Kickback (7 page)

‘Nothing, really.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing that I haven’t already said. I heard the shout from Kevin at about 5.30am, threw my clothes on and ran out to find Noel dead in Westbrook Warrior’s stable.’

‘No noise or anything before that?’

‘I was asleep.’

‘We have reason to believe that Noel was about to blow the whistle on something. Any ideas what that might have been, Mr Hesp?’

‘No. None at all.’

‘Something big, apparently.’

‘Nope.’

‘Because when you think of a groom at a racing yard blowing the whistle you think of doping, for example.’

‘Certainly not. I’ve never done anything like that.’

‘What about your results?’

‘We may not win as much as we should but we race clean.’

‘Really?’

‘The horses are tested for heaven’s sake. You can check if you don’t believe me.’

‘I intend to.’

‘Our vet and the British Horseracing Authority,’ said Hesp.

Jane Winter wrote down the name and address of the veterinary surgeon.

‘We’re completely clean. Always have been.’

‘So why do you think someone might wish to murder your groom then?’

‘I thought it was an accident.’

‘Sadly, not. But someone went to a great deal of trouble to make it look like one.’

‘How? asked Hesp.

‘You tell me,’ replied Dixon.

‘I really don’t know.’

‘Why did you have Westbrook Warrior’s shoes removed?’

‘Safety.’

‘And you can think of no reason why someone would want to kill Noel.’

‘No.’

‘What did you think of his lifestyle?’

‘What he did in his own time was up to him.’

‘And the PlayStation and other stuff?’

‘What about them?’

‘How did he afford it all?’

‘No idea.’

‘How much did you pay him?’

‘Five pounds an hour. Cash.’

‘Below the minimum wage…’

‘He got free board and lodging into the bargain.’

‘What were you going to do with them?’

‘I had some crazy notion to sell them on eBay when the dust had settled, if I’m being honest.’

‘Tell me about the race day routine.’

‘The horses are fed first, then mucked out while they’re eating. That’s as far as Noel had got that day but usually they’d be groomed and then got ready for travelling.’

‘Which involves?’

‘Tails plaited and covered, leg bandages, rugs, that sort of thing.’

‘And when are you racing again?’

‘Tomorrow. We’ve got two going at Exeter.’

‘One last question. You said when you heard Kevin Tanner’s shout you threw your clothes on and ran out.’

‘Yes.’

‘So, you live in the farmhouse?’

‘Yes, I do. But, no, Mrs Harcourt and I are not a couple, if that’s where you’re going with this.’

‘You have your own room?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you were in it on your own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would Mrs Harcourt be able to confirm your whereabouts, then?’

‘An alibi, you mean?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ replied Dixon.

‘I doubt it. Her room is at the back of the house and she sometimes takes sleeping pills too.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hesp. You may as well wait while we speak to Mrs Harcourt and then a car will take you home.’

‘Fine.’

The interview with Georgina Harcourt was over in less than ten minutes. She said that she played no part whatsoever in the running of the racing yard, although she did help Hesp with the paperwork from time to time. Otherwise, her involvement was limited to leasing the whole premises to Michael Hesp for his training business. She found it far easier and more lucrative than running her own livery yard, as she had done in the past with her late husband. Hesp was also her lodger.

On the morning of Noel’s death the police were already on the scene by the time she got out of bed. She said that she had only spoken to Noel on perhaps three or four occasions in all the time he had been there and she could think of no one who might wish to kill him.

Dixon terminated the interview just after 8.00pm and Jane arranged for a car to take Mrs Harcourt and Hesp back to Spaxton.

Dixon was sitting at his computer watching the clip of Noel’s first riding lesson that Natalie had emailed to him when his phone rang. It was Donald Watson.

‘I think you’d better get over here, Nick.’

‘We’re on our way, Don.’

He met Jane on the stairs.

‘SOCO have come up with something.’

‘I’ll get my handbag.’

They drove west out of Bridgwater towards Durleigh Reservoir. It was a dark November night, with broken cloud racing across the sky on a strong south westerly wind. Dixon watched the moonlight shimmering on the water.

They drove through Spaxton, past the Lamb Inn, and arrived at the racing stables to find the whole yard lit by arc lamps. A large area was cordoned off and various smaller areas marked on the ground with white tape. Kevin Tanner was going from stable to stable feeding the horses, all except Westbrook Warrior, whose stable was still empty.

‘Where is he?’ asked Dixon.

‘We moved him round into the barn,’ replied Watson.

‘Give me a minute.’

Dixon walked around the area that had been cordoned off and along the alleyway between the stables and the hay barn. He went into the American barn. Both sides were lined with stables, twelve in total, each sectioned off with wood panelling to five feet high and then steel bars on top.

He walked along until he recognised Westbrook Warrior. He was at the far end on the right. This time there was no metal grille in place and the Warrior’s head was out over the stable door. Dixon knew that the horse was watching him approach.

He heard footsteps behind him. Jane was running to catch up.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I just want to check something.’

They approached the stable. Westbrook Warrior stepped back inside and ripped a large mouthful of haylage from his net and then put his head back over the door. Dixon watched him eating.

‘What?’ asked Jane.

Dixon inched forward and stood by the latch on the stable door, within reach of the Warrior’s head. The horse stared at him.

‘Be careful.’

‘It’s alright, Jane. His ears are up. Maybe he’s not such a...’

Suddenly, Westbrook Warrior’s ears went flat back on the top of his head. Dixon saw it and stepped back just as the Warrior lunged at him, baring his teeth. Dixon stumbled backwards but kept his footing.

‘No, he is aggressive. Make a note to get his records from the vet tomorrow, will you?’

Jane was laughing so much she couldn’t reply.

‘For heaven’s sake, constable, get a grip,’ said Dixon.

‘Right then, what’ve we got?’

‘This way,’ said Watson. He lifted the blue tape that was cordoning off an area outside the last two stables in the block and stepped under it. Dixon and Jane followed.

‘It was raining heavily when he was killed and it’s rained since, of course, but we’ve got the residue of a large pool of blood here,’ said Watson, pointing to an area on the concrete plinth in front of the stables. ‘There’s some light spatter on the brickwork too and then a trail of blood running along the gutter into that drain you can see over there. There’s some on the block paving too. It’s not visible to the naked eye, of course.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. He’d been mucking out at the time so we checked the wheelbarrows. That one has blood spatter on the handles. Not much, but enough. You can see it in the rust.’

Dixon looked at an old wheelbarrow that was standing under cover in the hay barn.

‘What about the muckheap?’ asked Dixon.

‘That’s next.’

‘So, he was killed there...’

‘Looks like it,’ said Watson.

‘And then carried, what, ten paces to Westbrook Warrior’s stable and thrown in?’

‘It’s not much further than that,’ said Jane.

‘The killer then washed the plinth off with the hose over there,’ said Dixon, pointing to a yellow hose coiled around an outside tap on the wall of the feed room.

‘Looks like it, yes,’ said Watson.

‘Thanks, Don,’ said Dixon, ‘are you gonna be here all night?’

‘As long as it takes.’

Dixon and Jane ducked under the blue tape and walked across the yard towards the car park. He looked up at the farmhouse to see Georgina Harcourt watching them from the window. She turned away when she saw Dixon looking at her.

‘Let’s try the Lamb in the village, Jane. We’ve just got time to get there before they stop serving food.’

Dixon took two Tramadol with a large swig of Doom Bar.

‘Are you sure you should be doing that?’

‘One pint’ll be alright. Don’t panic. It’ll help me sleep.’

‘I won’t need any help with that,’ replied Jane. ‘It’s been a bloody long day.’

‘Let’s focus on what we know then,’ said Dixon.

‘Like what?’

‘Not the detail, I mean. What it tells us.’

‘What?’

‘Noel was killed by someone who doesn’t know the difference between a standard horse shoe and a racing plate, for starters.’

‘Yes, that figures.’

‘And in this game that must narrow it down, surely?’

‘It must.’

‘And yet someone who knew that he’d be out and about on his own at that time in the morning...’

‘True.’

‘...on a race day.’

Jane nodded. ‘Someone who thought Noel was about to expose them for something big, if Jon’s right about that,’ she said.

‘Good point,’ replied Dixon.

‘And that Westbrook Warrior’s an aggressive little devil?’

‘Meaning that his stable was the right one to leave the body in so it wouldn’t arouse suspicion.’

‘Exactly,’ said Jane.

‘So, they know some things but not others...’

Dixon looked up. A waitress was standing next to their table in the corner of the bar holding two plates of scampi and chips.

Four

Dixon was asleep before Jane pulled out of the car park at the Lamb Inn. He woke up when they got home but only for as long as it took him to get from the car into bed.

This time he slept straight through the night, the effect of the Tramadol and beer negated by his tiredness. He had been on the go since 3.00am that morning, almost twenty hours, but it had, at least, taken his mind off the pain in his left shoulder.

He woke just before 7.00am and made coffee and toast for Jane, which he carried up to her on a tray.

‘Breakfast in bed?’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Where’s your sling?’

‘I’m going to try it without now. It feels a lot better.’

‘Good.’

‘I’m just going to take Monty round the back.’

Dixon opened the back door and watched as Monty tore around the back of his Land Rover, under the fence and into the field at the back of the cottage. Dixon followed, climbing over the fence with an umbrella in his right hand. He stood in the corner of the field, deep in thought. Who would know not much, but enough? About race day routine and Westbrook Warrior’s aggression but not about his shoes? And what about a motive? Assuming Jon was right and Noel was about to blow the whistle on something, what was it?

He watched Monty sniffing along the hedge.

Denials from Georgina Harcourt and Hesp. To be expected and taken with a pinch of salt. But then both would have known a racing plate from a...

‘Are you coming in? We have to go in a minute,’ shouted Jane.

...standard shoe. He was convinced they were hiding something. There had been something about their denials. A little too rehearsed, perhaps? Certainly, Hesp was unreliable. He wasn’t quite so sure about Georgina Harcourt though.

Louise Willmott was waiting for them when they arrived at Bridgwater Police Station.

‘It’s still just us then?’ asked Dixon.

‘Looks like it, Sir,’ replied Louise.

‘My office. Janice is on a trial in Bristol for the next week or so.’

Louise sat at Janice Courtenay’s desk and Jane on the chair in front of Dixon’s desk.

‘We’ll use this whiteboard,’ he said, turning to the board on the wall behind his desk. He pinned up a photograph of Noel and then turned round to see DCI Lewis standing in the doorway.

‘Don’t mind me. Saves you going through it all twice.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Dixon turned back to the whiteboard. ‘Noel Woodman. We’re supposed to believe that he was kicked to death by Westbrook Warrior, a horse that’s known to be aggressive. He was found in his stable covered in marks made by a horse shoe like this one.’

Dixon handed the heavy steel shoe to Louise.

‘There are three problems with that. Firstly, Westbrook Warrior wasn’t wearing shoes like this. He was wearing racing plates, like these.’ 

He passed the aluminium plate to Jane, who passed it to Louise.

‘Secondly, the marks on the body suggest that round nails had been used and farrier’s nails have square heads, so it hadn’t been attached to a horse’s hoof, that’s for sure. My money’s on a piece of wood.’

‘And the third problem?’ asked Louise.

‘There’s the imprint of only one shoe on the body.’ Dixon paused. ‘And horses have four legs, as we know. At the very least, you’d expect two, depending on whether the horse attacked with its front or back legs.’

‘Anything else?’ asked Lewis.

‘SOCO have found a large area of blood spatter on the concrete plinth outside and ten or so paces along from Westbrook Warrior’s stable. There was also blood on a wheelbarrow. They were still working on it when we left them to it late last night but it looks like that’s where he was killed and the body was then thrown in the stable. I’m still awaiting final reports from Roger Poland and SOCO.’

‘Was the wheelbarrow used to move the body?’ asked Louise.

‘It’s possible but it’s light spatter consistent with him being attacked while pushing it along, I think. It’s a good point though, Louise.’

Dixon glared at Jane.

‘The farrier confirms the detail and that the horse is aggressive. I can vouch for that too.’

‘He got a bit too close,’ said Jane.

‘We’ve spoken to the yard owner, Georgina Harcourt, and also the trainer, Michael Hesp. He rents the premises from Mrs Harcourt. Neither has an alibi but otherwise they denied everything.’

‘Everything?’ asked Lewis.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘What about Jon Woodman’s statement that his brother was going to blow the whistle...?’

‘We’re working on it. Both Georgina Harcourt and Michael Hesp said they had no idea what that might be about.’

‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they,’ said Louise.

‘True,’ replied Dixon.

‘Well, it sounds like you’ve got your work cut out, Nick. I’m sorry I can’t offer more help,’ said Lewis, looking at his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting in...’

‘That’s alright, Sir, we’ll manage.’

‘Good. Keep me posted.’

DCI Lewis turned on his heels and was gone.

‘Three coffees, I think, Louise. One sugar for me, please.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Jane waited until Louise had gone to the coffee machine.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Why didn’t I spot that about the wheelbarrow being used to move the body?’

‘It could be...’

‘It’s these bloody painkillers, that’s what it is. You’ll have to watch me.’

‘You’ll be fine.’

‘My brain doesn’t function…’

Louise arrived back with two coffees in plastic cups.

‘You not having one, Louise?’ asked Jane.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Right, let’s get on,’ said Dixon. ‘I want more evidence that he was killed elsewhere and thrown in the stable. Jane, get on to Roger Poland and see if we can get the dung samples tested.’

‘The ones taken from Noel’s nose and mouth?’

‘Yes. We need to know whether it contains Dodson and Horrell Racehorse Cubes or Mix. If it’s mix, it’s not Westbrook Warrior’s.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Louise, we need to know everything about Noel. Background, the lot. Chase up his bank statements and High Tech, will you? We need to know what’s on his iPad and phone. Find his former partner too.’

‘Name?’

‘Philip Stockman. An accountant from Glastonbury way.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And I want a complete list of all of the owners of the horses trained by Hesp. All individuals and syndicate members.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Jane, I want Westbrook Warrior’s veterinary records. And accounts and bank statements for Hesp’s training business.’

‘Ok.’

‘Find out who rides for him too.’

‘Jockeys, you mean?’

‘Yes. Get onto the Jockey Club and find out what you can about them.’

‘Will do.’

Dixon sat at his desk and powered up his computer.

‘We’ll find you an empty desk out here, Louise,’ said Jane, on her way out to the open plan area of the CID Room.

Louise Willmott got up and followed her just as DC Mark Pearce appeared in the doorway.

‘You’re looking well, Sir.’

‘Thanks, Mark.’

‘How’s the arm?’

‘It’ll be fine.’

‘We do still need your statement...’

Dixon’s blank expression told Pearce he needed a reminder.

‘Last Sunday. The Allandale Lodge. You got stabbed...?’

Dixon shook his head.

‘Yes, of course. Leave it with me. If I dictate it can you get it typed up?’

‘Yes, no problem.’

‘Sorry, Mark. I’ve been a bit...’

‘So I’m told, Sir. Have fun.’

‘Thanks.’

Dixon’s last case had been an unusual one. It was the first time he had been confronted with a severed head and, whilst he had brought the investigation to a satisfactory conclusion without further loss of life, he had paid a high price for it. He looked down at his left shoulder. The physical scar would soon be gone and he hoped the others would soon follow. Maybe when he stopped taking the damn painkillers and got a decent night’s sleep.

He logged in to the police network and checked his email. Nothing of interest. Then he opened Internet Explorer and searched Google for the British Horseracing Authority. He clicked on Contact Us and then dialled the number.

‘BHA. How can I help you?’

‘My name is Detective Inspector Dixon. Avon and Somerset CID. I am investigating a murder at a racing stables in Somerset and need to speak to someone about them.’

‘About the stables?’

‘Yes. I need to know if there are any regulatory or disciplinary issues outstanding, any current or past investigations, that sort of thing.’

‘That’ll be Integrity Services and Licensing. Please hold.’

Dixon held the phone away from his ear. He hated listening to music when on hold.

‘Hello?’

Dixon explained again who he was and why he was calling.

‘Where’s this yard, again?’

‘Spaxton, Somerset.’

‘That’ll be Adam Spiers you need to speak to. He’s in a meeting at the moment. Can I get him to call you.’

‘Yes, please do. It’s very urgent.’

Dixon left his telephone numbers, office and mobile, and then fetched himself another coffee from the machine. He spent the next twenty minutes searching Google for anything and everything he could find about Michael Hesp and Gidley’s Racing Stables. He found nothing of real interest except for a thread on a betting forum where the general consensus of opinion seemed to be that Hesp’s horses were to be avoided unless laying to lose. Dixon made a mental note to do some research into laying to lose. It was not a term that he was familiar with and that always made him uncomfortable.

Then he reached for his dictaphone and spent the next two hours dictating two witness statements, the first dealing with events at the Allandale Lodge Care Home the previous Sunday morning and the second setting out the events of the Tuesday night inside 37 Manor Park.

He had just finished when his phone rang. He checked his watch. It was just after 11.00am.

‘Nick Dixon.’

‘Adam Spiers. British Horseracing Integrity Services. I gather you wanted a word about a racing yard at Spaxton.’

‘Yes, Gidley’s Racing Stables. The trainer is Michael Hesp...’

‘The message said there’s been a murder?’

‘One of the grooms was found dead,’ replied Dixon.

‘Is this the lad who was kicked by the colt?’

‘Yes and no. He was dead before he was thrown into the stable.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘What can you tell me about Michael Hesp?’

‘Well, I’m not sure I can...’

‘This is a murder investigation, Mr Spiers.’

‘Yes, of course. He runs a reasonable operation. The horses are well looked after so there are no equine welfare issues for us to worry about. We have been looking at his results in the last eighteen months or so though.’

‘What does that mean exactly?’

‘We’ve been looking at irregular betting patterns. We monitor live betting in real time and there have been several suspicious episodes, shall we say?’

‘Is Hesp aware of this?’

‘Yes, we had him in for interview in July I think it was. He denied everything.’

‘Where are you based?’

‘Newmarket.’

‘Shame. I was hoping to meet...’

‘I’m going to be in our London office tomorrow, if that’s any good to you?’

‘It is.’

‘I have two hours clear before lunch, say, 11.00am?’

‘See you then.’

‘I’ll bring the file,’ said Spiers.

‘I can get a court order for its release if that would assist?’

‘No it’s fine. I expect the police would have been getting involved sooner or later anyway,’ said Spiers.

Dixon put the phone down and shouted at the open door of his office.

‘Jane.’

He was about to shout again when Jane appeared in the doorway.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘We need two tickets to London tomorrow morning. We’ll pick up the fast train at Taunton. There’s one eightish that gets in tennish.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To meet a British Horseracing Authority Integrity Services officer. They’ve been investigating irregular betting patterns on some of Hesp’s horses it seems.’

‘Really? You have been busy.’

‘I have. Then get your coat. We’re off to the races.’