last week in the Met area alone, and there’s a murder at least every second day.’ He paused for effect. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If Miss
‘But it may be the same person who killed Huw Walker,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘The jockey at Cheltenham.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’ll give Gloucestershire police a call.’
‘Ask for Chief Inspector Carlisle,’ I said, but he too was busy with another case. A child killer had more fascination for the media than the death of a ‘crooked’ jockey.
‘Right,’ he said, and disconnected.
I’d better investigate this myself, then.
Marina was sitting up in bed looking much better when I returned to see her at four thirty. I had brought with me a suitcase of things for her but I needn’t have bothered.
She was already wearing a pretty pink nightdress and a matching cotton dressing gown. Her hair was clean and neat and she had applied some makeup. And, I noticed, the stitches had been removed from her eyebrow and lip.
‘You look wonderful,’ I said, giving her a kiss. ‘Where did you get the nightie?’
‘Rosie had it sent over from Rigby and Peller. Isn’t she fantastic?’
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, sitting down on the chair beside the bed. Rosie was beating herself up unnecessarily for allowing Marina to get shot. It wasn’t her fault and no one but she thought so.
‘A policeman did come to see me this morning,’ said Marina. ‘He asked me if I could describe the man who shot me.’
‘And can you?’ I asked.
‘No, not really. It all happened so fast. I remember him looking at a map and beckoning me over to him. He was wearing black leathers and a black helmet, you know, one of those with a full front and a dark visor. That’s why I couldn’t see his face. That’s about it.’
‘Are you sure it was a man?’
‘You think it might have been a woman?’
‘It’s possible,’ I said.
‘No.’ She paused. ‘I’m pretty good when it comes to spotting women, even if they’re wearing motorcycling leathers.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. It was a man. If it had been a woman I would have looked at her bottom.’
‘What for?’ I said.
‘To see if it was smaller than mine. Silly boy.’
‘Do you do that all the time?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘All women do it.’
And I thought I was the one who looked at women’s bottoms.
‘What else did the policeman say?’ I asked.
‘He asked if I would recognise the motorbike.’ She laughed. ‘I told him it had two wheels but that didn’t seem to help. I don’t know what type it was. I wouldn’t know if I’d had all day to examine it.’
‘But it was blue,’ I said. I didn’t know.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said. She stopped with her mouth open. She closed it. ‘It was red. How funny, I didn’t remember before.’ She paused for quite a while. ‘It also had a big red fuel tank with yellow flashes down the side. And the rider had more yellow bits on his trousers, along his thighs.’
‘Could you draw the shape of the yellow flashes?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘They were like lightning bolts.’
‘Good girl,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you some paper and a pencil.’
I went off in search of them and eventually managed to borrow a pad and pen from the nursing station. Marina set to work and had soon produced some drawings of the lightning type flashes on the fuel tank and on the motorcyclist’s leather trousers.
Just as she finished, a nurse came in and told me it was time to go. ‘The patient must get some rest,’ she said, and stood in the open doorway waiting for me to leave.
‘See you tomorrow, my love,’ I said to Marina, giving her a kiss.
‘OK,’ she said, yawning. She did look tired but so much better than yesterday.
I made my way down to the exit. What a difference a day makes. I didn’t notice anyone at the hospital reception desk who was desperately looking for the Intensive Care Unit as I had been just over twenty-fours hours ago. But then I wouldn’t. A crisis doesn’t make you grow a second head or anything; the turmoil is on the inside. Invisible.
When I had been riding, Saturday morning had always been a ‘work day’ in Andrew Woodward’s yard and I assumed that nothing would have changed. On a ‘work day’ the horses would do ‘work’. A large string of them would be out on the exercise grounds early, galloping hard to increase their stamina and speed. Preparing a horse for racing was all about developing stamina and speed. High protein oats, minerals and oils are transformed into strong, firm muscle through regular and demanding training gallops.
First lot in the Woodward stable had always gone out at half past seven sharp. Horses need to be made ready with saddles and bridles, with protective bandages on their lower legs, and with their coats and tails brushed. There was much to do for the trainer and his assistants prior to the ‘mount up’ order being given; at ten past seven they would be busy and preoccupied with the horses and the stable staff.
Which is why, on Saturday morning at ten past seven precisely, I let myself in through the front door of Juliet Burns’s tiny cottage.
Lambourn is set in a hollow of the Berkshire Downs, appropriately close to the Bronze Age White Horse figure carved into a chalk hill at Uffington. Locally, and for good reason, the area is known as The Valley of the Racehorse. At about two thousand, there are almost as many racehorses living in the village as there are people. And the majority of the human residents earn their living either directly or indirectly from their equine neighbours.
I wasn’t sure what made a village into a town but, if any village deserved it, it was Lambourn. Not many villages I knew had at least a dozen shops, several restaurants, two fish-and-chip bars, four pubs, a leisure centre and a fully equipped hospital, even if it was only for the horses. But still no town hall.
There was only one betting shop. In spite of a roaring trade, it apparently wasn’t very profitable. There were too many winners.
I had lived here myself for five years during my racing career and my face was almost as well known in this community as Saddam Hussein’s was in Baghdad. If I were ever to take up burglary as a career, the one place I would not choose to start would be Lambourn.
Thankfully Juliet had not heeded my advice to increase the security of her cottage. Her front door Yale key was under the stone in the window box, just as before. I turned the lock, put the key back under the stone, and stepped into the cottage.
I stood very still in the hallway listening for the slightest sound. The house was silent, and from outside there were no shouts from nosy neighbours who might have witnessed my arrival. I closed the door.
I padded silently up the stairs. It would be just my luck if she was still here, ill in bed. I risked a peep into her bedroom. The bed was empty and unmade. I put my right hand down on the sheet; it was cold.
I hadn’t put on gloves as I wasn’t worried about fingerprints. I didn’t intend stealing anything and I’d been in this house only last week anyway. My right-hand dabs must have already been everywhere.
I reckoned I had at least twenty minutes before Juliet could possibly come home. I thought that she would probably be going out to the gallops with the horses, either seated on one of them or in Andrew Woodward’s old Land Rover. That would give me well over an hour to look around, but I didn’t want to take the chance that she might pop back after the string had left the yard. I gave myself twenty minutes to be out of the place. Better safe than arrested.
