And that was all Jamie could remember of the night that changed his life.
It was ironic, Jane thought, that she should be clearing out her desk at Deacon Parade when Elizabeth Jacobs came on the line to give her directions to Amanda's memorial service that afternoon. She promised to be there and put the phone down without saying anything about the latest development in the case. She didn't think Elizabeth would be overjoyed to hear that it was being abandoned.
Of course, that wasn't the technical term for it and Superintendent Keith Wright would have considered such a reference as heresy. But how else did you explain the closing down of the incident room and the reallocation of personnel to other cases? She herself was still nominally in charge but 182
shed have to put the Bonfire Night Murders back in the queue behind other `more pressing' matters. The file was still open, as Wright had put it, but she knew that he and almost everyone else had marked it shut for the moment. They all thought the East European drug-dealers had killed Pete and Amanda and that they might be able to pin it on them at some indeterminate point in the future. But murder, robbery, fraud and a host of other serious offences were being committed right now and police resources were finite.
In theory, Jane was all in favour of taking fresh aim in the fight against crime. And in this case she too was convinced the Albanians were responsible - well, almost. Maybe she still entertained doubts because it was her first time as SIO on a murder and she didn't want to leave it in this inconclusive state. But she'd come in late, when the case had already turned into a pig's ear. No one could blame her for its failure. Not even that slimy sod, Keith Wright.
`Not your fault, Jane,' he'd said at the end of their interview. `Buy you a drink later as consolation?'
Shed ducked that one as best she could. She didn't want to find herself backed up in the corner of some loathsome pub swapping divorce war stories again. If she was going down that road there were others she'd prefer to travel with.
`So long, boss,' said Simon, the fellow-traveller she was thinking of. `For God's sake cut out that boss stuff,' she protested. Ì can't stand it.'
`Sorry.' He grinned - how did he keep his teeth so white? `Let's get together soon, eh?'
What did he have in mind? Her imagination went into overdrive - she couldn't help it. Èr. . . .' she said, caught off guard. Not very impressive.
His face fell. `Just to keep in touch about this business, I meant. We shouldn't just forget about it.'
ÒK,' she said. `Call me.'
She watched his broad shoulders disappear through the door. Whether he called her or not, she had no intention of forgetting about the Bonfire Night Murders.
Joyce Kirkstall couldn't say she enjoyed her part-time job at the Post Office and general stores. Her function was manning the grocery till at the 183
front of the shop, while at the back, behind a glass window, Mr. and Mrs.
Jennings carried out the important tasks, such as doling out pensions and weighing parcels. It didn't pay much and old Jennings was a pain in the backside. He was a former British Rail station manager with a neurotic addiction to punctuality and an obsession with `the rules', most of which he made up himself.
There were compensations, however, to working in the busiest shop in the High Street. Nearly everybody, at one time or another, dropped into the Post Office and many had nothing better to do than hang around and gossip. Joyce was happy to pass the time in a spot of conversation, though she had to be careful with Jennings in attendance. Mrs. Jennings, however, couldn't be bossed around. And she did like a good chinwag.
Since taking the job Joyce had been able to add to her knowledge of many locals she'd known little about. It was impossible not to overhear what was said. It wasn't a large shop and, from her station at the till, she could hear every word spoken at the Post Office counter. Though she'd never counted herself as that nosy, it amused her to earwig on the local comings and goings, even when she didn't know exactly who they were talking about.
A favourite subject under discussion was `that Ros Bradey' and, within a fortnight, she'd noted the woman herself - a Lady Muck type, Joyce had thought at first, with her expensive-casual clothes and low, well-modulated voice. She was irritatingly elegant and slim and she'd obviously not spent her working life skivvying for others as Joyce had. But she looked Joyce in the eye when she paid for her goods and said her pleases and thank yous as if she meant them. Then Joyce heard that she was one of the horsey lot running a business teaching animals to jump. So she must have done a fair amount of hard work in her time - horses being more labour intensive than small children even.
So when Marie started getting up early to work àt Ros's', Joyce's attention was well and truly attuned to whatever was said about Ros Bradey.
Old Freddy Ferguson was getting in a muddle counting out the change for his pipe tobacco when Joyce heard the words `you'll never guess the latest about Ros Bradey' from the Post Office counter.
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Joyce impatiently plucked the correct coins from Freddy's open purse and banged up the sale. She looked across the shop and recognised Mrs.
Hargreaves thumbing an Air Mail sticker on to a large and shapeless packet - handmade baby clothes bound for her new granddaughter in Australia doubtless; the new arrival had been a hot topic for months.
`She's got herself a toy boy,' Mrs. Hargreaves continued. `He must be half her age.'
Ì wouldn't mind a toy boy,' mused Mrs. Jennings, earning a reproving glance from her husband. `Course, chance would be a fine thing.' `You haven't heard who it is yet,' said the new grandmother. Ìt's that jockey who went to prison.'
There was an intake of breath. `What - Jamie Hutchison? Never!' Ìt's true.
He took her out the other night all done up like a dog's dinner. He hired a chauffeur-driven car and ended up at Ros Bradey's place for the night. I know that for a fact.'
There came a loud coughing noise from Mr. Jennings and Joyce caught sight of him making furious hand signals to Mrs. Hargreaves. Àustralia, did you say?' cut in Mrs. Jennings to cover the confusion as Mrs.
Hargreaves swivelled her head to stare in Joyce's direction. Her antipathy to Jamie Hutchison was well known - no doubt the Post Office clientele had jawed for weeks about her assault on him at the Roman Arms back in November.
A hearty conversation about grandchildren was struck up but the damage had been done. Joyce busied herself straightening the array of crisps, her unthinking fingers muddling the flavours. So Marie was working for the mistress of the man who'd killed her own brother.
She could scarcely believe it.
Clem Kirkstall stared at the pen on the carpet by his foot. How in blue blazes did it get there? He cursed softly to himself.
He was alone in the house, so there was no use calling for Joyce or Marie to come and pick it up for him. He'd have to manage himself or do without. And he didn't want to do without. The morning crossword was at hand on the table by his chair.
He considered his plan of action - his condition required him to do that, he found, or you could end up in some nasty spots. If he'd just bent forward 185
to reach for the pen, as any normal person would - as he would have done himself just a few months ago - then his chest would be resting on his knees and the breath driven from his body. He didn't have enough breath to spare to risk that.
No, the thing to do was to slip to his knees first and reach for the pen on all fours. He could pick it up and put it back on the table, then climb back up into the chair, pulling himself up by his arms. That would put pressure on his chest, of course, but if he took it slowly he should be all right.
First he used the inhaler. He hadn't wanted one when Gooding had first made the suggestion. He'd said it would make him look like an asthmatic or something, and the doctor had given him a hard unfriendly stare. `Just what is it you think you are, exactly?' he'd said and Clem had kept his mouth shut after that. He used the inhalers now, all the time, in fact, as he fought off the constant shortness of breath.
He tried to relax as he slid his right foot back round the side of the chair and lowered his knee towards the floor. But his stockinged foot seemed jammed in the thick pile of the carpet and it was an effort to even slide forward in the big old chair. With his thighs splayed and teetering on the edge of the seat, it wasn't that easy to relax. But he forced himself. He took a breath, a short gulp of air that seemed to stick in his throat. He could feel himself beginning to sweat.
He shoved his body forward and suddenly he was on the move, his knees jerking forward and landing with a window-pane-rattling thump onto the floor. Hell and tarnation. All because he wanted a ruddy pen.
Sinking onto his haunches he gauged the distance to the object of his discomfort. It was four feet away but it looked like forty. He shuffled towards it on his bottom. Like a big baby, he thought.
Oh Alan, thank God you can't see your big tough daddy now. Marie had been about to leave the surgery for the day when her phone rang - a rare occurrence. It was Caroline from Ros's yard.
`You couldn't come up and help us with Spring Fever, could you? You're about the only one who gets on with him.'
`What's the matter with him?'
`He's being a right pain in the arse. He gets halfway across the yard then just stands up on his back legs.'
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Marie was puzzled. `Where's Ros?' Ros could handle Spring Fever. She'd bet Ros could handle anything.
`She's gone to the sales in Ireland and won't be back for a few days. Could you come - please?'
It wasn't in Marie to play hard to get where a horse was concerned. She'd cycled up to the yard straight away. She found the place in a bit of a tizz with Caroline, inclined in the past to be a little on the snippy side, pitifully grateful to see her.
`Ros said to do some Flat work with him in the paddock,' she said, `but we can't even get him that far. He keeps rearing up or else he stands still and won't budge. We can't get him to do a thing.' Marie guessed she was worried what Ros might say.
Excited - and just a little fearful - Marie quickly changed into riding clothes. She'd seen Spring Fever's bad-tempered side before. Even though she adored the horse, he had a foul temper when he got into a state.
He was in a state now all right, standing four square in his stable. `We left him here when you agreed to come,' said Caroline. `He might have calmed down a bit by now.'
Marie thought so too as she stroked his white muzzle and gazed into his big wet eye.
Caroline led him out and gave her a boost into the saddle. Marie let her leathers down a few holes so as to get the maximum contact on his flanks with her legs. If he reared up she wanted to be as secure as possible.
Marie began to walk the horse slowly round the yard, patting his neck and talking to him all the time. She remembered that he'd been difficult before when it came to going out. He was fine within the confines of the stableyard, but each time she went to head him in the direction of the paddock his body tensed and his nose lifted in the air, as if he was preparing to rear up on his back legs.
Every time he did this, Marie pulled him left-handed and completed another circuit.
`He's taking the piss,' said Caroline, who had been standing at the exit to make certain Marie didn't come to any harm.
Marie knew that Caroline was right. Spring Fever was taking the mickey.
As she felt him begin to duck out the next time, she brought her whip 187
down on his shoulder with a force that surprised even herself. But the cord covering had barely made contact with Spring Fever's skin before he was upright and Marie was hanging helplessly around his neck. `Jump off him!' screamed Caroline.
Spring Fever was vertical and looked ready to fall over backwards onto the gravel driveway.
Marie was too frightened to move. She just gripped the horse's mane tight and kept her weight as far forward as she could, hoping to keep him balanced. The few seconds she hung there seemed to last for ever, but eventually the big chestnut horse dropped back onto his front feet, his hoofs crunching into the gravel.
`Right, get off him,' cried Caroline, ànd put him back before he kills you.'
Dave dropped Jamie at the gate of Ros's yard, as Jamie had requested.
`Sure you don't want me to wait?' he said.
Jamie shook his head. He knew Dave had a busy afternoon, running his training session at Shelley Farm then meeting up with some guy he used to race against.
Ì can walk back. Get a bit of exercise,' he added for Dave's benefit. He'd not been running for weeks and Dave was always on at him about it.
Jamie shut the gate behind him and headed down the familiar path. Ros was away for a couple of days but she'd left a race video for him to pick up from the office.
As he approached he heard the sound of a woman's voice raised in distress.
`Get off him now, please. He's going right back in his box.' That sounded like Caroline, Ros's head lass.
`But we can't let him beat us!'
Jamie didn't recognise that voice but he could now see its owner, a girl on top of the horse who'd given Ros a kicking. She was obviously trying to get the animal out of the yard but he wasn't having any. His feet were planted on the ground as if they'd taken root.
Suddenly the horse reared up on its back legs. The girl clung on gamely.
`No!' she shouted. `Get down!'
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Jamie could see that the girl was determined not to let the horse get away with it. He called to Caroline over the gate, `Can I make a suggestion before someone gets hurt?'
She whirled round, surprised to see him and, from the look of her, pleased too. `Do anything you like. I'm terrified he'll topple backwards on top of her.'
Jamie could understand that. The lass was brave but, in his opinion, suicidal. She'd be squashed flat if an animal that size landed on her.