The Horsemen: A Harrison Lane Mystery (The Dr Harrison Lane Mysteries Book 2)

by Gwyn GB

  ‘Do you get the impression he’s trying to keep us away from the investigation?’ Jack asked Harrison.

  ‘I think that’s a distinct possibility,’ he replied. ‘I also think they’re getting ready to make an arrest and he wants us out the way.’

  ‘What makes you think they’re going to make an arrest?’

  ‘When we walked in, DS O’Neil quickly covered over some papers on his desk. One of them was a search warrant, today’s date.’

  Jack sighed. ‘Great to feel a part of this investigation. Who’s your money on?’

  ‘My guess would be Alex Michaels. He was publicly seen arguing and there’s a rift.’

  ‘It could be him. I’d certainly want to interview Mr Michaels from what we’ve heard, but unless O’Neil is holding back on us, I can’t see he has enough evidence to arrest anyone right now.’

  ‘No, he’s showing his inexperience and is too eager to impress.’

  ‘Hey ho, let’s crack-on anyways.’

  Before he turned the engine on, Jack checked his mobile. He realised he’d done it several times throughout the day already and that it was out of habit. There were no missed calls from Marie, or text messages. At home, he’d have been worried about that and called her straight away. It was a great feeling to be able to pocket his phone and get on with his job, knowing she and Daniel were safe and happy.

  It turned out Richard Carter’s dog was in the middle of giving birth and he hadn’t wanted to leave her.

  ‘Vet reckons there’s five or six and she’s only just got going,’ he said to them both. They were standing in the kitchen of his house, looking at a barrel shaped chocolate Labrador, who was lying in her bed while her stomach rippled and moved with contractions and squirming pups. Richard’s wife was sitting by her side, stroking and soothing her.

  ‘Let’s get this done,’ he said to Harrison and Jack, and tipped his head for them to follow him into the other room. ‘Call me if you need me, Anna,’ he shouted back to his wife.

  ‘I’ve agreed to help with enquiries. I don’t need a lawyer, do I?’ was the first thing he asked when they sat around the dining room table.

  ‘Not unless you feel you might need one,’ Jack replied. ‘We are literally asking a few questions relating to the murder of Paul Lester.’

  ‘Murder,’ Richard shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘You obviously knew Paul well?’ Jack started.

  ‘Yes, of course. He’d been riding for me a few years now and rented our cottage. He was a good lad. An excellent rider and he didn’t deserve this.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm him? Anyone who might bear a grudge against Paul?’

  ‘I assume you’ve spoken to Gabby. Poor kid’s devastated. She would have told you about the run in with Alex Michaels. We all saw it. I’m not letting him near my horses.’

  ‘Yes, she did. Do you think the argument might have continued?’

  ‘I think Alex was as jealous as hell about Paul’s success. He was never going to suddenly become best buddies with him.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘Not that I can think of, no.’

  ‘Did you know about The Horsemen, the secret society Paul belonged to?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. A few of us knew it existed, but that was it. No details.’

  ‘Were you a member Mr Carter?’

  ‘Me? No, absolutely not. Never invited. I got the impression it was younger members. If I kept disappearing off for clandestine meetings in the evenings, I think Anna might wonder what I was up to and think I was having an affair.’ He smiled.

  ‘Anyone else here at the stables who might have been a member?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. Mark Jones is one of our more experienced jockeys, along with Gabby. They’d take any big rides that Paul couldn’t do, but I don’t think Mark was a member. Like I say though, it was secret. They really did keep it pretty quiet so I might not know.’

  ‘So, both Mark and Gabby rode if Paul was unavailable?’

  ‘Yeah. He was in demand. They’re both good jockeys.’

  ‘I bet that must have been frustrating for them,’ Jack prompted.

  ‘If you’re asking would Mark or, heaven forbid, Gabby, have killed Paul, then the answer is no. Sure they lost out to him for some good horses, but that’s the nature of the game right? Not something you’d kill over.’

  Jack didn’t reply. He’d been introduced to more than enough corpses for reasons which were a lot more trivial than career rivalry.

  ‘What about anyone who might have perhaps been a bit in awe of Paul and wanted to join The Horsemen?’ Harrison asked.

  Richard shook his head again, turning his mouth down in thought.

  ‘No, seriously. Nobody that I can think of. We’re a pretty straightforward team here. I don’t tolerate any politics or in-fighting, everyone gets on really well.’

  ‘I need to ask you where you were on Friday evening, Mr Carter.’ Jack looked directly at him.

  ‘You’re not suggesting I’m a suspect, I hope. I was here, with my wife. You can go and ask her now if you like.’

  ‘It’s routine, but I also have to ask you about the conviction for assault when you were twenty. What were the circumstances surrounding that, please?’

  ‘Oh Christ, are you serious? That was twenty years ago, and it was a trumped-up charge because the son of a local lawyer had attacked me and my friends and I’d given him a hiding. It was self-defence, but of course his lawyer daddy had some expensive colleagues to call on and I just had a duty solicitor who was indifferent to say the least. If you think that means I could have murdered Paul, then you’re barking up the wrong tree, DS Salter. Talking of which, I should be with my dog. Are we done here?’

  The indignation was plastered across Richard’s face.

  ‘Yes, thank you for your time,’ Jack replied.

  ‘Good luck with the birthing,’ Harrison said to Richard as they walked out. All he got was a dismissive nod in response.

  ‘I wonder how many people we can manage to wind up in one day?’ Jack said as they walked out the house. ‘Let’s have a little wander around the yard, see if anyone else here knows anything about Paul.’

  They had barely walked past two horse boxes when Scott Smith’s Jack Russell instincts had him cornering them like stable rats.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘We were just looking around,’ Jack replied.

  ‘You have to understand that this yard is home to some of the country’s top racehorses. We can’t let people just look around on their own.’

  ‘Of course, I do apologise, Mr…?’

  ‘Scott Smith, I’m Head Lad here.’

  ‘DS Salter, and my colleague, Dr Lane. We’re investigating the murder of Paul Lester. Did you know him well?’

  ‘We all knew him. He lived in the cottage and rode for us.’

  ‘Did you see anything suspicious on Friday night?’

  Scott shook his head.

  ‘You live in the staff block, don’t you? That looks across to Paul’s cottage?’ Harrison asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Have you ever seen anything unusual? Anyone hanging around?’

  ‘No. Only staff.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt Paul?’

  Scott shrugged. ‘You’re better off speaking to Gabby. She knows him best.’

  ‘OK, thank you for your time.’ Jack smiled, one of his forced smiles that told Harrison he didn’t think too highly of Scott Smith.

  They walked back to his car, but felt the unwavering gaze of Scott on their backs.

  ‘He’s a cold fish, that one,’ said Jack.

  ‘He’s very protective of Richard and the horses. I think it’s his way.’

  ‘While we wait to speak to Alex Michaels, our priority has to be Craig Matlock. Agreed?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Let’s go pay hi
m a visit then.’

  22

  Craig Matlock lived at his parents’ farm adjacent to the land where the barn used for The Horsemen was situated. Theirs was an arable farm, but when Jack and Harrison drove into the yard, a young man was grooming a horse. They instantly recognised him from the incident board.

  Craig looked up at them as they drove in. There was a weariness on his face and he took no interest in their arrival. The chestnut gelding he was grooming munched on a bag of hay as he rhythmically brushed his coat, sending dust and debris into the afternoon breeze. Craig’s shoulders were dragged down, his soul heavy. To Harrison, he was clearly a man weighed with grief.

  Jack got out the car and approached him.

  ‘Mr Matlock? DS Jack Salter,’ he said, holding out his badge for Craig to see.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding. You lot had me locked up in a cell for twenty-four hours already. Can’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘I’m not here to arrest you, Mr Matlock. We’re here to find out who murdered Paul.’ Jack’s voice had softened. He recognised a man on the edge of an emotional abyss. ‘We want to catch his killer and we think you might be able to help us.’

  Craig’s chin wobbled slightly before he pulled himself together.

  ‘Give me five minutes to put Charlie away,’ he replied, and threw the wooden oval brush into a bucket, unhitching the horse’s rein from a metal ring on the barn wall. The pair clip clopped off into the barn and Jack could hear the horse’s hooves as he covered the cobbled ground, before they went silent, and a wooden door banged.

  Harrison was looking around. The farm was very different to everywhere else they’d been in the week. It was clearly heavily mechanised. A huge brand-new barn was off to the left and through an open door, he saw a large machine that looked something like a combine harvester.

  Craig hadn’t been what he’d expected. He was of average build and height, not the slimline stature of Paul and the other jockeys. There was a lot he wanted to ask him.

  Craig sloped out of the dark barn entrance door and walked towards them.

  ‘We can go in the kitchen. My parents are both out,’ he said, and as he turned to show them the way, Harrison spotted the leather thong around his neck.

  ‘That a toad bone?’ he asked him, nodding at his throat area.

  Craig’s face hardened and his hand went up protectively to the object hidden underneath his sweatshirt.

  ‘That’s not against the law, is it?’ he asked defensively.

  ‘Not at all. I find it interesting.’ They had walked into a house that was clearly well organised and maintained. The kitchen was a combination of modern and traditional. The style was of a classic British farmhouse kitchen, but the appliances were all new and efficient. Surfaces were clutter free except for a top of the range coffeemaker, and the table was obviously not new, its top a thick slab of wood, gouged and stained with decades of family use; but it was the range that dominated the room and emitted a constant, gentle heat, which ensured a warm welcome. Craig on the other hand, was either not in the mood to be hospitable, or was purposefully not wanting them to feel welcome, because he just slumped into one of the chairs at the table and didn’t ask them if they wanted a drink, or to sit down. They couldn’t really blame him after his experience with their colleagues in the last 48 hours. They took his lead and sat at the table.

  ‘I know you think I’m involved somehow, but I’m not. He was my friend. I’d never hurt him, and if I knew who did, I’d tell you.’

  ‘As I said, Mr Matlock, we are here because we think you can shed some light on matters which could lead us to Paul’s killer. We’re not here to arrest you. We need you to be totally honest with us because that’s the only way we’re going to solve this.’

  ‘I have been honest. I told them the truth.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell them everything though, did you?’ Jack challenged.

  Craig looked away from them both, staring vacantly at the kitchen Aga range, which was a dusky violet colour.

  ‘Are you protecting someone, Craig?’ Jack asked.

  Craig scowled and shook his head. ‘No. I said, if I knew who’d done it, I’d tell you.’

  ‘Can you tell us about The Horsemen then, when did the group start and who are the members?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with why Paul was killed.’

  ‘He was murdered in your barn. In the place where you hold your meetings,’ Jack countered.

  ‘Yes, but it wasn’t one of us. I know it wasn’t.’

  ‘You know? How can you be so sure, Craig? You said you didn’t know who did it. Why not tell us who the members are and let us speak to them to be sure? They may know something you don’t.’

  Craig shook his head. ‘Whole point of the group is that it’s secret. We swear an oath.’

  ‘I think your cover has been blown, don’t you?’

  Craig’s lips rolled inwards. The suggestion clearly annoyed him, and he crossed his arms.

  ‘By not identifying the DNA of those who should have been there, you might be protecting the killer. We’re trying to sift through it all. It would really help our investigation if we could identify individuals now.’

  Craig said nothing.

  ‘Craig are you being threatened by someone? Did Paul or the group have links to any organised crime gangs?’

  That question succeeded in only deepening Craig’s scowl.

  The conversation was going round in circles, and Harrison could see his body language was getting more and more defensive.

  ‘Craig, are you not telling us because you think you’re honouring Paul by keeping it secret?’

  Craig looked at him. Harrison could see his mind thinking through what he’d just asked.

  ‘Paul loved the group. His grandfather and great grandfather had been Horsemen. He inherited their book of notes and he really believed in it as a collective of those who cared for horses. It was a friendship group. Gave us a sense of purpose. There was nothing sinister.’

  ‘I can believe that, but I’m not sure everyone does. While everything we’ve heard about Paul says that he was a good man who looked after his horses well, somebody didn’t feel the same way. By keeping this secret, you could be protecting the killer’s identity.’

  ‘I’ve told you that nobody in the group could have done it.’ Craig scowled. He was getting annoyed now.

  ‘That might be true, but one key to finding Paul’s killer is to know how you sent the invites, the summons to meet up. I know it was a horse tail hair in an envelope, but what was the method exactly? If it wasn’t somebody from your group who murdered Paul, then it was someone else who knew how you operated. He got an envelope with a horse tail hair in it on the day he died. It’s why he was at the barn to meet his murderer. Who would have access to that information?’

  Craig visibly paled. ‘So they used The Horsemen to get at him.’ He paused, the words sinking in. ‘I mean it’s not common knowledge, but you can find out in books and stuff about the tradition of sending the horse's tail.’

  ‘Talk us through the process, exactly. What kind of envelope do you use? How you communicated the date and time.’

  ‘It was a particular type of envelope. When each man joined, he was given twenty-four of them. There’s just over a dozen of us in the association and if you needed the group’s help then you could summon it by sending a horse tail hair in one of the envelopes with a note inside saying the date and time for the meeting.’

  ‘A note inside?’ questioned Harrison.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it always a note inside, or had anyone ever deviated from that?’

  ‘Always a note inside. I know people may laugh at our rituals, but we had strict rules and ways of doing things. When you joined, you signed up to abide by those rules.’

  ‘And how were those envelopes delivered?’

  ‘By hand. All the members are within a thirty-mile radius of here. Usually, we’d give people a week’s notice unless i
t was something really urgent.’

  ‘And no other members of the group received an invite for Friday night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could you show us one of the envelopes, please?’

  ‘OK.’ Craig disappeared into the depths of the house, and they heard his feet tramp upstairs.

  Jack turned to Harrison.

  ‘I haven’t seen the envelope Paul received, but I’m taking it that it wasn’t as he’d described?’

  ‘Nope. Plain white cheap envelope with the time written on the front. It’s someone who knew the method, but not the execution well enough.’

  ‘Or someone from the group trying to cover their tracks.’

  ‘Maybe, but I don’t think so.’

  Harrison looked around the kitchen. There was one photograph on the wall of a younger Craig on a racehorse, beaming. Beside him, on another mount, was Paul who had reached out to pat his friend on the back. Harrison always felt a sadness for lives taken early, especially when they’d been much loved and missed. He didn’t think he would ever get over that feeling, despite everything he saw each day. In fact, he hoped he would never get over it.

  Craig’s feet thumping down the stairs heralded his return.

  ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting a cream-coloured envelope at Harrison.

  Harrison looked. It was completely different to the one he’d seen on Paul’s bed Saturday morning. This envelope was good quality, thick cream paper and square. More like an expensive greeting card envelope than the thin white standard letter sized one with a scrawled 3 p.m. on its exterior.

  ‘This is clearly different from the one Paul received,’ Harrison confirmed.

  ‘Mind if we hang on to this, please?’ Jack asked, reaching for the envelope.

  Craig shrugged.

  ‘Why do you think Paul didn’t query it?’ Jack asked him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Craig replied.

  ‘You know, the envelope. If it was so different, why did he just go along with it and not call someone up and say, hey what’s with the envelope, why haven’t you followed protocol?’