by Gene
`May I ask if you're aware of anyone who might have wanted to cause Amanda harm?'
Elizabeth was plainly taken by surprise. `Like who?' À jealous ex-boyfriend maybe.'
She shook her head. Òf course not.'
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`Please think carefully, Mrs. Jacobs. I don't mean any disrespect to your sister but I understand that before she moved in with Pete she had one or two admirers.'
That was putting it politely. According to Amanda's colleagues at the yard where she'd last worked, the stable girl had been as mad about boys as she was about horses.
Elizabeth's tone was defensive. 'Mandy was always popular with the lads -
before Pete turned her into a recluse. She was ever so warm and bubbly.
And really pretty.'
Jane thought of the photographs of the girl's partially burnt corpse. It was hard to reconcile the two images.
Obligingly, Elizabeth filled the silence. Òut of the three of us, Mandy never had much luck with men. I met Cliff at my first job and we just clicked. Same thing with Jo. She's off travelling with a boy she's been going out with since she was fifteen. Mandy was always searching for the right guy.' She shot Jane a rueful smile. `She used to enjoy the search though.'
`Did things end badly with any of these men?'
`Not that I can think of, but I wouldn't necessarily know. We didn't see as much of her after she moved. She used to bring her boyfriends round when she worked in Yorkshire. Ridgemoor's only thirty miles up the road.'
Jane nodded. She wasn't familiar with the horse-racing scene but Simon had given her a rundown on the various yards where Amanda had worked.
It had struck her that the girl was as promiscuous in her employers as she was in her choice of men. There seemed to be plenty of both.
A further outburst from next door interrupted them. Jane gathered bath time was approaching, which would effectively end their discussion. She wasn't sure that she'd managed to win Elizabeth over but, for now, she'd beat a retreat.
As she showed Jane to the door, Elizabeth said, Ì don't suppose you'd know what happened to all Mandy's photos?'
Jane shook her head. The cottage had been picked over in great detail in the days after the fire and everything that had survived had been released to the families of the deceased once they were adjudged to be of no further use to the investigation.
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`Mr. Jones let me have Mandy's personal things and there was a receipt for photo-developing in her bag. It made me wonder what happened to all her other photos. It would mean a lot to Jo and me to have them.'
`Where did she keep them?'
Ìn the sideboard. They were in an old biscuit tin, all loose.'
The sideboard had been in the front room downstairs, where the fire had started. Jane knew it was most unlikely they had survived the blaze. Ì'll check for you but I wouldn't get your hopes up.'
`No chance of that,' said Elizabeth as she closed the door on her visitor. Ì
ran out of hope some while ago.'
Jamie struggled up the crumbling footpath, trying to keep pace with the lanky figure ahead. His vest was soaked with sweat from the effort of running uphill and his trainers were drenched from the brown puddles which lay in wait at every turn. It had been Dave's suggestion that he accompany him on a run across the moor. An hour ago it seemed like a good idea but he was seriously out of practice.
He crested the rise and found Dave jogging on the spot, his big bullet head capped by a woollen hat, like an egg cosy. He flashed Jamie a toothy grin.
The sod was scarcely out of breath. `You're just in time,' he said, pointing up at the western sky.
Through the leaden clouds a broad shaft of late-afternoon sun played over the moor like a spotlight, picking out the humps and folds of the hillside and the sparkle of the winter-swollen stream at their feet.
`Bloody marvellous,' enthused Dave. `You've got a cracking spot here.'
Jamie nodded agreement. He was past speech. He dragged the keen air into his lungs in ragged gulps.
À professional sportsman's got to keep in shape,' Dave observed. `You were fitter in the nick.'
'Running's not really my sport,' Jamie managed. Àt least, not pelting uphill for miles with a maniac like you.'
Dave laughed over the stiff breeze now blowing drops of rain into their faces. 'Cross-country's the best, mate. Good for body and soul. Look at that.' He nodded towards the horizon where a rainbow was arching through the sky.
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Jamie couldn't deny it was spectacular but the rain was getting heavier and the wind felt like ice on his skin. As they watched, the sunlight was swallowed by rolling grey clouds and the rainbow faded from view.
Ì don't fancy your tent much tonight, Dave. Are you sure you won't settle for a bed indoors?'
Dave did not dignify that with a reply. He just shook his head and set off again, downhill this time, back the way they had come.
Jamie, much relieved, fell in beside him. `You'll eat with us though, won't you? Give us a rundown on progress so far.'
`What progress would that be?'
Even jogging gently downhill it was an effort to keep up. `You know, what you think about Pippa's horses.'
Ì think that the horses are very pretty,' Dave sprang across a puddle that was fast turning into a lake, `but not as pretty as your sister.' Jamie splashed after him. Ànd?'
'And nothing, mate. That's as far as I've got.'
Irritated by Jamie's questions or maybe by his lack of speed, Dave suddenly lengthened his stride and was away down the hill, safely out of earshot. Jamie plodded after him. There would be no catching the thin man this side of supper.
`Hey, Mum - I've got one for you.' Robbie's eyes gleamed from behind his wire-framed spectacles as he gazed eagerly at Jane from the doorway. She looked up from her paperwork piled on the table in the small sitting room.
This was the third interruption in the past ten minutes. Elizabeth Jacobs wasn't the only one with demanding children.
Ì thought you were doing your homework,' she said as sternly as she could. Here was her only child, fruit of a failed marriage, forced to bounce between two homes. The fight not to indulge him was carried out on a daily basis.
`Yeah, yeah,' he said dismissively. When his skin cleared up and he filled out he'd be a handsome lad, she thought. For the moment, however, he was a bit gawky. To be honest, more than a bit.
`Listen,' he went on. `You're in a room with three switches. Outside in the corridor are three light bulbs. You can press any combination of switches 106
but once you've left the room you can't go back again. How can you tell which switch controls which bulb?'
Jane groaned. This was typical of Robbie. He had an English essay to write but he'd do anything to postpone his proper work. It wasn't as if he didn't exercise his brain but he preferred to exercise it in a different direction. He loved intellectual puzzles, along with obscure science fiction novels and computer games that never seemed to end.
Jane had vetoed a computer in his bedroom, concerned that he'd spend all night logged on to graphic porn-sites. Then she discovered that Clive had laid on internet access for Robbie at his place. Shed hit the roof until Susan had shown her on the screen a record of the sites Robbie visited. It turned out he spent most of his time online playing chess against opponents on the other side of the world. There was not an incautiously garbed female in sight. True to her mother's instinct, Jane had now begun to worry that her son wasn't interested in girls.
`So, what do you reckon, Mum?'
She knew she ought to be grateful. He was a bright boy, hardworking too.
Even though some subjects bored him, he still knuckled down and did his best. And, as far as she was aware, he didn't smoke, didn't dabble with drugs or even overdose on unsuitable TV programmes. On the other hand, he avoided physical exercise wherever possible, preferred time spent in front of a computer to an hour in the park and had no female friends.
&
nbsp; `Come on, Mum. Call yourself a detective?'
Jane couldn't begin to work out the puzzle he had set her. She was no good at them. Robbie was dismayed by her regular failures. How could she solve crimes if she had no talent for lateral thinking? Jane couldn't answer that one either.
`Shall I tell you the answer?'
She admitted defeat. Ì think you'll have to.'
His eyes gleamed with triumph. Ìt's obvious. You turn on two of the switches and, after twenty seconds or so, turn one of them off again. Then you go into the corridor. One bulb will be alight - that's the switch you've left on. One bulb will be stone cold - that's the switch you haven't touched.
And the third bulb won't be lit but it will be warm - that's the one you turned on and off. Easy.'
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And so it was - now he'd explained it.
`Honestly, Mum,' he continued, eager to rub her nose in it, `you're hopeless.' He said it with just the amount of affection in his tone to defuse the insult.
As he returned to his room, she dropped her eyes to the notes on the investigation. At the rate she was going, her son wasn't the only one getting away with murder.
Marie raked over the soiled wood shavings, savouring the once-familiar fug of the stables. In the much-missed days when she'd owned a horse, she'd never minded this chore - unlike Alan, who could be so lazy when he didn't feel like doing something. Once he'd sussed that she quite liked mucking out he'd left it all to her. `Some people are born to shovel shit,' he used to say to her. `Looks like you're one of them.' Her late-lamented brother could be a right pain sometimes.
Shed turned up at Ros Bradey's yard dead on time, at half past six, cycling the mile and a bit in the damp morning darkness. She hadn't minded the early start, she was used to it after her cleaning job. And this time she was off to do a job she loved - even if it was unpaid.
Ros had welcomed her politely, if briskly, and thrown her straight into the business of mucking out boxes. There'd been shouted introductions to a couple of other girls at the same chore and Caroline, obviously Ros's senior helper, had shown her round the small, twenty-horse yard.
Now Marie was on her third box, occupied by a nervous-looking chestnut gelding with a white nose who shied away from her when she entered the stall.
She talked to the horse as she raked through his soiled bedding. Alan had told her she was a nutter when she'd behaved like that with Misty, their old horse, but she'd not been able to get out of the habit. And now it was a Godsend to have someone to chat to. So she told the chestnut gelding about the good things in her life- swapping the office-cleaning for the doctor's surgery, getting down to some proper study for her resit and now, spending some time in a stables. By the time she'd run through that there was no time to get into the not-so-good things, like the fact that Dad and Auntie Joyce were driving her up the wall and she just knew Auntie was letting him smoke on the sly, and the recently discovered information that 108
Colin was going out with a hairdresser with a pierced tummy - not that she cared, good luck to him, but she wished she hadn't heard it first from Gail.
`Tea?'
Ros was standing by the box door with a couple of mugs in her hand.
Marie looked up in surprise but Ros cut off the embarrassed apologies that sprang to her lips. `You've done a good job on these boxes.'
Marie took her tea. `Thanks. It's a while since I've mucked out.' Ànd how's he been?' Ros indicated the chestnut who was watching them closely, as if aware he was under discussion.
`Great. He thinks I'm a bit funny 'cos I haven't stopped prattling but I don't think he minds really.'
With her free hand Marie reached out to scratch the big white muzzle. The horse allowed himself to be petted.
`Who told you to clean his stall?' Ros was looking at her keenly. Ì was going to deal with him myself.'
Marie was flustered. No one had told her, she'd just assumed it had to be done. `Sorry,' she blurted.
Ros was smiling. `Don't apologise. He gave me a nasty kick the other day and he's tried to bite a couple of other girls. But you two seem made for each other.'
Òh.' Marie looked at the horse. He was licking her palm now, nuzzling into her like a great big softie.
Ros was appraising the pair of them. `How much time have you got off?’
'I'm supposed to be at the surgery by ten.' `Then you've got plenty of time to ride him.' Òh yes, please!'
`Have you done any jumping?'
Ì used to.' She'd been a medal-winning show-jumper at the age of twelve -
but she wasn't going to boast.
ÒK. I'm schooling him for a friend. I'll give you both a lesson, if you like.'
Marie certainly did like. She hadn't felt so excited for ages. Malcolm sought Toby out on the Ridgemoor gallops during second lot. It was a good spot to bend his ear with no chance of being overheard. On the other hand, he had to battle for his father's attention as the trainer kept his eye on his horses being put through their paces.
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Ì need a bit of help with Adolf,' Malcolm began. `The Beaufort people weren't too happy with the Haydock outing.'
`First time out, what did they expect?'
'That's what I said but Beverley Harris is getting her knickers in a twist.
She's trying to score points with her boss.'
Toby took his time scanning his string of horses through field glasses as they galloped across the moor. `What do you expect me to do about it?'
`Ring Barney Beaufort and reassure him. Tell him what a great prospect Adolf is.'
Toby grunted unhappily. `So you want me to lie for you?’
'I want you to put the best gloss on the situation you can manage.' Ì don't like Beaufort or his horse.'
`But you do like the money, don't you, Dad? Thirty-odd grand for soft-soaping old Barney's not a bad day's work.'
His father lowered the glasses and glared at him nastily. Malcolm ignored the venom in his look. He'd made his point - money always talked with the old man.
ÒK, I'll ring him if I must.' `Thanks, Dad.'
It was hard work sometimes but his father always came through in the end.
Chapter Six
Filthy Barrable was not as poisonous a prospect in the flesh as Jane had been led to believe. Not from a distance anyway. His hair was neat and his broad face boyish and cheerful. The cheer faded as Jane reached the table in the corner of the motorway cafe where DC Lucy Jenkins had taken him for a free fry-up. Despite her eight years' service and black belt in judo, Lucy was as wide-eyed and dimpled as a school-leaver, which made her the ideal candidate to lure Filthy into the open. Jane could, of course, have simply yanked Filthy off the street for a formal interview but sometimes the heavy hand could be counter-productive.
Àye up,' he said in a thick Yorkshire accent - as if he were an actor in a Hovis commercial, thought Jane as she took a seat next to him, cutting off the escape route to the door. Not that flight would do him much good -
he'd need a ride out of the motorway service area.
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Up close Jane realised Filthy had not been misnamed. A pungent aroma clung to him that could only be caused by serious neglect of personal hygiene. She had to force a smile as she introduced herself.
`So you're the one who's come on for Jonesie,' he said. Ì heard he'd put through his own goal.'
Lucy gave Jane a slight shake of the head. Whatever Barrable had heard about Leighton he'd not got it from her. The troubles of DO Jones, the scourge of the Lancashire drugs scene, would have been seized on eagerly by dealers and customers alike. Filthy and his friends probably had a better idea of the beleaguered detective's prospects than his colleagues.
Ì imagine you know what I'd like to discuss with you, Mr. Barrable,' said Jane.
Filthy chased the last piece of fried bread round his plate and popped it into his mouth.
'I thought you might prefer these surroundings to an interview room at the station.'
He st
ared at her as he chewed. Then swallowed. `Which,' she persisted, Ì
could easily arrange.' Finally he spoke. `Got any burn?'
Jane was still translating the request in her mind when Lucy threw a packet of cigarettes on to the table. They were enveloped by Filthy's big grimy fingers in an instant. Jane watched him strip the cellophane from the packet and jam the white tube between his lips.
Were these the hands that had squeezed the life out of Pete and Amanda?
Why not? By his own admission Barrable had been on the spot. He'd seen the money. He could have done it easily.
Filthy dragged smoke into his lungs and grinned at her. The packet had disappeared somewhere inside his stained denim jacket.
Jane knew he hadn't done it. His girlfriend had given him a lift to Pete's place and waited outside while Filthy went inside to score. After he'd done the deed the pair had driven back home to shoot up. Soon after, they'd joined in the Guy Fawkes party thrown by the students next door. He was solidly alibied from 9.30 pm until the early hours of the next morning.
Even supposing he had committed the murders and torched the house, that meant the fire would have burned for another ninety minutes before the 111
alarm was raised - most unlikely according to the fire experts she'd talked to.
In any case, Filthy had told them about the money which was presumed missing. Why would he do that if he'd stolen it? And why would he invent the money if it didn't exist? He might be a smelly individual but no one thought he was stupid. As far as this enquiry went he was of considerable importance. In any trial his testimony was going to be crucial.
So it was in a tone of scrupulous politeness that Jane asked if he would mind running through the events of the evening of last 5 November once again, for her personal benefit. Ì would really appreciate it,' she added softly.
He appeared to give the matter some thought. Àll right,' he said finally and began his tale.