by Gwyn GB
‘Ketamine?’ Jack queried.
‘They found ketamine in one of his horses’s bloods prior to a race meet about a week ago. No one was massively surprised. He’s not got the greatest reputation round here. It’s a sedative and used by vets to tranquillise horses. There’s gossip about race fixing, but I’ve no idea if that’s true.’
‘I’ve come across ketamine, or Special K, Donkey Dust or Kit Kat, whatever it’s being called, among club goers. I’ve seen people KO’d by it and ending up with a catheter for life because it wrecked their bladder,’ Jack said. ‘It’s strong stuff, but you quickly develop a tolerance and users end up needing more and more. Is it used locally as a recreational drug?’
Gabby shrugged.
‘I know some people take it, it’s cheaper than some of the other stuff, but just to be clear, Paul never did drugs.’
Jack nodded now.
‘Did you know Paul received an invitation to go to a meeting of The Horsemen the day he was killed?’ asked Harrison.
There it went again, the tightening of her jaw.
‘No. He didn’t say anything.’ Gabby replied curtly.
‘Did you ever know when he was getting the invites? Did he show them to you?’
‘No.’
‘Did you not want to join?’ Harrison asked.
Gabby looked him in the face.
‘It was men only. Some crap about it being traditional. But there are lots of things that were traditional, doesn’t mean it’s right.’
‘So you wanted to join?’ Harrison pressed.
Gabby shrugged and looked away, taking a deep breath and sitting up rigidly. Harrison didn’t miss the body language.
‘Do you know who’s in the group?’ Jack asked now.
‘Not for sure, no. Like I said, Paul wouldn’t talk about it with me. I think membership was supposed to be secret.’
‘Could you hazard a guess as to who might be involved?’ Jack pushed.
‘Well, an obvious one would be Craig, Craig Matlock, they’re always in each other’s pockets. He’s the first number Paul dials when he wants to go out for a drink.’ Gabby thought for a few moments. ‘Plus, possibly Luke Spencer and Harvey Ball. He hung out with them a lot at race meets, but I don’t even know how many were in the group.’
‘That’s helpful. They might know something so it’s important we speak to them,’ said Jack.
‘This might sound like a strange question, but bear with me. Did Paul know anyone who was particularly superstitious or a bit OCD about things?’ Harrison asked.
‘There’re quite a few OCD jockeys. You have to be to make sure you stay the right weight, plus most of us have our good luck charms or routines. Can’t think of anyone who is overly superstitious though.’
‘Do you?’ Harrison asked.
‘Do I what?’
‘Have your good luck charms and routines?’
Gabby’s eyes flickered over his face, looking for the motivation behind his question.
‘Nothing major,’ she replied, ‘just the usual stuff.’
‘Sorry, what is the usual stuff?’ Jack asked now.
‘You know, not letting my hat or reins touch the ground before a race and carrying a lucky charm. Some people have to get dressed in a certain order. I don’t like to see a single magpie on the way, my mum taught me that. One for sorrow.’
‘That’s quite a few superstitions,’ Harrison said.
Gabby shrugged again and looked at him as if to say so what?
‘Is there anybody else who Paul might have had an issue with?’ Jack asked.
‘He was popular, people liked him. They admired him. He was so good with horses. Someone might have been jealous of that, but there’s no one in particular. Sorry, no.’
‘That’s OK, you’ve been very helpful.’ Jack smiled reassuringly at her and threw a glance at Harrison to see if he had any more questions.
‘Thank you for your time and sorry for your loss,’ Harrison said, and rose from the chair to leave. Jack quickly drunk his coffee.
‘Actually, now I think about it,’ Gabby suddenly said. ‘Gavin Simons is quite superstitious, he’s Irish and I remember seeing him with shamrocks and horseshoes on his hat at one of the race meets. Also, I heard he has some weird ritual he does before each race, but I can’t remember what it is.’
‘Thank you,’ Jack replied. ‘That’s very useful to know.’
As Jack and Harrison walked down the front path, Jack turned round and looked at the house. Harrison raised his eyebrows quizzically at him.
‘I’m thinking it’s not too difficult to climb out your bedroom window onto that porch and disappear off without your parents realising you’re not still in bed sleeping.’ Jack said to Harrison.
‘Agreed. She also wasn’t a fan of The Horsemen, that was clear from her body language.’
‘I don’t think we can ignore Gabby Peterson as a potential suspect. Our list is getting longer,’ Jack said with a sigh.
20
It wasn’t a difficult decision as to where to go next. Gavin Simons hadn’t been on the suspects board back at the incident room, but after what Gabby had told them, Harrison and Jack were very interested in talking to him.
Jack phoned in to speak to DS O’Neil, who didn’t seem all that interested in what he had to say.
‘We’ve had to release Craig Matlock, he’s still refusing to tell us who the other Horsemen are. We’ve also found out that Richard Carter, the owner of Three Oaks Stables, has prior for assault. We’re pushing him up the list,’ the DS told Jack. He was on speakerphone and Harrison rolled his eyes at the tone of his voice.
‘Anything to get one over on DS James I think,’ said Harrison, once they’d finished the call. ‘The man has a massive inferiority complex which is probably why he drinks.’
‘I drink because I like it,’ smirked Jack. ‘Why have you never had a drink? Your life so black and white and stress-less that you don’t need to let your hair down?’
‘I haven’t said I’ve never had a drink,’ Harrison said seriously. ‘I went through a phase of using alcohol as an emotional crutch. It didn’t get me anywhere, just made things worse. I don’t miss it, and I don’t like losing control.’
‘Really? I would never have said that,’ Jack replied in a friendly but sarcastic mutter.
Harrison chose to ignore him.
When they arrived at Belle View Stables, the contrast with Three Oaks was immediately obvious to Harrison. Even the sign carrying the stable name was tacky, carrying the message that everyone can be a racehorse owner. All you had to do was join the Belle View Club. The stable block was tired and there was no pool or solarium here. It comprised four rows of stables, with a large building that housed the tack room, staff room, and feed store. It was more like the standard stables that Harrison had been to before, more chilled, but undoubtedly less money flowed through its yard. The staff seemed younger too, no matching livery for the grooms. They wore jeans or jodhpurs. A sign for ‘Office’ pointed towards the house, and that’s where the two men headed.
Jack knocked, and they entered into an untidy melee of office and horse racing. The walls were full of photographs, mostly of the man who sat behind the big desk in front of them, standing next to various racehorses. Piles of paperwork, books, and an assortment of riding equipment were stacked around the edges of the room. Plus, there was a large neon green leprechaun and a top hat smothered in Irish shamrocks, and fake horseshoes. Almost certainly the hat which Gabby had mentioned. The large wooden desk itself was relatively tidy and as they approached, the man behind it jumped up with an extended hand of welcome.
‘Mr Simons?’ Jack asked.
‘Yes, Mr Wilson?’ he replied, and then didn’t wait for the answer. ‘You’re a little early. I was going to have one of my team meet you, but welcome.’ He was a well-built man with a large bulldog head, thick neck, and close-cropped hair. He looked more like a rugby prop forward than the jockey he’d once been.
&nbs
p; ‘Ah no, sorry, I’m DS Jack Salter and this is Dr Harrison Lane. We’re investigating the murder of Paul Lester.’
Gavin Simons’s hand shot back as though he’d been burned. The change in his face was unmistakable, and although he tried to regain his composure, both Harrison and Jack noticed the sudden panic.
‘I see, well I’ve got an appointment in,’ he checked his watch, ‘fifteen minutes. It’s a very important business meeting and I can’t miss it.’
‘That’s all right, Mr Simons, we won’t keep you. We just have a few questions to ask.’
Gavin Simons was clearly running through the scenarios in his mind. What he should say, what he shouldn’t say, what if he refused to say anything. In the end he plonked back down in his chair wearily and motioned for Jack and Harrison to take a seat.
‘I’m not sure if you were aware that Mr Lester was found murdered on Wicken Fen on Saturday morning?’ Jack started.
‘Yes, I heard,’ said Gavin. And then added as an afterthought, ‘Tragic.’
‘We understand that you and the victim had a falling out?’
‘No, well… yes we did, but I didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re saying.’
‘I’m not saying that you did, Mr Simons, I’m just asking you about the nature of your relationship with Mr Lester.’
‘He’s ridden for me in the past. We mix in the same circles at meets. It’s a small community.’
‘Why did you argue?’
‘We didn’t argue. We had a disagreement. He accused me of something and then, then he threatened me.’
‘Threatened you? What physically?’
‘No. Threatened to get me into trouble with race authorities. I think he framed me with the ketamine. I didn’t give that horse ketamine, I swear it. I’m appealing the ruling.’
‘Sorry, could you clarify please, Mr Simons?’ Jack played dumb, knowing full well what Gavin was referring to, but wanting his explanation.
‘Last week, there was a routine drugs test on one of my horses at a meet and they found ketamine. That horse wasn’t given it at my stables, I’m telling you. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to build this business? I’m in debt up to my eyeballs, mortgaged to the hilt. You get banned for a few months by race authorities on drug charges and it can ruin your business. Horse owners won’t trust me. I’m appealing it, but shit sticks.’
‘Did you confront Mr Lester about this?’
‘We spoke on the phone.’
Harrison hadn’t said a word. He was watching the man in front of him closely. His body language, the words he used, the sheen of sweat that was appearing on his forehead. The darting eyes and exaggerated hand movements. This was a man caught in a trap somewhere he knew he shouldn’t have been. Jack didn’t let up.
‘Where were you on Friday evening, Mr Simons?’
‘I was here. You ask my staff, they’ll have seen me.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No. Divorced. I live alone in the house.’
‘Did you stay at the stables all evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you have any idea who might want to hurt Paul?’
‘No. I didn’t see him that often, we weren’t close friends. You’re better off asking these questions over at Three Oaks Stables. Look, I need to prepare for my meeting now. If there’s anything else, then we can talk about it another time.’ He stood up to act as a signal he meant it. There was a sliver of desperation in his voice.
‘Thank you, Mr Simons. We may well be back as our investigation progresses.’
‘No problem,’ Gavin replied, but with little conviction, and smiled as though they had given him a temporary reprieve from the hangman’s noose.
‘Do you know about The Horsemen? The secret association Paul was part of?’ Harrison spoke now for the first time and Gavin Simons turned to look at him.
‘Secret association? It’s just a bunch of lads meeting up over a few beers to talk horses, isn’t it?’ He sneered as he said it, and laughed, but the laugh sounded nervous.
‘So you are aware of it, then? Do you know who the members are and where they meet?’
Gavin shrugged. ‘Not sure, but I think Craig Matlock’s involved.’
‘How do you know that?’ Harrison pushed.
Gavin hesitated, you could almost see his mind working overtime and wishing he’d not even mentioned the name.
‘They’re friends. Everyone knows that,’ he came up with.
Harrison watched his face. His pupils had dilated a little, and his voice was raised very slightly in pitch.
‘You’re not involved?’ He pushed.
A frown jumped onto Gavin’s forehead, and he knitted his eyebrows at Harrison.
‘No, I don’t go in for all that ridiculous so-called secret society stuff.’ Gavin waved his hand as if dismissing it.
‘But you believe in good luck from leprechauns and shamrocks?’ Harrison continued.
‘Oh this? I play up to it. You know the luck of the Irish and all that. It’s part of the persona.’
There was a knock at the door, and one of the stable lads poked his head around. He was a thin, pale-faced youth with the Caesar cut hairstyle that seemed to be popular among young men again. Harrison couldn’t see its appeal, but then he wasn’t in his early twenties anymore. He’d stick with his standard crew cut any day. The small horizontal fringe with close shaved sides, reminiscent of the Roman leader, made the lad look like an old-fashioned street stray, rather than the powerful leader it had been inspired by.
‘Mr Wilson is here, Gav,’ the lad said, eyeballing Harrison and Jack suspiciously.
‘Cheers Lewis, I’m coming. Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind?’ He ushered them both out of the door politely, but firmly, following them out and locking it behind him.
‘Did you see the shamrocks and leprechaun?’ Jack said quietly to Harrison as they left.
‘That’s just showman superstition, I wouldn’t take it seriously,’ Harrison replied.
‘I’m not sure he’s telling us the whole truth though,’ Jack replied, once they’d reached the safety of his car.
‘That is for sure.’
They watched the yard as Gavin put on his full charm offensive, holding out his hand in greeting to a couple in their forties who looked like they had some disposable income to spend on a share in a racehorse. Harrison wasn’t just watching Gavin, though. The stable lad, Lewis, who’d come to his office, had disappeared back inside a horsebox, but he could see him hiding in the shadows and watching them. He struck Harrison as someone who was either pathologically scared of the police or someone with something to hide. Question was, what and why?
21
Harrison sat in the car while Jack went into a Tesco store to grab some lunch. He’d just had to endure several minutes of Jack cracking jokes at his expense because Harrison had told him he’d been fasting yesterday and having eaten a big breakfast, still didn’t feel like eating again. Jack’s stomach had finally won the battle for his attention and he’d gone off to hunt for food.
Alone, Harrison’s mind had wandered off the case to thoughts of Tanya again and how she was managing in London. He pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a text.
How are you? Any news? He was about to put the phone away until she replied, but hesitated and texted DCI Barker as well.
Any news on Tanya’s stalker?
He appreciated that they both might not be able to reply quickly. Tanya could be at a crime scene, and DCI Barker said she was going to be in court a lot this week. It didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though.
Jack sauntered out of the shop, munching on a large sausage roll. He flopped into the driver’s seat and waved it at Harrison.
‘You sure? I’ve got a duck wrap if you’d prefer that?’
‘I’m sure.’
Jack chucked a bottle of water onto Harrison’s lap and deposited the rest of his own lunch, still in the bag, on the back seat.
‘So how
often do you do this fasting then?’ Jack asked through a mouthful of sausage roll.
‘Twice a week,’ Harrison replied.
‘You’re kidding me? What every week? That’s mad. Don’t you get hungry?’
‘No. I’m used to it, been doing it for years.’
‘What even before that doctor, what’s his name… Mosley, started on it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I couldn’t do that, I just get too hungry, I’d probably pass out or something.’
‘You wouldn’t. You’d just train your appetite.’
‘Not sure my appetite wants training. I enjoy my food too much. Anyway, we’d better crack on. Back to the station. Got a text from DS O’Neil, they’ve got Richard Carter arriving in about half an hour and the DCI wants us to interview him.’
By the time they’d reached the station, Tanya had texted back to say everything was fine, and he didn’t need to worry. Harrison would have liked to know exactly where the Scottish sociopath was and if the SIO in his girlfriend’s murder case was on his back, but at least she was safe. He trusted DCI Barker to be on the ball, and he’d wait for her text.
‘We need to talk to Craig Matlock asap once we’ve seen this Richard Carter,’ said Jack. ‘They’ve had to let him go without charge, but they didn’t get much out of him.’
‘Agreed,’ Harrison replied. ‘He’s someone we know for sure is connected to The Horsemen and the barn.’
On their way into the station, Harrison saw Mark James walking across the car park with a colleague. He didn’t look happy. His gait was slow and without energy, and he stared at the ground, not engaging with the woman he accompanied. Definitely not the man he’d seen Saturday on the Fens. The DS didn’t see him, and he thought it was probably best that he hadn’t. Last thing Harrison wanted was to get caught in the middle of two sparring detective sergeants, he’d leave that one for DCI Whittaker to deal with.
Ten minutes later, another man who didn’t look too happy was Jack. DS O’Neil delighted in telling them that Richard Carter had unfortunately been detained at his stables and could they go there to interview him instead.