like Alex, would be under minute observation by their trainer. Like other athletes, I imagine they give samples from time to time. I wouldn't have thought it worth one of these ambitious riders risking everything by taking drugs at the beginning of their career.’
Steph laughed. ‘I'm afraid, these days it's very common for young people to have a sniff of something, or swallow a tab at the weekend. Maybe the poor girl took something after the race to celebrate. To young people, taking drugs is no worse than drinking champagne and no one would object if she'd had a celebratory glass or two of that.’
Adam sighed. ‘You’re right.’ Like James, he hated drugs. They’d both seen their effects over the years. ‘I wonder where she got it from.’
‘It's not difficult,’ Steph said. ‘Even Rose, my daughter, tells me she knows where to get stuff although, of course, she swears she never would. And as she’s an adult, I have to believe her. Or, at least, I can’t stop her. Worrying, isn't it?’
Adam was silent. How he’d have loved a child in his life to worry about.
15
Maria
Dragging his thoughts back to Alex Deacon’s death, Adam said, ‘What we need is a proper timeline. We know the race ended at three forty-five. The Stewards’ Enquiry took about twenty minutes, plus time to set up and watch the recording of the race. It must have finished about four thirty, I would guess.’
Steph said, ‘We can verify that, from the time of the tannoy announcement.’
‘So we can,’ he agreed. ‘Could we check with John Harris to be sure exactly when he took his photo of the two girls arguing, which I would guess happened between four thirty and five o’clock?’
‘I’ll ring him later, when Imogen’s sobered him up. The time will be on the photograph. I might need some information to trade, though.’
‘I don’t think—’
She grinned, and waved a hand in the air. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell him anything about the case, but I know a publisher who’d be interested in a trashy ‘true confessions’ kind of book. An old acquaintance of mine owes me a favour, from way back when I caught her ‘in flagrante’ with her boss’s husband and let her off the hook. She owes me one as a result, so I can persuade her to look at ideas for this imaginary racing crime book. I think Harris was interested in working on it. His writing’s good, by the way.’
Adam grunted. He was still thinking through the timings. ‘Alex's body was found at seven. That’s good news for Belinda. It shortens the window when she might have been with Alex, unobserved.’
Steph nodded slowly. ‘Could Alex have died earlier? I mean, surely there were people in and out of the boxes where the horses were being prepared for their journeys home. I don't see how a body could have been left there for more than a minute or two without being seen. In fact, I don't understand how anyone at a race meeting could have the sort of fight that ended in one of them drowning, without anyone knowing. The places are teeming.’
‘You're absolutely right,’ Adam murmured. ‘I don’t think this was a fight. I think it’s more likely that someone saw Alex by the trough, and seized the moment.’
He shook his head. ‘A real spur-of-the moment killing. If it was a killing. Whoever did it took a big chance. Maybe they’d been lying in wait? Or too angry to think straight. But we still come back to wondering why? Killing someone over a single race? That doesn’t make sense, but I think if this really was murder, and not an accident, it’s the motive that will untangle it.’
At that moment, Adam heard a familiar husky voice calling, in an Eastern European accent he would recognise anywhere. ‘Adam, my darling, what are you doing in a gloomy bar when the sun’s shining on such a beautiful day.’ Adam looked up to see Maria Rostropova silhouetted in the doorway, as lovely as ever, like an operatic countess.
Steph and Maria eyed each other. They reminded Adam of Harley when he met an unfriendly dog in the village, but without the sniffing.
Steph said, ‘Maria. How lovely to see you. Will you be at the next committee meeting?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Adam stepped in. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked. Maria always needed some little favour.
‘Darling,’ she gushed. ‘Of course I haven't come to ask anything of you at all. I haven’t seen you for days. I wanted to make sure you were well.’
‘As you see, I’m in the most robust health.’
Maria frowned. ‘Well, that’s wonderful. You’re so lucky. I’m a little anxious at the moment – oh, nothing’s wrong, of course, but…’
Here it comes. Adam waited.
> ‘On behalf of the Musical Society…’
He closed his eyes and suppressed a shudder. Last summer, she'd demanded the use of his paddock for an outdoor concert. After a great deal of time, effort and organisation on Adam’s part, the concert had been moved to The Streamside Hotel, and Adam had vowed never to be taken in by Maria’s pleas again.
‘Yes?’ he said, trying to sound forbidding, while knowing he never could. He wasn’t built for it.
‘I need someone to help with our craft stall at the Spring Fair. The music society is running it.’
‘What did you have in mind?’ Adam was guarded. He’d never heard of Maria dabbling in knitting or sewing.
‘Why, willow baskets, of course. You see, I am learning how to make them, using Somerset willow. What could be more English?’
‘Maria, I’m sorry. I really have no skills in that direction—’
She cut him off with a tinkling laugh. ‘No, no, dear Adam. I am weaving the baskets. But, I need more raw materials. Willow is not cheap.’
Adam relaxed. As usual, she needed money. Really, the woman had no shame.
‘Sorry,’ he began, but Steph interrupted.
‘I’ll join in with you, if you like. I’ve made baskets before and I have a friend who lives on the Somerset Levels. He’ll let us have some supplies at cost, if it’s for charity.’
‘Wonderful. Then come with me, and I’ll show you what I’ve made so far.’
Adam watched Steph leave with Maria. He felt suddenly alone. No, it was more than that; he felt abandoned and bereft.
Where had that neediness sprung from? Until now, he’d been perfectly happy living on his own, running The Plough.
Until he’d met Steph. That was the problem. When he’d met her, his whole world, previously so carefully managed, had been turned upside down.
Steph was beautiful, clever, kind and independent. Adam should stop fooling himself. He’d only once in his life had what he’d imagined – mistakenly, as it had turned out – to be a proper, grown-up relationship with a woman. Once she’d cleared out his bank account and left the country, he’d taken a good long look at himself in the mirror and resolved never again to behave like a fool.
His jaw ached. He’d been grinding his teeth. He dragged his thoughts back to Maria’s plans and thought fast. He’d have to watch her. Last year, she'd been planning to top-slice the proceeds of the summer concert to pay off her own debts. But then, this time Steph was on the case. He could leave her to deal with Maria.
His appointment with DCI Andrews took place late that afternoon. The police officer greeted him with unusual enthusiasm. ‘Come in, Adam, come in.’ He waved Adam to sit in front of his desk. Several piles of folders rested on its walnut surface. ‘Just finishing up for the weekend. Going away with the wife for a couple of days. Another birthday.’
‘Yours, or hers?’ Adam had never met Mrs Andrews. He imagined a cheerful soul, striving to keep the DCI from sinking into the depression his hangdog expression suggested.
‘Mine.’ He sounded gloomy. ‘She’s booked some activity weekend.’ His bushy eyebrows came together in a frown, almost meeting over his nose. ‘Line dancing or some such.’ He heaved a sigh.
Adam kept a straight face, trying to imagine Andrews, a heavyweight of over six and a half feet, dancing. ‘That’ll make a nice change.’
Andrews’ eyes narrowed. ‘Good fun, line dancing, she tells me.’ He made it sound like torture.
‘Well, Happy Birthday.’
‘Thank you. I wanted to finish up this Wincanton races business before I go.’ He opened the top folder. ‘I thought you’d want to know, we have no evidence of murder.’ He waved a printed page at Adam. ‘“Light bruises in various places on the body,” the pathology chap told us. Nothing he hasn’t seen on any horse rider. I can’t think why folk ride horses, to be honest. Too likely to fall off – and it’s a long way to the ground, I reckon. Still, they will do it.’ Another world-weary sigh. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, his eyes suddenly alert. ‘The verdict so far is it was probably an accident. The girl had water in her lungs and cocaine in her system – silly young thing, but not unusual, these days. Must have snorted a line for kicks, probably celebrating her win. We can’t know where she got it. Probably from one of her friends.’
He paused for breath. Adam asked, ‘What of Belinda Sandford? Is she in the clear, if there’s no evidence of murder?’
Andrews shrugged. ‘No more evidence against her than anyone else. Any jockey, trainer, stable hand or owner could have been around their horses after the race. It must have been like Piccadilly Circus. If it wasn’t an accident, and someone gave Alex a shove and held her head under the water, they were either very lucky to find her alone, or they’d planned very carefully in advance.
‘If it was a spur-of-the-moment argument, there would likely have been a fight, shouting, maybe a punch to the face leaving a nice big bruise, and some bruised knuckles, but there was none of that – Belinda’s hands were work-worn, of course, not surprising, given her job, but the knuckles were fine. No sign she’d punched anyone.’
He turned a page of print. ‘No, we can’t see Belinda as a spur-of-the-moment attacker, despite that photo in the press. And did she plan it carefully in advance, before the race, maybe trick young Alex into meeting her there? No. If she had murder planned, she wouldn’t have had a public spat with her victim.’
He closed the folder with a sigh. ‘Nothing adds up to murder. Unless something else comes to light, I reckon we can let your client, Belinda, off the hook, along with everyone else.’
Adam said, ‘Not my client.’
‘Not being paid then?’ The eyebrows rose sky-high. ‘Missed a trick, there, didn’t you?’
Adam shook his head. ‘I’m not going into business as a private investigator, if that’s what you mean. I’m just doing Belinda’s mother a favour.’
Andrews rolled his eyes. Adam laughed. ‘So, there’s no murder and no suspect?’ he said.
‘None. No good motive, and no evidence. No one saw the young lady fall into the trough, and the CCTV doesn’t help. Why do these things always happen just outside its range? The most likely explanation is that Alex was excited and high, lost control, fell and maybe hit her head on the side of the trough.’
‘Nothing suspicious, then?’ Adam asked.
‘Not enough to go on. Her parents and brother don’t know of any reason she might be killed. They seem like a nice enough family. Live up near Weston-super-Mare. The brother says she might have snorted cocaine once, but didn’t do it often because she didn’t want to lose her job. Everyone at the yard where she worked and a couple of flatmates said the same. An ambitious girl, a bit pushy, but a good laugh and a talented rider. Not a bad epitaph, maybe, and no indication at all of foul play. So, that’s that, unless the coroner disagrees.’
Adam wasn’t sure. ‘You’re closing the case?’
Andrews tapped the folder. ‘We’re leaving it open until after the coroner’s inquest, of course, but to be honest with you – and I say this because you used to be one of us – I don’t hold out much hope of finding evidence of murder. If there’d been a nice big bump on the back of the young lady’s head, now it’d be a different story, but as things are, we’re looking at an accidental death outcome.’
Adam nodded, thoughtfully. There was something in Andrews’ voice…
‘Unless,’ the DCI went on, almost under his breath, ‘unless there’s something we’re missing. How busy are you, these days, what with your pub and all?’
The question sounded innocent and Adam nodded soberly, but he could hardly keep the grin off his face. Andrews was giving him a signal. The police wouldn’t be spending much time on the case unless more evidence came to light, but Andrews wasn’t happy. He didn’t want to leave it there, but his hands were tied.
Adam rose to his feet. ‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ he said.
As he left, he glanced back at the DCI. He was almost sure Andrews winked
at him.
As he drove back to The Plough, Adam wondered whether he should let Diane and Belinda know what the police thought. Would he be raising their hopes too much? There was no official decision, but it seemed unfair to leave the two women hanging, believing Belinda was likely to be accused of murder.
Adam decided it was his duty to pass on the news. Diane was emotionally fragile. The police thought Belinda was innocent but they wouldn’t tell her or her mother until they were sure. Adam wasn’t bound by the same rules. He could put them out of their misery.
Once back home, he called Diane.
‘Are you sure?’ she gasped. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. I’m so relieved. I was worried about Belinda, she’s much more sensitive than she shows. She took it all so much to heart – thinking she was under suspicion. I knew she was innocent, of course, we all did, but the worry of it all.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. How silly of me, to cry now, when it’s all over.’
‘Well, it’s not over until the coroner’s decision,’ Adam warned, but Diane seemed not to hear.
‘You must send me your bill,’ she said.
‘No, no. That’s kind, but this wasn’t a business arrangement. I can’t possibly accept. I’m just glad you’re happy.’
‘Well, I’ll call her right away and tell her the good news…’ Diane talked and talked, as though a dam had burst and a flood of relief overflowed. Adam thanked his lucky stars he need no longer feel responsible for such a vulnerable woman.
Finally, he managed to extract himself from her gratitude by pretending he had to serve a customer and, with relief, slipped his phone back into his pocket.
16
Village shop
As Imogen had expected, local journalists soon cottoned onto the fact that a member of the Butterfly Charm syndicate had been staying at The Streamside Hotel in Lower Hembrow when Alex Deacon died, so while reporting in the nationals had been focused on Alex – her youth, the promise in her career, and the exciting racing background – and had died away after a few days, the local weekly paper had carried on gathering quotes from neighbours.
A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries) Page 10