Eve glanced at her watch. It was nearly a quarter to one and she was late for the Westerby Christmas party. The mist had cleared and the frost had all but melted, but a chill still hung in the air and the sky was overcast. The walk along the lane to the yard at the bottom of the hill should have taken no more than five minutes, but her progress was hampered by the deep ruts and puddles, as well as having to frequently step aside onto the muddy verge to make way for the last straggle of guests sweeping past in their cars.
She had been into Marlborough earlier to get some breakfast and had sat outside the coffee shop in her car with her cappuccino and croissant, listening to her voicemails and returning calls. Her barrister had phoned to discuss some details he needed for her disciplinary hearing. Again, she was unable to reach Grace Byrne and left another message. Other than that, there was nothing urgent, no further messages from either Fagan or Dan, and both of their phones were switched off when she tried to call. She was on her way back, just on the outskirts of the town when Grace called again. Eve pulled over and had sat talking to her for a good ten minutes, the conversation incessantly interrupted at Grace’s end by the plaintive demands of her small children in the background. It was clear from everything Grace said that she hadn’t like Jane. She described her as ‘stuck on herself’ and ‘no real fun’. She added very little to what Eve already knew other than to say that Jane was always sneaking off somewhere, without telling her and Holly where she was going and they thought she ‘had someone on the sly’, although they had no idea who. She said she had told the police this, when they contacted her, but they hadn’t seemed particularly interested as she didn’t have any details. She also said she hadn’t spoken to Holly since leaving Westerby and didn’t know how to get in touch with her.
A variety of expensive cars were lined up on the verge for the last part of the way, spilling out into the parking lot beyond, alongside the maroon-coloured Westerby Racing lorries and the two shuttle buses, which had been provided to ferry guests back and forwards from Swindon station. The indoor school was housed inside a huge, modern, metal-clad barn. Melissa stood on the concrete paving just outside the entrance, wrapped up tightly in a dark overcoat and high-heeled boots, greeting the last few guests as they arrived. She nodded politely at Eve, but seemed distracted as she handed her a large, glossy programme. A huge crowd of people were already gathered inside and the noise was deafening. Champagne, Bloody Marys and other drinks were flowing freely, the party in full swing. The sawdust arena had been divided down the middle by a low wall of straw bales, with a row of seating just behind it, which was already fully occupied, everyone else grouped tightly around watching the yearling parade. The area at the back of the arena had been enclosed by a white marquee and was set up with tables and chairs ready for lunch. Harry stood in front of the bales, a mike in one hand, an open programme in the other, his voice blaring over the speakers as he announced each horse as it was led in by one of the grooms. Judging from the numbers he was calling out, it looked as though she had missed most of the action. Eve took a glass of sparkling elderflower from one of the trays being offered around and joined the back of the crowd. They were a motley collection of people of all ages. Although a few were smartly turned out, the majority were dressed for warmth in heavy winter coats and jackets, hats and scarves and she didn’t feel out of place at all. Many of them seemed to know one another and they drank and talked animatedly over Harry’s commentary, as they watched hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of horseflesh circle gracefully around the arena. She spotted Sally Michaels talking to a collection of people in the middle of the throng and Gavin, at the back, with another group of guests. He wore a dark suit and tie and was smiling and shaking hands, his two little blonde-haired boys at his side.
‘Here are my last five – last, but by no means least,’ Harry announced. ‘And aren’t they worth the wait, ladies and gentlemen? Come on, Colin, I know you’ve been eying up the chestnut colt all morning,’ he said, pointing his programme at a stout, red-faced man, who was seated on one of the rows of chairs at the front, with his wife. ‘Don’t let Alison stop you getting your cheque book out.’
Harry seemed relaxed and in his element, with no sign of a hangover or tiredness from the previous night. Gavin had said that he was great at schmoozing his clients and she had to agree. He was a natural, joking and bantering good-naturedly with the audience, outlining each horse’s breeding, its individual qualities, its genetic relationship to famous winners and occasionally giving a relevant anecdote to keep the crowd’s interest. He hyped each horse’s potential to the maximum and they were an exotic bunch, one yearling coming from Kentucky, another from France and another from Australia. To her untutored ears, Harry made each one sound as though it were a dead cert for the Derby in a few years. There was such a competitive buzz amongst the audience, the atmosphere was infectious. She’d read somewhere that racing was highly addictive, and a lot more expensive than class A drugs, and she could see why.
‘Thank you very much to my head lass, Siobhan, and the rest of the team,’ Harry said, once the parade was over, gesturing towards the grooms and the other members of staff who had gathered by the entrance to the arena. Then he turned to the audience. ‘Thank you very much, too, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, for your partial attention. We’ll now move onto the bit you all love most …’ He paused for effect before bellowing, ‘Lunch!’
The inside of the marquee was decked out in the maroon and cream Westerby Racing colours. A variety of multi-coloured racing silks hung on the walls of the tent, with a TV screen placed in each corner, silently replaying Westerby Racing’s successes of the past year. There was a seating plan pinned to a large board at the front of the marquee and Eve found her name and allocated table. Her place was marked with a handwritten card and she sat down between Mike, an affable Australian businessman, there with his much younger girlfriend, and Marion, an elderly widow from the Midlands. Both owned horses, or parts of horses, trained by Harry. Both were perplexed and looked at her in wonderment when she said she had never been racing in her life. Talking to other people on the table, including a romantic novelist called Sandra, who owned a series of horses, each named after one of the titles of her best-selling books, and Max, the yard vet, they seemed to come from a variety of backgrounds, their only unifying factor being a passion for the sport. She also got the impression that winning was a little less important than the wonderful days out and the experiences provided by being part of the racing world. In the course of her various conversations, she managed to discover that nobody on her table had been with Westerby Racing ten years before. She wondered whether it was accidental or deliberate.
Harry’s staff were working flat out, helping the caterers with the food and drink. She thought of Jane McNeil, ten years before and what Grace had told her. Had Jane met somebody at the party, maybe somebody she already knew, and then gone out with them later, once the party had finished? It would explain why she had cried off sick and left early, presumably to go and get ready.
Cheese and coffee were being served when she saw Harry threading his way through the throng towards her. He had been hosting another table at the other end of the marquee and she had barely seen him since they all sat down for lunch. He came up to her and kissed her warmly on the cheek and she thanked him for dinner.
‘I hope you’re enjoying yourself,’ he said, smiling and apparently flushed with the success of the day. ‘As you can see, racing’s all about having fun.’
‘It certainly seems to be.’
‘You know, I really enjoyed our evening last night.’
The image of him standing under the porch-light as he tried to kiss her sprang to mind. She wondered if he really meant it. ‘I’m glad you got home safely.’
‘Sorry if I was a bit …’ He struggled to find the word.
‘The worse for wear?’ She was still convinced that he hadn’t been as drunk as he appeared, but if he wanted to use it as an excuse, that was fine by her.
He smiled. ‘I had a bit of a headache this morning, but nothing that a few pills wouldn’t fix. It would be nice to do it again sometime soon. How long are you here for?’
She was about to reply when Melissa tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You need to come and talk to Bernie. He’s interested in Slow Dancer.’
‘Tell him I’ll be over in a minute.’ He turned to Eve. ‘Before I forget, I promised to introduce you to Stuart Wade. Come with me.’ He took hold of her arm and led her away to another table on the far side of the marquee, where a middle-aged man, with thick, greying hair, sat entertaining a group of giggling women with a story.
Harry tapped him on the shoulder and, as he looked around, Eve recognized him immediately as the man behind the wheel of the silver Range Rover with Harry, when she first went to Westerby Farm for dinner.
‘Stuart, this is Eve,’ Harry said. Stuart gave him a blank look. ‘Eve’s following up on a murder we had here ten years ago. You remember, Jane McNeil?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Stuart said flatly, with no visible reaction to the name. It was clear he had already been briefed by Harry. ‘Excuse me, ladies,’ he said, with a broad smile and a little, mock bow to the women surrounding him, and got to his feet, turning his back on the table as though it was something not for their ears.
He was very tall, maybe six feet four or five, broad-shouldered and heavy-boned, dressed in a well-cut tweed suit and tightly-knotted silk tie. Perspiration glowed on his deeply tanned face and the smile disappeared from his face as he looked at Eve.
‘This is my son, Damon,’ Stuart said, as a young man of similar height and build appeared at his side. He was equally tanned and wore a sharp, bright-blue suit, with a white shirt and no tie. Amongst the sea of pale, middle-aged faces and drab browns and greens, he stood out, looking as though he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine.
Harry smiled. ‘I’ll leave you three to chat. And I’ll catch up with you later, Eve.’ He gave her a sideways glance, then turned away towards another guest.
‘You want some bubbly?’ Stuart asked, flashing a chunky gold Rolex at his wrist, as he topped up his glass from a bottle in a cooler on the table. ‘It’s not Cristal, of course, but Harry always serves OK stuff.’
She recognized the accent immediately as Manchester, although the look of him was pure Alderley Edge. Harry had described him as being ‘in property’, which could mean anything, from caravan parks to city centre skyscrapers. Whatever it was, it seemed to be lucrative enough.
‘Elderflower, please.’ She had drunk more than enough of the overly sweet mixture but she wanted to keep him company.
‘Damon, get the lady a drink, will you?’
‘Do you remember Jane McNeil?’ Eve asked, as Damon disappeared into the throng.
‘Damon was just a lad at the time, but I remember the case,’ he said. ‘It was in all the papers and it caused quite a stir at the yard. Why do you want to speak to me?’
‘Because you called Jane on her mobile, the week before she died.’
He shrugged. ‘Harry told me the girl used to work in Tim’s office. Maybe that’s why I called her. Does that answer your question?’
‘It was her personal phone you called. She didn’t use it for work.’
‘She must’ve given me her number, then.’ He smiled, as though it was something that happened to him all the time.
Instead of Damon, a waiter appeared at her side with a small tray and handed her a tumbler of elderflower.
‘So you don’t remember what it was about?’
‘Look, it was a very long time ago. I don’t even remember what the girl looked like.’
‘So, you have no recollection of her at all?’ she asked, noticing how he didn’t use Jane’s name. ‘You made five or six phone calls to her phone in the month before she died, as well as the two in the week immediately before.’
He spread his huge hands, as though it was par for the course. ‘I’m a happily married man. Need I say more? I went through all of this with the cops at the time. They gave me a right going-over because of those calls, but I came out of it with a clean bill of health.’
‘Did you see her at the party here ten years ago?’
He stared at her as if she were mad and gestured to the room with his glass. ‘Look around you, luv. There are a couple of hundred people here. Do you really expect me to remember any of them ten years from now?’
‘But you knew Jane. You had her mobile phone number and you used it several times.’
His face hardened. ‘Harry said to help you, and I’m trying my best. But I told you, I’m a happily married man. End of.’
Again, he wasn’t giving her a straight answer, but she had no authority and no leverage to force him to reply, as he well knew. It was futile pressing for more.
‘I thought they caught the bloke,’ he added.
‘Yes. He’s in jail. It’s possible he didn’t do it.’
‘Really?’ He let the word hang, looking at her with an amused expression. ‘You saying the plods got it wrong?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Harry says you’re a policewoman with the Met.’
‘Yes. But I’m not here in an official capacity.’
He grinned, this time showing a wide arc of perfect, white crowns. ‘Pleased to hear it. Pretty girl like you should be enjoying the party and not poking around in things that don’t concern you. It’s all dead and buried.’
‘You mean like Jane McNeil?’
He was still smiling. ‘Waste of your time. I’d give it a rest, if I was you, luv.’
In spite of the smile, she knew she was being warned off. It didn’t bother her and, if anything, it intrigued her. Why should he care? If only she had access to the full police files, she could see how far he’d been questioned, although she assumed they had checked his alibi thoroughly.
‘You’re not me and I don’t need your advice.’
‘Sorry I can’t help you, then,’ he added, with mock politeness, then turned back to his group of ladies and sat down again.
She returned to her table and collected her handbag and coat, thinking that it was about time to go, when she saw Gavin coming towards her through the now thinning crowd. ‘I’m glad I found you. I thought you’d already left. Do you have a minute?’
He pulled up a couple of chairs, removing a sleeping Jack Russell from one of them, and set them close together facing one another.
‘Have you had fun?’ he asked, as they sat down. From his expression, he didn’t look as though he had been having fun at all.
‘It was all very interesting. Very impressive. I never imagined anything on this scale. There must be a lot of money involved.’
‘You can certainly say that,’ he said, almost bitterly. ‘Christ, it’s so hot in here, I can’t breathe.’ He took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair, then unknotted his tie and tugged it roughly out of his collar. ‘Are you feeling any better?’ he asked, leaning forwards towards her, as he ran his hand hurriedly through his hair.
‘Better?’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated, as though he didn’t know how to begin. ‘I’m worried about you, Eve. I mean, I was worried when I saw you this morning. Are you really OK?’
There was something intense, almost emotional about the way he spoke. His face was flushed and it struck her that, like almost everybody else in the tent, apart from her, he had probably had quite a lot to drink. One of the problems of being sober was how people around you changed when they drank. They became repetitive, told stories that weren’t at all funny, lost their inhibitions and said and did stupid, uncharacteristic things. Worries, even simple ones, took on gargantuan proportions and even for the most controlled of people, emotion overcame reason. It was why she hated parties and large, prolonged gatherings. She disliked seeing people embarrass themselves. Now she had the feeling that Gavin – the most controlled and level-headed of men – was about to say something he might regret. She had never seen him so ill at ease before. Judging by the way he had been that morning, he seemed to have enough worries of his own. Whatever lay behind it, she decided not to add to them by voicing her own concerns. No doubt he would probably think nothing of it in the morning.
She met his gaze. ‘Please don’t worry about me. And I’m sure you’re right. It was just a poacher.’
He looked unconvinced. ‘Even so … I’ve got to go back to London. But I don’t like leaving you here on your own.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ He was right. The room was extremely hot and she felt suddenly overcome by tiredness. She had barely had any sleep and she needed to get back to the cottage and lie down.
‘OK,’ he said, nodding slowly, but she could tell he wasn’t happy. ‘Look, I’ve got to leave in about half an hour. Someone’s giving me a lift. I really wanted to see you – on your own, I mean. I want to talk to you.’ There was a sharp explosion of female laughter just behind them and he glanced briefly over his shoulder, irritated, then turned and bent forwards towards her. She could smell the whisky on his breath. ‘God, I hate these stupid parties. Every year the same bloody thing. I’ve done far more than my fair share of glad-handing today. The only way to get through it is to drink and I’m afraid I’ve probably had a few too many.’
Yet again, she pictured him as the outsider in the Westerby world and saw how much it rankled – even more than she had imagined, perhaps. Or maybe his disquiet was symptomatic of deeper issues.
‘I wouldn’t worry. Everybody seems to be having a good time.’
‘Not me, and not you either, I suspect. Can we meet up in London, maybe for a drink or a coffee? Whatever suits you. I’ll be there all week. I need to talk to you. There are some things … Some things I need to understand.’
His tone was urgent, almost desperate. She gazed at him, wondering what he meant, and if she should say yes. Something was definitely bothering him. Surely, there was no harm in it, after all this time. Perhaps it would also do him good to get whatever was troubling him off his chest. Perhaps he needed to talk to somebody on the outside, who wasn’t part of his world. Before she could answer, she heard Harry’s voice just behind her.
‘There you are, Eve. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Was Stuart helpful?’ He put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze.
A flash of irritation crossed Gavin’s face. She turned to look up at Harry, but felt suddenly dizzy. She blinked, looked back down again and tried to focus on Gavin, who was leaning back in his chair, like a grumpy child, arms tightly folded.
‘Hope I haven’t interrupted something,’ Harry said, his hand still on her shoulder.
‘You are interrupting us,’ Gavin said sharply. ‘I need to speak to Eve before I go.’
‘What are you doing later, Eve?’ Harry asked.
She tried to speak, tried to stand up, but found she couldn’t. Nothing was working. Her body was like lead. She tried again and slumped forwards.
Gavin caught her and held her. ‘Eve, what’s the matter?’ His voice was strangely echoey.
‘Do you always have this effect on women, Gavin?’ Harry said, from somewhere above her. There was a hoot of male laughter behind. Were they laughing at her?
She couldn’t keep her eyes open. She felt strong arms around her, lifting her back into her seat, holding her up so she wouldn’t fall. The din in the room reverberated around her head. She felt on fire. Everything was spinning. She was going to be sick.
‘Poor thing. Is she ill?’ A woman’s voice asked in a motherly tone. ‘It’s SO hot.’
‘She’s had too much to drink, that’s all,’ someone else said. Another raucous laugh.
‘She doesn’t drink,’ she heard Gavin say sharply, almost in her ear.
‘If she’s feeling faint, you need to lay her down flat,’ the woman said. ‘Let the blood get to the brain.’
‘No, she just needs fresh air. It’s very hot in here.’ A man this time.
‘You’d better take her home.’ Another male voice. Was it Harry’s?
‘Is there a doctor here?’ someone asked.
Yes, a doctor. Get me a doctor. Her lips wouldn’t move.
‘She probably just needs to sleep it off,’ somebody else said.
The voices started to meld into one. She tried to speak. Even though she was struggling to stay conscious, her brain was still functioning, just about. She knew what had happened. All the classic signs. Rohypnol. GHB. Ketamine. So many options. Which one? When? Who? I’ve been drugged. Someone’s spiked my drink. But the words wouldn’t come. She had been anaesthetized, she wanted to scream.