Detective Ruby Baker series Box Set

by Daisy White

  Right now he looks uneasy, clearly wanting to ask what the hell I’m doing here, but unable to think of a civil way of doing it. Eventually he just nods. “Just a friendly reminder, Miss Baker, that this is a police matter. No room for amateurs poking their noses in, and no call for them either.”

  “He thinks you’re here investigating the stolen horse,” Pearl whispers in my ear with a giggle.

  I smile blandly at the policeman and turn back to Kenny. “Where’s Tommy’s wife?”

  “Oh, still inside I should imagine. She keeps the house, and does all his paperwork, and the lads say she’s hardly ever up at the yard.”

  “The missus comes out to see the first string every morning. You just haven’t been up early enough,” a lad offers. He’s busy sweeping the yard, but as Tommy strides away, he leans on his broom to chat. “She never stops to talk, but she’s there with her stopwatch.”

  “Sorry about the horse,” I say, and he shrugs. He’s a good-looking boy, with a slightly wolfish face and very green eyes.

  “It’s a tough one. We all depend on winners for our jobs. The more winners, the bigger the yard gets, and the work is steady. I’ve known trainers that fall apart after a bad year, and they never recover. Everyone gets laid off.” His wink is just slightly too practised, and like Donovan he’s tall for a jockey.

  “Did you know Rita Stonehill?” I ask him.

  “No. I see a lot of girls hanging round the jockeys on the track, and a few at the yard sometimes. I never noticed her in particular, but I think Joey brings most of his girls down the Black Jug. Blonde wasn’t she? She was just another girl, though. Joey’s always got a few going on, but Donovan’s different, he’s been going steady with that nurse, Pearl. They said you’re Pearl’s cousin?”

  There is a splutter of engine noise, and Pearl whizzes off down the hill on her Lambretta, waving. I wave back. “Yes, I’m Ruby. Did you know Rita’s dad is a tipster?” I try one last question, as a string of horses clatter under the archway. It’s something I forgot to ask Bev, but I’m going to pin Sammy down next time we talk.

  “No, sorry, I never take a lot of interest in the gossip. That’s for girls, and I prefer the horses.” He pulls a face and then smiles, his narrowed eyes mischievous under his mop of black curls. “Although I never say no to a pretty girl after hours.” Another wink. He rests a hand lightly on my bare wrist, stroking his long fingers down to my hand.

  Gently but firmly, I remove my hand and he grins, apparently unoffended.

  Kenny is still busy, and the lad is lingering, relaxed, lounging with his broom, but watching my face. “How about Roger Harper?”

  “Don’t think so . . . Oh, yes I do. He was one of Rita’s chaps, wasn’t he? I didn’t know him, but I saw it in the paper.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Barney. Nice to meet you, Ruby, sweetheart. Sorry, I’ve got to run, but like I said, I might see you around.” Before I can say anything else, he’s off, fussing round the blowing, sweaty horses, unbuckling straps, and patting gleaming coats.

  DC Little, accompanied by a young PC, disappears into the house with Tommy. Another police car joins the first, which is parked next to a pile of feed sacks. I walk across the yard to stand with Ken and James, feeling a bit awkward as they fire questions at a few of the lads, and then start talking earnestly to a load more reporters who have just pulled up in a Ford Cortina. The sun is low, and I glance at the stable yard clock, surprised to see that it’s still only half past nine.

  “The boss said the more coverage the better, because it won’t be the police who find Pridey, it’ll be us people on the courses and in the stables. Coppers are rubbish, aren’t they?” Barney’s back, lugging an armful of saddles and bridles, watching the reporters comparing notes. “I’ve just got to put these in the tack room, but I’ll show you the horses if you want?”

  “Thanks.” I loiter in the evening warmth, watching the activity, breathing in the scents of leather, horse and hay. There are little windows in the eaves of the stable block, which from what Pearl has said, must be where the lads live. Their bedroom floors must be the ceiling for the horse’s stables. Surely one of them would have heard clopping hooves or something when Pridey was stolen. Another string of gleaming thoroughbreds stride out under the archway, and the noise of ten sets of hooves is thunderous.

  “This is Seaboy, he’s by Ship’s Captain, out of Baby Blue. He didn’t do that great as a two-year-old but he put in a cracker of a run at Newbury last month.” Barney ushers me over to a corner stable, one arm sliding around my waist. I step away. He pauses, patting the animal’s sleek neck, clearly expecting me to be impressed.

  “Sorry, I have no idea what you mean, but I take it he’s a good horse?” I extend tentative fingers and stroke the satin nose. The animal blows softly on my hands, his breath warm and sweet. His eyes are dark and liquid, and the fine bones in his face are as delicate as the finest sculpture. He shifts restlessly from foot to foot, looking beyond me to the activity in the yard.

  “Yeah. Not quite in Pridey’s league yet, but I reckon he’ll grow into himself.” Barney gives the horse an affectionate pat, running his hand along the sleek golden neck, and gently tugging the mane.

  “But Pridey was taken because he is potentially a Derby winner?”

  He shrugs, already moving onto the next stable, greeting the black head that pops out. “Must be. All these horses are good, but Pridey is our star this season.”

  “Barney, wouldn’t the other horses make a lot of noise if one was taken out of his stable?” I say suddenly, listening to a deafening whinny from the other side of the yard.

  He moves closer to make himself heard, and our arms are touching again. “Not necessarily. The horses are all used to comings and goings, and Pridey didn’t seem to have a special mate. Not like Binny over there, he’s a right noisy blighter, and he hates it if Wonder goes anywhere without him. Shouts the place down!”

  “At the other stables, Freers Farm, Love Me Do is their Derby favourite, isn’t he? Why not steal him instead?” I keep an eye on Kenny, who occasionally swings an amused glance in my direction.

  The black horse yawns, displaying an impressive amount of yellow teeth. His breath smells sweetly of hay and earth. “Well, everyone has their yard favourite, but Love Me Do and Basil’s Pride were well ahead with the bookies. They’ve been an even match since the beginning of the year, and their times just keep getting better and better. It’s funny having the two Derby favourites trained less than five miles from each other, but there’s nothing stranger than racing, is there?”

  “Do you think this has anything to do with Rita’s death?”

  His expression is sombre. “They’re saying she brought bad luck on us when she killed herself, and now Tommy’s paying the price. I don’t believe it, but whichever way you look at it, seems like something drove that poor girl to jump to her death and now someone has stolen her lover’s horse. It’s not good, is it?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Brighton Herald is revelling in the mystery of the missing racehorse, and the wild theories include assertions that he must have been taken by boat to France the night he was stolen, or he was loaded into an airplane at a secret location and flown to America. The police are quoted as following up all leads, but the general consensus amongst the lads now seems to be that that he was taken by road to Ireland as repayment in some family feud between Tommy’s family and another, currently unnamed, trainer.

  DC Little has been making himself unpopular at both Tommy’s and Moses’s yard, which, according to Pearl, is causing friction between the two gangs of fiercely loyal stable lads. “I don’t know what they’ll do if the police prove it was anything to do with Moses. But Moses wouldn’t do this anyway, because there was no reason to assume Basil’s Pride would beat Love Me Do, and his yard’s doing better than Tommy’s. He even offered Donovan some more rides yesterday.”

  “Isn’t that a bad thing? Poaching another yard’s sta
ble jockey?” Kenny asks. He’s loitering outside the salon, smoking, drinking tea and waiting for James.

  Pearl, who’s exhausted from another night shift, puts her feet up on the chair next to him, gets a look from Johnnie, and promptly puts them down again. “I don’t know. I do know Moses offered a lot of money for Donovan.”

  “You’d think if that was creating friction between the trainers, it would be Tommy having a go at Moses’s yard rather than the other way around,” Kenny says thoughtfully.

  “I suppose. It’s creating such a mess for everyone. There are reporters everywhere, the police, even a mad old woman who claims to be in touch with Pridey through her dreams — she’s camped out on the grass next to Tommy’s yard telling fortunes.”

  “Sounds like fun. I’m glad we got our story in quick. Now the nationals are on it, everyone will be talking,” Ken adds. He flashes a glance at me. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t have anything about Rita in it.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind. If I get anything, any stories you can use, you know I’d tell you.”

  “Sammy and the rest all know that too, because it’s pretty common knowledge that Kenny’s your boyfriend,” Pearl points out.

  “That reminds me, I saw a nasty piece by Benjy Harley that went in yesterday. It was all about how terrible this was for the Harpers. Roger’s family will probably go mad,” I say.

  “Benjy’s an idiot, a total flake. He hardly moves from his desk except to get another packet of cigarettes,” Kenny says dismissively.

  “Oh, there is one other thing. Apparently one of Tommy’s lads, Simon, has disappeared too. The police were all over that, but he went the day after the horse did, and he’s one for bunking off work, so it might just be a coincidence. Anyway, enough chat, I need some sleep, so I’m off. Thank God, I don’t need to take the bus anymore. Thanks for breakfast, boys,” Pearl gulps the last of Ken’s tea, and buzzes off on her little Lambretta, red curls flying.

  “I totally forgot, with all the stolen horse stuff, but did you know Rita’s dad was part of one of those tipster gangs at the racecourse?” Quickly, I tell Kenny what my vile client, Mrs Green, said before she hid her long nose in Tatler magazine.

  “I had heard a rumour he makes his money gambling on the horses, but I didn’t know he was part of any rackets. The mum was really quiet and polite. I told you Alan hates reporters, and he threw us out, but that’s understandable, especially as the poor chap is grieving for his daughter. Their sons are another matter, apart from Sammy of course. If the family were hiding anything, as Bev seems to think, they did it very well.” Kenny drags his notebook out of his back pocket, and flicks through the battered pages.

  The sons being the ones who tried to beat Roger to a pulp. “Doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Mrs Green, the one who told me about Rita’s dad, is a right one for slating reputations.”

  “Did you hear that Alan Stonehill was questioned again but released without any charges?” Kenny says suddenly. “I forgot to tell you. Word is that DC Little is definitely going to write it off as a suicide.”

  “Sammy won’t like that.”

  “Gut instinct, Rubes . . . Was it suicide, an accident or was she pushed?” He grins at me. “The police wouldn’t back off unless they had some fairly substantial evidence that it was suicide.”

  “Perhaps they just don’t have any other leads,” I suggest, after a pause. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back inside.”

  James is crossing the road towards us, smoothing his black hair down and looking smug.

  “Hang on a minute, Rubes. That looks like a man with a good story,” Ken says, eyeing his friend.

  I linger, one hand on the door handle. Despite the queue at the basins, I wait just long enough to hear James tell Ken that they are going to see Sophie Harper.

  Roger Harper’s sister, the cold, dark-haired girl who called the police at her brother’s party. The one who goes to Cambridge, and who clearly wasn’t interested in speaking to a lowly hairdresser like me. Interesting. I’m just about to comment when there is a shout from inside the salon.

  “Ruby, come on! Your tea break was over about ten minutes ago, and I’ve got two waiting for a shampoo,” Eve says crossly.

  “Sorry.” I get to work, smothering my hands in suds, carefully massaging heads, and chatting about the missing racehorse. All the while my brain is ticking off various bits of information. There is something else going on here, I can feel it. What if Rita was murdered by one of her lovers, or someone connected to them, and Basil’s Pride was stolen just to put the police off the scent?

  Sammy telephones me just as we’re closing up.

  “Have you heard about Basil’s Pride?”

  “Of course.”

  “I just wondered if you’d got any further with your investigation. Have you got any more information on Rita?”

  “No, not yet. I did speak to Bev, and you’re right, she doesn’t agree with you, but she was very helpful.” I pause to see if he reacts at all, but he just tells me he is pleased, and asks if she had anything new to say.

  For some reason, I keep Bev’s revelations about their dad to myself, and pursue another line of enquiry. “Sammy, is your dad involved with the tipsters or bookies at the racecourse?” Silence, but I can hear him breathing. “Sammy?”

  “No. You’re barking up the wrong tree there. I want you to find the person who murdered my sister, not rake up dirt on my family. They kept my dad down at the station for three hours. He said they kept asking him all manner of strange things, like did he look after his family, and did we all want Rita out of the way because she was so much trouble. Why would they think that? They need to concentrate on Rita, not my dad.” He’s getting defensive, but his voice is harsh and strained, like he’s holding back tears.

  Clearly there has been a bit of miscommunication between Sammy and Bev. Did she tell him she knew about the beatings, or has he just dismissed it because he can’t entertain the fact that his dad might be responsible? She did say he wasn’t very bright.

  I keep my voice calm and level. “Sammy, I did say I might find out things you wouldn’t want to hear. Look, you can leave this to the police if you like, but if you want me to help, you need to tell me the truth.” I flick through the appointment book while I wait for his answer, pencilling in changes to a booking for the White sisters.

  “I still need your help. Telephone me if you find anything.”

  “Wait a minute! It would really help if I could talk to your family. Can’t you even try to explain to your mum about me?”

  “She won’t do anything without Dad’s say-so, so no, I can’t.”

  “Not even for Rita?”

  “No.” The line clicks. He’s put the telephone down.

  Interesting that even for his dead sister, he won’t be honest with me. However, he can’t really think his dad is responsible, except to drive his daughter into the kind of emotional state that she would take her own life. Surely Sammy wouldn’t be so keen for me to investigate if he thought I’d find out his dad was behind Rita’s murder, would he? Bev seemed very sure that Rita’s brothers had no idea of the extent of the abuse she was suffering. I think I’ll wait until I’m face-to-face with Sammy to bring that one up.

  “I’ll finish and lock up if you want to get going,” I tell the others, aware that I’ve been totally distracted all afternoon, and probably not much help to my poor colleagues. Johnnie would have interrogated me, but he left at lunchtime for another of his appointments.

  “Rubes, don’t forget I’ll be a while because Angela’s got her mum visiting and she wants me to meet her!” Mary calls, flinging on her cardigan and grabbing her handbag.

  When they’ve all gone, and I’ve tidied up, I wander outside, locking the door carefully behind me. The clouds have stolen in over the sea, smoothing a layer of fog and drizzle across the town, like a knife spreading dripping. I start stacking the chairs and tables neatly beside the window. If Alan Stonehill is a tipster, he’d
probably know exactly how to steal a horse, and who to call on to commit the crime, too . . .

  Where would you hide a racehorse if your motive for stealing him was just to distract attention from another crime? Sadly, I conclude that you’d probably just kill the horse, but my mind keeps whirring, and before I know it, I’m unlocking the door again, heading for the back room.

  There is a big pile of paper invoices on the table, all neatly ticked off. I shove them aside and pull some fresh paper off the roll. Half an hour later, I’ve got a whole diagram of the two cases pinned up on the wall. There are arrows linking suspects together, and a timeline of events. The funny thing is that almost everyone on my diagram connects to each other in some way.

  I add the words ‘accident’ and ‘suicide’ and circle them in red pencil. If only I knew what the police were thinking! Have they ruled these two options out already, or are they still pursuing them? If it was an accident, would somebody have owned up? Surely if she was jostled in the crowd, people would have been more aware of her falling, perhaps even making a fuss as she fell.

  Rita does seem to have a lot of different sides to her personality — the fiery, confident protester, the ditzy, romantic lover, the downtrodden daughter . . . Which one was really her?

  If it was murder, Rita’s lovers, Roger, Tommy and Joey, must be prime suspects, simply from an ego point of view. Roger had said he loved her, but from what I’ve heard of Joey and Tommy, they seemed to be just using her to have a good time. Which could be me judging them too harshly. But her dad is up at the top of the list too, even if he didn’t kill her himself, he must have known someone who would. Perhaps Alan Stonehill knew she would be at the racecourse, and paid someone to kill her . . . I can imagine the humiliation of arranging a wedding and then your daughter not turning up.

  I also know only too well how easy it is to contain violence in a family, with no trace of anything untoward on the surface. What about the jilted groom? Bev never mentioned his name, but it might be worth looking into. The main problem, as far as I can see, is that there are easier ways and much more private places to murder somebody. To choose the Derby Trial, with thousands of potential witnesses is brazen, and, I reluctantly admit, unlikely.