Detective Ruby Baker series Box Set

by Daisy White

  “That’s Simon?” Pearl frowns, recovering a little. “Oh my dear God, he’s been shot, hasn’t he?”

  “Right, come on girls, I need everyone away from the crime scene, now. Miss, I need to take a statement from you.” Flicking through a notebook as he speaks, DC Little shepherds us all firmly along the soaked pathway, back to the archway. “I have some things to do, but if you join this line, you can talk to one of my colleagues. WPC Stanton? Take this lady’s statement first. I understand she was possibly first on the scene.”

  Another police car pulls up and, like a battle commander, DC Little is soon directing his troops. The path around the back of the stables is quickly blocked with two hefty feed sacks and a plank of wood. A policeman stands guard to make sure we don’t all pile back to look at the body. As if we would, but I’m sure that there’ll be more reporters arriving soon.

  I haven’t seen WPC Stanton for a while now. She always makes me feel like I should do something more with my life. Here she is, battling crime with the men, while I cut hair for a living. I love my job, but I can’t help thinking that I don’t actually make a difference. Before I was a hairdresser, Mary and I were at teacher training college and, although I can’t imagine having the patience to teach anyone, sometimes I wonder what I’ll do with my life. Which is an odd thing to think when you’re standing, smutty and sweaty, in a long line of murder suspects. I can’t really picture Simon now, just that vague impression of brown hair and freckled innocence. If he disappeared the day after the horse went missing, that does suggest he might have been involved in Pridey’s theft, but does any of it connect to Rita at all?

  Despite the fact that it’s past midnight, WPC Stanton is looking immaculate, her hair shiny and neat, her uniform perfectly creased. She gives me a quick smile of recognition before sitting down with Pearl and another PC. The yard is full of people now, the blackened buildings an ashy sodden wreck in the torchlight. Someone has hung an old-fashioned lantern underneath the archway, and it casts a buttery glow across the exhausted faces of the stable lads, who slump onto piles of possessions. The stench of burning lingers in the night air, and there are dark oily puddles stretching across the yard.

  Tommy is talking to DS Little now, and I catch the anger in his voice. Occasionally he breaks off to shout an order to his staff. Another group of helpers are trying to catch three loose horses who are cantering merrily around the garden. Thank God all those beautiful animals got out safely. I shiver as I wait whilst Pearl gives her statement to WPC Stanton, her pretty, clear voice breaking occasionally as she describes the horrors of the night. Did someone catch Simon starting the fire and shoot him? Or perhaps he was involved with the theft of Basil’s Pride, and something went wrong. I don’t imagine there is much honour amongst horse thieves.

  “It’s horrible, isn’t it?” The stable lad, Barney, comes over with a mug of tea and I sip it gratefully.

  “Thanks. I’m glad the horses are okay, but I’m sorry about the lad who died. Did you know him well?”

  Barney blows noisily on his own tea, and shakes his head. His face is pale and smudged with soot. “Not really. He’d only been with us a few months. He was a bit of a weedy fellow, and now I feel bad about laughing when he got carted the other day. But he was a nice lad, from what I can make out. He did sometimes skip work, or was late getting up, so he wasn’t really suited to the job. I think he was on his last warning from the boss.”

  “Tommy was going to sack him?”

  “Yes. There’s plenty of competition for this job, so it wouldn’t be hard to replace him. But then he left, so we all assumed he’d just given up and gone back home. He was a city boy at heart. Or maybe, because he knew he was going to be sacked, he just did this to cause us all some bother. He was talking about joining Moses’s yard, but he’d never have been able to do that without a good reference.”

  “This is more than giving some bother to your employer. He could have killed all those horses, not to mention you lot living above the stables! I just can’t imagine who would do a thing like this. Especially if it was someone involved in racing. Everyone I’ve seen genuinely seems to love the horses, but this could have burnt the whole yard down.” I shiver despite the hot drink, thinking of the terrified screams of the horses, and the body on the ground behind the stables.

  He nods sadly. “Well, it’s clearly not someone who cares about the horses, is it? I think this sort of proves it’s about Tommy and his yard. I really hope it isn’t anything to do with Moses. I like him too, and he’s got some good owners backing him. So . . . the lads are saying you’re investigating Rita’s death? You and your reporter boyfriend?”

  “I’m looking around, asking a few questions, nothing else at the moment,” I say carefully, fully aware that whatever I tell Barney will be around the Black Jug in no time.

  “You got any answers yet?” He grins, a gleam of his usual flirtatious persona flitting across his face.

  “Not really.” I think quickly. What gossip do I actually want to spread? But my brain is stupid from shock and exhaustion, and I can only dredge up the shadow of an idea. “Actually, keep this quiet, but I do have a lead on Pridey. Just something that someone saw that night . . . I’m following it up tomorrow.” This is a complete lie, of course, but I’m interested to see his reaction, especially after James mentioned the other day that he thought there was no question about the theft being an inside job.

  He stares at me, green eyes wide and hopeful. “Really? Do you think he’s still alive? Because that’s what we all hate, the idea that he could have been mistreated or even killed. He was a lovely horse. Of course I won’t tell anyone, cross my heart, but won’t you tell the police first?”

  “Only if it comes to something. They have enough on their hands at the moment with everything that’s been going on. I’d hate to get Tommy’s hopes up too. Oh, look, is that Tommy’s wife? I’ve never seen her before.”

  Behind the lad’s back, I spot Kenny, who has his own notebook out now, and is moving from person to person. He winks at me and slides over to Maria, who is smartly dressed in narrow trousers and a pink shirt. What an odd outfit for the early hours of the morning! The bitter chill of the last dark before dawn hits my face, and my teeth chatter. God knows where I left my cardigan.

  Maria O’Mara is blonde, with raw, sharp features, and stick-thin limbs. She’s not pretty, but you’d certainly remember her face. I recall the gossip Ken and James picked up, about Tommy marrying her for her money, and carrying on his affairs with girls like Rita. I wonder how much she knew before the papers got hold of the story. Was she devastated, or did she suspect . . ? It flashes through my mind so quickly, I almost miss it — if Maria did find out about Tommy’s affairs, and the one with Rita in particular, how far would she go for revenge? Would she wreck her own livelihood to get back at her unfaithful husband? I tuck the thought away to ponder when I get a chance.

  Anyway, she’s obviously not keen on reporters, because Kenny gets blasted with both barrels, and he comes back grinning and pretending to hold his ears. “She’s a feisty old stick, but I can’t really blame her. I was chancing my luck.”

  WPC Stanton takes a quick statement from Kenny and me, but we don’t have anything helpful to add.

  “I’m really sorry, but we just saw the fire and came straight over,” Ken says. “There was nobody in the road, no cars passed us. It must have been about two hours after the pub closed, I think. Ruby?”

  “Yes. Everyone who was at the pub went off home in little groups, and there was nobody who stood out.”

  “No arguments at the pub?”

  “No. There was a bit of tension between the lads, but the Derby is coming up, and with everything that’s been happening, that’s not going to be unusual, is it?” I say.

  “Who was in the yard when you arrived?” WPC Stanton is scribbling notes as we speak.

  “Oh, masses of people. Half the lads, because they all sleep above the stables, don’t they? Tommy, a few I
didn’t recognise but I imagine they might have been neighbouring farmers, or some other neighbours from the cottages up the road.”

  She frowns at her notebook. “And Tommy’s wife, Maria? Was she out in the yard helping?”

  “I was in bed asleep.” Maria appears behind us, wafting perfume. “I would like to make a statement about tonight.” She peers at WPC Stanton. “Are you an actual police officer?”

  I can almost feel WPC Stanton roll her eyes, but I’ve seen her being ignored, jeered at, and generally looked down upon before this, and she just carries on being magnificent.

  “Anyway, I was asleep, alone in my bed. I heard a commotion, but assumed it was something to do with the horses, so I tried to get back to sleep. About half an hour later, I heard the fire engine and realised I would have to go down,” she says, tight-lipped.

  For some reason, although there is no physical resemblance whatsoever, I am reminded of Sophie Harper, Roger’s sister.

  “You say you were sleeping alone. Was your husband home last night?” WPC Stanton’s voice is cool and measured, and I get the impression she is being careful with her words.

  “Possibly. I really couldn’t say. I saw him that afternoon, and he bored me to death about his latest runners at Newbury, and the fact that he’s lost his precious Derby colt. I really couldn’t care less.”

  We all stare at her, and our surprise seems to finally pierce that cold shell. “Well, why should I? The horses are his thing. I should never have married him, because the only things he loves are those damn animals,” she snaps viciously. She turns to Ken, who is smoking. “Give me a cigarette, will you?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Monday papers all carry banner headlines about the fire at Tommy’s yard, and the murder of stable lad Simon Arden. It’s a shock to everyone, and I know I’m going to see the burnt body in my nightmares for months to come. I’m also concerned about another note that was slipped under the salon door, waiting for me when I unlocked it this morning.

  To Ruby Baker

  I’m watching you. You saw what happened to Simon. You are next. Stay out of Rita’s business.

  This is your last warning.

  It’s written in the same style as before, with pages torn from a newspaper. This time they are glued onto the front of an envelope, but there is no address or stamp.

  “Are you going to telephone the police?” Eve asks, worry lines wrinkling her pudgy face. “That’s nasty.”

  “Yes, I’ll ring them later, but I’m sure it is just some crank, like Johnnie said.” I have started looking over my shoulder a lot more since the first threat, but this one worries me more. Who is watching me? Of course, anyone could have written that, it doesn’t have to be someone spying on the salon from across the road.

  “Report it, just like you did before,” Johnnie says, re-reading the note. “Keep pretending you aren’t worried, darling, but don’t go anywhere by yourself in the evenings. Make sure at least one of us is with you. Interesting that it says ‘Rita’s business,’ not Tommy’s or Simon’s . . .”

  “So you think it might be about Rita?”

  “Either that, or whoever sent this wants to throw you off the real reason for these horrid happenings.”

  Chills running down my spine, I take the paper into the back room, studying it again as I make the tea tray up. I decide to take it down to the police station this time. I can walk there after work, before I get the bus to see Joanna. So it doesn’t drop out of my pinny pocket at work this morning, I lift the paper up, intending to pin it to the board next to my investigation maps.

  As I hold it up, the flimsy envelope catches the light, and I can see writing. It’s just the faint outline of words, but it looks like an address. Someone must have been resting on the envelope while they were writing, and this has pressed through. A rush of excitement makes my hand shake, and I twist the paper this way and that, trying to make out the letters.

  “What are you doing, Rubes?” Johnnie wanders in with two boxes.

  “Look at this! I can see an address underneath the message,” I tell him. “I’ll write it down, but I’m pretty sure . . .”

  Johnnie peers at the envelope, then at my writing. Even allowing for the odd indecipherable letter, the address is obvious:

  Mr Tommy O’Mara,

  Tegdown Stables,

  Patcham Road,

  Brighton

  Johnnie and I stare at one another, and I swallow hard. “Do you think Tommy has been getting these poisonous little letters too? Or do you think the letters have been sent by someone at the stables, pressing on this envelope while they wrote a letter or something?”

  “Impossible to tell, but the police should be able to ask Tommy. Let me know what happens when you hand this in today. In fact, go at lunch break, because this could be important.”

  I try hard to concentrate for the rest of the morning, but the mystery buzzes around my brain like an annoying fly. With the Derby just days away, and no sign of Basil’s Pride, the people of Brighton are collectively backing Love Me Do.

  “He’s a nice big horse, and he’s local,” Mrs Everton tells me, clutching the black patent handbag in her lap. “It’s logical, isn’t it?”

  “What do you think about everything that’s been happening at Tegdown Stables?” I ask her, snipping her long grey hair with precision, despite the fact my mind is miles away.

  “Someone’s out to get them, aren’t they? It wouldn’t surprise me if it was Alan Stonehill behind all this. He’s just lost his daughter, and he’s a bit of a villain, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. He must be devastated about Rita.”

  The woman nods firmly. “Devastated.”

  At lunchtime, Johnnie says it’s quiet enough for Mary and I to run down to Brenda’s for our usual chicken and chips before I go to the police station.

  “Just think, this time next month you’ll be married,” I tell her. “Are you excited? And how’s the cottage coming on?”

  She chatters away about how Ted has signed the papers giving them the lease, and how he’s been busy painting the rooms, ready for them to move in after the wedding. “There’s even a little garden so I can start growing my own vegetables.”

  “And you’ve got the Downs as the rest of your garden. You’ll turn into a proper country girl! It was so lucky that Ted was able to get this for you. Will you miss being down in the town?”

  “I don’t know. Like you said, I can get the bus from the end of the road, and when Summer starts school it’s on the way down to the salon, so if Ted’s home he can drop her in his truck. Anyway, enough about me. Now what the hell is going on with all this stuff at the racing yard? I’m worried about Pearl being up there so much with Donovan. What if she gets hurt?”

  “I know. When I saw that body last night, I really thought that it was going to be hers. The general consensus now is that somebody is trying to put Tommy out of business, and it makes sense. His horse got stolen, and now his yard has been set on fire,” I tick the details off on my fingers, “and his stable lad is dead. But nobody is talking. Not to the police, or the reporters, or me. And now I’ve got to take this letter to DC Little, so he can go and question Tommy again.”

  “Where does Rita fit in then?”

  I shrug, scooping up the last salty chip. “If she was murdered, that would just be another thing to add to the list. She was Tommy’s lover, wasn’t she, so it still points to someone wanting to ruin him.”

  “You must be careful, like Johnnie said. I know you keep saying the letters must be a bit of a joke, but this is a death threat.” Mary stirs her tea, adding another sugar lump from the cracked bowl. “I’m surprised some of our regulars haven’t picked up any information on the missing horse. They’ve always helped out in the past, and word is this was an inside job.”

  “They haven’t said anything to me. From what I’ve seen, the racing community seems to be a bit like a private club, and I’m nowhere near getting in. Hell, I don’t even
speak the language! I only learned last night what a jute rug is, and where on a horse the surcingle goes.”

  “Where does it go?” Mary asks, giggling.

  “Round its belly apparently. I’m seeing Joanna later, and I’d really like to talk to Rita’s dad. Quite a few people have suggested he could be behind this, as a sort of revenge for his daughter’s death. If Sammy can persuade him that it’s in his interests and that it’s a family matter, maybe . . .” I trail off. If Rita’s dad is behind all this, he won’t talk to me any more than he would the police, but if he isn’t, he might know something that would be of help. Something that perhaps he wouldn’t tell the police? There’s an idea lurking at the edge of my brain, half-formed, and it’s a stretch, but at the moment that’s what it might take to get a result on this one.

  Mary is talking again. “Perhaps Simon killed Rita, and her dad found out, so he shot him, and then started the fire to get rid of the body. If so, then perhaps that’ll be the end of it,” she suggests hopefully. “No, I don’t know who stole Pridey though, before you ask.” She glances at her watch. “Hell, I’m going to be late back, and you’ve got to get down to the police station. Come on, run!”

  I dump some coins on the table and yell goodbye to Brenda. There is a light drizzle starting to fall, and the sea is once again sullen grey, with a coat of hazy fog.

  Brighton Police station is an imposing building, set between two large houses. I run up the steep concrete steps and give the familiar blue doors a shove. There is a queue, and I wait patiently in line, breathing in the rank smells of urine and stale sweat. The desk sergeant is booking in two sullen boys, who growl out their answers to his questions. Once they are dragged away to the cells out the back, he smiles at me like we’re old friends. But there is something else behind his eyes, and it isn’t friendly at all.

  “I’ve got a letter for DC Little,” I tell him.

  “Another one? He’s going to think he’s got an admirer.”

  I stare blankly at him. “It’s another threat. It was pushed under the salon door, just like the last one. Is DC Little in? I really need to talk to him.”