Jamie called to the girl on the horse to let him stand still for a moment. He then ran to the hay barn and returned a minute later with a couple of lengths of orange-coloured baling string.
`Pick up his front foot, would you?' he instructed Caroline. Ì don't want him kicking me and he can't do that on three legs'
Caroline did as she was told.
People used to say that Jamie's Uncle Bob had a touch of the gypsy in him. Jamie's mum would bridle at the suggestion, but her brother was dark and handsome with a gleam in his black eyes - as was Pippa. Whatever the truth of it, Bob knew a few useful Romany dodges when it came to horses and he'd delighted in passing them on to his niece and nephew. On occasions they could be handy - like now.
`What are you doing?' shouted the girl, a note of anxiety in her voice.
Ì'm going to stop him rearing.'
Jamie captured the horse's tail and trussed it with one end of the baling string. Then he passed the string between the animal's back legs, pulling the tail through with it, and secured it around the leather girth. Now the tail no longer flowed out behind Spring Fever but rested up against his belly.
He stood up with a smile on his face. `There we are. He won't be able to stand on his back legs now.'
`What have you done?' asked the girl.
`Tied his tail down tight. He can't rear up because he won't be able to balance. Horses can't stand upright unless they can use their dock to balance. Try him now.'
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The girl prodded the horse into action and Jamie and Caroline watched as she walked him away. It was evident Spring Fever wanted to rear but just wasn't able to.
`Make him go in and out of the yard a few times until you are happy with him,' Jamie said, `then take the string off and see if it's made any difference.'
This time when the horse stopped, his rider walloped him and he moved forward reluctantly.
`Thanks, Jamie,' said Caroline. Ìf anything happened while Ros is away she'd kill me.'
`That's a nasty habit. People get paralysed by horses toppling backwards on them.'
`Where did you learn that trick with the string?'
Ìt's an old gypsy dodge.' Jamie felt pretty pleased with himself. `Who's the girl?' he asked.
`Marie Kirkstall from the village.' Jamie no longer felt so chuffed.
`Stubborn lass,' Caroline continued. `Wouldn't get off him when I told her.
Canny rider though.'
`Look, I've just got to pick something up from the office.' The girl didn't seem to have recognised him. If he went now he might be able to get away with it.
`Hang on a bit, Jamie. I'm sure she'd like to say thanks. There's smashing blonde hair under that helmet, you know.'
But Jamie was off, heading back to the gate. He raised his hand in a'
general farewell as he went but he didn't look at the rider on the horse.
What was Marie Kirkstall doing here at this time of day?
At first Jamie couldn't find the video tape in the small cluttered shed that passed for an office. Then the phone rang and he felt duty bound to answer it. By the time he'd taken a message and spotted a Jiffy bag marked `Jamie'
leaning on the bookshelf, he could hear the sound of horse's hooves from the yard outside.
It would be Marie, returning Spring Fever to his stall. She'd take his kit off and settle him down. If he waited a few minutes he could slip away unnoticed while she was with the horse in his box.
He heard Caroline's voice. Ì'll take him if you like.'
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Jamie froze. Where was Marie going? Caroline must have told her his name by now. Maybe the experience had so spooked her that she was leaving straight away. He'd better stay right where he was and give her time to get clear. He didn't want to run into her in the small courtyard outside or in the narrow lane where there would be no escape. The tiny office was even worse.
She appeared in the doorway. `Jamie Hutchison.' A statement, not a question. She hesitated, maybe wondering whether he knew who she was.
He cut in quickly. Ì didn't expect you'd be here. I'm sorry.'
She was close enough to touch, her back to the light and her face in shadow. He could make out her expression, however. The pale oval was sombre, with deep-set unreadable eyes and a downturned slash of a mouth.
`Thank you for your help with Spring Fever.' She spoke formally. It was the kind of duty-bound sentiment you made because you had to.
`That's OK,' he said. Ìs he all right now?' The question was out before he could think. Maybe he wasn't supposed to talk to her.
Òh yes. He behaved beautifully after that.' Her face relaxed a fraction. Ì
think I was being a bit stupid. Caroline told me off for not putting him back in his box.'
`You've got guts,' he said. `Most girls would be screaming their heads off if a horse tried that trick on them.'
Ànd boys wouldn't?' The slash of her mouth had changed shape, softened.
Her neat, firm chin jutted impudently.
`Sure, boys would too.' Jamie was not prepared for this situation. Least of all the fact that she was so lovely to look at.
He plunged into the pause in their strange conversation. `Look, Ros said you wouldn't be around at this time. I'm really sorry - I'll make sure in future.
She nodded and turned. `Don't bother on my account,' she mumbled as she left. At least, that's what he thought she said.
He waited in the office till he was absolutely sure she had gone. Amanda's memorial service was held at a small church in the Dales. Elizabeth told Jane she'd chosen it because the vicar was well disposed to the racing community. Also it was positioned not far from the yards in Yorkshire where her sister had worked.
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The narrow pews were packed, mostly with youngsters whose natural exuberance was masked by the solemnity of the occasion. Jane gathered that these were stable staff, released from their chores on a non-racing afternoon.
The service was affecting. Amanda's favourite pop music was played.
Elizabeth's eldest, four-year-old Grace, and a couple of nursery-school classmates sang a hesitant Ì'm a Little Teapot' as, apparently, they had once done for their Auntie Manda. A stable colleague delivered an amusing account of Mandy's first day in the yard when she'd paraded the wrong horse for an owner, who hadn't noticed the mistake. Then two high-mounted TV screens showed a video prepared by Amanda's youngest sister, Jo, on her travels in Australia. She stood on a cliff, high above a beach where surf pounded in a flickering white line, and cast seeds into the wind. Finally, Elizabeth delivered a halting but passionate address and the vicar led the congregation in prayer. Jane could have done without Elton John's Princess Diana tribute which accompanied their exit into the grey spring afternoon, but she put away her cynicism as she noticed tears on many cheeks.
It had been her intention to slip away quickly but Elizabeth caught her up.
`Won't you come back to the house, Jane? We've laid on some drinks.'
Ì can't.' It was true - she had a case conference lined up about, a suspected infanticide and she had to get back.
Ìn that case, I'm going to tell you now before I change my mind.' `Tell me what?'
Elizabeth looked around but, for the moment, they were alone in the crowd. Ì've been thinking over what you said about Mandy's boyfriends, but I swear they were all harmless. It's just-well, this one was different.'
Jane held back her impatience. She'd waited long enough for this information. A few more seconds wouldn't matter.
`He was her boss and about thirty years older than she was. She'd never got involved with anyone like that before. I think it really screwed her up.
And the bastard didn't even have the grace to show up today. His sons made the effort but he didn't.'
Ì'm sorry, Elizabeth, I don't know who you are talking about.' 'Toby Priest. The guy who owns Ridgemoor.'
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The older man in the football photo. The one playing referee, Jane remembered.
`Did it end badly?' she asked.
Elizabeth shrugged. Ì never got all the grisly details, if that's what you mean. It was all very sudden. One moment she was there in a new job and all was hunky-dory, next thing she's leaving to work in Lancashire, bloody miles away. I'm sure it was because of Toby. You want to know who gave her that money? I bet he did. He was still married at the time, so he just paid her off like some tart.'
'Or. . .'Jane hesitated. Her sympathy for Elizabeth ran deep and she didn't want to upset her unnecessarily. On the other hand, there was no way round it.
Òr what?' the other woman said.
`Could she have been pregnant? And the money was more than just a pay-off'
`My sister would never have had an abortion, if that's what you're suggesting.' Elizabeth held Jane's gaze without wavering. `She was passionately pro-life. Unlike me, ironically.'
Jane was trained not to take things at face value but she believed her nevertheless. She took Elizabeth's hand and squeezed it. There were other people gathering round now. `Thank you,' she said. Ìt was a lovely service.'
She walked quickly back to her car, musing on Amanda and Toby Priest.
It might not be much to go on but it was more than she'd had before.
Dave considered his naked body in the mirror - mirrors, plural, in which, through the steam and condensation from his recent shower, he could view multiple images of his skinny self, reflecting and counter-reflecting into infinity. The blue-and-white mosaic of floor tiles seduced the eye and the extensive array of bathroom fittings gleamed with understated Italian style
- or so Dave assumed. He made that glib assumption on the basis that Adriana, Walter Clark's wife, was from Rome and it was she who had been responsible for assembling their home with such loving care. Such care evidently extended to the bathroom of thèguest suite' where Dave was towelling himself dry after an energetic run over the moors with his old adversary.
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Dave lived the simple life, not entirely out of necessity, but that didn't mean he wasn't interested in more complex lifestyles. Walter possessed a five-bedroom mansion surrounded by three acres of landscaped garden, a Toyota Lexus and a seven-seater Galaxy in the drive and a flat-screen television the size of a small cinema in his games room in the basement.
He also had two coal-eyed children whose smiling faces peered from a gallery of photos, chronicling their triumphs at prep school sports days.
And there was also the aforementioned wife, a curvaceous black-ringleted stunner who could have been ordered from a mail-order catalogue of Italian brides - at a price.
Not being the covetous type, Dave thoroughly enjoyed the way Walter displayed his trophy home and family. It helped, of course, that he had never coveted the kind of things that Walter possessed.
When he'd first known Walter he'd been a long-haired student living out of baked bean cans. The reason he had so much hair, some reckoned, was because he couldn't afford a razor. Certainly no woman who was even half-decent-looking cast him a glance of interest away from the athletics track.
Now, as Dave faced Walter across the dinner table, he realised the truth about the hairy student. He'd grown it to cover up his modest appearance.
But, weak chin notwithstanding, he had landed the sumptuous Adriana and spawned a brace of children who had inherited their mother's looks and their father's athletic ability. Dave was delighted for him.
`Congratulations, mate,' he said as he pushed back his plate. `You've done really well for yourself.'
Walter gave him a self-conscious grin. It struck Dave that his old friend was desperate for his approval. He was happy to give it.
So far the conversation, with Adriana in attendance, had focused on Dave, with Walter egging him on to talk about his glory days as an athlete. Dave had played along, tossing as many bouquets in Walter's direction as he could. Not that Walter had seemed keen to catch them.
`Your old man left me for dead last time we competed in earnest,' Dave said to Adriana. `Caught me at the end of a ten-mile cross-country race like he was on roller skates. He should have kept up serious athletics. He could have been an international.'
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Her soot-flecked eyes had widened and the corners of her blush-pink lips relaxed just a touch. She patted her husband's hand as she stood. Ì knew it, darling, you could have been famous,' she said and swished off - to the kitchen, or so Dave presumed.
Having admired the elegance of her retreat, Dave said, `Kids would be queuing up to be vets if they could see how you live.'
`Well . . .'Walter looked sheepish. `Not all vets are as lucky as me.' `How so?’
'I'm a specialist in racehorses. There's a lot of money connected to top-class thoroughbreds.'
`You mean you get good tips?'
Walter laughed. Ì don't bet. It wouldn't look too good if I started gambling on races which included runners I'd been treating.'
Dave thought further. `You say you're a specialist. You mean, like the average vet is a sort of GP and you specialists are the Harley Street consultants?'
Ìn a way.'
Adriana came back into the room bearing a colourful platter of sliced fresh fruit which she set down on the table with a flourish. As she moved to the pale-wood sideboard to collect serving dishes she momentarily obscured the view through the picture window of the long green lawn sloping down to Walter's trout stream. If Dave shifted his head he could just catch a glimpse of the conservatory at the side of the house. Further round there was a rockery and a fountain and in the wood on the other side of the football pitch a tree-house for the kids. And so it went on - the Clarks didn't want for much.
This business of being a specialist horse vet, Dave mused to himself, seemed like a licence to print money.
Clem wasn't a selfish man but, with his illness closing in on him like a slowly tightening vice, it was hard sometimes to think outside his world of stolen breaths and shrinking mobility. Nevertheless he was attuned to the shifting moods of the women in his life. Something had shaken them up, he was sure of that, and it bothered him.