“We must call the police as soon as the Fleets have been informed,” Carole called after her friend’s retreating outline. “We must be very careful we don’t tamper with a crime scene.”
She stood still for a moment, then let the torch beam explore the space around her. Not onto the body-she had seen quite enough of that for its image to haunt her dreams for months to come.
Most of the loose box top-halves were open, but the moving ray of light did not reveal any of their inmates. The horses lurked in the recesses of their stalls, snuffling and stamping their continuing disquiet.
A complete circuit of the yard revealed double gates at the far end, offering access to the paddocks beyond, and gateways leading to barns, tack rooms and the indoor school. The torch beam ended up once again fixed on the open door. Carole felt a sudden, overwhelming temptation.
She shouldn’t do it. Everything she had ever learnt during her extensive dealings with the police told her that she should touch nothing, explore nothing. Jude’s footprints and her own might already have destroyed important evidence. To investigate further would be the height of irresponsibility. Her duty as a citizen dictated that she should stay stock still where she was until the police arrived. Or, perhaps even better, go back to the Renault and wait there.
On the other hand…How were the police to know that she wasn’t just another incompetent, invisible woman in late middle age? In most recent dealings she’d had with them, that’s how she had been treated. There could be any number of reasons why an incompetent, invisible woman in late middle age might go through that open door. She might be looking for bandages, cloth, something to staunch the wounds of the victim, unaware that her ministrations would come too late. She might be looking inside the wooden building for someone to help. She might go there to hide from the homicidal maniac who had just committed one crime and was about to commit another. She might…
Almost involuntarily, Carole felt her footsteps following the torch beam towards the open door.
The lack of lights in the Fleets’ house was a discouraging omen, and repeated ringing of the bell confirmed that no one was at home.
For a second, Jude contemplated ringing the police from their doorstep, but quickly decided not to. Maybe, after all, Carole could be persuaded into a little preliminary private investigation before the call was made…?
But the walk back from house to stables was interrupted by the beam of high headlights turning into the car park. Jude stopped, thinking the Fleets might have returned, but quickly recognised the Range Rover as it drew up beside her and the driver’s-side window was lowered.
“Jude…so sorry. Have you been waiting hours? I just got horribly delayed.”
Even though flushed and flustered, Sonia Dalrymple’s face was still beautiful. She was a tall, leggy blonde in her early forties, with a fabulous figure toned by riding and a metabolism that never seemed to put on an ounce. Her voice had the upper-class ease of someone who had never doubted her own position in society. No one meeting her would ever be able to associate such a goddess with the deep insecurities that had brought her to Jude in search of healing.
“No, don’t worry, there’s no problem.” As her client doused the lights and got out of the car, Jude realised how inappropriate, in the circumstances, her words were.
Sonia Dalrymple was wearing cowboy boots and the kind of designer jeans that had been so gentrified as to lose any connection with their origins as working clothes. She had a white roll-neck sweater under a blue-and- white striped body-warmer. The blonde hair was scrunched back into an untidy ponytail.
“Again I’m terribly sorry. Come on, let’s see how old Chieftain-”
“Sonia, something’s happened.”
“What?”
“I was just trying to tell the Fleets…at least I assume they live in that house…”
“Yes, they do.”
“…but there’s no one in. There’s…Sonia, there’s been an accident in the stables.”
The woman’s face paled. “Oh, God. Is Chieftain all right?”
“Yes. All the horses are fine.”
Sonia’s reaction of relief seemed excessive to Jude, but then she wasn’t a horse owner.
“No, I’m afraid it’s a human being who’s suffered the…accident.”
“Who?” The anxiety was at least as great as if had been for Chieftain.
“No idea. It’s a man.”
“What’s happened to him?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh, but…how?”
“It looks very much as if he’s been stabbed to death.”
“You mean murder?”
Jude nodded grimly. “Come and have a look.”
Inside the stables Carole stood exactly where Jude had left her, torch modestly pointing downwards. Sonia was hastily introduced, and Carole moved the torch beam to spotlight the dead man.
“Oh, my God!” A deep sob shuddered through Sonia’s body.
“You recognise him?” asked Jude.
“Yes. This is-or was-Walter Fleet.”
3
Once summoned, the police were quick to arrive. Soon the car park of Long Bamber Stables seemed to be full of white vehicles and whirling blue lights.
Having quickly explained their presence at the stables, Carole, Jude and Sonia were politely hustled away from the central courtyard and asked to wait until someone had time to talk to them further. When Carole complained of the cold, they were offered the shelter of a large white police van.
But just before they entered, they saw a battered Land Rover swing into the car park. It stopped as soon as it could. The engine was left running and the headlights blazing, as a woman jumped out.
She looked at first sight like a smaller version of Sonia Dalrymple. Similarly though more scruffily dressed, she was ten years older. Her beauty was in decline, and the blondness of her hair had been assisted.
“Oh God,” she snarled at the policemen who’d turned to greet her. “Don’t say the Ripper’s struck again!”
“So,” said Ted Crisp, “she was worried that it was one of the horses that had been attacked, not a human being?”
“Exactly,” said Carole.
“Apparently there have been a series of cases recently,” Jude amplified. “All over West Sussex. Horses being mutilated. By someone the local papers have taken to calling the Horse Ripper. She thought one of the ones in Long Bamber Stables had been attacked, and that’s why all the police were there.”
“And, sorry, I’m losing track a bit here. Which woman was this?”
“Lucinda Fleet.”
“Right. So then she discovered it wasn’t one of her horses who was the victim-it was her husband?”
“Yes. Walter Fleet.”
“Ah, right.”
“You sound like you know him, Ted.”
“Wouldn’t say ‘know.’ He used to come in here from time to time, that’s all. So old Walter’s copped it, has he?”
“Afraid he has.”
They had been surprised how early it still was when they got back to Fethering. The events they had witnessed and their questioning by police detectives seemed to have taken a lot longer than they really had. As is often the case after experiencing a shock, Carole and Jude were amazed to find that the rest of the world
