by Gene
By the time he had reached his car he knew what was needed to assuage the feelings roused in him by Beverley's inflammatory antics. She was not the only woman at his disposal. He reached for his mobile phone.
Pippa caught the racing results on the radio as she waded through some admin in the office. Her secretary had left at Christmas and things were already getting into a mess. At the moment, however, she wasn't sure that she wanted to replace her. Losing Arabella Childs' horses in November, followed shortly afterwards by the predictable defection of Lonsdale Heights, had hit her in the pocket. To be honest, the business could do with some new clients.
Shed had no runners that afternoon, which made the news of two successes for Toby at Southwell all the more galling. And a phone call from Jamie telling her of his horse's poor showing set the seal on her gloom. Things weren't going right at present.
She bundled the unanswered correspondence - bills, for the most part -
back into her in-tray and locked up the office. As she crossed the yard to the empty house, weary and fed up, she decided she really must do something soon about the yard. So far all her grand talk about revamping her training methods had come to nothing. Jamie had promised to help her out but he'd been so wrapped up in retraining as a jump jockey that he'd not been much help. And his promise to call in an expert had amounted to a big fat zero.
Disgruntled, she stamped into the kitchen. She supposed she ought to get some supper sorted out. Before long her husband and brother would turn up and expect to be fed. How come neither of them ever pulled on an apron and turned out a hot meal at the end of the day?
To be fair, on working days she just defrosted meals from the deep freeze.
Jamie was pretty good at spaghetti suppers while Malcolm insisted on 78
doing the weekend grocery run. And, most of the time, she enjoyed putting the food on the table, regularly turning down their offers of help.
But tonight she would really welcome a hand. Someone to pour her a drink and tell her to put her feet up while they made some magic with the pots and pans. However, it looked like she was out of luck.
She was pulling frozen pizzas out of their packaging when the phone rang.
`Hello, darling.' Malcolm's voice was warm and sympathetic. `How do you fancy a glamorous night out?'
She didn't, as it happened, but she loved being asked. And by the time they had finished talking her blues had vanished. On instructions, she ran herself a bath and prepared for a long soak. The prospect of an early night with her husband was all she needed to revive her spirits. In her opinion, the best place to eat pizza was in bed.
Jamie wondered where Malcolm had got to after the race as he was half expecting the offer of a lift home. On the other hand, he was quite happy to return in the horse box with Ros and Trish. Ros turned on the radio and tuned it to some orchestral music.
`Do you mind?' she asked. Ìt helps me concentrate.'
`You're the driver,' said Trish but she rolled her eyes at Jamie. He could tell she'd rather have Radio One.
Ìt's nice,' he said. You hypocrite, he thought, who are you trying to impress?
`So what was it like?' Ros asked him.
He knew what she meant. He'd been worried about his return to the weighing room and how he'd get on when he was back in the old routine.
Of course, the personnel were different now he was riding at a National Hunt meeting. He knew a few of the jump lads from the old days but most of the faces were unfamiliar to him. He'd been feeling apprehensive, as they would all know his recent history.
In the event, the warmth of his welcome had proved his fears groundless -
even if his new companions had enjoyed a bit of fun at his expense.
`Got to give you credit for trying your hand at some proper racing,' said Tom Dougan, a red-headed rider from Limerick.
Ìt's a different game to the Flat, son,' said his pal, Josh Keane. Ì'd get myself some brown britches, if I were you.'
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But they'd all wished him luck and he'd laughed at their jibes, even when they made jokes about prison and his car crash.
`Just one thing, Jamie,' Tom called out, `never offer me a lift home.' On reflection, that part of the afternoon had gone well. He'd missed the camaraderie of the weighing room.
Ìt was OK,' he said in response to Ros's question. `Different, but OK.' His knees gave way as he unbuckled his belt and he sat down abruptly on the changing-room bench. The hour in the sauna had left him weak as a kitten, but he d had to shift a couple of pounds in a hurry to make the weight for his afternoon races. Mind you, it wasn't just the steaming but the boozing and the girls. Especially that last one, that Vanessa. She certainly knew how to drain a man dry.
He grinned to himself. Champagne and shagging were not recommended for the morning of a big race. The Colonel would tear him off a strip if he ever found out. But how would he? Little Miss Golden Thighs wasn't going to tell him. She was too keen to get a second helping.
'See you in the parade ring, lover she’d said as he d finally dismissed her from his hotel bed.
`Make it the winners' enclosure,' he d replied.
Anyway, even if the Colonel did find out, what could he do? The old man appreciated a pretty girl himself, he knew that for a fact. And the way Jamie was riding he reckoned there d be no cause for complaint.
He stood up to kick off his trousers and felt his legs wobble again. He braced himself against the wall.
All right, Jamie?’ called his valet from across the room.
`No problem, Pat.’ He put as much energy into his voice as he could muster. Old Pat had seen it all and didn't miss much. 'Got your money on my Diadem runner?'
Haven't had a bet in twenty years.'
`Do yourself a favour. Mine can't be beat.'
The boast earned a barrage of comment from the riders changing around him - none of whom appeared to agree.
Then Jamie had a bright idea, one he couldn't resist. He stepped up onto the bench, leaving his trousers on the floor, and thrust his backside towards his audience.
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'Get a load of my arse, lads. You lot are going to be looking at it all afternoon.'
A pair of socks and a chorus of jeers flew in his direction. A senior jockey in the opposite corner turned away, unamused. Well, sod him, thought Jamie. He's only pissed off because he knows it's true.
He made his way into the toilet and shut the door with a shaking hand.
Maybe it hadn't been such a bright idea to clown around. But what was wrong with having a laugh? All the same, he felt like a limp lettuce and he had five rides ahead of him, all on good horses who carried with them a weight of expectation. Ascot was packed to the rafters on this fine autumn Sunday. It was a day on which nineteen-year-old rising stars made their reputation. He couldn't let anyone down - least of all himself.
It was just as well he had a couple of pills left. He took them now, swallowing them dry, and slumped on the toilet seat to conserve his energy until they kicked in. He d be as right as rain in a few minutes. Then let battle commence. The rest of them would be watching his rear for sure.
Jane Culpepper had badly wanted to hate Clive's new wife, Susan - as any woman in her position would. Susan was younger than Jane by nearly ten years, was modishly skinny and had seduced Jane's husband during cosy office lunch-hours and weekend so-called golfing trips. What's more, Susan was a privately educated little rich girl, whose family owned a chain of chemists - the irony being that her presence in the clinic where Clive worked had not been brought about by economic necessity. Why on earth, Jane wondered when she had discovered the facts, work as a dental hygienist, poking around in people's smelly mouths, when you didn't have to work at all?
But once the dust had settled on Clive's decision to bale out of their marriage and she'd realised that Robbie wasn't fighting the new arrangement, she'd decided to make an effort with Susan. Thank God she had. Susan was eager to be friends, to act as a go-between and to be as
much of a surrogate mother to Robbie as was permissible. Maybe it was the guilt of someone who knows they are privileged, but Susan was endlessly accommodating. As, for example, when Jane realised she'd not be out of Deacon Parade in time to pick Robbie up from Computer Club, 81
as promised. She'd simply called Susan who happily agreed to give him supper at her house and make sure he did his homework.
`Do you want me to run him back later?' she'd asked. `He could stay the night with us if you're busy.'
The woman was a treasure, Jane thought. And the icing on the cake, ignoble though it was to think it, was that Susan was plain. No chin and no chest and she hid her round sapphire-blue eyes beneath a way out-of-date fringe. What a petty little cow I am, thought Jane as she chucked her overflowing briefcase on to the sofa and made for the fridge. A large G&T
was what she deserved after the rigours of the day.
She'd barely discovered that she was out of ice and the tonic was flat before her mobile rang. She'd already talked to Robbie and her mother so she was half inclined to ignore it. The number on the readout wasn't familiar.
`Boss?’ The voice was deep and male. Ìt's Simon Bennett.'
`Hi.' She'd spent most of the afternoon with him by her side, accompanying her to a variety of briefings concerning the Bonfire Night Murders. What did he want now?
`Fancy a spot of dinner?'
She looked at the fridge, full of pasta and sausages - Robbie stuff - and the bottle of flat tonic in her hand.
`You bet,' she said.
Ì'm outside your place now, boss. You want to freshen up or anything? I can wait.'
Forget that, it was half past eight and she'd not eaten all day. She was famished. And even though Simon must have an agenda, here was her chance to get under the skin of her new job.
Ì'm coming right now,' she said, slamming the fridge door shut. `Just one thing.'
`Yes?'
'Shove the boss stuff for the evening, all right?'
Before today, Jane had heard two things about Simon Bennett - that he was joined at the hip to Leighton Jones, and that he went after women like a fox in a hen coop.
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Sitting across the restaurant table from Simon, Jane could see that the second of these statements might well be true. He'd be pushing forty, a year or two older than her, but the signs of age on his face gave it a lived-in, crumpled look that took the edge off his still-boyish smile. Add to that thick dark hair, dancing green eyes and a voice of deep velvet and his reputation made sense. She wouldn't mind betting that Simon became more attractive the older he got. If only the same could be said for her.
The restaurant was small and Italian, pleasantly full of customers who seemed intent on their dinner. A stream of aromatic dishes was being ferried out of the kitchen by two middle-aged waiters who worked with such efficiency that they appeared to have three arms. One of them filled their glasses with a deep-hued Barolo while the other set a generous platter of mixed antipasti on the starched white tablecloth between them. `Buon appetito,' they murmured in one voice before gliding off to satisfy others'
needs.
Ì never knew this place existed,' she said, ànd I only live round the corner.'
Simon smiled a trifle smugly and raised his glass.
Jane ate and drank with gusto; this was an unexpected treat. There were salamis, smoked fish and olives, and vegetables in fragrant melt in-the-mouth sauces that she didn't recognise.
`That's caponata,' Simon explained as she enthused over one mixture.
`Deep-fried aubergine in onions and celery. It's Sicilian.'
`Do you cook?' Òccasionally.'
Of course he did. The vision of an intimate dinner, a man cooking for her, swam into her mind. It was high up on her list of favourite seduction techniques, not that she could remember when she'd last been a recipient.
The wine was heady, which probably accounted for what she said next. Ìs that your secret weapon with the girls? The Naked Chef act?' The green eyes narrowed. `What do you mean?'
Ì heard you were a ladies' man.' She pushed on foolishly. `You know, the Romeo of Deacon Parade. A swathe of broken hearts in your wake.'
His face was stony. Ì've heard things about you, too.' `Really?' She tried to keep it light. `Such as?'
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He leaned closer. Flickering candlelight distorted his features. `Such as you're the Super's bit on the side. That he's been slipping it to you since his wife walked out.'
She couldn't think what to say. She'd relaxed for a moment, lulled by the food and wine and by his easygoing manner, and suddenly the knife was between her ribs. Her impulse was to get to her feet and leave, maybe after throwing her wine in his face. But she fought it.
`There is nothing going on between Superintendent Wright and me,' she hissed.
ÒK.' He leaned back, grinning amiably once more. She didn't trust his grin now. Ìf you say so.'
Ì do.' It didn't sound convincing even to her.
`Clear something up for me then. Explain how come you breeze into our incident room and take over. I was Deputy SIO. I've been on this job since day one. If anyone should step into Leighton's shoes it should be me.'
From his point of view she could see that her arrival must be galling.
Tough on him. This kind of thing had happened to her in the past. It was about time the cookie crumbled in her favour.
`Simon, the point is that the investigation was going nowhere. I've come in as a fresh eye. Time's going by. If we're ever to solve this crime we need a new approach.'
He shook his head vigorously and drained his glass. `We know who did it.
We just don't have the firepower to bring them down. At least, not now Leighton's been shafted, we don't.'
`What do you mean, you know who did it?' Ìt's one of Pete's drug pals.'
`So you don't know exactly.'
Simon helped himself to more wine. She tried to stop him topping up her glass but he went ahead anyway. What the hell, she didn't have to drink it.
`Look, you haven't had time yet to read the witness statements. And after all that glad-handing today you probably don't know whether you're coming or going. But - number one, Pete was a small-time heroin dealer.
He made just about enough to fund his own habit. Two, on the night he was killed he had a visit from one of his regulars, Ian Barrable. Or Filthy Ian Barrable as we call him - you can imagine why.'
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One of the waiters was hovering. Simon asked him to clear the table and hold the next course for a bit, if he didn't mind. The waiter didn't. Neither did Jane; she was full.
Simon continued, Àccording to Barrable, Pete was in great spirits and wanted to shoot the breeze. Poor old Filthy was so strung out he just wanted to do his business and go but Pete kept him hanging on, saying that he was about to pull off a deal that would change his life. He said he'd soon be out of small-time dealing and Filthy would have to find another source of smack - Filthy remembers that, all right. Finally Pete sorted him out and Filthy left at about nine with what he came for. He surfaced two days later to find Pete was dead in the fire and, so he says, he knew at once it wasn't an accident. That was before we let on that the pair of them had been murdered.'
`So?’ Jane wasn't sure where this was going.
`Barrable remembers Pete boasting about his new friends from Eastern Europe. Said he was going into business with them. And we've got witnesses who saw Pete on a train from York that evening. So, point three, there's a gang of Albanian gypsies living in York. Free housing, full benefits and they're into every scam going, including a drug connection via Turkey to the Middle East. It's a well-known route. These guys are new on the scene, keen to make a mark however they can and they don't play by the regular rules. Odds on they killed Pete and Amanda.'
`But why?'
`From what Pete told Filthy he'd at last got the cash together to fund a big score. He'd never made any bones about wanting to stop trading in wraps and tiddly amounts.
Leighton reckoned - we all did - that he'd been in York to arrange to buy a quantity of heroin from the Albanians so he could move up the ladder and start supplying small-time dealers like himself.
Kind of a career move. But his new pals worked him over till he told them where he kept his cash, then nicked it.'
Jane mused on this. She'd spent some time that afternoon going over the postmortems on the bodies. The reports clearly established, from the absence of smoke in their lungs, that Pete and Amanda had died before the fire had started. Though the partially burnt corpses had been removed from the house by the firefighters who had first arrived on the scene, the 85
burn damage to the bodies was not extensive enough to obscure the evidence of what had happened to them. Both had been tied up and throttled. Pete's body also had bruising on the legs and body consistent with being kicked. Then there was the broken ankle and the charred flesh on his thigh.
Simon popped a last crust of bread into his mouth. He appeared to have recovered his good humour. Ì bet if someone shoved a hot poker down your trousers you'd soon tell them where you'd hidden your piggy bank.'
`Did any of the neighbours hear anything?'
He shook his head. `No. But it was a noisy night with fireworks going off all over the place.'
Ì was thinking of cries of pain. Edward the Second was killed in Berkeley Castle by a red-hot poker thrust into his anus. Reputedly his screams of agony were heard for miles.'
Simon's jaw dropped. `No one heard anything like that. Good God, you've got a lurid imagination.'
Ì'm a bit of a murder buff.' She grinned at him, happy to have scored a point or two. `So you think Pete had a quantity of money in the house?'
`We know he did. He showed it to Filthy. A great brick of banknotes in a Tesco's carrier bag, apparently.'