Longshot полностью

Doone shrugged. ‘I came to inform Mr Vickers that some remains have been found which may prove to be those of a young woman who was once employed here.’

‘Angela Brickell,’ Tremayne said resignedly.

‘Oh.’

‘What does “Oh” mean, sir?’ Doone enquired sharply.

‘It means just Oh,’ I said. ‘Poor girl. Everyone thought she’d just done a bunk.’

‘They have a photograph,’ Tremayne said. ‘They’re trying to identify the man.’ He turned to Doone. ‘Show it to him.’ He nodded in my direction. ‘Don’t take my word for it.’

Unwillingly Doone handed me a photograph enclosed in a plastic holder.

‘Do you know this man, sir?’ he asked.

I glanced at Tremayne who was not looking concerned.

‘You may as well tell him,’ he said. ‘Harry Goodhaven?’

Tremayne nodded. ‘That’s Fiona’s horse, Chickweed, the one they said was doped.’

‘How can you recognise a horse?’ Doone asked.

Tremayne stared at him. ‘Horses have faces, like people. I’d know Chickweed anywhere. He’s still here, out in the yard.’

‘Who is this man, this Harry Goodhaven?’ Doone demanded.

‘The husband of the owner of the horse.’

‘Why would Angela Brickell be carrying his photograph?’

‘She wasn’t.’ Tremayne said. ‘Well, I suppose she was, but it was the horse’s photograph she was carrying. She looked after it.’

Doone looked completely unconvinced. ‘To a lad,’ I said, ‘the horses they look after are like children. They love them. They defend them. It makes sense that she carried Chickweed’s picture.’

Tremayne glanced at me with half-stifled surprise, but I’d been listening to the lads for a week.

‘What John says,’ Tremayne nodded, ‘is absolutely true.’

The attendant policeman, Constable Rich, was all the time taking notes, though not at high speed: not shorthand.

Doone said, ‘Sir, can you give me the address of this Harry Goodhaven?’

With slight irritation Tremayne answered, ‘This Harry Goodhaven, as you call him, is Mr Henry Goodhaven who owns the Manor House, Shellerton.’

Doone very nearly said ‘Oh’ in his turn, and made a visible readjustment in his mind.

‘I’m already running late,’ Tremayne said, making moves to leave.

‘But, sir...’

‘Stay as long as you like,’ Tremayne said, going. ‘Talk to John, talk to my secretary, talk to whoever you want.’

‘I don’t think you understand, sir,’ Doone said with a touch of desperation. ‘Angela Brickell was strangled.’

‘What?’ Tremayne stopped dead, stunned. ‘I thought you said...’

‘I said we’d found some remains. Now that you’ve recognised the... er... horse, sir, we’re pretty sure of her identity. Everything else fits; height, age, possible time of death. And, sir...’ he hesitated briefly as if to summon courage, ‘only last week, sir, we had a Crown Court case about another young woman who was strangled... strangled here in this house.’

There was silence.

Tremayne said finally, ‘There can’t be any connection. The death that occurred in this house was an accident, whatever the jury thought.’

Doone said doggedly, ‘Did Mr Nolan Everard have any connections with Angela Brickell?’

‘Yes, of course he did. He rides Chickweed, the horse in that photograph. He saw Angela Brickell quite often in the course of her work.’ He paused for thought. ‘Where did you say her... remains... were found?’

‘I don’t think I said, sir.’

‘Well, where?’

Doone said, ‘All in good time, sir,’ a shade uncomfortably, and it occurred to me that he was hoping someone would know, and anyone who knew would very likely have strangled her.

‘Poor girl,’ Tremayne said. ‘But all the same, Chief Inspector, I do now have to go to the races. Stay as long as you like, ask whatever you want. John here will explain to my assistant and head lad. John, tell Mackie and Bob what’s happened, will you? Phone the car if you need me. Right, I’m off.’

He continued purposefully and at good speed on his way and one could see and hear the Volvo start up and depart. In some bemusement Doone watched him go: his first taste of the difficulty of deflecting Tremayne from a chosen course.

‘Well, Chief Inspector,’ I said neutrally, ‘where do you want to begin?’

‘Your name, sir?’

I gave it. He was a good deal more confident with me, I noticed: I didn’t have a personality that overshadowed his own.

‘And your... er... position here?’

‘I’m writing a history of the stables.’

He seemed vaguely surprised that someone should be engaged on such an enterprise and said lamely, ‘Very interesting, I’m sure.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘And... er... did you know the deceased?’

‘Angela Brickell? No, I didn’t. She vanished last summer, I believe, and I’ve been here only a short time, roughly ten days.’

‘But you knew about her, sir,’ he said shrewdly.

‘Let me show you how I knew,’ I said. ‘Come and look.’

I led him into the dining-room and showed him the piles of clippings, explaining they were the raw materials of my future book.