The Stabbing in the Stables (16 page)

S
OME OF THE
Dalrymples' fleet of cars may have been on the premises, but they were invisible behind closed garage doors. Jude persuaded a very uncertain Carole during their walk along the tow path that their best means of approach was through the front gate. She was known to Sonia and, if seen entering, felt confident she could invent some reason for doing so. Carole wasn't so sure, but she did have to concede that “trespass” was a lesser offence than “breaking and entering”—though she was afraid they might have to move up the scale of criminality when they reached the stables.

Carole was also paranoid about the presence of burglar alarms and CCTV cameras, but as they walked across the gravel to the house, there was no sign of either. Nor, so far as they could tell, had there been any witnesses to their arrival.

When they reached the frontage, Carole's twitchiness increased. Walking up to the front door and ringing the bell was a legitimate act. Jude could easily have been mistaken about how long Sonia Dalrymple was staying at Yeomansdyke. But the minute they started going round the side of the house, the two women had stepped over the barrier into wrongdoing.

Jude, unaffected by any such scruples and knowing the route, marched boldly ahead. Her companion, with scuttling gait and many furtive glances behind, gave a totally convincing impersonation of an intruder.

“We shouldn't be doing this,” she kept saying. “It's illegal.”

“Not only illegal, but dangerous.”

“What do you mean, Jude?”

“If Donal
is
in the stables…”

She didn't need to finish the sentence. After the recent confrontation in the Crown and Anchor neither of them needed reminding they were dealing with a violent man.

“Maybe we should go back.”

“Do you really want to?”

There was a moment while Carole weighed up the demands of fear and curiosity. Then, firmly, she shook her head.

“Thought not.”

At least, when they got to the stables, no “breaking and entering” was required. The large outer gate of the block was not locked, nor had the padlocks been put through the rings of the individual stalls. Presumably, since, as Jude had witnessed, Sonia now kept all her tack inside the house, there was nothing worth stealing. The stables were at risk only from knife-wielding ex-jockeys who might chose to set up temporary homes there.

The two women moved through into the small covered yard and looked around. Short of using one of the empty stalls, or bedding down on the neat stack of hay at the back of the central area, there was no suitable accommodation on the ground floor. But the rungs leading up the wall to the trapdoor in the wooden ceiling looked much more promising.

“Donal!” Jude called out, her voice suddenly loud after the silence of their approach. “Donal, are you up there?”

There was no answer. Jude and Carole looked at each other, the latter's expression full of trepidation, as she whispered, “Suppose he's just waiting up there, with his knife?”

“I really don't think he represents any danger to us.”

“After what he did to Ted? Why not?”

“Don't know. Instinct.”

Carole's “Huh” fully expressed her views of the value of instinct in such circumstances.

But her friend just shrugged and started up the ladder. After a moment's hesitation, Carole followed suit. Through both of their minds went the same thought. Damn, we should have brought a torch.

They needn't have worried. As soon as she pushed up the trapdoor, Jude was aware of some light source above and, as she poked her head up through the aperture, she could see the Velux window set in the pitched roof. She pulled herself up into the loft space and looked around, waiting till Carole had joined her before saying anything.

“Well, it looks like we were right.”

The space was surprisingly tidy, and somehow gave the impression that it had never been used since the place was converted. The Dalrymples appeared never to have taken advantage of the space for storage.

But someone had taken advantage of it as a bedroom. Long damp-speckled cushions from garden loungers had been laid down on the bare boards, and a grubby-looking sleeping bag had been placed on top. Beside the makeshift bed an old wine box stood, candles and matches on its surface, tins, boxes and unidentified garments shoved inside it.

“I bet this is Donal's little hideaway.” It was strange. In spite of her recent shout up the ladder, which would have alerted anyone who happened to be in the vicinity, up in the little loft Jude felt the need to whisper.

“But there's no sign of him, is there?”

“No.” Jude knelt down and scrutinised the sleeping bag. “He hasn't been here for a while either. There's dust all over this.”

“Oh well.” Carole, anxious to leave, edged back towards the ladder. “At least we know a place where he might come to.” All she wanted to do was to get back onto the road outside the Dalrymples' house. They'd been very lucky so far, nobody had seen them. But they shouldn't push their luck. Now it was time to go.

“Just a minute,” said Jude, and she moved back towards the sloped window to get a better view of the bed. As she did so, she glanced down at the window sill. “Well, well, well.”

“What is it?”

Carefully in her gloved hands, Jude lifted up an object, covered in a thin layer of dust, not as much as on the sill where it lay. A Sabatier kitchen knife, discoloured with stains of rust or possibly blood. She ran the blade against the leather of her Florentine glove, leaving a distinct thin line. It was still sharp.

“A murder weapon?” she suggested.

“No,” said Carole with some exasperation. “You may have forgotten, but the police already have a murder weapon. The bot knife that was found at the scene of the crime.”

“Oh yes. Yes, of course.” Jude returned the knife to its dusty haven, and redirected her attention to the makeshift bed on the floor. “It's uneven.”

“What?”

“The bed. The foot end is higher than the pillow end.”

“Well, why not? It's not a proper bed, it's just been assembled from bits and pieces. Probably those disgusting things it's been put on are uneven.”

Jude said nothing, but moved forward and knelt down near the far end of the cushions. She reached under them, felt around and then pulled out a bundle of something.

Uncurled, it was revealed to be a frayed and battered Barbour, wrapped around a pair of gloves.

Spattered all over both were the unmistakable rusty spots of dried blood.

“G
OOD
G
OD
,”
SAID
Carole. “So it was Donal, after all.”

“We don't know that. It could have been someone else.”

“For heaven's sake, Jude! This is pretty incontrovertible evidence. The bloodstained garments that were worn when he killed Walter Fleet are found here in Donal's hideaway—what more do you want?” Carole was irritated to see her friend was grinning at her. “And what's that expression meant to mean?”

“Just that I thought you were meant to be the rational one, and what you just said did make quite a few major leaps of logic. For a start, we don't know that these were the clothes worn by the murderer of Walter Fleet. And, on top of that, though there seems to be evidence that someone's been squatting in this loft, we have no proof that that person is Donal Geraghty.”

“Now you're just being picky.”

“Well, even if your theory's true—say it is Donal who's been camping in here, say these are the clothes worn by the murderer—what're we going to do about it?”

“Obviously, Jude, we take the evidence to the police…or no, we don't touch it. We call the police here and we—”

“Tell them that we just happened to be trespassing in the Dalrymples' stables, and we just happened by chance to come upon these bloodstained garments?”

“Ah. I see your point. No, what we do is, we get as far away from here as possible, and then we send the police an anonymous tip-off, recommending that they take a look in the Dalrymples' stables.”

“And how do we do that? Phone calls are traceable, so are text messages, faxes, e-mails…”

“We find a way to do it.” Carole was getting exasperated by Jude's uncharacteristic assumption of the wet-blanket role, and even more exasperated because she reckoned Jude was only doing it to tease her. “That's not what's important. What
is
important is that we get away from here as quickly as possible.”

“Hm…Well, we're not leaving till I've had a little look at what we've found.”

“But you can't…you mustn't…” Carole's Home Office training once more asserted itself. “If you touch anything, you'll probably get arrested for the murder yourself. You can't risk leaving any DNA.”

“I think I'll be all right,” said Jude, showing off her hands in the Florentine gloves. Carole watched, appalled, as her neighbour carefully inspected the bloodstained pair of gloves, almost turning them inside out to check for any marks of identification. But she was disappointed. Just cheap, ordinary woollen gloves that could be bought at any store or market in the country. And the one-size-fits-all expandable sort that gave no indication even of the wearer's gender.

“What about the jacket?” Jude picked up the Barbour and looked at it. Old, well worn, average size. She held it up to the window. In better light, even more dull blood spatters were visible on the old waxed fabric. If this was not the garment worn by Walter Fleet's killer, then there had been another recent bloody murder in the Fethering area.

Holding up the jacket by its collar, Jude checked the pockets. The inside ones yielded only a pencil stub and a crumpled tissue, the latter wonderfully revelatory to a police forensics team, but entirely useless to the unqualified amateur.

Jude moved on to the outside pockets. Just a few bits of lint and shreds of paper. A wizened stump of carrot and a few fluffy Polo mints, presumably intended as treats for some lucky horse.

Punctiliously, she returned each item to where she'd found it. Only the small upright slit pockets remained. Nothing in the left one. But in the right…her gloved hand closed round a scrap of slightly shiny paper.

She pulled it out. A scrumpled cardholder's copy of an American Express transaction. On which the name of the signatory could be clearly read.

Alec Potton.

 

Jude wrapped up the gloves in the bloody Barbour, trying to reproduce exactly the previous creases and to set the bundle in exactly the same place under the makeshift bed.

Then, with Carole still looking like a finalist in the Miss Paranoia Competition, they went back down the ladder and left the Dalrymples' stables.

They were well away from the house and on the tow path back into Fethering when they heard the approaching sirens. But they were still close enough to see the pair of police cars hurtle up the road and turn into Nicky and Sonia Dalrymple's drive.

T
HIS WAS ANOTHER
of those many occasions that brought home to Carole and Jude the frustrations of being amateur investigators. The police had arrived at the Dalrymples' house only moments after they had made a discovery that could have enormous bearing on the search for Walter Fleet's killer. But the two women had no means of knowing if that was why the police had turned up. And, if they had come in search of that evidence, who had tipped them off as to where they would find it?

An even more troubling thought—particularly to Carole—was that someone had seen her and Jude “breaking and entering” and had tipped off the police. She lived in fear of a knock on the door of High Tor, leading to criminal charges.

But, not for the first time, all Carole and Jude could do was to wait for public announcements on news bulletins, and keep their ears close to the groundswell of Fethering gossip.

This last was certainly a flowing source, not to say a torrent. Something said in the Crown and Anchor would be quickly repeated (with embellishments) in Allinstore, whence it would pass and grow in size through the media of bakery, off licence and hairdresser. Within hours, everyone in the village seemed to know about the police going to the Dalrymples, and there were as many theories about their reasons for doing so as there were inhabitants to entertain them. The trouble was that none of these conjectures was based on any more information than Carole and Jude had, and a lot of them were frankly loony. When she first arrived in Fethering, Carole had quickly reached the conclusion that listening to village gossip was the way madness lay, and nothing that had happened since had done anything to change her opinion.

So the two women spent a restless and unsatisfactory few days until, on the Monday's
World At One
, it was announced that the police were questioning another man in connection with the death of Walter Fleet.

The jungle drums of Fethering beat loud for the next hour, and, once the wilder rumours had been eliminated, there seemed to be a credible consensus that the man being questioned was Alec Potton.

 

“Jude?”

“Yes.”

“It's Sonia.”

“Ah, hello.” Jude just stopped herself from asking about the discovery in the hayloft; of course she didn't know about that. “Are you still at Yeomansdyke?”

“No. I'm back home. I was summoned back here by the police.”

“Oh, really?” Jude continued to feign ignorance.

“They had a tip-off about something found in our stables. Something to do with Walter Fleet's murder, apparently.”

“Good heavens. Maybe that also has something to do with Alec Potton being taken in for questioning.”

“Oh, is that what's happened? I hadn't heard.” Jude couldn't be certain, but she got the impression that Sonia was lying. Either that, or she hadn't spoken to a single person in Fethering over the whole weekend.

“You told me you knew Alec Potton…I wondered—”

“Well, I've met him. He's picked up Imogen from here the odd time. I wouldn't say I know him.” She seemed anxious to move on. “Anyway, as you can imagine, Jude, this has all been very stressful…”

“I'm sure it has.”

“…and I was wondering if I could book a session with you—you know, balancing? I mean, I'm sorry I had to cancel that one on Thursday.”

“Don't worry. I'm free tomorrow morning. Would that suit you?”

“Oh, it'd be wonderful.”

“Say…what? Ten? Eleven?”

“Ten'd be good.”

“Okay, I'll see you then.”

“Oh, and, Jude…”

“Yes?”

“You know how you got Donal to work on Chieftain?”

“Mm.”

“Do you know where I can find him? Donal. I need to talk to him.”

“No, I'm sorry, I don't. He seems to have gone to ground again.” No need to tell the reason why. Ted Crisp had been very insistent that the stabbing in the Crown and Anchor should be kept quiet.

“Oh. Oh, that's a pity.” But the way Sonia said the word, it sounded more like a tragedy.

Jude gave assurances that she'd put Donal in touch if she met him again, and their phone call ended. Puzzling, why Sonia was so desperate to make contact with the ex-jockey. For the second time. Increasingly, from her client's behaviour and from what Donal himself had said, Jude was becoming convinced that Sonia Dalrymple was the target for his blackmail demands. But of the dark secret he possessed, she had no idea. It might be related to what Jude now felt sure was Nicky Dalrymple's violence against his wife, but she had a feeling there was more to it than that.

Still, one positive confirmation had come out of her conversation with Sonia. The evidence that had led the police to Alec Potton had been what they'd found in the Dalrymples' hayloft.

 

Fethering Beach that Monday afternoon was resolutely monochrome. When the sun shone, the colours came to life, like a child's Magic Painting splashed with water. Then the blue in the sky drew out the blues and greens of the sea. The weed on the beach sparkled like a carpet of emeralds. Then the sand was—if not golden—at least a rich biscuity yellow.

But not on that dour late February day. The idea that a sun existed anywhere seemed an unlikely fabrication. The sea was leaden, and the sky a darker lead. The sand was the grey of damp cement. Even the coat of Gulliver, scampering around like a host at a failed party trying to inject some life into the proceedings, was another shade of grey in the unremitting gloom.

“So we have to wait till tomorrow morning,” said Carole moodily.

“Hm?”

“Till we can get any further with our investigation. You said Sonia Dalrymple's coming to see you.”

“Yes, but she's coming to see me as a client. I can't use our session as an excuse to pick her brains about her being blackmailed.”

“Why not? Medical ethics?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Carole's snort expressed fully her attitude to the concept of medical ethics being applied to the flaky, spurious world of alternative medicine. “Well, if you don't want to find out who killed Walter Fleet…”

“I do, Carole. You know I do. And we do have other lines of enquiry open to us.”

“Oh yes? Like what?”

“Hilary Potton. You're sort of chums with her, aren't you?”

“I wouldn't say ‘chums.'”

“You've talked to her. You've phoned her before. Why not give her another call?”

“Oh, I don't know. It'd would look pretty insensitive. I mean, at a time like this. Her husband's being questioned as part of a murder enquiry. The last thing she's going to want is inquisitive phone calls from people she hardly knows.”

“I'm not so sure, Carole. From what you said about the state of her marriage, her husband's not her favourite person.”

“There's a difference between not liking someone, and wanting to see them arrested for murder.”

“I wonder…” Jude scuffed her boot in the grey shingle as she thought about this. “Of course, your approach needn't sound insensitive.”

“I don't see how.”

“It could sound caring.”

“Caring?” Carole echoed sceptically. “Please explain.”

“Well, there are two possible approaches. Either you can pretend you've heard nothing about Alec's arrest…”

“That'd be clumsy, rather than caring.”

“…or you can say you have heard this rumour…and you can't believe it's true…and aren't people appalling the way they slander perfectly innocent citizens of this country…and can Hilary please reassure you that it's complete rubbish.”

“Hm.” Carole wasn't going to concede too quickly that this approach might work, but she was coming round to the idea.

“What time did you say her shift at Allinstore was?”

“Four to eight every weekday, except Wednesdays.” Carole looked at the neat little watch on her wrist. While she could recognise the strength of Jude's argument, everything inside her protested at the idea of just ringing Hilary Potton out of the blue. “Probably too late to catch her today. By the time I've got back home to the phone.”

“I've got my mobile with me.”

 

“Hello. Is that Hilary?”

“Yes.”

“This is Carole Seddon. You remember, we met in the Seaview Café.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

Carole felt very aware of Jude sitting with her in the rusty seafront shelter. She had never liked making phone calls with other people present. During her Home Office career, she had been hugely relieved when she became senior enough to have her own office with a door that closed. And she was glad she had left the Civil Service before open-plan office accommodation became universal. Even though she knew Jude to be the least judgmental person in the world, Carole still wished she was on her own.

“Look, I'm sorry to trouble you with a call right now, because I know you've got to be at Allinstore shortly—”

“Don't worry about it. I won't be going into Allinstore this afternoon.”

“You're not ill, are you?”

“No. I'm afraid something rather dreadful's happened. Over the weekend my husband—my nearly ex-husband—was taken in for questioning by the police…”

“No.”

“…in connection with the murder of Walter Fleet.”

So much for Carole's worries about how she was going to initiate the conversation—or indeed invent a reason for her call. But that wasn't her primary thought right then. She was more struck by Hilary Potton's manner. Although the woman was relaying extremely bad news, there was no doubt that she was doing so with great relish. Whether this was just because Hilary enjoyed being at the centre of her drama, or because what had happened confirmed her worst suspicions about her husband's character, Carole had no means of knowing.

“Anyway, given that situation, Carole, I am absolutely determined to be at home when Imogen gets back from school. I mean, I hate to think what kind of whispering and innuendo she's had to put up with from the other kids. They can be so cruel. I didn't want her to go to school toady, but she insisted. So I need to be here for her. As a result, I'm afraid this afternoon Allinstore will have to whistle for my services.”

“Yes. And of course it wouldn't be much fun for you, would it? Like poor Imogen at school. With everyone who came into the shop whispering and nudging about what had happened—you know, knowing that you were Alec's wife?”

“I suppose it would be rather horrid. I hadn't really thought about that aspect of it.” But she sounded as if she had. And she didn't sound appalled; in fact, Carole suspected, the image was not without its attraction. Her inkling that Hilary Potton might be a bit of a drama queen was strengthened.

Having had the subject so painlessly broached for her, it was time for a bit of subterfuge. “But it must be dreadful for you, Hilary. The police must've made a mistake, mustn't they? Surely they have no evidence to link Alec to the scene of the crime, do they?”

“I wish I could say that was true, Carole.” She didn't sound that unhappy about the situation, though. “I'm afraid they did find something—obviously I can't tell you the details, but…It doesn't look too good for Alec, I'm afraid.”

“How on earth does that make you feel?”

“Ghastly, of course. And yet at the same time it does confirm some of my worst fears—you know, about Alec. I mean, when we first got married, I didn't realise how unstable he was. I came to see that over the years. I mean, there was the philandering—which I mentioned to you—and that's never a particularly encouraging indication of a man's character. But over the last months Alec has been getting increasingly unpredictable—sudden mood-swings—you know what I mean? And his behaviour…I mean, he's been very…I don't know what the word is…‘clingy' where Imogen's concerned.”

“Clingy?”

“Yes, sometimes he behaves more as if she were his lover than his daughter.”

“You're not suggesting…”

“Oh, good heavens, no. At least I don't think he'd ever touch her in that way. Mind you, I don't really know what to think about Alec now. If he's capable of murdering someone, then I suppose there are all other kinds of things he might…” Hilary Potton's words petered out, as though she were taking in the implications of what she'd said. A speech that had started off as a defence of her husband had ended up as a pretty thorough indictment.

“So you think he is capable of murder?”

“I don't know. He keeps getting these sudden rages and jealousies. He's certainly capable of having got it into his head that there was something between Walter Fleet and me.”