Marie was not so amused. Though the thought of Jamie Hutchison walking free tore at her, reminding her of the unfairness of their loss, to tip food over a person in public seemed so - childish. Just as the pair of them, 67
her dad and her aunt, were childish in their glee. A great couple of babies, she thought, as her dad heaved himself to his feet and produced a bottle of liqueur brandy from a cupboard. The apricot brandy only came out at Christmas but this, she could see, would go down as a night of celebration.
She didn't want to spoil things, but all the same she had to ask.
`What happened after that, Auntie? Did you get into trouble?' Joyce fixed her with a steady eye, the glass poised halfway to her lips. `Mr. Duggan sacked me on the spot. Paid me for the night and told me to make myself scarce.'
Òh, Auntie.' Joyce had worked Fridays and Saturdays at the Roman Arms for six years. And they'd all had happy evenings there in times gone by.
Joyce emptied her glass and held it out for a refill. `What's that they say?
Don't do the crime if you can't do the time. I don't care about the job. It were ruddy well worth it.'
Clem walked slowly but steadily up the slope to the seat overlooking the valley. It was a grand spot from which to watch the village below and people walking along the river, heading for the High Street shops. Some mornings he found the walk difficult but he was a stubborn beggar, always had been. Except when the weather was downright torrid he hadn't given up on his constitutional yet.
This morning he hardly thought about the comings and goings below or the weather or, even, his infirmities. His mind was on the events of last night and his sister's bombshell. Joyce was a heroine, showing Jamie Hutchison up in public with no thought for the consequences. He was right proud of her.
But in the cold light of day her bold gesture seemed merely that, an action of momentary substance. In the long run what had she got out of it? She'd given a murderer some public embarrassment and a dry-cleaning bill -
which the Roman Arms would no doubt cover. He still applauded her but a gesture was all shed made - and at the cost of her job.
If only it were possible to find another solution to the blight of Jamie Hutchison. Clem conjured up the jockey's face in his thoughts. Those wide eyes and innocent, little-boy-lost looks. How he'd like to batter those clean-cut features into a pulp. Clem had once felled an eighteen stone drunk with a single blow of his big fist. Laid him out cold with one punch.
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He could still manage it, he had no doubt. Put Hutchison in front of him right now and he'd thump him into the next world with fists fuelled by righteous anger.
He'd do it, what's more, without fear of the consequences. What did it matter what happened to him? He was doomed anyway - his illness was slowly claiming him. It was wrong for Joyce to make sacrifices. It had to be him - while he had the strength left.
The wind whipped into his face, damp and cold. Time to get back. He rose slowly to his feet and at once was gripped by shortness of breath. He clung to the bench as the spasms shook his big frame.
Who was he kidding, dreaming of vengeance? In the state he was in, dreams were all he had left.
14 January, 2002
Detective Inspector Jane Culpepper took one look at the cramped, jam-packed car park of the Deacon Parade nick and parked round the corner on a pay-and-display. She found the change for the maximum stay. She had no idea how long she'd be but she was taking no chances.
She wasn't looking forward to resuming her acquaintance with Superintendent Keith Wright. They'd got maudlin together at a leaving do two years ago when it turned out they were both reeling from divorce.
Then he'd manoeuvred her into a cosy corner and she'd run off to be sick in the loo. They'd not seen each other since. With luck he'd forgotten all about it.
She was led up to his office straight away. `He's waiting for you,' said the PC who showed her the way. That sounded ominous.
Time had not done the Superintendent any favours since they'd last met.
He looked pasty and haggard, with even less hair. She hoped to God she'd weathered better than him.
`Good Christmas, Jane?' he asked. He didn't sound as if he particularly wanted to know. His eyes were still on the open file in front of him.
She took the seat he indicated on the other side of his desk.
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`Very nice, thank you, sir,' she replied, which was stretching the truth a bit
- nobody would call Christmas and Boxing Day at The Palm Tree Residential Homènice'. Though the staff were saints, in Jane's opinion, to see her mother there, in a wheelchair after her last stroke, was hard.
Ì expect Robbie keeps you on your toes?'
All credit to Wright, even in these troubled times he had researched her son's name. Her curiosity was growing.
`You know teenagers, sir,' she replied, keeping up the facade.
The truth was she'd hardly seen her son during the past fortnight. She'd not thought it fair to inflict The Palm Tree on a fourteen-year-old at Christmas so he'd spent it with his father and stepmother. Then they'd whisked him off to Switzerland for the New Year on a skiing holiday - their present to him and very generous it was too. Deprived of his company it had meant she'd spent the entire holiday period feeling as if she were one step away from becoming a Palm Tree resident herself. None of which was of interest to the Superintendent.
He looked at her with bloodshot eyes, finally giving her his full attention.
`You've heard about Leighton Jones?'
'Yes, sir.'
Of course she'd heard. Detective Chief Inspector Jones, the heaviest hitter in the Sketch Valley CID, had been sent home the day before, suspended on full pay pending an investigation by the Discipline and Complaints branch. Quite why Leighton was under investigation depended on who you listened to. But he'd made his name on the Drugs Squad and the whisper was that he'd become too closely associated with a couple of bad boys responsible for most of the drug trafficking in the area. But who could say at this stage? A chancer like Leighton walked a fine line - it would be easy to put a foot wrong.
`So you've probably already guessed why I've asked for you,' he continued.
That she didn't know, though she imagined it was to do with tidying up some mess of Leighton's. It couldn't be anything good, Wright was being too polite.
`DCI Jones was Senior Investigating Officer on a double murder. I'd like you to take over his role in the investigation.'
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Jane's mouth dropped open and she shut it quickly. In the course of her career she'd been on several murder teams and, as Deputy SIO, had run an incident room. But she'd never acted as an SIO herself. This was a first. It made up for a few other things.
Wright registered her reaction. `Don't get too excited. There's a school of thought that wants to scale this operation down. It's a couple of months old and a result looks doubtful. Two drug addicts in a burnt-out cottage.'
A distant bell rang in Jane's head. `The Bonfire Night Murders?' Wright nodded. `You must have been reading the East Lancs Journal. I don't know why the nationals didn't pick it up. Murder, arson, torture - it's got everything. Except sex, of course.' He flashed her a quick, cautious smile.
So he did remember. Pity.
`Torture?' she said, picking up on the one word that didn't sound familiar from what she'd read. Ì don't remember that.'
Ìt came to light later. Simon Bennett will fill you in. He is - was -
Leighton's deputy.'
And now he was hers.
`Great.' Her enthusiasm was not faked.
Wright got to his feet and she followed suit. `The logical thing to do was to put Simon in charge. He's a competent man. But. . .' he fixed her with a purposeful glarè. . . I want some fresh thinking on this. That's why I've brought you in - Acting Detective Chief Inspector.'
Her heart thumped with excitement. Acting DCI. This was a heaven-sent opportunity.
`Thank you, sir. I won't let you down, I promise.'
`Just give it your best shot, Jane. That's all any of us can do.'
It wasn't the most inspiring call to arms but it didn't dampen her spirits one bit.
It was a wet afternoon at Haydock Park, with storm clouds scurrying in from the Irish Sea, eager to dump their contents on the north-west of England. The rain, however, did little to dampen the enthusiasm of the race goers in Box 13 of the Tommy Whittle stand. The guests of Beaufort Holidays - mostly favoured employees for this inaugural occasion - had enjoyed a substantial lunch and, armed with suitable lubrication, were looking forward to winning a few quid on the gee-gees. And the cherry on 71
the cake, according to their generous host, would be the first sight of the company's own horse. Beaufort Bonanza, a handsome black gelding, was making his maiden appearance in the last race. Barney's excitement (and the brandy) had already turned his cheeks a hearty puce. Malcolm hoped his client would survive the afternoon. He knew one thing, if the old fart had a heart attack it wouldn't be him who administered the kiss of life.
He'd leave that to Beverley who had seized the role of hostess with some aplomb.
`Sorry to see your wife's not here,' Malcolm had said to Barney over lunch. It was mischievous of him but the businessman had not turned a hair.
Òh, she never comes to work dos,' he'd boomed. `My job's to get out and earn a crust. Hers is to sit at home and scoff it. Isn't that right, Beverley?'
Malcolm couldn't help but admire the man. A doormat at home to push around and a woman half his age to parade in public.
As a concession to the occasion Beverley was wearing one of her less sober suits. The shade of pastel blue complemented her eyes which, today, were showcased by a pair of thin-rimmed oval spectacles. The jacket was nipped in at the waist, hinting at the curves beneath, and Malcolm noted several appreciative glances cast in her direction by the other men in the group. Barney patted her hip and squeezed her arm every chance he got.
Now and again she shot Malcolm a conspiratorial glance. She was loving every second.
He'd tried to get out of attending this Beaufort bash once he'd discovered that there would be no chance of a get-together with Beverley later.
Ì know one or two nice little hotels out that way,' he'd said the last time he'd paid a visit to her bedroom. `We'll stop over.'
She'd lifted her head from his chest, her expression humourless. `Not possible. I'm driving Barney back.'
`Well, when you've dropped him off. We'll go somewhere nearer home.'
Ì don't know when I'll be finished.' `You mean you'll bring him back here?'
She'd not replied to that but fastened her wide thin mouth on his to shut him up. Malcolm had a pretty shrewd idea Barney paid the rent on the cottage. Maybe it was done through the books of his company. Like the 72
dress allowance that filled her wardrobe with designer clothes and her chest of drawers with expensive underwear. No wonder she was so devoted to the company cause.
The next day, on the phone, he'd tried to wriggle out of attending the meeting at all but she wasn't having it.
`May I remind you, Malcolm, that you have a very generous contract with Beaufort Holidays. Mr. Beaufort will be most unhappy if you are not there to lend your support on the occasion of our first race.'
Malcolm could have told her to stuff it, of course. Women did not talk to him like this. On the other hand, while he still found her attractive, it amused him to submit.
`Yes, mistress,' he'd said, knowing the irony would pass her by.
So here he was, on this tedious company knees-up, surrounded by flushed and noisy office managers and tele-sales execs, all of whom were looking for a winner. And, as the acknowledged expert on horses, he was expected to supply it.
Malcolm fancied himself as a bit of a tipster - after all, he ought to be. But today was not one of his best.
Ì don't think much to your fancies, Mr. Bloodstock Agent,' said the loudest and largest of the company suits after Malcolm had recommended three duds in a row. Èh, Barney, I hope he's a better judge of horseflesh or your Bonanza will be a right duffer.'
Malcolm considered telling this fat clown where to shove it but that, of course, was not an option.
`Sorry about that,' he muttered as pleasantly as he could manage. Beverley stepped in swiftly. `What would you know about it, Roland? A clot like you couldn't tell a racehorse from a rocking horse without getting a second opinion.'
To Malcolm's surprise, Roland roared with laughter at this treatment. She leaned over and placed her hand on his pudgy knee. `What you do is look for the horse with the biggest feet. You see how wet it is? If they've got big feet they're not so likely to get bogged down.'
This impressive argument kept everyone amused and, by some fluke, provided the name of the winner in the next two races. By the time Barney and his merry group of connections headed down to the parade ring for 73
Beaufort Bonanza's race, expectations were running dangerously high.
Malcolm hoped to God that Adolf would put on some kind of a show.
The last race on the card was significant not just for the first appearance of the Beaufort horse. It was the first race of Jamie's comeback and his first under National Hunt rules. He had not ridden competitively since the day of his accident and his win on Morwenstow. Haydock in the January mud on an unknown and unpredictable animal like Adolf was a far cry from Ascot in September. But a race was a race and this one represented a step back to the profession that had been his life.
Ì've won here on the Flat,' he said to Ros as they stood in the parade ring, the wind whipping rain into their faces.
Ì know,' she said. `The Sprint Cup on Samantha Brown.' Jamie was suspicious. `Did Toby tell you?'
Às a matter of fact he did mention it, but I remember watching it on television. You came from ten lengths down in the last furlong. An astonishing piece of riding from an apprentice.'
He looked at her in amazement. Throughout their many sessions she'd given the impression that his past experience didn't count. To hear a word of praise from her unsmiling lips was as rare as winter warmth.