‘I suggested it,’ Tremayne said calmly, ‘but you’ll be lucky. Better settle for what you took from the bookmakers yourself
‘Damn little,’ Nolan said, or words to that effect, ‘and the bloodsucking lawyers will get the lot.’ He shouldered his way out of the bar in self-righteous outrage, which seemed to be his uppermost state of mind oftener than not.
With non-committal half-lowered eyelids Tremayne watched him go, then transferred his gaze to me.
‘Well,’ he asked, ‘what have you learned?’
‘What you intended me to, I expect.’
He smiled. ‘And a bit more than I intended. I’ve noticed you do that all the time.’ With a contented sigh he put down his empty glass. ‘Two winners,’ he said. ‘A better than average day at the races. Let’s go home.’
At about the time we were driving home with Tremayne’s winnings safely stowed in his own pockets, not mine, Detective Chief Inspector Doone was poring over the increased pickings from the woodland.
The Detective Chief Inspector could be said to be purring. Among some insignificant long-rusted detritus lay the star of the whole collection, a woman’s handbag. Total satisfaction had been denied him, as the prize had been torn open on one side, probably by a dog, whose toothmarks still showed, so that most of the contents had been lost. All the same, he was left with a shoulder strap, a corroded buckle and at least half of a brown plastic school-style bag which still held, in an intact inner zipped pocket, a small mirror and a folded photograph frame.
With careful movements Doone opened the frame and found inside, water-stained along one edge but otherwise sharply clear, a coloured snapshot of a man standing beside a horse.
Disappointed that there was still no easy identification of the handbag’s past owner, Doone took a telephone call from the pathologist.
‘You were asking about teeth,’ the pathologist said. ‘The dental records you gave me are definitely not those of our bones. Our girl had good teeth. One or two missing, but no fillings. Sorry.’
Doone’s disappointment deepened. The politician’s daughter had just been ruled out. He mentally reviewed his list again, skipped the prostitutes and provisionally paused on Angela Brickell, stable lad. Angela Brickell... horse.
The bombshell burst on Shellerton on Thursday.
Tremayne was upstairs showering and dressing before going to Towcester races when the doorbell rang. Dee-Dee went to answer it and presently came into the dining-room looking mystified.
‘It’s two men,’ she said. ‘They say they’re policemen. They flashed some sort of identity cards, but they won’t say what they want. I’ve put them in the family room until Tremayne comes down. Go and keep an eye on them, would you mind?
‘Sure,’ I said, already on the move.
‘Thanks,’ she said, returning to the office. ‘Whatever they want, it looks boring.’
I could see why she thought so. The two men might have invented the word grey, so characterless did they appear at first sight. Ultimate plain clothes, I thought.
‘Can I help you?’ I said.
‘Are you Tremayne Vickers?’ one of them asked.
‘No. He’ll be down soon. Can I help?’
‘No, thank you, sir. Can you fetch him?’
‘He’s in the shower.’
The policeman raised his eyebrows. Trainers, however, didn’t shower before morning exercise, they showered after, before going racing. That was Tremayne’s habit, anyway. Dee-Dee had told me.
‘He’s been up since six,’ I said.
The policeman’s eyes widened, as if I’d read his mind.
‘I am Detective Chief Inspector Doone, Thames Valley Police,’ he said. ‘This is Detective Constable Rich.’
‘How do you do,’ I said politely. ‘I’m John Kendall. Would you care to sit down?’
They perched gingerly on chairs and said no to an offer of coffee.
‘Will he be long, sir?’ Doone asked. ‘We must see him soon.’
‘No, not long.’
Doone, on further inspection, appeared to be about fifty, with grey-dusted light brown hair and a heavy medium-brown moustache. He had light brown eyes, big bony hands and, as we all slowly discovered, a habit of talking a lot in a light Berkshire accent.
This chattiness wasn’t at all apparent in the first ten minutes before Tremayne came downstairs buttoning the blue and white striped cuffs of his shirt and carrying his jacket gripped between forearm and chest.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘who’s this?’
Dee-Dee appeared behind him, apparently to tell him, but Doone introduced himself before either she or I could do so.
‘Police?’ Tremayne said, unworried. ‘What about?’
‘We’d like to speak to you alone, sir.’
‘What? Oh, very well.’
He asked me with his eyes to leave with Dee-Dee, shutting the door behind us. I returned to the dining-room but presently heard the family room door open and Tremayne’s voice calling.
‘John, come back here, would you?’
I went back. Doone was protesting about my presence, saying it was unnecessary and inadvisable.
Tremayne said stubbornly, ‘I want him to hear it. Will you repeat what you said?’
