A Very Private Murder

by Stuart Pawson

‘Is a heart and lung transplant an option?’ I’d done my research and Google said it was.

  ‘Just about the only option for the foreseeable future, but she won’t entertain it. It’s her complaint, she says, and she’ll deal with it her way. We’re respecting her wishes.’

  ‘What about the genetic approach? Is anything happening on that avenue?’

  ‘Not really. You know how it goes. Lots of teams all over the world claiming to have made a breakthrough, but they’re all chasing funding from the same pot of money.’

  I wanted to talk to him about genetics, but wasn’t sure how to go about it. After an awkward silence I jumped in with: ‘I understand it’s a single-gene disease, whatever that means.’

  He didn’t flinch. A fly landed on the table in front of him and he wafted it away. ‘That’s right. What it means, basically, is that only one of a pair of genes is healthy and the other is wonky. We can live with that, but it’s possible to pass on the faulty gene. If you inherit a good gene from one parent and a faulty one from the other you will have no symptoms but will be a carrier. Laura and I were carriers, although we didn’t know it, until … until poor Toby drew the short straw and inherited a bad gene from each of us.’

  ‘But the disease skipped Ghislaine.’

  ‘That’s right, but she hasn’t had the tests so we don’t know if she’s a carrier.’

  I wondered what the royal family would make of it. They’d bred out haemophilia and the Hapsburg lip and now they had a sporting chance of introducing cystic fibrosis into their illustrious gene pool. I said: ‘No, I don’t think I’d have the test, either. Not until it became an issue.’

  The fly found me and flitted around my head. I took a few swipes at it and it flew off to find somewhere more welcoming. ‘One of my reasons for coming was to tell you about Janet Threadneedle. I’m not sure how well you knew her, but if you could call yourself a friend I think she’d be pleased to hear from you.’ I told him that she’d been arrested and charged with the murder of her husband. I didn’t go into detail about the bloody clothing we’d found, or mention the affair with her teenage pupil.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ he said. ‘I’ll write to her. Is it conclusive that she did the deed?’

  ‘I think a court will find the DNA evidence overwhelming.’

  ‘Ah, DNA again. It must have made your job much easier.’

  ‘In some ways,’ I agreed, ‘but it works both ways.’

  ‘Certain criminals must be cursing its discovery.’

  ‘I know.’ I’ve always felt a little sorry for Dr Crippen. He committed what he thought was the perfect murder and boarded a ship to the United States. When it set sail he must have thought that he was in the clear, but what he didn’t know was that Mr Marconi had been busy perfecting his radio machine, and the law was waiting for him on the other side. That was bum luck in anybody’s book. Since the invention of DNA profiling in the late 1980s cold cases are being resurrected almost every day. Old men, barely able to walk, are standing trial for rape, while others, now found to be innocent, are finding a kind of freedom.

  I said: ‘Did your new knowledge of genetics help with your horse racing exploits?’

  He looked uncomfortable, took a swing at the fly, then stood up to find a newspaper, which he fashioned into a fly swat. ‘Help with the horse racing?’ he repeated, giving himself time to think. ‘Is this what it’s all about? Are we talking about Peccadillo?’

  ‘I believe you had a share in him.’

  ‘Are you wearing your policeman’s hat, now, Charlie?’

  ‘I’m always wearing it, James. You’re under no obligation to answer my questions.’

  ‘But if I don’t you’ll invite me down to the station for an interview.’

  ‘I doubt if it will come to that. So did you?’

  ‘Yes, if you must know. I was a member of the syndicate. I fell for Threadneedle’s promises. I blamed my wife, Laura, but I was as enthusiastic as she was.’

  ‘What did a share cost?’

  ‘Fifteen thousand pounds, plus my share of vets’ fees, training fees, entry fees. It goes on and on.’

  ‘It was a drain on your income.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘But you were hoping to recover your money by winning races and putting the horse to stud, riding on the doubtful rumour that it was descended from the legendary Shergar.’

  ‘Got it in one, Charlie. Put nothing in writing, Threadneedle told us. Just show them the photos, mention Shergar, nudge nudge, wink wink, and let them know it came from Ireland. Leave the rest to their imaginations.’

  ‘Who’s us?’ I asked.

  ‘Me and Motty. He was sucked in, too. Threadneedle was his boss so the poor man didn’t have much choice. He put his life savings into it. I felt guilty about that, afterwards.’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Not that I know of. I didn’t sell any shares and I’m sure Motty didn’t. I think Threadneedle brought one or two of his cronies into the syndicate, but I don’t know who.’

  ‘Didn’t you have reports or a balance sheet? You sound to be very trusting.’

  ‘He was a smooth talker, Charlie, and events eventually overtook us.’

  ‘What events? What brought them about?’

  ‘I think you know the answer to that, Charlie. I think you’ve suspected all along. Toby brought them about, or her illness did. Ghislaine and I read everything we could about the complaint. It didn’t help Toby one iota, but I came away with a decent grounding in elementary genetics. Unfortunately for us some, veterinary students had taken samples from Shergar and his DNA is on record. There was talk of all thoroughbreds having to have passports. I realised then that there was no way we could pass Peccadillo off as a descendant of Shergar. I could run as fast as he could. He was a liability. This house was costing a fortune – I looked like losing it – and I didn’t know where to turn. I told Threadneedle about the passports and he said to leave it to him. I think he was attracting some heat from the other people he’d sold shares to. They wanted their money back and so did I. Next thing I knew, the stables had burnt down and Peccadillo was dead.’

  ‘Did the insurance pay out?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  The fly landed on the table in front of me. My hand came down like a striking cobra and squashed it flat. I brushed the corpse on to the floor. Curzon, lost in his own world, didn’t notice.

  ‘That just about coincides with what Motty told me,’ I said.

  Curzon jerked himself awake, back to the here and now. ‘Motty?’ he echoed. ‘You’ve talked to Motty?’

  ‘As much as it’s possible to talk to him, yes. I’m going back there now, to get a final statement from him about the gun. That should wrap it up.’ I stood up and we shook hands. I asked him to say goodbye from me to his daughters and said I’d try to get over for the village fete in August, when his dolls’ houses would be launched. He walked me to the door but didn’t come outside. I strolled to the car, parked in the middle of nowhere, and took in my surroundings. The sun was dropping and flocks of swifts – I’d decided they were swifts – were screeching overhead, gorging themselves on the clouds of midges that towered into the sky. As I swung the car round I saw his face at the window, watching me leave.

  Motty had been to one of the functions that pensioners fill their days with: dining club; bingo; card games or line dancing, so he was smartly dressed and alert. The evening was warm but the light was fading, so I accepted his invitation to step inside. Once again he was pleased to see me, and when we shook hands he clung to my fingers for a few seconds longer than I felt comfortable with. His bungalow was tiny, the living room just about big enough to qualify for that description, with a bedroom and galley kitchen visible through half-open doors. It must have been heartbreaking, moving here after all those years in the head lad’s cottage attached to the stables. But it was warm and comfortable, and monitored by a warden who lived nearby. No doubt other professional care
rs were on hand to help him through his declining years without having to bother the rest of us. I wondered how often the undertaker’s hearse visited the little precinct.

  I did most of the talking. I told him that Threadneedle had kept the gun and his wife had found it. She’d probably shot him with it and her boyfriend had assisted her. Motty listened, wide-eyed, and nodded in appropriate places.

  ‘We’ve done some measuring,’ I told him, ‘and come to a conclusion. We’ve decided that you couldn’t have shot the horse by yourself, Motty. You’re just not tall enough.’ His dark complexion grew even blacker, and he sat there, nodding slowly, rocking backwards and forwards.

  ‘You had some help,’ I said.

  ‘Some help,’ he agreed.

  ‘Your loyalty to your employer is admirable, Motty,’ I told him, ‘but the time has come to tell the truth. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Tell truth,’ he replied.

  ‘I think the meister was there when Peccadillo was killed. Am I right?’

  ‘Aye,’ he confirmed, not looking at me.

  ‘The horse was standing up,’ I said. ‘You’d need some help to shoot it. Somebody to hold it steady while somebody else used the gun. You’re the expert,’ I told him. ‘You’re the horse whisperer. I suspect you held his head, calmed him down, while the meister pulled the trigger. Is that about how it happened?’

  ‘Aye.’

  I stood up and walked over to the window. I’d led the witness, no doubt about it, but he was an honest man and I believed him. The lady who lived across the lawn was watering her pansies and Puccini’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ could be heard faintly playing next door. A car drew up two doors away and a man and a small boy carrying a bunch of flowers got out, visiting grandma. I said: ‘I don’t suppose it matters now. You were the legal owners of the horse and you, Motty, were licensed to use the humane killer, so I don’t suppose the law was broken. The meister may have pulled the trigger but it was under your supervision. We’re checking if he made an insurance claim but if he did we think it was unsuccessful. As he’s dead now there’s not much point in pursuing it.’

  I turned to face Motty, expecting him to be relieved that the case was as good as solved and he could go back to his memories, but his eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. ‘Who … dead?’ he asked. ‘Who dead?’

  ‘Threadneedle,’ I replied. ‘Arthur George. He’s dead. Have you forgotten?’

  ‘Not the meister,’ Motty came back at me. ‘Threadneedle … he not meister. He not … shoot. He not shoot.’

  Now it was my turn to be shocked. ‘Threadneedle is not the meister?’ I echoed. ‘Is that what you’re saying? So who is? Tell me, Motty, tell me who was there when you killed Peccadillo. Tell me who pulled the trigger.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was nearly dark when I rang Gilbert to tell him that the cases were solved and his number one detective would probably call in sometime tomorrow morning. ‘I told you it was a private murder,’ he said, ‘and as for all this gallivanting off to East Yorkshire… just a waste of resources. Nothing much ever happens over there. It’s the sticks. Sleepyville. Get yourself back here and do some real detective work.’

  After that I rang Phyllis Smith to book whatever she could rustle up at short notice, with a bed for the night, but she wasn’t answering her phone. I tried one of the Dunkley numbers but a woman with a can’t-be-bothered voice told me she had no vacancies and put the phone down on me. It looked like it would have to be a curry in Driffield and my cell at their nick. I’d driven away from Motty’s at Dunkley somewhat aimlessly and parked in my usual place, facing Curzon House. I don’t know why. It was one of those habit things. After a few visits we become possessive about seats in restaurants, or coat pegs, or urinals. I always use the second one from the left at Heckley nick; feel I’ve been cheated if someone beats me to it. So there I was, in the middle of an acre of block paving, while the night grew darker around me.

  I pretend it was the stars that drew me there. I remembered that night a couple of weeks ago when I followed Toby to Low Ogglethorp, with the heavens ablaze with starlight. It was magical. Why do the stars all look the same size, I wondered? Not exactly the same size, but near enough when you consider how different they are: red giants and yellow dwarfs; galaxies and gassy planets; lumps of rock and blazing fireballs. They all look similar from down here on Earth, reduced by distance and time to insignificant pinpricks in the sky. I could’ve been an astronomer if I hadn’t made it as a cop.

  I didn’t really want to sleep in a cell at Driffield. There’d be the same old leg-pulls; the same smells and noises; the same repeated explanations. It would have been worth twenty pounds to have a bed at Phyllis’s, but she still wasn’t answering the phone. If I got to Driffield after midnight the place might have quietened down a bit by then. I switched off and decided to go for a walk.

  I’d miss Toby, no doubt about it. There’d be a fresh case in a day or two, with a different cast, but Toby would be a difficult act to follow. I took the same path again but this time there was no moonlight and I stumbled here and there, wondering if I was mad. There was something uplifting about her. Something life-enhancing. Her indomitable cheerfulness knocked you sideways, made you feel good to be alive.

  I was there, wherever there was. Left for the hidden village of Low Ogglethorp, right for Coneywarren Field with its fake stone circle. I decided that the chances of breaking a leg were lower at Coneywarren and turned right.

  My night vision had come good and I was seeing clearly now. And hearing. It was a small laugh, followed by the sound of footfalls on dry grass and someone humming, very softly. I stopped and listened, thinking about withdrawing, not wanting to interrupt someone’s lovemaking. But I thought I knew who it was, and felt myself being drawn slowly towards the sounds.

  There were two of them, performing some sort of courtly pavan. He was leading her, pulling her along, his steps slow and stately, his gait high as they swayed in harmony around the newly restored silver birch. They were both as naked as the day they were born. I held my breath and watched the two figures, their whiteness luminescent, as they performed a ritual known only to them. Six times they went round in a clockwise direction, then they switched hands and made six more turns to the widdershins. They weren’t young people and they weren’t fine specimens of our race. Time had ravaged their bodies, but there was something innocent and ageless about their dance and I felt privileged to be witnessing it. They turned to each other and embraced, slowly sinking to the ground, and I sneaked away. Their laughter followed me down the trail: his like a cawing jackdaw, hers like breaking glass.

  I had a long talk with Maggie in the morning. Banjo the pit bull had donated a saliva sample, and his owner, Chick Shillito, had put the finger on Sean and Carl and they were going down, no doubt about it. Young Oscar Sidebottom had decided that playing the white knight was not for him and had put all the blame on Janet Threadneedle. Janet, meanwhile, prompted by Oscar’s savage testimony, had blamed him for the whole thing. He wanted Threadneedle dead and had persuaded her that it was the right thing to do. She’d loved her young paramour and had been swept along by him. I said I’d see her later.

  As soon as the streets were aired I drove to Curzon House again. I decided I was in danger of becoming neurotic and parked near the tradesmen’s entrance, just to demonstrate that I was a free spirit. Grizzly answered the bell.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said, hoping I didn’t look as if I’d spent a sleepless night in the cells. ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘Good morning, Charlie,’ she replied. ‘Yes it is. We thought you had solved all your cases and gone home. What can we do for you?’

  ‘Loose ends,’ I explained. ‘There are always loose ends. I was hoping to speak to your father. Is he available?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. He’s taken Toby birdwatching. They had an early start. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No, not really. Any idea when they’ll be back?’<
br />
  ‘Lunchtime, at a guess.’

  ‘Where will they have gone?’

  ‘Sorry. No idea.’

  ‘OK.’ I wished her all the best and climbed back in the car. Something was troubling me, and it wasn’t the supercool, unhelpful Ghislaine Curzon. Toby had gone birdwatching with her father. Early in the morning. I wondered whose idea it was. I picked up my phone, then put it away. I switched on the Airwave, then switched that off, too. Motty had told me, in his own way, that it was Curzon who had shot Peccadillo. That it had been Curzon’s idea. When I told him, the day before, that I was about to take a statement off Motty, he must have realised that he’d be exposed as the killer. Perhaps he hadn’t broken the law, but there was an attempted insurance fraud to consider, plus the dodgy syndicate, and he’d killed a perfectly healthy horse. With a daughter engaged to a royal prince it was a tabloid’s dream story.

  Puffins. I remembered the painting above Toby’s bed. She’d painted it herself because they were her favourites. ‘Daddy was going to take me to see them at …’ That’s where my memory ran out. I pulled the road atlas out of the seat pocket behind me and thumbed through it until I reached the Yorkshire coast. The background to the painting was a series of sheer cliffs. I’d seen photographs of them many times, on calendars and in magazines, but never visited them. They were our answer to Beachy Head, except Beachy Head has an unenviable reputation. Beachy Head hosts a fair number of suicides every year. There it was: Bempton, just up the coast from Flamborough Head.

  God, it was miles away. I switched on the Airwave and once more switched it off again. Bridlington was nearer to Bempton, but how could I explain? And if they arrived there first, lights flashing, they might aggravate the situation; precipitate some rash action by Curzon. I lay the open map on the passenger seat, slammed into first gear and put my foot down, hard.

  There was a network of narrow lanes between me and my destination. The B1253 threaded through them but took me into Bridlington. I risked it and was lucky, traffic was light and soon I picked up the B1255 towards Flamborough and then the RSPB signs for their reserve at Bempton.