I’m unpacking the last of my boxes when my phone rings. After checking the name, I put the phone on speaker.
‘Hey, Primrose Cartwright.’ Nate’s American drawl is unmistakable. ‘How’re you doing?’
I take my time, collect my thoughts. A wooden spoon. Salad servers. A ladle. ‘Why are you calling … so late?’
‘Seven on a Monday evening? It’s eleven in the morning in Nairobi.’
‘What are you doing there? How’s your investigation going? Have you found anything?’
‘All good.’
‘Have you … spoken to Blake yet?’
‘I’m back Thursday. He’s on my list.’
‘He won’t have done anything … wrong.’
‘You seem pretty sure about that.’
When I asked Blake if he always tells the truth, he said I hope so. ‘I don’t like keeping this from him.’
‘Isn’t he Douglas Farquhar’s pal?’
‘They’re connected through … work.’
‘What about the test results?’
‘By the time Blake tested the bloods, there was no trace of the hormone.’
‘If Farquhar has done something illegal, you need proof. I can help with that.’
When I find a meat thermometer that I didn’t know I had, I throw it into the rubbish pile with a broken plate, a twisted eggbeater and two stained placemats.
‘You know about the production of PMSG, don’t you? How they take the mare’s blood? They abort foals as … soon as hormone levels drop. If a mare does go to term, male foals are routinely killed. The mares are slaughtered … when they’re too old and sick to be useful.’
‘It’s horrific.’
‘So why haven’t you gone after Farquhar? About this or … whatever else you’re looking into.’
‘You’re passionate about the horses, I get that. But how about we play to our strengths? Yours is in animals, mine is in criminals. If you hadn’t called the government department about the PMSG, our paths would never have crossed.’
‘I didn’t expect the UN to step in.’
‘It’s a multi-agency problem. Our interests coincide.’
‘I … still have to keep my mouth shut?’
‘We’ve got a whole flock of ducks to line up.’
In deference to his physiotherapist, Billy’s weathered work boots are kept permanently in the cupboard in his room, but now he’s only a few weeks from discharge from the rehabilitation unit to an outpatient apartment, he insists on dressing in his regular clothes: sturdy denims, a thick cotton shirt and a belt with a giant metal buckle. The afternoon is fine, so he’s wearing physio-approved runners and we’re walking through the gardens.
He lifts a hand from the walking frame. ‘I can’t wait to get my hands dirty.’
‘Your dogs must miss you.’
‘I miss them.’ He smiles. ‘I miss my cattle too.’
I negotiate his walker over a bumpy stretch of path. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Shoot.’
‘If you left a healthy young bull with fifty cows for a few months, what percentage would fall pregnant?’
He scratches the side of his nose. ‘A young bull, you reckon? Good sperm count? A proven breeder?’
‘In the bull’s first season, seventy-five per cent of the cows got pregnant. Would you expect the same success rate in his second season?’
‘If the cows are receptive and in good nick, give or take ten per cent, I reckon I would.’
I run ahead to hold a branch out of the way. ‘Thank you.’
‘You back to fighting with the cattle baron? You got new evidence to share?’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ I say. ‘You haven’t mentioned this to anyone, have you?’
He stops for a minute, tightens his belt. ‘I don’t gasbag to Doc Sinclair if that’s what you’re meaning.’
When he hobbles off without the walker, I guide it myself. ‘Are you still watching The Farmer Wants a Wife? The finals are coming up.’
‘Never miss an episode.’
‘And you’re still keen to spend a weekend with the Oldfield sisters?’
A brief glance over his shoulder. ‘Blake called last night. He’s got an invite too.’
Eeyore, in his loosebox and lying on the straw, looks up balefully as I pass, but Merrylegs pricks her ears. One of the overhead lights is out, lengthening the shadows in her stable, but her dappled grey coat glistens silver. She’s already been groomed, but I do it again, scraping loose winter hair from her neck, sides and rump. When I offer her a carrot, she takes it tentatively.
I wrap an arm around her neck. ‘After your foal is born, you’ll want to go outside and boss Juniper and Bonny around like you did before.’ My eyes sting. ‘I’ll find us a home, I promise. You can be in charge in the paddock.’
My phone rings. Blake.
‘Weren’t you going out … with your parents tonight? Is everything okay?’
‘We’re waiting for mains.’
‘Why did you call?’
A brief pause. ‘I miss you.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘This was more important.’
Sitting down in the straw, I bend my knees and bring them to my chest. ‘You … said you don’t tell lies.’
‘I don’t.’ Another pause. ‘Beatrice has asked me to look at a property on Saturday. It’s on the river, not far out of Ballimore. We could go there and then out to lunch.’
‘Why did she ask you?’
‘We share an interest in Highland cattle.’
‘The Oldfields need another property?’
‘Will you come with me?
‘What time?’
‘We can leave when you’ve finished with your animals.’
‘I promised to see Billy on … Saturday.’
‘We’ll come back early afternoon.’
‘Blake?’ My eyes are scratchy. ‘I’m … worried about Merrylegs.’ As if she knows I’m talking about her, the pony walks across the stable and snuffles my hair. ‘She’s never got back to how she … was before the flood. Dr Latimer thinks there might be an infection, but he can’t pin it down. Can you take a look?’
‘What blood tests have you run?’
‘All the basics.’
‘I’ll have a look at her on Saturday. Are you at the zoo tomorrow?’
‘Gathii is still sore so Andrew and I … will go to him first.’
‘Is he the giraffe that Rowena talks about?’
‘He’s her favourite so she’ll be there too.’ I rest my chin on my knees. ‘Blake? Can I ask you about something else?’
‘Anything.’
‘Are you wearing your cufflinks … Was your mother happy to … see them?’
A hum of voices. Yes. No. Yes. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday,’ he says quietly.
‘I have such a connection to these magnificent creatures,’ Rowena says, pulling up her hair to show off an earring—an enamelled giraffe splashed with multicoloured crystals. ‘Gathii is limping. Is there nothing more you can do?’
I leave Rowena in the observation area at the back of the treatment pen to join Andrew on the other side of the railing. He smiles tightly.
‘Arthritis in a giraffe is difficult to treat at the best of times, but Gathii is twenty-three,’ he tells Rowena. ‘We combine corrective hoof trims, anti-inflammatories, laser therapy, acupuncture and pain medications to keep him as comfortable as possible.’
‘You mustn’t give up.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ When Rowena turns away to take a call, he mutters under his breath, ‘Bloody hell. We’re doing our best.’
‘I don’t think she means to criticise.’
‘You, Dr Cartwright, would make excuses for the devil himself.’
‘Rowena works hard for the zoo in her spare time too, sourcing beads and jewellery for the shop.’
‘Tanzania. Kenya. South Africa. She never stops banging on about it.’
As Gathii’s regular handler Rosie walks the giraffe towards us, his tail twitches, indicating discomfort. His coat would once have been dark gold but is fading with age. His steps are short and stiff. I wince and so does Andrew.
‘The bruise on his foot has resolved, but he’s favouring both front legs,’ Andrew says. ‘I’ve never seen him this uncomfortable.’
As Gathii faces us in the pen, Rosie gives me a carrot from a container of treats attached to her waist. Gathii extends his top lip when I hold out the carrot and his purple tongue curls around it. His lashes, as long as my little finger, encircle his large dark eyes.
‘Hello, little one.’
Rosie smiles. ‘You always call them that.’
‘Is he still in the field during the day? How is he getting on there?’
‘He frets when alone, so even though his gait holds him back, he’s better off with the other giraffes.’ She gives him another carrot. ‘We make sure he has plenty of rest and feed when he’s locked up at night.’
Gathii shifts his weight from one front leg to another.
‘We took thermal imaging shots on Tuesday. The hotspots suggest the inflammation and pain in his left leg is even worse than his right.’
‘Targeted cortisone shots would be a short-term fix,’ Andrew says. ‘The trouble is, he’d need a full anaesthetic.’
‘If he were anaesthetised, Jet could trim his hooves. As it is, he’s too sore standing on three legs for her to do as much as she’d like.’
‘Come on, mate. You can do it.’ When Rosie tempts Gathii with another carrot to encourage him to move towards the railing, he shifts his weight before immediately shifting it back again. He has no interest in the carrot or his surroundings.
Andrew opens his bag. ‘I’ll give him something to ease the pain today.’
Ten minutes later, Andrew and I walk to the elephant enclosure. Two young calves, one male and one female, gambol around their mothers on the pale and scrappy grass. The only trees in sight, a stand of tall grey gums, are on the other side of the fence.
‘When will you give Gathii cortisone?’ I ask.
‘Not before Blake gets back.’
‘That won’t be until Friday.’
‘You’re keeping your horses at the Coach House, aren’t you? What do you think of the renovation? The Oldfields spent a fortune on it.’
‘I’ve only been inside … once. It’s modern, very smart.’
‘I’ll send Blake an email and put a date in his calendar, but if you bump into him on the weekend, can you fill him in?’
My nod is stiff. ‘If that’s … what you want.’
Andrew laughs. ‘You’ll recall I had high hopes that your relationship with my son might extend to more than friendship.’
‘You’re a bit of a matchmaker, aren’t you?’
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘Luke has been burdened enough. I … see that more clearly than I used to.’
‘To him, you were like a pesky little sister. It was never a burden.’
The young elephants turn in unison and, heads down, charge to their mothers.
‘Andrew? Could I ask you something about that?’
‘Fire away.’
‘When Mum had the stroke I … was seven. Not long afterwards, I got buddied with Luke, which lasted until he went to high school. I’m not sure that would have happened … without your approval.’
‘Initially, Luke’s mother and I had reservations. Luke was only young himself and you’d suffered a terrible loss, the effects of which were clear for all to see.’
‘My … speech.’
‘From time to time, for weeks at a time, you had no speech. But your father was adamant you didn’t need help.’ He cusses under his breath. ‘It was a bloody lie.’
‘I didn’t have my animals at school. It made things … worse.’
‘You were a sweet and compliant child and Luke, bless his cotton socks, barely addressed his mind to what troubled you. But he was charged with looking out for you and to his credit, he took the job seriously.’
‘He helped when I … was older as well.’
‘And now here you are.’ Smiling again, Andrew picks up his bag. ‘Luke’s good friend and my valued colleague.’
The female calf collapses next to her mother in a contented heap. The male nudges his mother’s belly, keen for a drink.
‘If Blake and I … were in a relationship, would you have to know about it?’
‘I imagine that would be a human resources issue—Rowena’s neck of the woods. Not that it would concern me one little bit. Blake has integrity, he’ll do the job he’s paid to do. And you, Dr Cartwright, will invariably put the animals first. I see no conflict.’
‘Our backgrounds and … specialties. We’re different.’
‘How do I put this?’ Andrew grimaces. ‘Are you aware of his reputation with the fairer sex?’
There are nine giraffes in the enclosure next to the elephants, six females, two calves and a young male.
‘We’re going out on … Saturday.’
He grimaces again. ‘Have I put my foot in it?’