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ALEXANDER SCRAPED ICE from the windscreen of the Range Rover. He’d already donned his dark-blue Melton & Jones overalls for another farm call. Lambing season was upon them. Traditionally a herald of spring, but the weather hadn’t got the memo this year. It wasn’t making life easy for farmers or vets. He should have parked the Range Rover under cover. Three hours between calls and the ice was solid. At least he’d managed to catch a couple of hours of sleep. Complicated lambings meant longs days and too many broken nights. The car’s exhaust fired white smoke into the crisp morning air.
Grace, walking Flossie, slowed her step and veered towards him. ‘You’re out early.’
‘So are you.’ He rubbed the stubble on his chin with a work-roughened hand, washed too often in buckets of cold water and dried on the straw laid in draughty barns. ‘I’ve been meaning to call you, to apologise. For being out of order.’
Grace shook her head. She looked weary, with none of the usual bounce in her stride, and she seemed to have shrunk inside the too-big Barbour coat she was wearing. ‘Thanks, but there’s no need. You’re family, and we’ve all been off our game. I said things I shouldn’t have as well.’ She pulled Flossie’s leash through her hands in the awkward silence that followed. ‘You need a haircut, Alexander.’
He laughed, and pushed back the hank of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead. ‘Lambing season, so God knows when I’ll get round to it.’
‘I could give it a trim. Call up to the Hall if you get a chance. The kids would love to see you, and we can’t have you traipsing the county looking like Hugh Grant, not even in lambing season.’ She turned to go, then turned back. ‘I nearly forgot. I don’t suppose you’ve heard any news of Julian Greaves on your travels, have you?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Hettie wanted to know. She didn’t say why.’
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ALEXANDER LIFTED HIS hand to the weary farmer who was trudging back to his farmhouse, no doubt hoping to snatch ten minutes in the warm before the next ewe called him back.
He hadn’t seen Hettie in weeks, not since that foolish, abortive trip through the snow. He’d been hoping to let sleeping dogs lie, but now Grace had brought her name up. And why was she asking about Julian? He put the car into reverse. Had Hettie heard from Greaves again? Was she in trouble? He thought back to the last time he’d seen her, but she hadn’t said anything. To be fair, they hadn’t said much to each other.
Wait. Concentrate. There was something... had it really been a figure? Caught in his headlights, the first time he’d called at the bungalow. And she’d asked him if he’d been hanging about outside.
Fuck.
He’d been the one who’d pointed her back to Hardacre, the one place Greaves was likely to be sniffing around, if he was back. He made a detour to Draymere stables, and asked Carol if she knew of her ex-husband’s whereabouts.
She didn’t, and the question clearly made her nervous. ‘He’s not meant to get in touch with me, or the kids. But I’m sure someone would’ve told us if he was back in the area.’
Alexander called Fiona from the car.
‘Melton? What can I do for you?’
‘Is your friend Julian Greaves back in town?’
‘He’s no friend of mine. Who’s asking?’
‘I am. It could be important.’
‘I could do some digging. Lucy would know. I’ll get back to you, but a favour for a favour while I’ve got you on the phone. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Daddy and I have set up a charity. Needy kids, an umbrella fundraiser for local groups. I won’t bore you with the details, but we’re having a summer ball. It would be good to know we could count on the Meltons’ support.’
Alexander couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘You’re running a charity?’
‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’
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IT DIDN’T TAKE MUCH digging; Lucy spilled almost instantly. ‘It’s meant to be a secret though. The last thing Julian needs right now is the village turning on him again.’
‘I think, don’t you, Lulu, dearest, in hindsight, Julian might have brought that on himself?’
Fiona reported back to Alexander. ‘Yes, Julian is back and living at Hillview with Lucy. Do with it what you will, I’m not asking questions. But I will be looking for ticket sales.’
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NOW HE HAD THE INFORMATION, he wasn’t sure what to do with it. For all he knew, Hettie might already be aware. But if that were the case, why had she been asking Grace? And why had she thought he’d been loitering at Hardacre? There were too many coincidences for him to ignore. He doubted she would welcome his interference, but he had to tell her. He didn’t have her number on his phone, but the landline for Redfern Equestrian was on the practice system.
It wasn’t Hettie who answered his call. He was told she was riding and couldn’t come to the phone, so he left his number and a message asking that she call him back.
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LOCKIE WAS BEING SHARP, tense under her legs and snatching at the reins in her hands.
She tried to focus on calming him, but the card she’d got this morning was making her feel jittery and slightly nauseous. A grainy picture, she’d had to peer to make the image out. A photograph of her, taken from a distance. Framed in her kitchen window.
Hello again the message read.
She would call the police as soon as she’d ridden, but she’d had to get out of the house and get on with something.
Lockie spooked at a bit of rubber his hoof threw up and danced into the middle of the arena when she was slow to correct him. She told him off, nudging him with the heels of her boots. He lashed his tail.
There had been more cans too, the last one yesterday down by the stream was the third in a week. It was farther away from the buildings, randomly dropped in the field. Although now, charting their positions in her head, it seemed they were forming a ring around the property. Or was she getting stupidly paranoid now? All the same brand of lager, all squashed before they were dropped. A tramp or a poacher? Did poachers still exist? She’d written them down in her book and told the police, in person this time. She couldn’t help feeling they thought she was being hysterical. She could hear it in the tone of their voices: Oh, you again.
To be fair, she was calling on them often, to complain about litter. They’d said they’d send a car past when one was in the vicinity, but Hettie hadn’t seen a police car, and on the narrow lane to Hardacre any passing vehicle was hard to miss. Maybe they would take this card more seriously.
The builders’ cement mixer started with a loud clatter, and Lockie leapt forwards. The movement threw Hettie back in the saddle, and her hands came up, jagging the bit. The horse leapt forwards, bolted to the corner and veered sharply to avoid the fence.
Already askew on his back, when Lockie dropped his shoulder and bucked, she shot through the air and hit the ground with a thud.
The landing thumped all the air from her lungs. Half a dozen men in fluorescent coats were running towards the arena. She gasped for breath, unable to speak.
Lockie spun and, as if in slow motion, cleared the five-bar gate, with room to spare.
She stood up and brushed herself off. Nothing was hurt, and she could breathe again. ‘I’m alright!’
The builders ducked in under the fence, out of the path of the wild black horse with his reins coiling around his head and metal stirrups slapping against his sides.
It took Hettie, Zoe and Monica twenty minutes to catch him, and in that time Lockie’s exploits had upset the whole yard. The other horses circled their boxes and swung their heads over the doors. The ponies galloped across the field, stopped and snorted and galloped again.
The night was clear and sharp again, the lingering dusk a reminder that the clocks would change soon, and spring would be on them. Doris and Pig tore away, tempted by earthy scents borne on the crystal air. The horses whickered, and hung over their stable doors, waiting for evening hay nets. Monica’s day off tomorrow, and she’d taken herself home for a night with her family. It was the first time Hettie had been alone at Hardacre for ages. She hummed to herself and talked to the horses, her voice too loud, its tone too forced. A fox barked from the wood, startling her, its harsh cry sharp on her ears. She shook her head, and hefted two hay nets over her shoulder. This wouldn’t do.
The lights on the yard threw the surrounding fields into impenetrable blackness. She worked quickly, leaving Lockie until last so she could check his legs again, make sure his morning adventure jumping a gate and galloping on concrete hadn’t left him sore. She was aching herself, the twist and land of her fall had pulled muscles out of shape.
She slid Lockie’s head collar on. Changing his rugs still demanded care and caution. It was the one area where she hadn’t been able to improve his behaviour. Best to have the rope there ready to grab if he swung his head in her direction.
He stamped his back feet when she undid the straps that ran under his belly, laid back his ears and flashed his teeth at the wall as the warm rug slid from his back. Then something else caught his attention. She grabbed the rope that hung from his head collar as he barged past her to the door. He shoved his chest against the wood, ears erect and head high, nostrils flared to draw in the air. Her heart thumped, and her mouth felt dry. ‘Who’s out there?’
Lockie pinned his ears back and snaked his neck, teeth bared.
Hettie heard a cry, the unmistakable yelp of a dog in pain, shrill and panicked. With shaking hands she reached over the door and pulled the bolt back. Lockie leant into the door and propelled them both outside. He trembled beside her, raised his head higher. Tightening her grip on the rope, she called out into the night. ‘Who’s there? Doris! Pig! Come here.’
She heard something, was that a laugh? It carried out of the dark, and then the dogs scuttled into the light. Doris hopped on three legs, stilted and hurrying.
She dropped Lockie’s rope and scooped Doris up. The little dog whimpered in her arms. Pig panted at her feet; Lockie stood rigid beside her. She searched for sight through the darkness as blood pumped in her ears. She moved closer to Lockie and screamed into the black night. ‘You fucking bastard coward! Too scared to show yourself! You lily-livered piece of shit!’
In a burn of fury, if she saw him now she would kill him. She screamed again, ‘Come out, where I can see you!’
‘Hettie, it’s me, just me!’ Alexander appeared from behind the stables, his hands lifted towards her. ‘It’s alright. Just me.’
Her mind lurched in confusion. Doris trembled against her chest as she looked at Alexander, still uncomprehending. ‘He hurt my dog.’ Her voice wobbled.
‘Who has? Lockie?’
Then he was beside her, lifting Doris from her arms. The dog yelped as she was passed between them.
Hettie shook her head. ‘Doris is hurt.’
Alexander looked at Doris. Her injured leg hung at an awkward angle and she whimpered when he touched his fingers to the limb. ‘Yes, she is. That leg could be broken. How did it happen?’
Hettie leant into Lockie’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She felt weak and shaky now, and nausea threatened. She suddenly wasn’t sure what had happened herself. ‘I don’t know. I heard her cry from the field, and then she came back hopping.’
That was all. Had she imagined everything else? The feeling of danger, the quiet laugh. Real, or dreamt up by her paranoia? She didn’t know now.
He passed Doris back to her, slowly and with care. ‘Support her back leg with your hand. Let’s get her up to the surgery.’
He scanned the fields as they walked to the car.