If Belle ever comes home and announces that she wants to start horse-riding, I shall say no at once. Horses are big, clumsy, and smelly. A small part of me also thinks they’re lethal. But there were no horses visible at Preston’s Riding School. I may have detected a faint whiff of them, but that was all. Presumably that was what posh riding schools were like. Too clean for real animals.
Lucy didn’t share my views on horses. To my surprise she exclaimed: ‘What a wonderful place! I’d have loved to go riding here.’
‘No way, you were a horsey girl?’ I said.
‘God, yes. I practically lived in a stable until I turned fifteen.’
I didn’t like to be reminded that I didn’t know all there was to know about Lucy. In my world we had always known each other, and that was the way things were going to stay. Which was obviously incredibly naïve. We don’t even know our own children as well as we’d like.
As far as Preston’s Riding School was concerned, even I could see that it was high class. I found myself thinking of the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, where horse-riding shows were performed in a huge, castle-like facility. How the hell could Sara’s au pair parents have thought she could afford to ride here?
The same thought occurred to Lucy.
‘They’re hardly going to offer impoverished au pairs subsidised riding lessons,’ she said.
The spacious school was surprisingly calm and quiet. I realised we must have come in the wrong way. There was no one in sight. It felt like we were in some sort of large practice hall.
‘There must be a reception area or information desk,’ I said.
We went out into the heat again. The three-metre tall door swung shut behind us. The sunlight hurt my eyes and I fumbled for my shades.
‘Over there,’ Lucy said, pointing to a much smaller door in a much smaller building.
‘Administration,’ a discreet sign said.
‘Good job we didn’t go straight there,’ I said. ‘Then we wouldn’t have seen the lovely school.’
We hurried over to the other door. The heat was oppressive, and in combination with the high humidity was soon unbearable.
Indoors an Alaskan chill reigned. The Yanks love their air-conditioning, but don’t seem to have the faintest idea of how to use it. It’s either too hot or too cold, and if the difference between them is too great you end up catching a cold.
‘Can I help you?’ said an elderly woman with grey hair, round glasses and a blouse so tightly buttoned at the neck that I wondered how she could breathe.
By this point we had become practised liars. This time we gave a minimalist background explanation for our visit.
‘What we’d like to know is if you’ve ever had a Sara Tell registered with you,’ I said.
‘Or a Jenny Woods,’ Lucy said.
‘Woods is her husband’s name,’ I said quietly in Swedish. ‘What was she called before she got married?’
Lucy thought.
‘Eriksson,’ she said. ‘Jenny Eriksson.’
The old lady hesitated.
‘We take care to protect our members’ confidentiality and we don’t hand out their details to anyone,’ she said.
I was trying to make as reassuring an impression as possible. It wasn’t easy when beads of sweat kept appearing on my forehead. My shirt was sticking to my back and I kept shuffling to avoid contact with the damp fabric. Lucy looked like she was about to start laughing but managed to stop herself. I had no idea how she was able to stand there looking so cool and unperturbed by the heat.
‘I had hoped you might be able to make an exception,’ I said. ‘For Sara Tell’s brother’s sake. You see, Sara is dead.’
To keep the woman on side I neglected to mention that the woman I wanted information about was a suspected serial killer. It worked. Somewhat reluctantly she tapped at the keyboard in front of her. After a while she looked up.
‘Both of the women you mentioned are in our register,’ she said.
I started with surprise.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. They joined at the same time, early in 2007. They left in May and August respectively the following year.’
I glanced at Lucy. She was as surprised as me.
‘Can you see how often they came riding?’ I said.
The woman raised an eyebrow.
‘Sorry, how often they were here riding?’ she said brusquely.
I looked around, bewildered.
‘Yes, what else would they be doing here? This is a riding school, isn’t it?’
The woman laughed, and it wasn’t a friendly laugh.
‘I could see at once that you and your friend weren’t aware of what sort of establishment this is. This isn’t a riding school for girls who dream of horses. Our riders are among the best in the country, and all our training is aimed at dressage competitions at national or international level.’
She pointed a bony finger at a series of diplomas and trophies lined up in a locked glass cabinet behind her.
‘One of our riders won gold in the World Championship just two years ago.’
‘Really,’ I said. ‘So if Sara and Jenny weren’t here to ride, would you mind telling us what they were doing here?’
‘Hard work,’ the woman said, stretching her already straight back. ‘They were among the many volunteers who come to our school to participate in an extraordinary equestrian environment.’
‘So they worked for free?’ Lucy said.
‘Yes, but from what I can see, not terribly often,’ the woman said. ‘They worked here on a total of three occasions. Now that I come to look at it, I can’t honestly understand how they were allowed to remain on the register for so long. We’re usually very quick to get rid of girls and boys who aren’t prepared to give their all.’
I kept my opinion of the woman’s attitude to unpaid labour and the exploitation of young people to myself. I had one further question.
‘Would you mind looking to see if any other young women registered at the same time as Jenny and Sara?’ I said.
The woman looked hesitant again.
‘You’re on rather thin ice now,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to say what their names are,’ Lucy said. ‘A yes or no would be fine.’
Further hesitation, then finally an answer to the question.
‘Another two girls were registered at the same time,’ the woman said. ‘One of them was Swedish, just like your girls, and one was American. They seem to have followed the same pattern. They don’t come and work very often at all.’
‘Come and work?’ I repeated. ‘So they’re still registered?’
‘Yes. But it’s been six months since the last time either of them was here.’
I leaned heavily against the reception desk. I was prepared to go to great lengths to learn the names of those two girls.
‘I can see what you’re thinking, and the answer’s no,’ the woman said firmly. ‘And that’s not negotiable.’
‘We understand,’ Lucy said quickly. ‘We’re very grateful for the information you’ve given us.’
‘Yes, truly,’ I said, nodding in agreement. ‘I won’t press you for further details. You don’t by any chance have any printed material about the school that we could have? It would be interesting to learn about the background to the school, who’s on the committee, that sort of thing.’
A moment later I had a heavy brochure in my hands.
‘I hope this will be of some use,’ the woman said, evidently eager to be rid of us.
‘I’m sure it will be,’ I said.
We thanked her for her help and prepared to leave. At least Lucy did. I couldn’t move from the spot. Because I knew I hadn’t done all I could to get the names of the other girls. And like hell was some miserable old cow in the middle of a baking hot Texas going to get in my way.
I looked her right in the eyes.
‘Just answer this one question,’ I said. ‘Was one of the girls who was registered at the same time as Jenny and Sara called Denise?’
Time stood still while I waited for the woman to make her mind up.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘One of them was called Denise Barton. According to our records, you’ll find her in Galveston.’