by Simon Brett
The line went dead. Imogen Potton had ended the connection.
32
JUDE WAS A heavy sleeper, but always woke up quickly, as she did when the phone rang at five forty-five the following morning. Sonia. She’d just had a call from Lucinda Fleet, who always—even on Sundays—started work in the stables at five-thirty.
Conker was missing. Her stall was empty. She’d been stolen.
While she threw on some clothes, it didn’t take long for Jude to decide to ring Carole. Her neighbour’s irritation at being woken early would be as nothing to the fury prompted by her exclusion from any part of the investigation. Besides, Jude’d get to Long Bamber Stables a lot quicker in the Renault.
Carole dressed quickly too. She rushed a very grumpy Gulliver out behind the house to do his business, ignored his complaints as she shut him in the kitchen, and hurried to get the car out. A few hundred yards down the road, she realised she should have got the joint out of the fridge for Stephen and Gaby’s lunch, but she didn’t go back.
It was still dark when they arrived, dark and cold. Sonia Dalrymple was there with Lucinda, both looking over-wrought and hopeless. Sonia, normally so rigidly in control of her emotions, had burst into tears at the confirmation of Conker’s disappearance. The door to the pony’s stable was still open; there was something pathetic about the strawlined empty space.
“Have you called the police?” asked Carole.
“There’s no need to do that,” Sonia replied quickly. “This isn’t a police matter.”
“Surely, if something’s been stolen—”
“I do not want the police involved,” Sonia snapped. “I’m Conker’s owner, so it’s up to me.”
Jude was beginning to have her own ideas about why Sonia might want the police kept away, but support for the decision came from Lucinda.
“I agree. I’ve had quite enough flatfoots around this place to last me a lifetime.”
“But if a horse has been stolen…”
“Don’t worry about it, Carole,” said Jude. “If Sonia and Lucinda don’t want to call the police, then we have to respect their decision.” The look she flashed at her friend carried the message’s subtext: besides, if there are no police, we have a better chance of finding out what’s really been going on.
“Yes, of course,” said Carole, getting the point.
“Apart from anything else,” said Lucinda, “I want to keep this as quiet as possible. What happened to Walter hasn’t exactly been good for business. I don’t want the owners to start thinking their horses aren’t safe here either.”
“No.” Carole turned practical. “So how did the thief—or thieves—get in?”
“Through the front gates.”
“Which were locked?”
“Yes, but there are lots of keys around. All the owners have keys—God knows how many people they give copies to. It wouldn’t be that difficult to find one.”
“So you think it’s ‘an inside job’?” Carole felt a slight thrill to be using such a professional criminal term.
“Could be,” Lucinda replied. “That’s the obvious explanation of how easily they got in. But then again logic’s against it being one of the owners. By definition, they’ve all already got horses, and where would any of them stable Conker in secret if they had taken her? No, it doesn’t make sense.”
“Then what are the other possibilities?” asked Jude.
“Well, it could just be a common or garden horse thief. They do still exist and”—Lucinda grimaced piously—“though it doesn’t do to say so in these politically correct times, most of them are still gypsies. If they’d taken her, they’d sell her on somewhere—possibly not in this country—so it’d be virtually impossible to track her down.”
“But she has got a freeze mark on her,” said Sonia. “We had it done so she could be identified. So whoever she was offered to might be able to guess that she’d been stolen.”
“I don’t think that’d bother them. The kind of people Conker’d be offered to for sale would know full well that she’d been stolen.”
“Oh,” said Sonia Dalrymple bleakly.
“What are the other possibilities?” asked Jude, trying to cheer things up. “If she wasn’t stolen by gypsies?”
“Well…” Lucinda Fleet sighed, but the sigh turned into a shudder. “There’s a chance—I hope I’m wrong, but there is a chance—that she might have been taken by the Horse Ripper.”
Sonia let out a little whimper.
“But why would he have taken her out?” asked Carole. “If mutilating a horse was what he wanted to do, surely he could just as easily done it in the stall?”
“Maybe, but that’s not his way. All the other injured horses have been discovered out in the fields. In some cases that’s where he found them, but other times he’s led them out of the stables into the fields. Maybe it’s just a security thing. Stables tend to be near houses. Out in the fields the injured creature’s cries wouldn’t be heard; they wouldn’t disturb the other horses.”
“So how can we find out if that has happened?”
“Wait till it’s light. Go and look through the paddocks. The Ripper never takes them far. No, if that’s what’s happened to Conker, we’ll find her soon enough.”
Lucinda looked grim, and Sonia could not mask another involuntary sob.
“Have you checked whether anything else is missing,” asked Jude, “apart from the pony?”
“No, I haven’t, as it happens. If it’s the Ripper, he’s certainly not going to have taken anything else. He’d have brought his knife with him.”
“Yes, but if there are other things missing, then maybe you’ll be able to eliminate the idea that it was the Ripper.”
“I see what you mean.” Lucinda Fleet moved across to the large tack room. “The padlocks are still on the door, but then that doesn’t mean much. Some of the owners have got keys to them too.”
“So they could have gone inside, taken stuff and then locked up again?” asked Jude.
“Yes.” Lucinda unlocked the door, looked inside the tack room and said immediately, “Conker’s saddle and bridle have gone. And her head collar.” Leaving the door open, she moved away. “I’ll just have a look in the barn where we keep the feed and stuff, see if anything’s missing there.”
Jude grinned at Sonia Dalrymple. “I’d say what we’ve just heard pretty good news. It wasn’t the Ripper. Whoever took Conker rode her away—or at least took her away with a view to riding her, and that’s certainly not his style.”
“No.” The horse’s owner still looked wretched. But then Jude remembered: of course, her husband was home. She took Sonia’s arm, and led her out of the stables’ front gates.
“Things all right” she asked softly, aware how much Carole felt excluded by this intimacy, “with Nicky?”
Sonia shook her head wearily. “I don’t know. We had another row last night. He didn’t sleep at home.”
“Where did he go?”
She shrugged. “Some hotel. He quite often does when we have words.” She allowed herself a half smile. “Nicky thinks he’s punishing me. Little does he know the relief I feel at his absence. Anyway,” she sighed, “he’s flying off to Chicago at lunchtime.”
“When Nicky leaves you for a night, Sonia, does he always go to the same hotel?”
Another shrug. She didn’t know and she didn’t care.
Carole cleared her throat, an aggrieved reminder that she was also present, and Jude led Sonia back into the yard.
“The logical thing to think,” said Carole, “is that the pony was taken by Imogen Potton. You say the girl’s obsessed with Conker. It makes sense that she should steal her away from the cruel world which fails to understand either of them.”
“It would make perfect sense,” Jude agreed, “but for the fact that Imogen is staying with her grandmother in Northampton. She was there when I spoke to her yesterday evening at about seven-thirty, out doing some shopping for her grandmother. So even if she le
ft straight after speaking to me, there’s no way she could have been here in time to take the horse. She doesn’t drive; I can’t imagine her being able to afford a cab to come all that way, so she’d have been reliant on the trains.”
Lucinda Fleet reappeared from the barn. “There are some carrots and pony nuts missing.” She poked her head into the empty stable. “And Conker’s hay net. Whoever took her knew what the pony liked.”
“Imogen Potton,” Carole insisted.
“Yes, that would fit some of the facts,” Lucinda agreed, “but why should she do that? Conker’s here when she wants to see her. Sonia lets Imogen ride Conker more or less when she wants to.”
“Yes,” Sonia interposed excitedly, “but Imogen told me she thought Conker was in danger. So she probably took her away for her own protection.” A sob came into her voice as she said, “Oh God, I hope nothing’s happened to that poor pony.”
Carole was reminded of the night Walter Fleet had died, when both Lucinda Fleet and Sonia Dalrymple had seemed more worried by the idea of the Ripper having mutilated a horse than of any injury to a human being.
“The idea of Imogen having taken Conker fits most of the facts, I agree. Except…” And Jude reiterated the reasons why the girl could not chronologically or geographically have made it to Fedborough from Northampton in time.
“Oh, well…” Lucinda took a mobile phone out of the pocket of her body-warmer. “I’d better ring her mum just to check Immy is where she’s meant to be.” She recalled a number from the memory, but clearly getting an answering machine, left a message asking Hilary Potton to call her as soon as possible.
The four women stood around for a moment, looking at each other. Then Jude said, “Sonia, I wonder if you have any idea why Conker should be targeted. Had she ever been—”
But the pony’s owner’s plans didn’t involve answering more questions. “I’m sorry, I must get back. Lucinda, call me if you get any news of Conker, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course. The minute I hear anything.”
The three were silent until they heard the sound of Sonia’s Range Rover starting up.
“Not a lot we can do now,” said Lucinda. “Just wait till Hilary calls.” She looked around the stable yard with something approaching despair. “There’s any amount of stuff I should be doing here, but…Would either of you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please,” Carole and Jude replied, with considerable alacrity.
The interior of Lucinda’s house showed signs of neglect. That might have been expected in a home whose owner has been recently widowed, but the level of neglect suggested it predated Walter’s murder. The Fleets seemed to have given up on domestic pride, in the same way that they seemed to have given up on their marriage.
The kitchen where the coffee was prepared might once have had a warm farmhouse feeling, but no longer. The large beige Aga onto which Lucinda put the kettle was dull and greasy. Surfaces were scattered with equestrian catalogues, invoices, unwashed plates, empty milk bottles and bits of tack. Carole and Jude were encouraged that Lucinda used a tea towel to rub out the mugs she detached from hooks on the dresser, but discouraged by the grubbiness of the tea towel she used. Half-eaten bowls of dog food stood on the floor, but the only sign of the animals themselves was a stale doggy smell. The calendar, given free by some horse fodder wholesaler, was three years out of date. On the wall was a faded photograph of Walter Fleet in his heyday, being awarded some medal by Princess Anne. That, and a few brittle dusty rosettes, were the only ornamental elements in the kitchen.
The impression was of a house that took second place to the stables, just somewhere to live in that was convenient for work.
Whether because she was unaware of the chaos or so used to it that she didn’t notice, Lucinda made no apologies for the state of the place. She spooned instant coffee into the mugs. Her guests both chose to have it black, but into her own she poured milk from a bottle whose crustiness made Carole wince, along with four teaspoonsful of sugar.
“Have to keep up my energy. The old blood sugar.” Her sweet tooth was the only thing she was going to apologise for. She sat down at the paper-strewn kitchen table and sighed heavily.
“It probably will get out, about Conker having been taken. Hard to keep secrets round a place like this. Owners are a gossipy lot.”
“And would that be such bad news?” asked Carole.
“Just another piece in a sequence of cumulative bad news. Another reason for existing owners to think of taking their horses away, and for new owners to look for another stable. There are plenty around here. They’d be spoiled for choice.”
She spoke wearily, someone who had battled against the rising tide of adverse circumstances and now was close to giving up the struggle.
“Are things really that bad?” asked Jude.
Lucinda Fleet nodded glumly.
“But presumably,” suggested Carole, “if you did have to give up, this place would fetch a pretty healthy price. You must have about ten acres.”
“Eight and a half.”
“In a very desirable part of West Sussex.”
“I agree. But if you knew the size of the mortgage…”
“Ah.”
Lucinda ran both hands back through her hair, unwittingly revealing the grey at its roots. Like the house, her appearance had been neglected.
“But have things got more difficult since Walter died?” asked Jude. “I mean, now you have to manage the place on your own?”
A short bark of laughter greeted that. “Hasn’t made a blind bit of difference. I’ve been managing this place on my own ever since we bought it. Walter always saw himself as ‘front of house’ in the project. He was the one who chatted up the owners—particularly the female owners—and regaled them with stories of his glory days as an eventer. He wasn’t very ‘hands on’—except, again, with the lady owners. I don’t think Walter even knew what mucking out a stable meant—if he did, it certainly wasn’t from personal experience. He was entirely useless, in almost every way.”
Carole, whose mind had been running recently on such matters, couldn’t help asking, “Then why did you stay with him?”
Lucinda shrugged and replied, as if the answer were self-evident, “I was married to him.” She grimaced and let out another harsh little laugh. “Quite honestly, it’s easier running the place without him constantly under my feet.”
“So you’re really thinking you may have to give it up?” asked Carole.
Another weary nod. “Unless someone who reckons Long Bamber Stables has potential comes along with a huge injection of cash—and I don’t think people like that exist outside of fairy tales.”
“Lucinda,” Jude began carefully, “you said that Walter was always coming on to the lady owners…”
“Yes. It’s no secret. He had a reputation round the place as the local groper.”
“In spite of his injuries, he was still an attractive man?”
“Apparently.”
“And do you know if any of these lady owners—”
Carole, who was getting tired of the “softly-softly” approach, butted in. “What Jude’s asking—in her roundabout way—is whether there were any women to whom your late husband was particularly close. I mean, for instance, Imogen’s mother Hilary implied to me that he fancied her. I just wonder if that attraction might have gone further?”
“You’re asking me if Walter had an affair with Hilary Potton?”
“Well, I…well, I…yes, I am. Or indeed with anyone else.”
Lucinda Fleet found this almost funny. At least, she laughed at the suggestion. But there wasn’t much humour in her laughter. Then she stopped, as if a tap had been turned off. “The answer is no. I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. You two don’t give the air of being gossips, and nothing I say can hurt Walter anymore.
“The fact is that he could come on to women as much as he liked—he could chat them up, and did. Yes, the lady owners—though in many cases with th
em ‘lady’ is not the appropriate word. And he’d also come on to the younger girls, which did worry me. I mean, there was no way he could do them any harm, but they didn’t know that—and teenage girls…It’s a difficult age. I think he frightened some of them. I tried to get him to stop that, but…” She shrugged at the hopelessness of the endeavour.
Jude picked up her words. “You said Walter could not do the girls any harm?”
Lucinda Fleet stared intently ahead. “Walter couldn’t do any woman any harm. He couldn’t even do me any harm…not in that way.”
She read the same question in both women’s eyes. “He was impotent. Another effect of the accident that destroyed his life—and I suppose my life at the same time.”
“But the accident happened before you were married, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but we were engaged. My father was an army man. I grew up in a household that believed that when you’d given your word about something, you stuck to it. I’d agreed to marry Walter, so I married him.”
“But it must have been…”
“Not much fun, no. I often used to wish I’d had a less rigid moral code. In retrospect I sometimes think I was completely stupid, but”—her sigh seemed to encompass all of her wasted life—“that’s the way I am.”
“I’m sorry,” murmured Jude.
Lucinda Fleet looked bleakly round the shabbiness of her kitchen. “I suppose that’s why there were a lot of things I just didn’t care about. Perhaps, if I’d had children…” For the first time, emotions threatened, but she quickly stifled them. “Anyway, I didn’t, and it’s probably a bit late to think about that now. If I met another man tomorrow”—she laughed bitterly at the unlikeliness—“I think the old biological clock would be against me.”
She took a sip of coffee, after which she became brusque, as though embarrassed by her momentary lapse. “So I concentrate on the horses. Horses are a lot easier to deal with than human beings—and a lot more rewarding. Certainly a lot more rewarding than Walter ever was.”