Under Orders

‘Any luck?’ asked Marina quietly.

I shook my head.

‘Would you like some lunch?’ asked Kate.

‘No, it’s fine, thanks,’ I said. ‘We’ve taken up too much of your time already. We’ll be off.’

‘Are you sure? There’s plenty.’

‘Please stay,’ said William.

‘Yes, stay, pleeeeeeease,’ chorused the others.

‘OK,’ I said, laughing.

Kids were a great tonic for the soul.

We stayed, squeezed round the kitchen table, and ate a hearty lunch of fish fingers, baked beans and mashed potato, with chocolate ice cream to follow. Wonderful.

After lunch, the children took Marina up to their bedrooms to show her their toys and I went for a walk round the stable yard. I had happy memories of many hours spent here, teaching young horses to jump on the schooling grounds beyond the hay barn.

I had ridden here first for Kate’s father when I was about nineteen and had done so on and off until I had been forced to retire.

But my memories were of a place buzzing with activity, a living, energetic factory of thrills and excitement. Now it stood empty and quiet like a wild-west ghost town. The Marie Celeste of the racing world with straw still on the floor of some boxes and hay nets still hanging in others. It was as if the effort of clearing up had been too much and when the horses walked out, so did the staff.

I wandered around the lifeless buildings and wondered who would next occupy this establishment. Perhaps it was time for the timber stables to be torn down and replaced with warmer, fireproof brick.

I made my way back to the house. Beside the gate from the yard sat a red fire extinguisher and a red-painted metal bucket filled with sand. Some of the stable staff had put out cigarettes in the sand and left the stubs standing upright as if they had been thrown in like little brown darts. I was sure that if Bill had still been alive the lads wouldn’t have dared dispose of their fag ends in the fire buckets.

I went through the gate, and then stopped. Fine, gritty, sand-like material.

I went back to the bucket and tipped the whole thing out on the concrete path. I went through it with my fingers and there it was, a lump of lead, slightly misshapen but still identifiable as a.38 bullet.

CHAPTER 13

‘You’ve found another what?’ said Chief Inspector Carlisle.

‘Another bullet,’ I said.

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘At Bill Burton’s place. Can I come and see you to explain?’

He sighed. I could hear it down the telephone line.

‘Do you have to? I’m up to my ears here. The Press are after me for failing to arrest a child killer. I’m exhausted.’

‘I’ll come now. It won’t take long but it’s easier face to face.’

What I really wanted was his undivided attention. I didn’t want him looking at his computer screen and thinking of his other case while I prattled on to him over a wire.

‘Oh, all right. I can give you half an hour, no more. How soon can you get here?’

Lambourn to Cheltenham, Monday afternoon.

‘About fifty minutes max,’ I said.

‘OK. See you then. Bye.’ He disconnected and I realised that he had his problems, too. The Press can be merciless on the police for not catching a killer, especially a child killer, whilst, at the same time, accusing them of having too many powers. A no-win situation.

Marina was talked into staying with Kate and the children while I drove to Cheltenham.

I made it to the police station in forty-five minutes flat but Carlisle kept me waiting for fifteen minutes more before he hurried into the reception area. This time I accepted his invitation to join him in one of the interview rooms.

‘Now, what is all this about another bullet?’ he asked. ‘Where is this bullet? Where did you find it? What is so important about it that brings you all the way here?’

Your undivided attention, I thought.

‘All in good time,’ I said. ‘We are going to play a little game of “Let’s suppose” first.’

‘“Let’s suppose”? I’ve never heard of that.’

‘Well, it’s quite simple really. You sit there quietly without asking any questions and I’ll do the talking.’

‘All right, if I must.’

I smiled. ‘You must.’

He leant back and tipped the metal chair on to its back legs. My mother had always told me off for doing that, but I resisted the temptation to say so.

‘Now let’s suppose that Bill Burton didn’t kill himself,’ I said.

‘That’s up to the coroner,’ said Carlisle.

‘I said no talking — please.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Let’s suppose Bill didn’t shoot himself. There was indisputable evidence that he was shot, so someone else must have murdered him. But there was also gunpowder residue on Bill’s hand and sleeve so he did fire a gun, probably the gun that killed him. Now, he could have shot the gun before he was murdered or his dead hand could have been used afterwards so that the residue would appear on his hand. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Carlisle, ‘but — ’

‘No buts, not yet, we’re still playing “Let’s suppose”.’

He closed his mouth and crossed his arms over his chest, a typical body-language movement showing displeasure and/or disbelief.

‘Either way, there had to be a second bullet.’

‘And, I suppose, you found it?’ he said.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘I searched the den where Bill was killed,’ I said. ‘I searched every inch of that room and didn’t find anything.’ I took the misshapen lump out of my pocket and put it on the table in front of him. ‘It was in a sand-filled fire bucket in the stable yard.’

Carlisle brought his chair back to earth with a clatter, and he bent forward to look first at the lump of lead and then up at me.

‘What on earth made you look there?’ he said. He picked up the bullet and rolled it around between his fingers. ‘Perhaps Burton had a practice shot into the fire bucket outside in the yard first to make sure the gun was working. Perhaps he didn’t want the thing to misfire when he put it in his mouth.’

‘I thought of that, too,’ I replied, ‘but there are a number of things which don’t add up. Firstly, you’ve proved that it was the same gun that killed both Bill Burton and Huw Walker and since it had fired perfectly well the week before, why did it need testing? Secondly, why would Bill replace the empty case in the gun with a fresh bullet so that there was only one fired cylinder? And, thirdly, there was a trace of sand on the rug in the den which tells us that the bucket had been brought there from the yard, so why would he bother to take the bucket back outside if he was about to make a bloody mess in the den anyway?’

‘Hmm,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘He might have tested the gun before he went to Cheltenham races. There’s nothing on that bullet to say it was fired the day he died.’

‘True,’ I said, ‘but what about the sand on the rug? Kate Burton told me they have a cleaner who comes in once a week on Mondays. Also, Bill would never have fired a gun in the yard close to the horses. If he’d wanted to test the weapon, he would have walked off into the fields to do it and fired into the