Back home, Eve lay in bed, in the dark. The room was getting a little chilly, the heating having recently gone off, and she pulled the soft, blue woollen throw Jason had given her over her legs for extra warmth. She had taken a sleeping pill but it hadn’t kicked in yet. She felt wired, unable to relax, let alone sleep, thinking over everything that Dan had told her. Mickey Fraser’s death had changed things. The fact that he had been tortured before he was killed, and his flat searched, seemed to point towards his having stumbled on something of value to someone. Dan seemed to think it had nothing to do with the Farrell case, but she sensed it was what he wanted to believe, based on what the police had said. Without knowing what other cases Mickey had been working on, it was impossible to form a view. She needed to find out as soon as possible who in Hendon was handling the case, so that she could get more information.
Another thing was troubling her. Dan had been very prickly when questioned. She put his defensiveness down to his being tired and not fully trusting her. She was prepared to make allowances, given what he had just been through. But there had been something really odd about his manner at one point. She thought back to that particular part of their dialogue, picturing him in front of her for a moment, lounging back on the sofa, one long leg crossed over the other, the half-full tumbler of vodka waving around in his hand like a baton as he spoke. He had been struggling to stay awake, as he talked about what was missing from Mickey’s flat and the chaos in the front room. What he said about Mickey’s being secretive about his work and not trusting technology made sense. As a PI and an ex-cop, Mickey would have known how easily systems could be hacked and information corrupted or stolen. In his line of work, security was everything. Dan had been relaxed up until that point, looking as though he was ready for bed. But when she asked if Mickey had anywhere in particular where he hid his backups or more sensitive files, Dan’s facial muscles tensed and he glanced away, his gaze darting here and there around the room. It was all over in a beat, but she knew what she had seen. The righteous man of principles was a bad liar, a really crap liar, as well as a hypocrite. The fact that he clearly thought he had got away with it, made it worse. Did he really think she was born yesterday? He had shown her the photo of the sheet of paper, which he had found in Mickey’s printer, almost as an afterthought, or more likely a diversion. But she was sure there was something else. Whatever it was, she intended to get it out of him, one way or another.
She still didn’t feel at all sleepy. She switched on the light and went into the sitting room where she had left her briefcase. She took out the folder Dan had handed her earlier and went back into the bedroom, where she spread the contents out on the bed. Along with an Ordnance Survey map of the Marlborough area, she found some printouts culled from the Internet, including a brief guide to Marlborough town, and Ordnance Survey maps covering the Westerby estate and the West Woods.
A copy of Tim Michaels’ obituary was amongst the pages, along with a piece about his death from the Racing Post:
TRAINER TIM MICHAELS FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE
The horseracing world is mourning the death, in tragic circumstances, of successful trainer and former Grand National winner Tim Michaels. According to the police, Michaels, 63, was found dead, late on Saturday evening, at his home, Westerby Farm, the Group 1 winning training yard near Marlborough, Wiltshire. Foul play is not suspected. Family friend and trainer James Bracewell told the Racing Post ‘Shock is the word that comes to mind – shock and deep sadness. Our thoughts are with Tim’s wife, Sally, and his two children, Harry and Melissa.’ Earlier in the day, Michaels had been at Doncaster, where he saddled three runners, including a second and a third …
The article was dated just ten days after Jane McNeil went missing. It was bizarre timing, she thought. Could there be a connection? She Googled ‘Michaels family racing’ and found their website. At first glance, it was impressive, with a brief history of the Westerby racing yard and the Michaels family, who had been there for over a century. She tabbed through the various images of the buildings and stables, gallops and other facilities, photos of horses on the racetrack and at home, and many happy-looking owners celebrating winnings. Although she knew nothing about racing, it looked like a very successful, top-end operation.
She clicked on the entry for Harry Michaels, Tim’s son and heir:
Born in Windsor in 1975, Harry hails from a family that is steeped in racing history. His great-grandfather, Henry Michaels, was the trainer of no fewer than four Grand National winners, one of which he rode to victory himself. His grandfather, Andrew, and father, Tim, have both ridden and trained winners at the highest level. Harry grew up at Westerby with his sister Melissa. He was educated at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, and spent eight years serving in the Scots Guards before joining his father at Westerby Racing …
His photo showed a nice-looking, dark-haired man, with a square jaw and a hard, determined expression. With his army background, she could easily picture him with a shotgun slung over his shoulder, marching Dan smartly off his land for trespassing.
Eve tabbed through to Melissa’s entry:
Melissa has a degree in Geography from Oxford and has been involved in racing at Westerby for over 10 years, having previously held roles in marketing and PR at Newbury and Epsom racecourses. She plays a key role at Westerby in many aspects of the business and, in particular, is responsible for organizing owner visits and entertainment, as well as other events at Westerby throughout the year. She is married to local Member of Parliament Gavin Challis …
Gavin Challis. The name leapt out at Eve. She quickly scanned the photographs below, finding one that showed a smiling blonde-haired woman, her two small children, a brindle-coloured whippet and her husband. She peered closer. There could be no doubt. It was the same Gavin Challis. She hadn’t seen him for almost twenty years. As she stared at the once familiar, handsome face, she remembered what Dan had said about how the Michaels were very private. ‘Unless you go posing as a would-be owner, you won’t get past the entrance gate.’
She leapt out of bed and marched into the sitting room. The box Alan Peters had sent her was tucked away on a chair under the small dining table. She dumped the block of money onto the table, removed the Nokia box, ripped it open and took out the phone. She switched it on. It appeared to be already fully charged and working. It had been years since she had used such a basic model, but it would do the job.
She stared at it for a moment, feeling the smooth, black plastic, struck by how light it was in her hand. She didn’t like the idea of using it, but equally she didn’t want to use her own phone to contact either Peters or Duran, in case anybody from the Met decided to check her phone records. Even though what she was doing was above board, it was easier if there was no trace of a connection. The name ‘Mr Duran’ and his mobile number were programmed into the phone book, along with Peters’ details.
Like her, Duran probably wasn’t asleep and if he was, she didn’t care. She went into messages, selected Duran’s name and typed two words: Gavin Challis.
Her finger hovered over the send button. There was something revoltingly intimate about texting Duran, particularly at that hour. But it had to be done. She pictured him in his cell, lying in a bed that was too short and narrow for a man of his frame, however skeletal. She consoled herself with the thought that the sheets would be rough and scratchy, and the mattress and pillow probably hard and lumpy for someone so used to luxury. Even if he had been allowed to bring in some of his own things to make life more comfortable, it wouldn’t be the same. They didn’t have Emperor suites in prison. He couldn’t change the dimensions of the tiny room, increase the height of the oppressively low ceiling, or give himself a lovely view over Hampstead Heath, as he had once enjoyed at home. He would never see that again. He could have been happily tucked up between the fine, crisp, monogrammed linen sheets in his two-metre-square, four-poster in Highgate, if it hadn’t been for his one moment of madness.
She thought back to his calm, impenetrable face in the prison interview room. He had fed her a mixture of truth and lies. She now knew exactly why he had chosen her and she was pleased she had found him out. It was nothing to do with her professional skills, or the way she had handled his interrogation. That had been a smokescreen of flattery. No doubt the connection between her and Gavin had come up in the research Duran had done on her when she had arrested him and charged him with murder. But it probably wouldn’t get him anywhere. No doubt Gavin would refuse to see her, or speak to her, after what had happened. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. All that mattered was finding out if Sean Farrell was innocent or guilty. She pressed send.
Taking the phone with her, she went into the kitchen area to make a cup of tea. She had just switched on the kettle when she heard the chime of a text. She snatched up the phone from the counter and read the message. Well done. You were impressively quick! That’s why I chose you, you know. Not just because you were once Gavin Challis’s lover.
It was as though he could read her mind and she shivered.