by Gwyn GB
Inside the small forensics tent, Dr Andrew Marshall crouched beside the victim, watched by two forensics officers, DS James, and Harrison.
‘Rigor mortis present in the entire body. Cooling will have been impacted by his light build and having been left outside overnight, but I’d say you’re looking at some time around midnight. Ready to turn him over?’ Dr Marshall asked his audience.
Carefully, they flipped the body on to a plastic sheet that had been placed alongside, on top of a board that would be used to carry him to the white morgue transport van. Once there, he’d be reacquainted with Dr Marshall. The sheet would be used to protect the body and ensure any evidence which came with it was retained and not lost to the surrounding mud.
The ground was so wet that although there was a layer of mud on the victim’s face; it was thin and watery enough for Harrison to see that he was a man and not the teenager his body had first indicated. His face wasn’t the purple he’d have expected from the blood settling after lying face down post-death. It was wax like. He looked almost inhuman, a plastic mannequin discarded. It was obvious to all those present why his pallor was so pale and transparent. There was a deep hole where the man’s heart should have been. Someone had ripped his top open so that it looked like he was only wearing the black waterproof jacket, making the contrast of his skin even more pronounced.
There were two other things which drew Harrison’s eye. The first was the rope burn around his neck, and the crucial clue was the small V-shaped bone hung around his throat on a leather string. It started to make some sense.
‘My God!’ exclaimed DS James. ‘They’ve cut his heart out. It’s Paul Lester, the jockey.’
Another clue for Harrison, but he needed to check one more thing.
‘Could you look in his pockets for some kind of small bottle that’s perhaps been smashed or broken somehow?’
The forensics officers looked at him nonplussed, and then at DS James. He nodded at them to do as Harrison had asked.
‘Look for some ID, would you, and his phone too?’ Mark added.
Carefully, they felt inside the man’s jacket. There was nothing in the front pockets, but as they opened up his jacket to look inside, Harrison smelt it. The others did too, although they didn’t know what it was.
‘Careful,’ Harrison said.
‘Are you expecting a dangerous substance in the bottle?’ DS James asked.
‘No, the contents are safe. I’m just concerned it might be glass.’
The female forensics officer slowly put her gloved hand inside the first inner pocket. It was empty apart from a tissue which she placed in an evidence bag. Then she checked the final pocket, but withdrew her hand quickly as though she’d been burnt.
‘There’s broken glass in there,’ she said and looked to Harrison for instruction and with a little admiration for the fact he’d known it was there.
‘Thanks, that’s all I needed to know.’
Those around him exchanged further glances and the odd eyebrow raise, before continuing with carefully bagging the victim’s hands to protect any evidence under his fingernails and getting the body ready to move.
Harrison stepped outside the tent. A few moments later, DS James joined him.
‘You’re onto something?’ he asked. ‘How did you know there’d be a broken bottle?’
Harrison was staring off towards where they’d parked, deep in thought. He ignored the DS’s question.
‘He wasn’t killed here,’ he said, turning to look at the detective beside him. DS James looked like he hadn’t slept much last night. No time to shave this morning, and his shirt underneath his suit wasn’t ironed. He’d obviously been pulled out of bed early to come to the crime scene.
‘The marks on his neck. Could be strangulation, but could be hanging. I’ve got officers checking the area,’ he said.
‘I’m pretty sure you’ll find he was hanged, but not here. At least, not anywhere close. He was brought here. There are footprints which lead from the lane. He was carried in some kind of wheelbarrow. You can see the tyre print.’
‘I know where he lives. We’d better get round there next, see if that’s our murder scene. What’s with the horseshoes and the cutting out of his heart?’
‘He’s a Toadman,’ Harrison replied.
‘Toadman?’
Harrison suspected more, but at this stage wasn’t 100 percent sure, and so he chose not to share anything more with DS James. They needed to focus on what was fact.
‘Toadmen are part of the folklore around here.’
‘Folklore! What’s that to do with a modern race horse jockey?’
‘It’s not unheard of that some people revive the tradition,’ Harrison replied.
None of this was making sense to DS James. ‘Are you saying it’s some kind of cult killing?’
‘I think someone who believed he possessed magical powers killed him and brought here him. Someone who believes in witchcraft and the so-called pact with the devil that Toadmen are sometimes assumed to have.’
‘OK, you know what, I’ve no idea what you’re saying here. We need to get to Paul’s address. He lives alone. After that, we need to head back to the incident room and brief the team. Could you come with me and give us a briefing? We all need to understand what this is about.’
Harrison nodded. He could tell DS James was highly sceptical. The detective started walking, then stopped and turned to him.
‘You’re sure of this stuff, right? It’s going to sound like a load of hocus pocus nonsense to my team.’
Harrison smiled.
‘It is, unless you happen to believe in it and then it’s very real.’
‘OK.’ DS James nodded, but Harrison waited. There was something else on the police officer’s mind. It showed in the furrows of his forehead and the set of his lips, and it was the reason he’d called him here, despite his sceptical views.
‘The ponies.’ The detective nodded towards the group of horses which they could still see, silhouetted against the grey light of the sky. ‘It’s weird. They were here when he was found and haven’t left. It’s almost like they’re standing guard over the body—’ His voice trailed off. He wouldn’t have said that in front of his team, but it was the same words the ranger and first police officer on the scene, had used. It had given him the creeps, especially now he knew the victim was a jockey. Harrison smiled.
‘And that, DS James, is exactly the kind of hocus pocus trickery that makes people believe they’re seeing something they’re not. I’ll follow your car on my bike.’
Mark James found himself left with his mouth half open for the second time since meeting Harrison Lane. He was teasing him. He knew it. He silently cursed the man, but quickly followed his fast receding back.
He couldn’t see the curve of a smile that had appeared on Harrison’s lips. He’d put the DS out of his misery at the briefing.
4
Harrison followed Mark James’s unmarked car through the lanes that surrounded the Fen and closer to Newmarket. They drove through the village of Wicken, which began with an uninspiring collection of modern bungalows and old style cottages and houses. The Methodist chapel stood at the roadside, neat and simple in its faith. Further on and a quaint village green and pub appeared on the left-hand side and, as they exited the other end of the village, the houses became more affluent and established. The stone Church of England building rose up on the right of the road, that was flanked by graveyards. They were neat, tidy places of burial, understated and open to the skies, not like the overgrown Victorian grandiosity of Nunhead Cemetery that haunted Harrison’s mind. He pushed those thoughts away. He needed to stay focused on this case.
Then mile on mile of flat farmland, brown and green patchwork, edged with sage coloured woollen clumps of trees. Through this landscape, the A1123 was carved. Into Soham, a town forever darkened by the murders of two young girls in 2002. They travelled on into a light industrial area with warehousing, before once again trees lined t
he road. DS James’s car turned off and took smaller roads and cut-throughs. It was clear he knew this area well, weaving through the countryside without hesitation. Before long, large properties with immaculately fenced paddocks started to appear on the outskirts of Newmarket, and the telltale white rails of gallops showed through hedging.
Mark James indicated, and they pulled in through large gates, carrying a stylish black and white sign that declared they were entering Three Oaks Stables. Paddocks ran either side of the entrance drive. To his right, Harrison saw mares with gangly legged foals. The youngsters’ ears pricked and rotated to the sound of his bike engine. Then they bucked and gambled around their mothers, who had stopped their grazing to watch the strange beast throttle into their domain. A few scenarios flashed through Harrison’s mind. A horse bucking off its rider, another panicking and escaping onto the road. He reduced the bike engine to its minimum and looked for the first place he could pull over and park up.
DS James disappeared between two large barn ends, which Harrison guessed would be full of horse boxes. He pulled the Harley over and took off his helmet, before walking the rest of the way into the yard. A dozen horse heads on either side turned in his direction, their breeding and pedigree evident in the line of their noses and sheen of their coats. He was obviously of no threat or interest because they soon tossed their heads and looked away, or disappeared inside their dark boxes. He spotted Mark at the other end of the yard, just getting out of his car.
Harrison had barely walked halfway through the yard towards him when a man in a Three Oaks Stables jacket and baseball cap appeared from the end of the block.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ He addressed Harrison only and didn’t even glance Mark’s way.
Harrison presumed the man knew well enough he didn’t have an appointment. The question wasn’t said rudely, but it was loaded in readiness for whatever came next; and the look on his face said he didn’t think Harrison could possibly have any business being in his yard.
He looked at the man. Around the height of an average jockey but with more weight on him, still a whisp of a man compared to his own solid, muscular frame. He was spotless, not a scrap of hay dust or horse hair on him, and he was clearly used to being in control. Harrison weighed him up. He didn’t have the confidence and authority of an owner, but was obviously a manager of some form. The man was about to say something else when Mark walked up to them.
‘Scott.’ He reached out a hand to Harrison’s inquisitor.
‘Mark, good to see you. You, after Richard?’
Harrison noted the red tinged fingertips of a nail biter. It was immediately obvious the men knew each other well.
‘I am. Is he at the house?’
‘No, the pool barn.’
‘Thanks, and this is Dr Harrison Lane. He’s with me. Harrison, Scott Smith, is Head Lad here, I won’t keep him long, Scott.’ DS James moved off round the end of the left barn and Harrison followed.
Scott barely acknowledged him, but took Mark’s word and seemed placated by what he’d said. If he’d been a Jack Russell terrier, Harrison would see the fur on the back of his neck starting to flatten, and the growling cease. Before he disappeared round the end of the barn in Mark’s wake, Harrison watched as Scott walked over to one of the boxes and flicked the bolt head down flat. He wondered if that was a reflection on the horse or the man.
‘Scott runs the place like clockwork,’ qualified Mark, as he pushed open the door to a large modern barn. What greeted Harrison was not what he’d been expecting. A huge oval pool filled the barn, and two horses were swimming along on opposite sides, both in head collars and leads, a groom walking along with them outside of the pool. In the middle of the pool was a man in green corduroys, a jumper and flat cap, standing on a raised platform above the water. All three wore Three Oaks Stables branded jackets. The man in the centre of the pool turned to see who had entered.
‘Mark!’ He raised a hand in greeting. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’
‘Richard, I need a quick chat. Here in my professional capacity I’m afraid.’
Richard’s face changed and Harrison could see his eyes scanning Mark’s and checking his own for some signs of what they might be there for. He gave some instructions to the two grooms and then placed a drawbridge over the pool to step across and down onto the barn floor so he could walk towards them.
‘What’s this about, then?’ he said as he drew up to them. He was a man who clearly led an active outdoor life. Healthy skin over a body that didn’t appear to carry any excess weight, but he enjoyed his life. The laughter lines around his mouth and eyes were evidence of that.
‘This is Richard Carter, successful racehorse trainer, owner of this stable, and my cousin,’ Mark said, turning to Harrison. The unspoken meaning of the latter statement, in terms of the investigation, was clear on Mark’s face. This was his first SIO role, and now looked like it might be his shortest. If their murder victim was in any way connected to his cousin, then he wouldn’t be able to continue with the case for conflict of interest reasons. It was also obvious that Mark wasn’t going to let go of the reins just yet. He’d have to be absolutely sure there was a conflict first.
‘Richard, this is my colleague, Dr Harrison Lane, from the Met police. Let’s go somewhere more private,’ Mark said, leading his cousin with a hand on his back, out of the pool barn.
‘We have reason to be concerned for the welfare of Paul Lester,’ he started.
Harrison knew he was treading carefully. Next of kin hadn’t yet been informed and ID positively confirmed. Mark was absolutely certain it was Paul, but they didn’t want this leaking out yet.
‘Paul?’ Richard spun round in surprise. ‘Saw him yesterday. He was on good form. Took one of the horses out on exercise in the morning. Haven’t seen him today.’ He looked at his cousin. The men clearly knew each other very well because it didn’t take him long to realise that Mark had to stay tight-lipped. He didn’t push the point.
‘We need to take a look in his cottage, if that’s OK?’ Mark said gently.
‘Sure. I’ll get the spare key, give me a minute.’ Richard walked off towards the large brick-built house which ran along the northern border.
Harrison waited with Mark in the yard. The DS was on his phone and checking in with the team for updates, while Harrison looked around him. There were security cameras in several places. He calculated they were situated to cover every inch of the place. Racehorses were expensive beasts and nobody wanted another Shergar.
As he stood there, the two horses which had been in the pool were led past him, clip clopping on the tiled yard floor. Water still dripped from their bellies, veins bulked across the surface and down their legs. Muscular thighs rippled in wet skin. They were beautiful animals. In top condition, athletes of the equine world. The grooms individually led the pair into two stables with large lights in the ceiling.
Richard came back to see Harrison staring at the last horse’s rump disappearing into its box.
‘Solarium. It warms and dries them after the swim,’ he said to him. ‘Here we go.’ He turned to Mark, holding out the keys.
Harrison carried on taking in this strange new world around him, one where horses went for an afternoon swim and chilled out in solariums. He wondered if the stables offered them massages and manicures, too.
‘The CCTV cameras, do you keep recordings?’ Harrison asked.
‘Yes of course. We’ve got ten of them covering every inch of the yard.’
‘So they’d have captured Paul coming and going?’
‘No, unfortunately. There’s another lane the cottage uses for access. We don’t want unnecessary traffic through the yard.’
Harrison nodded.
‘The cottage is this way.’
They walked behind one of the barns, past a smaller building which said ‘Tack Room’ and round the back where there was an old hay barn tucked away that had been converted into staff accommo
dation. The conversion was an old one, and the building looked tired. Harrison thought back to the horses in their state-of-the-art boxes, while their grooms had to make do.
‘We’ve just started some renovation work on the staff accommodation,’ Richard said to the men, as if he’d heard Harrison’s thoughts. As they rounded the corner, a pile of builders’ materials was in front of them.
‘I’m impressed by the high standards of accommodation your horses have,’ Harrison said.
‘I’m a little OCD when it comes to the horses.’ Richard smiled. ‘But you have to be. They’re put in my care and some of them are worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. We have to be on top of everything.’
They walked round the back of the hay barn, to where there was an area of paddocks. Across these, Harrison saw a small cottage, sat on its own. This was their destination.
‘Where does Paul keep his car?’ Mark asked his cousin as they walked.
‘Out front. It’s always here when he’s at home.’
Mark and Harrison both knew Paul wasn’t at home. Question was, where had he parked his car because it wasn’t outside the cottage.
‘Thanks, Richard, we’ll take it from here.’ Mark smiled reassuringly at his cousin and put his hand out for the key. ‘And please, not a word to anyone. Not until we’ve confirmed a few things and spoken to Paul’s family.’
‘I don’t understand it,’ Richard started, obviously upset. ‘He has everything to live for, he’s doing really well. I mean, I’ve seen the pressure get to some of the lads, you know the need to keep their weight down and keep on winning. But Paul, he’s talented. A rising star.’
‘I can’t say anything, Rich,’ Mark said quietly.
‘Of course, of course, but if we can do anything, you know if you need a search party or something, I can raise a lot of people.’
‘Thanks, we’ll be back in touch. Someone will be along to interview you.’
Richard nodded and turned to leave. ‘I’ll be at the house.’
They waited for him to head back, and then Mark and Harrison walked the last fifty yards alone.