‘Fair enough,’ he said, ‘but they’ll all know
I wasn’t any longer so sure about that but I did what he asked. He sat paternally on a flower-patterned sofa in the sitting-room, at home among the clutter of pot plants, satin cushions, fashion magazines and endless photographs of horses, and told them without drama that it looked possible Angela Brickell had died the day she hadn’t returned for evening stables. They had found her clothes, her handbag and her bones, he said, and naturally they were having to look into it. He asked the by now familiar questions: did they think Angela had been deeply involved in doping horses, and did they know if she’d had rows with her boyfriend.
Only four of the six girls had been employed at the yard in Angela’s time, they said. She definitely hadn’t been doping horses; they found the idea funny. She wasn’t bright enough, one of them said unflatteringly. She hadn’t been their close friend. She was moody and secretive, they all agreed, but they didn’t know of any one steady boyfriend. They thought Sam had probably had her, but no one should read much in that. Who was Sam? Sam Yaeger, the stable jockey, who rode more than the horses.
There were a few self-conscious giggles. Doone, father of three daughters, interpreted the giggles correctly and looked disillusioned.
‘Did Angela and Sam Yaeger quarrel?’
‘You don’t quarrel with Sam Yaeger,’ the brightest of them said boldly. ‘You go to bed with him. Or in the hay.’
Gales of giggles.
They were all in their teens, I thought. Light-framed, hopeful, knowing.
The bold girl said, ‘But no one takes Sam seriously. It’s just a bit of fun. He makes a joke of it. If you don’t want to, you just say no. Most of us say no. He’d never try to force anyone.’
The others looked shocked at the idea. ‘It’s casual with him, like.’
I wondered if Doone were thinking that maybe with Angela it hadn’t been casual after all.
The bold girl, whose name was Tansy, asked when they’d found the poor little bitch.
‘When?’ Doone considered briefly. ‘Someone noticed her last Sunday morning. Mind you, he wasn’t in a great hurry to do anything because he could see she’d been lying there peacefully a long time, but then he phoned us and the message reached me late Sunday afternoon while I was sleeping off my wife’s Yorkshire pudding — great grub, that is — so Monday I went to see the lass and we started trying to find out who she was, because we have lists of missing people, runaways mostly, you see? Then yesterday we found her handbag, and it had this photo in it, so I came over this morning to check if she was the missing stable girl on our missing persons list. So I should think you could say we really found her this morning.’
His voice had lulled them into accepting him on friendly terms and they willingly looked at the photograph he passed round.
‘That’s Chickweed,’ they said, nodding.
‘You’re sure you can tell one horse from another?’
‘Of course you can,’ they said, ‘when you see them every day.’
‘And the man?’
‘Mr Goodhaven.’
Doone thanked them and tucked the photo away again. Rich took slow notes, none of the girls paying him any attention.
Doone asked if by any chance Angela Brickell had owned a dog. The girls, mystified, said no. Why would he think so? They’d found a dog’s collar near her, he explained, and a well-chewed ball. None of them had a dog, Tansy said.
Doone rose to go and told them if anything occurred to them, to send him a message.
‘What sort of thing?’ they asked.
‘Well now,’ he said kindly. ‘We know she’s dead, but we want to know how and why. It’s best to know. If you were found dead one day, you’d want people to know what happened, wouldn’t you?’
Yes, they nodded, they would.
‘Where did she go?’ Tansy asked.
Doone as near as dammit patted her head, but not quite. I thought that that would have undone all his good fatherly work. Willing they might be, but feminists all, too smart to be patronised.
‘We have to do more tests first, miss,’ he said obscurely. ‘But soon we hope to make a statement.’
They all accepted that easily enough and we said our goodbyes, travelling back through the village to a bungalow nearer Bob Watson’s house, where the unmarried lads lived.
The living-room in the lads’ hostel, in sharp contrast to the girls’, was plantless, without cushions and was grubbily scattered with newspapers, empty beer cans, pornography, dirty plates and muddy boots. Only the televisions and video players in both places looked the same.
The lads all knew that Angela Brickell had been found dead as one of them had learned it from Bob Watson. None of them seemed to care about her personally (exactly like the girls) and they too had no information and few opinions about her.
‘She rode all right,’ one of them said, shrugging.
‘She was a bit of a hot pants,’ said another.
They identified Chickweed’s picture immediately and one of them asked if he could have the photo when the police had done with it.
‘Why?’ Doone asked.
