Huxley and the big man then turn and lean against the railed fence. They talk for a few minutes before the big man storms away. As Huxley watches him leave, his face adopts a dejected expression — understandable, considering the day he’s having. It sounds callous but, if I’m able to forge a headline story from whatever is going on here, his day, indeed his week, is likely to get much worse.
However, I need a lot more answers than I currently possess before I can think of front page exclusives.
More activity at the stable pulls my attention away from Huxley. The feisty detective has returned, alongside a thin, white-haired man in civilian attire. Carrying a bulky briefcase, I’m fairly certain he’s a crime scene examiner.
The pair wait as an officer leads a chestnut-coloured horse out of the stable. Assuming the horse isn’t a suspect, and they’re not whisking it off for interview, I’d guess it needs to be re-homed while the crime scene examiner does his thing.
With the stable vacant, the duo enter.
Whatever is at the centre of this incident, that stable clearly contains the answers I need. Somehow, I need to know what’s going on in there but the two policemen stood outside make access a near-impossibility. I could settle on revealing William Huxley’s whereabouts, and that’ll earn plenty of column inches tomorrow, but it’s akin to being offered a free meal in a Michelin-starred restaurant and leaving after the starter.
Think, Emma. Think.
The damp wood I’m leant against offers a possibility — the adjacent stable.
If I can get in there, I might be able to hear what’s being said. And if Eric is still delivering miracles from the afterlife, I might even be able to find a crack in the dividing wall and see what’s going on.
Turning my attention to the stable-block wall, I’m encouraged to see the six-inch wooden slats have suffered from prolonged exposure to the soggy environment. On closer inspection, one slat in particular, nearest the damp ground, has warped to such an extent I should be able to force my fingertips behind it. I crouch down and do exactly that; ruining a perfectly good set of French tips in the process.
The sodden wood feels almost sponge-like to the touch, and should come away easily enough. I brace myself and tug. The slat departs its home with minimal resistance. With the bottom slat removed, it’s easy enough to slide three further slats out of the frame so I’m left with a two-foot high gap I can crawl through.
Before I make my move, best to check on proceedings outside the stable to ensure my actions haven’t caught anyone’s attention.
I take another peak around the corner.
The two officers are still at their post, and William Huxley is deep in conversation with the same frail-looking man escorted away by the paramedics earlier. I take a couple of quick photos, just in case the man is in some way connected to whatever is going on here.
Now satisfied my crime has gone undetected, I return to the gap, and the realisation I’ll have to kneel in the mulchy ground to gain access. No sense in thinking about it; I drop to my knees and poke my head through the gap.
Despite kneeling in mud and decomposing plant matter, I couldn’t be more pleased.
The dividing wall between the two stalls doesn’t reach the ceiling and I can clearly hear voices from the mystery stall. Better still, that same wall has a fist-sized hole in it which will allow me to see what’s going on, and possibly take a few photos if I’m careful.
Barely daring to breathe, I carefully squeeze through the gap and crawl on my hands and knees across the floor of the empty stall. It would be a stretch to say it’s a pleasant experience but the cold and the damp and the discomfort are a price worth paying for the thrill. My much-younger, millennial colleagues rely upon social media or the wider Internet for research, but give me proper, old school investigative journalism any day. It’s why I fell in love with the job and I’m too old to change my ways; even if those ways involve bending the law from time to time.
I reach the hole and take a moment to let my adrenalin levels ease. I sense I’ve stumbled across something big here and if I’m caught now, it would be galling.
As I wait, a woman speaks.
“Can I leave you to it, Bruce?”
“Sure.”
The female voice seems to perfectly fit the woman I saw outside, and I presume Bruce is the crime scene examiner. It appears my luck has run out and there won’t be any conversation to eavesdrop. Any evidence will now have to be seen rather than heard.
I shuffle nearer to the hole and take a tentative peak.
My efforts are initially rewarded with the view of an upturned bucket and a pungent waft of horse piss — they won’t be holding the presses for either revelation. I’m just about to shuffle a few inches to the right, in order to change the field of view, when Bruce suddenly coughs. I almost soil myself — he can’t be any more than a few feet away from the dividing wall.
Pausing to let my heart rate settle, I assess my options. If Bruce is stood up, I can gaze through the hole with little chance of being spotted. However, if he squats down for any reason, he’ll be at the same level as my vantage point and likely to notice my beady-green eye watching him at work.
It’s an all-or-nothing punt: I look through the hole and hope, or sit here and wait until I know for sure he’s moved further away from the dividing wall. The problem with the latter option is I could be discovered at any moment. If the detective insists on a thorough search of the grounds for any reason, I’m toast.
Time is not on my side.
Taking care not to make even the slightest sound, I crawl a few feet to the right so I can view the rear section of the stable. Once I’m in position, I turn and peer through the hole.
I’m rewarded with a sight I wish I could immediately unsee — the motionless upper body of a woman lying on the floor. Her head is mercifully turned the other way so I can’t see her face, but what I can see is a knife protruding from her blood-soaked pullover.
Two involuntary reactions occur almost simultaneously. Firstly, my stomach spins a full revolution threatening to deposit my lunch on the stable floor. Secondly, I omit a noise somewhere between a shriek and a gasp.
The first reaction goes unnoticed. The second does not.
A shadow appears. It’s accompanied by another cough but this time it emanates somewhere above my head.
Still reeling from the shock, I look up. My gaze is met by the face of a clearly agitated crime scene examiner.
“Officers,” Bruce yells. “Here, quick.”
Shitty, shit, shit.
I scrabble back across the floor and throw myself towards the gap I entered only minutes earlier. I know my chances of escape are slim but if I’m held by the police, I’ll have zero chance of writing anything before tonight’s deadline; and my still-spinning stomach is a reminder there’s a lot worth writing about.
After an unceremonious exit through the gap, I edge my way back along the stable-block wall as quickly as I can. Almost as if they’re trying to assist in my apprehension, the thorny bushes grab at my jacket all the way.
I reach the car park and skirt the perimeter in the hope I won’t be noticed. It doesn’t work.
“Oi! Stop right there!”
I wasn’t even aware I was being followed, but I turn to find two police officers only twenty feet behind me. The game is up.
Coming to a stop, I raise my hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay,” I sigh.
The first officer approaches — the same young officer I spoke to earlier.
“You again,” he snaps. “I thought I told you to leave.”
I’ve not been blessed with many talents but an ability to think on my feet is fortunately one of them.
“I know, but I needed to check on my horse. He’s not been well.”
As his middle-aged colleague draws up beside him, the young officer looks me up and down.
“If that’s the case, why do you look like you’ve been crawling through a bog, and why were you
spying on my colleague?”
Before I can answer, the sour-faced female detective arrives on the scene.
“Detective Sergeant Banner,” she announces, holding up her warrant card. “And you are?”
Seeing her up close is like looking in a mirror. She must be more or less the same age as me, and has that same hardened exterior born from years of working in a similarly misogynistic work environment.
“Emma Hogan.”
“Right, Ms Hogan. What are you doing here?”
I repeat my lie.
“She arrived just before the ambulance, Sarge,” the young officer confirms.
“And you wanted to see your sick horse?”
“Yep.”
Our eyes lock and we both instinctively know what the other is thinking.
“Cut the crap, Miss Hogan. Unless you fancy a few hours stewing in the cells, tell me what you’re really doing here.”
If Sergeant Banner really is like me, and can detect bullshit at a dozen paces, I know there’s no point in keeping up the feeble pretence.
“I’m press.”
“There’s a surprise,” she scoffs. “Who tipped you off?”
“Nobody. I was at a friend’s funeral in Alford and just happened to pass by. I saw the police cars and thought I’d check out what was going on.”
“Nothing is going on.”
“Nothing? I’d hardly call a dead woman with a knife in her chest nothing.”
“An unfortunate accident,” she shrugs. “There’s nothing here likely to interest the press so I suggest you sod off before I nick you.”
“For what?”
“Criminal damage, for starters.”
She then turns to the young officer. “Check her ID and escort Miss Hogan off the plot.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
As she’s about to turn and walk away, I grasp the final opportunity to ask a question.
“William Huxley. How is he involved?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
Sergeant Banner then marches away, leaving me to her uniformed subordinates.
Once I’ve proven my identity, the two officers lead me all the way back to my car. With a stern warning not to get on the wrong side of Sergeant Banner, they wait at the roadside until I pull away. I cover a few hundred yards of tarmac and check my mirror to ensure they’ve returned to the stables.
I pull over and switch the engine off.
Grabbing a notepad from the glove box, I scribble down all the salient facts from my brief visit to Kenton Stables while they’re still fresh in my mind. Admittedly, the facts are thin and unanswered questions plentiful. What was William Huxley doing there; particularly considering this morning’s revelation? Who was the poor woman lying dead on the stable floor? Who were the two men with Huxley — the frail man and the big guy in denim? And where does a woman with Down’s syndrome fit in with all of it?
As dusk arrives, I continue to sit and stare at the notepad, trying to see a picture from the limited amount of jigsaw pieces.
I smack the steering wheel in frustration.
If I’m to submit a story before tonight’s deadline, it’ll be riddled with conjecture and supposition. It’ll be a story, but not the story I want to write. Sure, I’ll get some credit, but if I cast it into the public domain now, every reporter in the country will be on it tomorrow and I’ll lose the chance to complete the picture.
I need more time, and the identity of the dead woman would go some way to joining the dots. Time to push my luck.
After a laborious six-point turn in the narrow lane, I drive back towards the stables. Slowing to a crawl as I approach the car park, I aim my phone and press the record button to capture the scene. Besides the police vehicles, there are two other cars parked up: an Audi 4x4 and a Ford Fiesta that appears to have seen better days.
With their number plates captured, I continue down the lane and re-set the sat nav to take me home another way.
I now have something to go on and, coupled with an additional twenty-four hours for research, this story will be worth reading — I’d stake my career on it.
3.
My journey back to Kilburn was horrendous — pelting rain and mile after mile of crawling traffic.
However, I used the two hours wisely by formulating a plan of sorts.
The minute I arrived home, I put my plan straight into action with an email to Stuart Bond; a detective in the Metropolitan Police.
I met Stuart at a drinks party two years ago — the attraction was immediate and mutual. We met for coffee, twice, before we slept together. The sex was the better side of average, and for a few months I thought I’d met someone I could potentially spend the rest of my days with.
Turned out Stuart was married, with three kids. Wanker.
Once I’d got over the realisation all men really are bastards, I ended our relationship. I did threaten to tell his wife about our affair but the satisfaction would have been brief and hollow. I had a better idea — to make Stuart my bitch. So, whenever I need information only the police are privy to, I send him an email and attach the same selfie photo of us, naked in bed together. It’s a reminder that fucking the wrong woman has consequences.
It’s now seven in the morning and Stuart probably won’t see my email for an hour or two. Last night’s research determined William Huxley doesn’t drive, so the two cars parked up at the stables have four potential owners: the frail old man, the big guy in denim, the corpse, and the woman with Down’s syndrome.
I’m hoping Stuart comes back with a woman’s name as the registered keeper of one of those vehicles. If he does, it shouldn’t be too difficult to establish if that keeper is the corpse or the woman with Down’s syndrome. My money would be on the former as only a small percentage of people with Down’s syndrome possess a driving licence. Once I know the dead woman’s identity I’ll have something to work with.
After coffee, toast, and a ten-minute shower, I’m ready to leave for the office.
Gone are the days when journalists flocked en masse to Fleet Street. Once Rupert Murdoch moved his assets to Wapping in the mid-eighties, the decline set in and every national newspaper eventually left. The once famous home of world journalism is now just a byword. It still rankles I never got the chance to work there.
I leave the flat and immediately wish I’d worn a warmer coat. My motivation to get to the office is stronger than my hatred of the cold so I dig my hands deep into my pockets and begin the five minute walk to Kilburn Park tube station.
The offices of The Daily Standard are located in Belgravia; a twenty minute Tube journey to Hyde Park Corner followed by a half-mile walk. All told, my commute takes less than forty minutes. It would be quicker to drive but the office doesn’t have parking and a staff reporter doesn’t earn anywhere near enough to pay the exorbitant parking charges in one of London’s most affluent areas, let alone the central-London congestion charge on a daily basis.
I arrive just after eight and head for my cubicle via the coffee machine. A few of my colleagues are already at their desks but there’s still a quiet hush over the open-plan newsroom. It won’t last. In an hour’s time, it’ll be thrumming with noise as calls are made and received, and fingers incessantly tap at keyboards.
I log-in to my computer and check the email inbox. Nothing from Stuart yet but that doesn’t stop me from initiating the second part of my plan. That involves a quick chat with the chief editor, Damon Smith. I call his extension.
“Yep,” he answers on the third ring.
“It’s Emma. Have you got five minutes?”
“What’s the magic word?”
Prick?
“Please.”
“I’ll give you three.”
He hangs up.
Damon is two years my junior and half the journalist — he knows it, I know it, and it’s the likely cause we dislike one another so intently. The only reason I still have a job is because one or two suits in the boardroom still appreciate my style. They
won’t be here forever, though, and once I lose their support, Damon will almost certainly find a way to terminate my employment.
I head over to his office, knock the door, and enter without waiting for permission.
He doesn’t look up from his computer screen. If you stripped away his repugnant personality, Damon might actually be considered an attractive man, although he’s too clean cut for my taste.
There’s precious little point in wasting time on pleasantries so I get straight to the point.
“I stumbled across a potential story yesterday … a big one.”
“And?”
“I need to borrow a couple of interns today to help with research.”
He looks up and the glint in his brown eyes is obvious. Savouring the moment, he sits back in his chair and runs a hand through his mop of dark hair. It’s always the same old routine — nothing comes easy where Damon is concerned.
“Research on what, exactly?”
I need to be wary. Although I can’t prove it, I’m certain Damon has previously leaked my leads to his favoured reporters. On at least half-a-dozen occasions, I’ve worked on stories only to find one of my younger, and usually prettier, colleagues has already had a similar story accepted for the next edition.
“It’s about a politician, and the unexplained death of a woman in Surrey.”
“I need more than that.”
“I’ll tell you more when I know there’s something to tell.”
“In which case you’re on your own.”
“Don’t be difficult, Damon. If I miss this opportunity, we all lose out.”
“Tell me who the politician is.”
As Huxley’s incest story is already yesterday’s news, time is of the essence. My story needs to be in tomorrow’s edition or we’ll have missed the boat. I guess there’s no harm in giving him a name — it’s useless without knowing what happened at Kenton Stables.
“William Huxley.”
Damon ponders my revelation for a moment before reaching down beside his chair.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 2