‘Harry, go home,’ Eve said, pushing Harry gently away with her fingertips as he leaned in to kiss her again.
It was well past midnight and they were standing under the porch outside the cottage, the overhead lantern casting deep shadows on his tired face.
He was smiling, as though he still didn’t believe she meant it. ‘You sure about that?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
She said it very firmly, not caring if he took offence. It was late and she wanted to go to bed. She also wondered why he hadn’t made a move before, if that’s what he wanted. He didn’t strike her as the inexperienced, unconfident type. Her main interest in inviting him in for a coffee, apart from sorting out the boiler, which had stopped working, had been to see if he might eventually divulge something interesting. But he hadn’t.
‘That’s a shame,’ he said, still grinning broadly, his face close to hers as he gazed at her in an unfocussed sort of way, perhaps hoping she would change her mind. ‘I know it’d be good.’ When she said nothing, he gave a little shrug, stepped back and turned to go. ‘Another time, maybe. I’ve really enjoyed this evening.’
He was a funny sight, jingling his large bunch of keys like a gaoler as he swaggered down the steps whistling, hair a little messed up, one flap of his jacket rucked up at the back from where he’d been sitting deep in an armchair for the past hour or so. Anyone watching would think that he had just got lucky, rather than been turned down.
He climbed a little unsteadily into the Defender, started the engine and rolled down the window. ‘See you tomorrow. Twelve p.m. sharp and don’t be late.’
He shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a car, but she didn’t want to give him any excuse to come back in. At least it was a private road, he couldn’t injure anyone but himself, and he’d probably driven it blind on numerous occasions. He revved the engine loudly and, with a screech of tyres, took off down the lane. She watched the taillights bump along the pot-holed road, finally disappearing around the bend behind the trees and wondered if he was really quite as drunk as he was making out.
He had picked her up at the cottage at eight that evening and taken her to a nice restaurant on Marlborough High Street. He seemed rather perplexed when she told him she didn’t drink; not that it seemed to inhibit him. He tanked back a couple of gin-and-tonics before dinner, and two-thirds of a bottle of red wine with the meal, and she had insisted on driving him back. After fixing the boiler, he accepted an offer of coffee, although clearly disappointed that there was nothing stronger in the house. He had stoked up the wood-burning stove in the sitting room and sat down in an armchair next to it, as though intending to stay for a while. She had chosen the sofa opposite, wanting to put some distance between them. She didn’t want to encourage him, which she had the feeling would have been all too easy. It wasn’t that he was unattractive – quite the opposite, in fact. He had the rugged looks that appealed to a lot of women and an economical, purposeful, athletic way of moving, which reminded her of Jason. But Jason’s shadow still hung heavily over her; it was all far too fresh and raw. Also, alibi or not, Harry was too closely associated with the case and it was a line she had never crossed in the past.
More than once, she had caught a hint of something sharper beneath the light-hearted banter. She was aware of his watching her whenever he thought she wasn’t looking, as though he couldn’t quite make up his mind about her. Also, throughout the evening, she had the feeling that he was holding himself in check, maybe not wanting too much of his real self to show. She understood why he might be wary, but it put her on edge. He had, at least, given her one half-useful piece of information. He had found out that Holly Crowther had gone to a yard in Yorkshire, after the job in Newmarket. She had lasted there only a few months, before leaving because she was apparently pregnant. Nobody had a clue where she had gone from there. Apart from that, he seemed happier to ask questions, than answer them. He was particularly interested in her work for the police. He liked watching all the cop shows on television when he had the time, but he had never met a ‘real-life’ detective before, let alone a female one. Was it anything like on TV? But the endless questions were just a smoke screen. Underneath it all, she felt he couldn’t work her out and was troubled by it. He had also asked her, more than once, how she came to be involved in the Sean Farrell appeal. He tried very hard to probe her connection with 4Justice, as well as asking about the man in the photo she had shown him. She refused to mention Mickey by name, or explain exactly what Mickey had been doing at Ascot Racecourse, let alone the fact that he had been murdered.
Just to shut him up, she had eventually said that Dan was an old friend and that he was the one who had brought her in to help with Farrell’s appeal. She could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe her, but he didn’t pursue it. In return, he had talked a little about his two failed marriages and a lot about his family and the racing world, but she had the impression it, too, was just padding. At times, it felt as though they were engaged in some sort of fencing match. He was particularly evasive and sketchy about his clients, even those from ten years before, and particularly Lorne Anderson. However, he did confirm that Stuart Wade was coming to the party the next day and promised to introduce her to him. Alcohol affected people in different ways, but in spite of the considerable amount Harry had had to drink, there were times when he seemed quite startlingly sober.
There was one particular moment that she kept dwelling on. He had gone to the kitchen and got himself a glass. Sitting back down deep in the armchair by the fire, he had pulled out a large hip flask from his jacket pocket and poured out the contents. Even from across the room, she could smell the brandy and it made her feel a little queasy. He swirled the golden-brown liquid around thoughtfully, took a large swig of it, then peered up at her over the rim of the glass.
‘Why are you here, Eve?’ His voice sounded suddenly tired and a little croaky.
‘I thought I’d explained.’
‘No. I mean, why are you really here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s nothing to do with Gavin, is it?’
The question took her by surprise. Did he actually think the whole Sean Farrell thing was a pretext for her getting back in touch with Gavin? It suddenly occurred to her that this might be what Harry had wanted to find out all along. If so, she was surprised it had taken him all evening to get to the point.
‘Why do you ask?’
He was drawing hard on his umpteenth cigarette, watching her closely through narrowed, slightly watery eyes. ‘You and he seem very close.’
‘Not really. It was all a very long time ago.’
‘Well, even though he tries to hide it, he’s clearly very fond of you.’
‘You’re reading too much into things.’
‘I’m just very protective of my little sister, that’s all.’
He said it lightly, almost jokingly, but there was an undercurrent of something more serious and sharp beneath the remark. She wondered if he was asking for himself, or if Melissa had put him up to it, or if something else lay behind it. What exactly had Gavin said about their past relationship?
‘How nice,’ she replied. ‘I wish I had a big brother like you.’
‘You don’t need one. You seem to know very well how to look after yourself.’
The only other time she had scratched the surface and provoked any form of genuine reaction from him in the whole evening, had been in the restaurant, when she had asked out of the blue: ‘Could you explain race-fixing to me, Harry?’
She had done it deliberately, tired of all the empty chit-chat and not caring at all if she upset him. She had caught him completely off-guard. He was in the middle of sipping his wine and he coughed, spluttered and stared hard at her for a moment, then recovered himself and shook his head.
‘Don’t play the fool with me, Eve. It doesn’t become you. You know exactly what it is.’
‘Did you get hold of Stacey Woodward, then?’
He looked even more surprised, as well as angry. ‘Yes, thank you.’
Maybe he had thought she wouldn’t take the trouble to find out who Stacey was. But she had Googled Stacey’s famous boyfriend earlier and found a picture of the two of them on someone’s yacht in the South of France the previous summer, along with Stacey’s full name. This had then led her to a piece from one of the tabloids entitled ‘New Corruption Scandal Hits Horse Racing’. The article was dated just five days before. Stacey Woodward and two other jockeys, plus a trainer and three owners, none of whose names she recognized, had been charged with race-fixing by the British Horseracing Authority, the sport’s regulator. The article went on to detail the charges, mentioning a lengthy investigation, which had exposed a ‘wide-reaching conspiracy’. It appeared that the trainer and owners had formed a gambling ring and had paid the three jockeys to make sure that their horses didn’t win. There was mention at the end of the article that the BHA investigation was still ongoing and that other charges were likely to be brought.
‘She really is in a lot of trouble, isn’t she?’
‘What of it?’ he said, sharply.
‘Why does she want to talk to you so badly?’
‘She just needs some friendly advice, that’s all.’
‘Really?’
He slammed his glass down on the table and stared at her. ‘Eve, this has absolutely nothing to do with you, nor with why you’re here.’
He looked as though he was going to get up and walk out if she pursued it any further and she let it drop. Curious though she was, particularly given his reaction, he was right: it had nothing to do with Jane McNeil’s murder. That was all that was important. Not long afterwards, dinner over, he had called for the bill.
With the front door propped open wide to clear the haze of Harry’s cigarette smoke, she went back inside, straightened and plumped up the seat cushions, tipped the contents of Harry’s ashtray into the bin and put his coffee mug and glass in the dishwasher. She didn’t want to have to confront any of it in the morning. She put on her coat, fished her phone out of her bag and went out to the far corner of the front garden, where she had found a signal earlier in the day.
There had been a missed call and voicemail from Andy Fagan while she and Harry were having dinner, along with a voicemail from Grace Byrne returning her call. There was also a text from Peters, asking if she was making any progress, plus an urgent one from Dan. Something’s happened. Call me. Dan
She tried to call Dan but his phone was switched off. It was too late to call Grace back, but she pressed play and listened to Fagan’s message.
‘Hi, Eve. It’s Andy. Can you give me a bell please, soon as you get this? Need to give you the heads up on something.’ She picked up an urgency in his tone and wondered, with a sinking heart, if there was any connection with Dan’s text.
She phoned Fagan but he, too, didn’t answer. No doubt he was at home, tucked up in bed with his wife. She left a brief message explaining that she didn’t have much of a signal and would try again in the morning, then stood for a moment looking out at the sky. There was a distant, yellowish glow on the horizon from the direction of Swindon, otherwise it was clear and black and full of stars.
She was about to go back inside when she heard a noise. It sounded like the snap of a branch and it came from the woodland area just beyond the cottage boundary. She stood still and listened. Silence. A cold winter moon had slid out from behind a patch of cloud. It was almost full and shone brightly on the frosty fields and garden below, but the woods were black and she couldn’t make out anything beyond the perimeter. She heard another sound, some sort of hurried rustling in the undergrowth, followed by the crack of another branch. It could be deer, or maybe a badger, something largish and relatively weighty, but she wanted to make sure. Using her phone as a torch, she followed the path around to the side of the house where the hedge finished and a makeshift fence started, and shone her torch into the trees beyond. The beam of light was weak, but she picked up a movement.
‘Who’s there?’ she shouted.
No answer. She grabbed one of the posts and climbed up onto the fence, stepping carefully over the barbed wire that ran along the top rail and dropping almost silently onto the stretch of rough grass on the other side.
‘Hello? Who’s there?’ As she started walking towards the woods, she heard the crack of breaking branches, the noise now further away, moving swiftly up the hill in the direction of the main road. Even a large deer wouldn’t make such a din. Someone had been watching her.