by Elena Forbes
She still didn’t feel at all sleepy. She switched on the light and went into the sitting room where she had left her briefcase. She took out the folder Dan had handed her earlier and went back into the bedroom, where she spread the contents out on the bed. Along with an Ordnance Survey map of the Marlborough area, she found some printouts culled from the Internet, including a brief guide to Marlborough town, and Ordnance Survey maps covering the Westerby estate and the West Woods.
A copy of Tim Michaels’ obituary was amongst the pages, along with a piece about his death from the Racing Post:
TRAINER TIM MICHAELS FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE
The horseracing world is mourning the death, in tragic circumstances, of successful trainer and former Grand National winner Tim Michaels. According to the police, Michaels, 63, was found dead, late on Saturday evening, at his home, Westerby Farm, the Group 1 winning training yard near Marlborough, Wiltshire. Foul play is not suspected. Family friend and trainer James Bracewell told the Racing Post ‘Shock is the word that comes to mind – shock and deep sadness. Our thoughts are with Tim’s wife, Sally, and his two children, Harry and Melissa.’ Earlier in the day, Michaels had been at Doncaster, where he saddled three runners, including a second and a third …
The article was dated just ten days after Jane McNeil went missing. It was bizarre timing, she thought. Could there be a connection? She Googled ‘Michaels family racing’ and found their website. At first glance, it was impressive, with a brief history of the Westerby racing yard and the Michaels family, who had been there for over a century. She tabbed through the various images of the buildings and stables, gallops and other facilities, photos of horses on the racetrack and at home, and many happy-looking owners celebrating winnings. Although she knew nothing about racing, it looked like a very successful, top-end operation.
She clicked on the entry for Harry Michaels, Tim’s son and heir:
Born in Windsor in 1975, Harry hails from a family that is steeped in racing history. His great-grandfather, Henry Michaels, was the trainer of no fewer than four Grand National winners, one of which he rode to victory himself. His grandfather, Andrew, and father, Tim, have both ridden and trained winners at the highest level. Harry grew up at Westerby with his sister Melissa. He was educated at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, and spent eight years serving in the Scots Guards before joining his father at Westerby Racing …
His photo showed a nice-looking, dark-haired man, with a square jaw and a hard, determined expression. With his army background, she could easily picture him with a shotgun slung over his shoulder, marching Dan smartly off his land for trespassing.
Eve tabbed through to Melissa’s entry:
Melissa has a degree in Geography from Oxford and has been involved in racing at Westerby for over 10 years, having previously held roles in marketing and PR at Newbury and Epsom racecourses. She plays a key role at Westerby in many aspects of the business and, in particular, is responsible for organizing owner visits and entertainment, as well as other events at Westerby throughout the year. She is married to local Member of Parliament Gavin Challis …
Gavin Challis. The name leapt out at Eve. She quickly scanned the photographs below, finding one that showed a smiling blonde-haired woman, her two small children, a brindle-coloured whippet and her husband. She peered closer. There could be no doubt. It was the same Gavin Challis. She hadn’t seen him for almost twenty years. As she stared at the once familiar, handsome face, she remembered what Dan had said about how the Michaels were very private. ‘Unless you go posing as a would-be owner, you won’t get past the entrance gate.’
She leapt out of bed and marched into the sitting room. The box Alan Peters had sent her was tucked away on a chair under the small dining table. She dumped the block of money onto the table, removed the Nokia box, ripped it open and took out the phone. She switched it on. It appeared to be already fully charged and working. It had been years since she had used such a basic model, but it would do the job.
She stared at it for a moment, feeling the smooth, black plastic, struck by how light it was in her hand. She didn’t like the idea of using it, but equally she didn’t want to use her own phone to contact either Peters or Duran, in case anybody from the Met decided to check her phone records. Even though what she was doing was above board, it was easier if there was no trace of a connection. The name ‘Mr Duran’ and his mobile number were programmed into the phone book, along with Peters’ details.
Like her, Duran probably wasn’t asleep and if he was, she didn’t care. She went into messages, selected Duran’s name and typed two words: Gavin Challis.
Her finger hovered over the send button. There was something revoltingly intimate about texting Duran, particularly at that hour. But it had to be done. She pictured him in his cell, lying in a bed that was too short and narrow for a man of his frame, however skeletal. She consoled herself with the thought that the sheets would be rough and scratchy, and the mattress and pillow probably hard and lumpy for someone so used to luxury. Even if he had been allowed to bring in some of his own things to make life more comfortable, it wouldn’t be the same. They didn’t have Emperor suites in prison. He couldn’t change the dimensions of the tiny room, increase the height of the oppressively low ceiling, or give himself a lovely view over Hampstead Heath, as he had once enjoyed at home. He would never see that again. He could have been happily tucked up between the fine, crisp, monogrammed linen sheets in his two-metre-square, four-poster in Highgate, if it hadn’t been for his one moment of madness.
She thought back to his calm, impenetrable face in the prison interview room. He had fed her a mixture of truth and lies. She now knew exactly why he had chosen her and she was pleased she had found him out. It was nothing to do with her professional skills, or the way she had handled his interrogation. That had been a smokescreen of flattery. No doubt the connection between her and Gavin had come up in the research Duran had done on her when she had arrested him and charged him with murder. But it probably wouldn’t get him anywhere. No doubt Gavin would refuse to see her, or speak to her, after what had happened. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. All that mattered was finding out if Sean Farrell was innocent or guilty. She pressed send.
Taking the phone with her, she went into the kitchen area to make a cup of tea. She had just switched on the kettle when she heard the chime of a text. She snatched up the phone from the counter and read the message. Well done. You were impressively quick! That’s why I chose you, you know. Not just because you were once Gavin Challis’s lover.
It was as though he could read her mind and she shivered.
THIRTEEN
The early morning fog had lifted and the drive to Marlborough, heading west on the M4, was straightforward. After just over an hour, Eve turned south off the motorway, onto a fast-moving narrow road that zigzagged through windswept expanses of open countryside, before finally dropping down a steep hill into Marlborough town. The broad High Street was crowded with cars and shoppers enjoying the rare sunshine and it took a frustrating few minutes to navigate her way through it and out the other side towards Tesco’s where, according to Gavin Challis’s website, he was doing a drop-in surgery that morning for his constituents.
She parked as close to the front of the building as possible and, not bothering to put on her coat, sprinted the short distance to the main entrance. A tall, tinsel Christmas tree stood just inside the sliding doors and she realized, with shock, that Christmas was just a few weeks away. A huge poster of Gavin stood on a stand beside the tree, with the banner ‘Come and talk to Gavin Challis, your local MP’ plastered across the bottom. She hated reunions as a rule and avoided them wherever possible. There was usually a good reason why people lost touch. Other than shameless curiosity, what was the point of putting yourself through it, raking up trivial memories from a long time before, just to fill the awkward silences? But Gavin wasn’t just an old acquaintance from school or university or work, somebody who had c
asually drifted out of her life. Looking at the huge image of him in front of her, she felt suddenly nervous, heart quickening, sweat pricking her palms as she wondered how he might react on seeing her. She had tried not to think about it before, tried hard to push it from her mind. It was likely he wouldn’t want to talk to her and if he did, she wondered if he would say something sharp and rude. If so, she couldn’t blame him.
A sturdy, middle-aged woman was planted beside the photograph, handing out leaflets as people went in. She directed Eve to the back of the shop, where another woman took Eve’s name and told her to wait. Not long after, an elderly man emerged from one of the offices. The woman disappeared inside, then came out again a moment later.
‘He’ll see you now,’ she said crisply. ‘But he hasn’t got long. He’s supposed to be over at Devizes in twenty minutes.’
As Eve entered the room, Gavin stood up and came out from behind the small table he was using as a desk.
‘My God, Eve. It really is you.’ He was smiling, his face flushed with what seemed to be genuine pleasure, and she felt the colour also rise to her cheeks. He shook his head, rubbing his mouth with his hand as he studied her unashamedly. ‘Christ, how time flies. But you look the same, you know. Life seems to have treated you well.’ His voice was just as she remembered it, low and measured in tone. It was one of the many things she had liked about him.
‘You too,’ she said, glad that she didn’t have to lie. His short hair was still thick and blonde as ever, with no signs of grey, and there were few lines around the open, bluish-grey eyes. But as she examined him, she saw that he had changed. The soft, beautiful boyishness of his late teens had gone and the lines of his face had hardened and were more defined and masculine. Some men got better looking as they matured and she decided he was definitely one of them. The physical distance between them felt suddenly awkward, but she didn’t move, waiting to take her cue from him. Surely he must be experiencing a mix of emotions, not all positive, on seeing her?
‘When I heard your name, I didn’t believe it was you,’ he continued after a momentary pause, smiling even more broadly. ‘But I’m so happy to see you again after all this time. I’ve often wondered what happened to you and how you were.’ He was still looking at her intently. He crossed the room, moving with his familiar, confident stride, and closed the door, then pulled out one of the chairs from the table and carefully placed it behind her. ‘Please, have a seat.’ She was relieved to find that he had lost none of his natural warmth. It would make everything so much easier.
He was wearing dark suit trousers and a cream-coloured shirt, open at the neck, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows. He sat down on the edge of the table facing her, searching her face as though she was something precious he had lost and now found again.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ he repeated. ‘What have you been doing? Why are you here?’
‘I’m staying in Marlborough for a few days. I’m looking into the murder of Jane McNeil. I don’t know if you remember …’
He looked surprised. ‘Of course I do. How could I forget? She worked for my father-in-law. I thought they caught the man – the farrier.’
‘You mean Sean Farrell.’
‘That’s right. I’d forgotten his name. Isn’t he still in jail?’
‘He is. His case is being reviewed by the Criminal Cases Review Commission. They’re making a decision in a few weeks.’
He looked puzzled. ‘I heard you’d joined the police. Why are they looking into it all over again? Has something happened?’
‘They aren’t. This isn’t for work. I’m just doing a favour for a friend, trying to see if I can turn up anything that might help Sean’s case.’
‘His mother contacted the local MP, my predecessor, trying to drum up some support for an appeal, but I heard it was turned down. He’s still maintaining he’s innocent, then?’
She nodded.
‘Well, if he is, I wish him luck. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.’
‘Thanks. I know you’re in a rush now, but it would be very useful to talk to you at some point. Unofficially, I mean. Were you living here when it happened?’
‘I was based in London, but we were at Westerby most weekends and I remember it all really well. We knew Jane, of course. She worked at the yard and lived in one of the cottages on the farm. Marlborough’s a nice, peaceful, little town. That sort of thing doesn’t happen in a place like this. Everybody was really shocked. My father-in-law also died around about the same time. It was a pretty bleak period for us all.’
‘I’m sorry to bring it all up again.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s OK. It just takes me right back for a minute.’ He met her gaze. ‘How are Robin and Clem?’
‘They’re fine. I visit them every so often. I’ll probably go for Christmas lunch, as usual.’
‘I remember it was always such a party and it went on for hours and hours. Mum and I could hear you all through the wall and I used to long to come over and join in the fun. It was so quiet at home with just the two of us.’
She nodded, thinking of the delightful hurly-burly of Christmas lunch at the Jacksons, when friends and family of all ages were packed, elbow-to-elbow and knee-to-knee, along a series of mismatched tables and chipboard extensions, which were covered in red paper cloths, heaving with crackers and tinsel and candles. She could lose herself in the warmth and hubbub and they were the best Christmases she had ever had.
‘Is Robin still making his wonderful concoctions?’ He raised his eyebrows, smiling.
‘He certainly is. He’s still got his allotment and there’s no fruit or vegetable he can’t ferment or pickle or turn into alcohol. He says it’s what keeps them both going. Clem says he’s trying to pickle her.’
‘I particularly remember his sloe gin. It was amazing. You and I got very drunk on it one evening, didn’t we? Do you remember?’
He was looking at her, head a little to one side, waiting for her response and she nodded slowly. How could she forget? It was the first time they had had sex together. She wondered if he remembered too. It seemed so long ago. Another time. Another life, almost.
‘How’s your mum?’ she asked, wanting to change the subject. ‘Clem said she had to go into a home.’
A shadow crossed his face, and he glanced down at the floor momentarily as he nodded. ‘I’m afraid she doesn’t know who I am anymore, which I find very difficult. Sometimes she thinks I’m my father. At least it makes her happy, I guess.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, picturing his mother, with her neat, slim figure and pretty face. Always perfectly turned out, not a hair out of place, even on her meagre income. Gavin was her late, only child, a ‘gift from God’, she always said. Her gorgeous, talented, golden boy, whom she loved more than anything on earth. How terrible that she could no longer recognize him.
‘I go and visit her every few weeks, then spend the night on my boat. I keep it down at a marina on the Beaulieu river. Do you remember, I took you there once?’
She nodded. ‘You worked there all summer, crewing for that man with the massive yacht. It was a lovely place, surrounded by woods.’
‘That’s right. We went walking for miles along the river, away from the marina, and had a picnic and went swimming.’
She had a stray memory of Gavin lying naked and deeply tanned beside her in the long grass by the riverbank, as they gazed drowsily up at the swallows soaring and diving in the bright blue sky. Sex with Gavin had always been good, even at that young age. It had been by far the most functional thing – at least from her point of view – about their relationship.
‘Nothing’s changed,’ he added. ‘It’s still as lovely as ever.’
‘So you finally got your boat?’ she asked, wanting to move on. It didn’t do to dwell on the past.
‘Yes. She’s a beauty. I don’t get to use her much, but it’s a good escape when family life gets a bit overwhelming. My wife, Melissa, doesn’t like boat
s, or the sea, but the kids will love it when they’re a bit older.’
‘So you have children?’
‘Two little boys.’
‘When did all of this happen?’ she asked, waving a hand vaguely around the room.
‘Politics, you mean? Oh, just six months ago. There was a by-election, after my predecessor died suddenly. I’m still the newbie, getting used to things, trying not to put my foot in it.’
She had never been a rebel but she had also never been a joiner of anything. The idea of pinning her colours to one mast and wearing a label for all to see, in some attempt to define herself, was anathema. She had no need of causes or crusades and she had thought he was the same.
She peered at him. ‘But when I knew you, you were never that interested in politics. If anything, I’d say the complete opposite. Plus, I remember very clearly your saying that most politicians were either useless, or corrupt.’
He smiled. ‘I guess I’ve grown up a bit. I’ve realized that things aren’t always black and white. Anyway, my deciding to go into politics didn’t happen overnight.’