Cambridge Blue

by Alison Bruce

  A rug hung over the open door to the third loose box, and he headed towards it. ‘Hello?’ he called.

  No reply.

  He looked inside but it was empty. He continued along the row and found the seventh stable was the only one occupied. A chestnut gelding, with the name Jester on his head collar, poked his nose over the door. Then, in the distance, Goodhew heard the bay whinny again and was soon able to pick out the sound of hooves. Unlike the others, the horse that was now being ridden into the yard was a thoroughbred. She was a grey and definitely no youngster, walking towards the boxes with the reins hanging loose around her neck. A Border collie trotted alongside, only inches from her hooves.

  Her rider wore a crash hat and a wax jacket with its collar turned up, making it impossible for him to catch more than a glimpse of her face.

  ‘Jackie Moran?’ he asked doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. Give me one minute to sort Suze out.’ She patted the mare’s neck, then swung out of the saddle, landing lightly on the balls of her feet. She led the horse into the third box as the collie sat with its back to Goodhew in the middle of the doorway and watched the untacking. Jackie Moran rugged up Suze, then hauled the saddle on to the door and hooked the bridle on a nearby peg. Neither animal attempted to move until the collie was forced to get out of the path of the closing door.

  ‘Which way today, Bridy?’ The dog chose the stable and Jackie Moran slid the bolt behind her. ‘She’s a lazy old girl, sleeps half the day now.’

  Goodhew guessed she meant the dog.

  ‘They’re both the same,’ she added, immediately making his guess irrelevant. ‘How can I help you?’ Before he had a chance to reply, she corrected herself, and thus drew an end to her initial informality. ‘I suppose what I should first find out is who you are and what you want.’ She pulled the crash hat from her head and ran her fingers just once through her brown hair, as if that would be enough to unflatten it.

  He introduced himself and her expression remained unaltered: cooperative, but not up for having her time wasted. She didn’t need to say ‘Get on with it’, because it was written on her face.

  ‘I’m here about Lorna Spence.’

  ‘Thought you might be,’ she said. Perhaps she’d taken stock of him taking stock of her, and she deliberately paused before adding, ‘You’re very young, aren’t you?’, like it was the only thing she’d found worth a mention.

  He just shrugged in response.

  ‘We can sit in there.’ She pointed towards the first stable in the block. ‘Will that be OK?’ She looked hopeful; whatever was in the horsebox-cum-lounge clearly appealed to her. ‘At least it’s dry.’

  ‘Fine.’ He gave her the ‘after you’ gesture. ‘Go ahead.’

  She unbolted both halves of the stable door and he followed her inside. The horsebox-cum-lounge was actually more a horsebox-cum-storeroom with bales of hay and straw, two feed bins and a pile of buckets. She then closed the bottom half of the door – perhaps in the pretence of warmth – and moved two bales so they could sit on them, almost side by side, facing the door.

  ‘I take the tack and grooming kit home each night to reduce the chance of break-ins. When I was a teenager, I used to bring a sleeping bag and camp out in here, so I could get up early and ride, but I’d never do that now.’

  They each sat on a bale, Jackie with her feet planted squarely in front of her, and one hand on each knee; she looked like she was bracing herself.

  ‘Lorna Spence?’ Goodhew repeated, and let the name hang in the air, hoping she’d conjure up the appropriate question that went with the name. She did.

  ‘We weren’t close friends, you know, but I liked her and we seemed to get on OK. She helped me exercise the horses once or twice each week.’

  ‘She rode well?’

  ‘Very riding-school.’ He looked puzzled, she explained. ‘She’d been taught well, but obviously hadn’t ridden enough to be an unconsciously competent horsewoman. I think she would have struggled with Suze, but she was fine on Jester. Suze looks docile right now, but she’s smart, and she’d have played up. She always sees through people.’

  ‘Is that a hint?’

  A defensive note slipped into her voice. ‘I don’t hint; I either say it or keep it to myself. Lorna was competent, but not expert. Suze is a retired racehorse; she was highly strung in her day and animals like that are well aware of who they can take advantage of. And that was all I meant.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Richard and Alice Moran, so I’m already aware of her connection to the rest of your family.’

  Goodhew tried to see behind her defiant look. He had the distinct feeling that she chose to keep her thoughts to herself far more often than she vented them. Reticence was no ugly trait, just one he didn’t have the luxury of letting her indulge in right now.

  But she seemed to open up a bit whenever she talked about her horse, and if that meant he had to take a metaphorical canter round the paddock to get over each metaphorical hurdle, that was fine by him.

  Jackie ran her nail up and down the double-stitched outer seam of her jodhpurs. It was the kind of action that reminded him of a schoolgirl chewing a pencil or twirling her hair. Distracted, and insecure.

  ‘Tell me about Suze,’ he asked gently.

  Her gaze darted up and directly met his. Her face softened, and for the first time he saw what appeared to be a genuine smile. ‘She’s really called Souza Symphony – that was her racing name. My dad owned part shares in her, but she only ran a few times. She wasn’t quite quick enough. She was fast, actually, but we’re talking about a tenth of a second here and there making all the difference. That picture behind you . . .’ She pointed to the back of the stable door, where a photocopy of a press clipping was pinned. ‘That was the only thing she ever won. Beginner’s luck, my mother said.’

  There were two people pictured alongside the horse. One was the jockey. Goodhew read the caption: ‘Souza Symphony, winner of the 5F Yearling Handicap, pictured with jockey Brendan Quinn and owner Mrs Sarah Moran.’ If Jackie Moran had tried to dress up as a grinning Dynasty extra, this would undoubtedly have been the result. ‘That’s her, then?’

  ‘I remember how Mum took us on summer holidays to Bournemouth, then abandoned us at the hotel for the day while she drove to Brighton to watch her run. Dad came down a few days later, and they had this huge row about it.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘1982, can’t you tell by the clothes? Suze is a real old girl now, and I’m glad Mum went that day. She was thrilled. Suze went on to have a couple of foals, then I talked Dad into letting me keep her. I suppose it’s silly to have two horses all to myself, but it’s how I like to spend my time.’

  ‘Do you work as well?’

  ‘I inherited this place and the cottage I live in, so there’s no rent or mortgage. I’m paid to look after the three horses there in the field and I give riding lessons at the weekend. That’s it. I’d love to do this place up properly, but I don’t think it’ll happen somehow. I’m not one of our family’s high-flyers, am I?’ Her smile reappeared, but he thought it now looked artificially bright.

  ‘If you spent a lot of time with Lorna, I would have thought you’d have come forward. Why didn’t you?’ He threw in the question, hoping to catch her more off guard now.

  Her eyes narrowed and the smile hardened. ‘Time to get down to business, I suppose?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, first off, thanks for letting me chat about Suze, I needed an ice-breaker. I find it hard to talk to most people.’ She was quite obviously stalling. ‘I suppose that’s why I like it out here.’ She paused, her stalling stalled. A few more seconds passed before she spoke again. ‘I can cope one to one, like this, but not with big groups of people, or in unfamiliar places. It’s pathetic, I know.’ Jackie said it in such a matter-of-fact way that at first he wondered if there was any truth in what she was saying.

  ‘And secondly?’

  ‘Secondly, I d
idn’t want to give myself stress and waste my time on you lot if you were going to squander it, so I decided to let you find me if you thought it important enough.’

  ‘That could be withholding evidence.’

  ‘That’s bollocks.’

  ‘Bollocks?’

  ‘There’s nothing to withhold. We rode horses together sometimes, so what’s the big deal.’

  ‘How did you meet her – was it through Richard or Alice or the clinic?’

  ‘No way. Lorna found me by accident. She just wanted somewhere to ride, and called in here to ask.’

  ‘A coincidence?’

  ‘In theory, but I don’t think so. I’m fairly sure she engineered it. That would be very much like her, you know. Lorna liked to make things happen by chance, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘And you became friends with her?’

  ‘It sounds worse than I’m sure it was, but I think she thought she could bring us all closer together. She hoped to marry Richard, and maybe she was picturing being nice and close to her new “sisters” too.’

  ‘Was it working?’

  ‘It was a non-starter.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I guess we’re just not that kind of family.’

  ‘Richard and Alice seem very close.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve always thought they seemed like a healthy example of siblingdom.’ She smiled at her own sarcasm, then shook her head and looked away. ‘But not my thing.’ She changed the subject quickly. ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

  ‘One sister.’

  ‘And do you live together . . . thought not. They live together and work together.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And I couldn’t imagine either of those two marrying somehow. Wouldn’t that just make their status quo wobble too much?’ She shifted topic without pausing. ‘The stables belonged to my mother. And, as well as the cottage, I was left a third share of the family house. Have you been there yet?’

  He nodded. ‘Interesting property.’

  ‘It’s a monster. My mother never liked it either. Perhaps I’ll sell up here, start over somewhere else. It’s not like Alice and Richard would miss me. In fact, they’d probably love to buy me out. I know that’s what my dad wanted for me. Secretly I think he would have liked it if I’d been more academic, but he let me carry on down here. He’d drop by sometimes, bring a flask with him. When it was raining we’d sit in here, or in his car, and we’d just talk.

  ‘He’d always ask me loads of questions, always checking if I was happy. I knew he was dying, though, even before the others did – ironic when they work in medicine, don’t you think?

  ‘He came here last June when it was a perfect summer’s day. Warm but breezy, leaves rustling, fluffy clouds – all that shit. In fact, just the way they make England look in tourist adverts. And I looked at him and realized his skin had taken on that horrible greyness, the one people get when they’re seriously ill. I had the strong feeling then that it wouldn’t be long.’

  Goodhew’s mobile bleeped and he quickly read the message. ‘My colleague DC Kincaide will be here in a minute.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about. We were originally coming together but he’s running late.’

  ‘That’s overkill.’

  ‘It’s just procedure.’

  ‘No, just to talk to one person about a dead acquaintance? That would definitely be overkill. So you want me for more than this, don’t you?’

  Astute.

  Goodhew couldn’t decide how to answer, but she didn’t seem to be waiting for a reply.

  ‘I don’t know who Emma is, by the way,’ she said.

  ‘How . . .’ He stopped himself there, realizing the answer. ‘Last night’s paper?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he checked.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She stood and moved to the half-open door, resting her elbow on top of the lower part. She was staring across to the car park. ‘So what’s your partner like?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No, I mean what does he look like? There’s a bloke getting out of a dark-blue saloon. He’s in a suit.’

  ‘That’ll be him.’

  ‘He won’t want to sit in here in that neat suit, will he?’

  Goodhew rose to his feet and joined her in the doorway. ‘Good point.’

  She returned to sit on her bale. ‘Actually, I’d like to stay in here, if you don’t mind.’

  He knew that so far, his meeting with Jackie had been casual, unstructured, and nothing like his training recommended. He also felt it had as much potential for proving productive as any other approach.

  Goodhew waved out at Kincaide to show him where they were. His colleague carried an A4 document wallet, which he held over his head as he made a dash for the shelter of the stable overhang. He half walked, half ran, trying to avoid getting splashes on his trouser legs. The suggestion that he now sit on a hay bale was going to go down very badly.

  Jackie had seemed to relax, and Goodhew didn’t want to lose this opportunity to talk to her easily. He guessed with Kincaide’s arrival, her earlier stiffness was set to return. There were no more than ten seconds before Kincaide would make it through the door. Goodhew turned to face Jackie, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘So, tell me about Colin Willis.’

  The guard she’d begun to drop flew back into place, but for a split second she looked betrayed. Her whole body had given a sharp and involuntary jolt; if his words were bullets, she’d just been shot.

  Kincaide had drawn to a halt right next to the RAV4. He’d driven slowly down the track, trying to avoid mud splashes on his paintwork, only to find the so-called car park was nothing but mud ruts full of silty water. No doubt the air would be hanging heavy with the stench of horse shit.

  He soon spotted the manure heap; it was at the far end of the yard, but it was large and steam was rising from it at an unhealthy pace. He opened his door and found that even curling up his nose did not improve the smell. Yep. Definite shit in the air.

  One look at this place told him that he’d be adding a dry-cleaning bill to his expenses.

  He grabbed an empty plastic folder from the pocket at the back of the passenger seat and used it as a makeshift brolly as he dashed towards the stables. Goodhew waved at him from one of the boxes and, inwardly, Kincaide groaned; what a fucking dump, not even an office.

  He just hoped there wasn’t a horse in there as well.

  There wasn’t, thank God. Goodhew and Jackie Moran were sitting together on straw bales and it didn’t look like the place even possessed a chair.

  In all honesty, neither of them seemed too concerned for his comfort. But Goodhew was still new to the job and might be pissed off with him for arriving late, and if this Moran girl spent most of her time down on the farm, she probably didn’t know any better.

  She appeared to be one of those women who wasn’t basically unattractive, but did absolutely nothing to improve her looks. Her hair was unsightly, Plain Jane brown and unkempt, and why did some women think that make-up wasn’t important? No wonder she was single, with just a herd of donkeys for company. Aside from that, though she wasn’t in bad shape – petite, but with nicely rounded breasts and an all-over lack of flabbiness that he approved of.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Goodhew asked him.

  ‘Yeah, absolutely.’ He studied Jackie Moran for a moment or two: she looked sly. Hiding something, no doubt. He made no effort to smile. ‘How far have you got, Gary?’

  ‘Just idle chit-chat. We thought we’d wait for you. Miss Moran’s been telling me about the horses kept here. One of them used to race.’

  Whoopdee fucking doo. Kincaide made no comment, but couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling. There were times when moments of blinding dimness like this made him wonder if Goodhew was just putting on an act. Didn’t the bloke have a single ounce of initiative?

  Kincaide shook Jackie Moran’s hand, making sure he pressed hard enough t
o assert his authority. ‘I’m sure DC Goodhew managed to explain already that we’re investigating the murder of Lorna Spence?’

  Jackie Moran just nodded and stared him. He cast a glance in Gary’s direction, but the younger man was avoiding looking him in the eye. Jackie continued to stare.

  ‘I’d like you to come into Parkside station to make a statement.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’ she asked.

  He was gratified to see that her eyes widened on cue, and he imagined that the accompanying gulp must have been close to audible.

  ‘I don’t think this is a suitable place for an interview as our questioning may take several hours,’ he paused, before adding with a flourish, ‘We’re especially interested to know about your connection with Colin Willis.’

  Her expression remained unchanged and, more disappointingly, she didn’t even turn pale.

  A bit of a let-down. He sniffed. Maybe he’d played that trump card just a bit too early. ‘We’ll bring you back here for your vehicle once we’ve finished.’

  ‘I can drive. I can’t leave my dog here.’

  Kincaide felt his forehead wrinkle involuntarily: he certainly wasn’t up for having some scabby old dog in his car. ‘OK, follow me. And when we get there, bring the animal in with you. We’d like to take a fur sample while we’re at it.’

  He smiled: this time she had definitely gone pale.

  Three cars drove in convoy back to Parkside station; Kincaide led and Goodhew brought up the rear. Jackie’s dog stared at him through the back window of her vehicle, and even though he stared back, his thoughts were really on Kincaide.

  In Goodhew’s opinion, there was nothing about Jackie Moran that had needed his colleague adopting the aggressive approach.

  Bridy finally turned away from the glass and shifted around in a circle before flopping down out of sight. Having said that, if this was the same dog whose choke chain had been used to kill Colin Willis, it might be enough to justify Kincaide’s full-on approach.