every few yards, there are signs warning him to be careful of racehorses. Nelson takes the frequency of the signs to mean that he is nearing Lord Smith’s racing stables. ‘Hope you don’t mind coming to see me down on the farm, so to speak,’ Smith had said on the phone. ‘It’s just that it’s hard to take time off from the yard.’ ‘I’ll come early,’ Nelson had promised. ‘Great,’ replied Smith, ‘I get up at five. The first lot pulls out at six.’ Nelson had no idea what this meant but he knew when he was beaten. He agrees to arrive at seven.
As he takes the turning for ‘Slaughter Hill Racing Stables’ he sees a line of horses coming towards him, jogging gently through the mist. Nelson stops the car as they go past, the horses wearing blankets and catching at their bits, heads flying up, hindquarters swinging out as if they can’t bear this tedious pace for a single second more.
Nelson has come to speak to Lord Smith about the death of his curator. The autopsy on Neil Topham had proved inconclusive (though Chris Stephenson had tried his best not to use this word). Topham had died from acute pulmonary haemorrhage which could, according to the pathologist, be attributed to a number of causes including tuberculosis, lung abscess or Factor X deficiency. ‘What’s Factor X when it’s at home?’ Nelson had barked. It sounded like one of those dreadful TV programmes his daughters watch. ‘It’s a coagulation factor that allows the blood to clot; people with Factor X deficiency are prone to pulmonary haemorrhage.’ ‘But you said it could be caused by all sorts of things?’ ‘Yes. Pulmonary haemorrhage can be brought on by infection, or drug use, or even by shock.’ ‘So we’re no nearer to finding out what killed the poor bastard?’ ‘No,’ Stephenson had admitted.
The body has been released to Topham’s parents for burial but Nelson is still reluctant to close the case. There’s the little matter of the drugs, for one thing. The powder found in Topham’s desk drawer had turned out to be one hundred per cent pure cocaine. The curator’s body had shown clear evidence of drug use. Nothing odd in that, maybe. As far as Nelson can make out, most arty types are on drugs. But were the drugs for Topham’s sole use (there was a hell of a lot there, according to the drugs squad, thousands of pounds worth) and what caused Neil Topham, a man apparently in good health at half past one, to be found dead by two-twenty? And there are the letters too. Someone evidently had it in for Neil Topham and the Smith Museum and Nelson wants to know why.
There are security gates across the track but they open at Nelson’s approach. He parks beside a modern bungalow with a sign saying ‘Visitors Please Report Here’. Nelson rings the bell but there is no reply. There are cars in the car park, among them a showy blue Ferrari, but no one seems to be about. Opposite is a high wall with an archway and a clock tower. After waiting impatiently for a few minutes, Nelson marches through the archway, wishing he’d thought to wear boots. Place will be swimming in mud after all that rain.
He is wrong. The archway leads into a huge quadrangle, lined on three sides with stables. In the middle is a square of grass as smooth and green as a bowling pitch. There is not a speck of mud to be seen. The stalls have a kind of v-shaped rail in the top half, and through this horses’ heads are poking, each one looking as impatient as Nelson himself. He walks up to the first head and the horse rolls an angry eye at him, nostrils flaring.
‘Better not go too close,’ says a voice behind him. ‘He’s a bit of a tinker, that one.’
Nelson turns and sees a woman wearing jodhpurs and a reflective jacket. At her approach the horse neighs, though whether in welcome or anger he can’t tell.
‘Can I help you?’ she says, eyebrows raised. She is tall, with black hair hanging loose over her shoulders. Nelson supposes she is quite-good looking but she’s not his type. She has dark eyes, straight black brows that almost meet in the middle and a decided nose. She also looks rather familiar.
‘DCI Nelson from the Norfolk Police,’ says Nelson. ‘I’m here to see Danforth Smith.’ He’s buggered if he’s going to add the ‘Lord.’
‘Oh, you want Dad,’ says the woman. ‘You’d better come to the office.’
Surprisingly, given the extreme order of the yard, the office is a mess. There are racing papers everywhere, half-drunk cups of coffee, even a slightly chewed doughnut. A large ginger cat squats by the computer, eyeing the doughnut beadily. The cat – and the doughnut – remind Nelson of Ruth. Racing silks, clashing pink and purple, hang on the door.
‘Sorry about the state of this place,’ says the woman, ‘but I’ve got to get the declarations done by ten.’
‘Declarations?’
‘Saying which horses are running where.’
It’s a foreign language, thinks Nelson. He is experiencing the unusual sensation of being in an entirely alien habitat. A horse and rider pass by the door. To Nelson’s untrained eye, the animal looks magnificent, its plumy tail swishing against silken hindquarters. He is struck by how big the horse is close up. The rider’s stirrups are on a level with the window. Other horses are coming out of their stables now, breath steaming in the cold air. More men (and women, he thinks) in yellow reflective jackets are putting on saddles and swinging themselves up on the narrow backs. Soon the yard is full of sidling, prancing horses parading slowly around the square of grass.
Though he has never told a living soul, Nelson loves horses. He still remembers his father’s horror when, as a child, he had asked for riding lessons. He soon realised that he had made a terrible mistake; ponies were for girls, football was for boys. He had quickly switched his request to football training and had the pleasure of seeing his father’s face when he scored his first goal for Bispham Juniors. Archie Nelson had attended all his son’s matches, yelling himself hoarse on the touchline, though he was a quiet man in all other ways. His sisters had both done ballet, he remembers, but this had not counted in the house the way Harry’s football had counted. He’s sure his father never went to a single dance performance, although his sisters were both meant to be quite good.
So Nelson had suppressed his fascination with horses, had limited it to yearly bets on the Grand National. He even enjoys watching the racing on TV, the horses swirling into the paddock, cantering up to the starting post with the wind in their tails. It seems incredible that the jockeys can stay on, perched up on the necks of these twitchy muscle-bound monsters. Nelson has never been on a horse and it’s too late now.
‘The second lot’s just going out,’ says the woman, who has been checking something on the computer.
‘Where are they going?’ asks Nelson, wondering if this is a stupid question.
‘To the gallops.’
‘For exercise?’
She turns and gives him a slight smile. It doesn’t suit her; her features are designed for tragedy. ‘Six furlongs, uphill. It’s exercise all right.’
The word ‘uphill’ reminds him of something.
‘Funny name this place has got. Slaughter Hill.’
‘There was a battle here ages ago,’ the woman says vaguely. Then, with evident relief, ‘Here’s Dad now.’
Danforth Smith appears in the doorway. He too is wearing jodhpurs and boots. Uniform of the upper classes, thinks Nelson. But it looks kind of impressive all the same.
‘Hope you haven’t been waiting long,’ says Smith genially. ‘Caroline been looking after you?’
‘She has,’ says Nelson. He is surprised to see Caroline blushing.
‘Let’s talk in the house,’ says Smith. ‘We’ll be more comfortable.’
‘Sorry about the mess,’ says Caroline, blushing again. Her demeanour has changed completely with the arrival of her father. ‘Are you declaring Tommy Tuppence for Newmarket?’
‘No,’ says Smith. ‘He’s still not right. I’ll turn him out later on today. This way, DCI Nelson.’
Smith leads the way across the grass to the far side of the yard. The horses are heading out through the archway now, hooves clattering on the tarmac.
‘How many horses have you got here?’ asks Nelson.
‘Eighty,’ says Smith with some pride. ‘Both flat and jump. The flat season’s nearly over but the jump season’s just beginning. We’ve got an all-weather track so we can ride out all year round.’
‘Do the same horses run in flat races and jump races?’ asks Nelson.
‘Good God no.’ Smith stops by a box at the far end of the yard. ‘Completely different game. Look at this fellow now. Classic jump horse. Stands every bit of seventeen hands. Got real bone on him.’
Again, Nelson has no idea what this means but there, in the wood-smelling gloom, is the biggest horse he has ever seen, jet black except for a white stripe running down his face.
‘The Necromancer,’ says Smith, in awed tones. ‘Just come from Dubai. He’s a real prospect for next year’s National.’
‘I’ll remember,’ says Nelson.
The black horse looks steadily at them for a moment and lowers his head to his food.
As they pass through another, smaller, yard, Nelson is surprised to see two rather different animals eating from
