Her Final Hour E-Book

Rachel Amphlett

• Herausgeber: Saxon Publishing
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

What if the perfect friend was hiding a deadly secret?When a championship jockey discovers the body of a young woman during a cold morning’s training ride, the local racing community is shocked to its core.Everyone says she was the perfect friend, the perfect daughter and the perfect fiancée.However as Detective Mark Turpin delves into the girl’s fateful last hours, he discovers a past full of lies and mystery. Investigating the truth behind her savage death, Mark uncovers jealousy and ambition within the tiny community, accompanied by a disturbing reluctance to help the police. When another death takes place only days later, Mark realises he is running out of time to stop a killer who will do anything to keep a dark secret hidden...Her Final Hour is the second book in the Detective Mark Turpin series from USA Today bestselling author Rachel Amphlett.Praise for Her Final Hour:"Mark Turpin is a welcome addition to the ranks of fictional detectives" Peter Robinson, bestselling author of the DCI Banks series

Leseprobe

Her Final Hour

A Detective Mark Turpin murder mystery

Rachel Amphlett

Copyright © 2020 by Rachel Amphlett

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Reading Order & Checklist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

About the Author

Missed a book? Download the FREE Official Reading Order and Checklist to Rachel Amphlett’s books here

Also available in audiobook

Chapter One

Winter wrapped its grip around the Oxfordshire countryside, feathering the bare hedgerows of the Berkshire Downs with a dusting of frost, determined to maintain its hold on the hills and valley below.

Will Brennan flexed his hands and let the leather reins give a little in his grip.

A cold mist blanketed the landscape, creating ghost-like silhouettes of the horse chestnut trees that bordered the training yard, and obscuring the large Georgian farmhouse beyond.

He was losing circulation in the tips of his fingers, despite the weather forecaster on the radio enthusing about the mild start to winter, and despite the thin wool gloves he wore. At least his helmet, covered with a bright green and blue silk cap, stopped some of his body temperature escaping.

Grey light hinted at the approaching sunrise before a cold breeze sent a discarded plastic feed bag tumbling across the concrete. It snagged on the tendrils of an ivy bush that climbed up the side of one of the brick-built stable blocks, fluttering as if to free itself.

The other stable lads called out to each other, swearing as they prepared the horses, their voices muffled by the thick air.

Brennan murmured a greeting to one of them as he passed, a new kid whose name he couldn’t remember, who had the soft facial features of someone who hadn’t yet spent a winter on the Downs, exposed to all its elements. Another year or so and he’d be as ruddy as the rest of them.

Vapour escaped Brennan’s lips, mixing in the air with the heat wafting from the horse’s nostrils, the beast snorting and shaking its head as he led it across ice-covered puddles.

Coffee would have to wait until he returned, and after the horses had been tended to.

At a call from the back of the string, he was given a leg up into the saddle and the horses set off at a brisk pace.

Weak sunlight began to crest the horizon as the string of racing horses entered the lane from the yard, their hooves clattering across the pitted surface while their riders shivered and grumbled.

Not too loudly, though.

After all, MacKenzie Adams was known for choosing a lucky few to ride his horses in races even if, to begin with, those races were at the smaller courses around the United Kingdom.

For many it had been the start of an illustrious career, and Brennan was hungry for the same.

His stomach rumbled loudly, and he cursed the turn of thought. Keeping the weight off was a constant struggle, especially when his girlfriend’s mother insisted on feeding him twice as much as everyone else whenever he was there.

He peered between the horse’s ears, a tight grip on the reins, listening.

At this time of the morning it was unusual to see any traffic, but the lane was narrow with a twisting curve that had spewed out its share of speeding motorcyclists over the summer, touring the Oxfordshire countryside at high speed with little regard for their safety, or that of a horse and its rider.

Half a mile up the hill, they turned onto the gallops through a gap in the bramble hedgerow, and Brennan’s heart rate edged up a notch in anticipation.

From here the view swept over an undulating field, fallow and ready for planting, abandoned hay bales spiky with thick frost. In the distance, clumps of ancient oak and birch trees huddled close within shaded copses.

The hillside swept down through the valley and past the space where the old power station cooling towers had once pierced the horizon, then onwards through the Vale to Oxford.

Years ago, before his time, these had truly been the Berkshire Downs. A flourish of ink, a handshake at local government level, and the boundary had slipped into Oxfordshire.

And on April Fool’s Day, according to his grandfather.

A mud and stone track led across the field to the gallops, and when the horse paused at the bottom of the slope, Brennan loosened the reins before giving him a swift kick that sent the animal trotting towards the open gates.

The lush green grass on either side of the gallops sparkled with frost that reached out to the dirt- and sawdust-layered track, clumps of churned-up earth shadowing a racing line created by yesterday’s training session.

Brennan sniffed, resisting the urge to wipe his nose with the back of his glove. He needed both hands on the reins.

The beast beneath him tended to lose his riders if given half the opportunity, and Brennan had no intention of being the horse’s latest victim. He knew that the rest of the stable lads were running a sweepstake to see how long it would take.

He scowled. They may have been eager to make some money from his misfortune, but he was keener to make MacKenzie Adams sit up and take notice of him.

He glanced over his shoulder to where Adams stood next to a dark-green four-by-four vehicle at the side of the track, binoculars in his right hand, thermos coffee cup in the other, bundled up in a padded jacket and scarf against the elements.

He raised his thumb, and Adams lifted the cup in response.

Brennan turned his attention back to the course and kicked the horse, relishing the sudden power as he leapt into action.

He squinted to see through the swirling mist that cloaked the oval course and leaned forward as the horse pushed into the first corner, recalling McKenzie’s instructions to him before they had set out from the yard.

‘He’s racing at Newbury on Saturday, so give him a gentle workout. The last thing we want is an injury.’

The problem was, Empire of the Sun – or Onyx, as he was known in the stables – didn’t understand the concept of a gentle workout.

It was why MacKenzie had sent him out ahead of the rest of the string, given it was common knowledge that any hint of another horse in front of him would send Onyx into race mode. The trainer always joked that the animal possessed two speeds – fast, and faster.

The horse’s withers tensed as his shoulder muscles trembled, and Brennan felt the power beneath the sleek black coat. The temptation teased him as they entered the first straight. It would be so easy to loosen the reins further and let the horse fly over the soft earth.

Almost as if Onyx could read his mind, the horse surged forward, straining at the bit between his teeth.

Common sense prevailed, and, with some reluctance, Brennan kept a tight grip and eased the animal back to a slower pace as they approached the next sweeping corner.

Onyx tensed, and Brennan dug his heels into the stirrups at the sudden deceleration in speed, confused.

He stood and peered between the horse’s ears, and then saw what was spooking the animal.

To the left of the track, under the white metal railing that the horses followed along the gallops, was a discarded bundle of rags.

‘It’s nothing, you idiot. Get on with it.’

He dug his heels in and urged the horse forward.

Onyx reared up and twisted to the right without slowing down, without giving Brennan a chance to correct his position or slow his trajectory as he was catapulted into the air, the reins snapping from his grip.

He had a swirling view of green grass and grey sky tumbling over one another, and then hit the ground.

Seconds later, winded, Brennan rolled over and lay on the dirt, staring at the swirling mist. He wiggled his toes and fingers, slowly working his way along his limbs until he was sure no bones were broken, and then eased into a sitting position.

Onyx stood on the far side of the track, peering down his nose at him.

‘Dickhead.’ Brennan brushed off his jodhpurs and stomped across to the horse, snatching up the reins before it decided to take off without him.

The mist blanketed his position from the start of the training oval and, if he could remount, no-one would know and he’d still have a chance of a race at the weekend.

Except the horse refused to cooperate.

Onyx whinnied, then sidestepped, turning his rear to the course.

‘Bloody hell. Move, will you?’

Brennan tugged at the reins, and then glanced over his shoulder.

Under the soles of his boots, the ground began to tremble a moment before the thunder of hooves reached him.

‘Come on. Please.’

He used all his weight to turn the horse, pushing against his flanks in an attempt to get Onyx to do as he was told for once, and then collapsed against him, sweat pooling under his arms.

‘Right now, I hate you.’

He sighed, and then raised his gaze to the horse’s head, expecting a knowing sideways look from the animal.

Instead, Onyx was staring at the bundle of rags under the railing on the inner side of the course, his ears flat, his hooves planted firmly on the turf, the whites of his eyes glaring in the winter light.

Brennan kept hold of the reins and moved in front of the horse. He opened his mouth to urge him forward, and then stopped as he drew closer to the discarded clothing and realised why the horse was so scared.

Blood had congealed in her hair, the dull red glistening as a beetle wandered across her forehead.

Her hands had been tied behind her, her pink lace knickers twisted around her left ankle, and her blank stare watched the clouds, accusation in the milky film that blurred her eyes.

Brennan let the reins fall, the horse forgotten, and dropped to his knees.

A moment later, he vomited over the lush turf.

Chapter Two

Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin forced the car door shut and cursed under his breath as a biting wind whipped at the hem of his waterproof coat.

He squinted against the weak sunlight that bathed the landscape with a bleached grey while Detective Constable Jan West eased herself from the passenger door and staggered backwards, surprise on her face.

‘Bloody hell, Sarge.’ She gathered her black leather handbag from the back seat and slung it over one shoulder, buttoned up her padded jacket, and then fell into step beside him. ‘I’d have thought the horses would’ve been running backwards in this wind.’

‘At least it’s cleared the air so we can see what we’re doing.’

He ran his gaze over the mist that had receded from the Downs and now clung to the streams that criss-crossed the countryside, and shivered.

Eight jockeys with their enormous horses milled about at the gate Mark had driven through, the animals stomping hooves at the ground, impatient. The sweet aroma of fresh horse dung wafted on the air, reminding him of holidays in the countryside with his daughters when they were younger.

Turning his attention to the plateau where they’d parked, he spotted an ambulance close to one of the patrol cars that had been manoeuvred onto the gallops, both vehicles blocking access to the course, the emergency vehicles’ bright livery a stark contrast to the bleak countryside.

Blue and white striped tape had been stretched behind the vehicles, reiterating the restricted access now imposed.

In front of the cordon two more patrol cars had been manoeuvred off the track and onto the verge, the occupants speaking to each of the horse riders in turn, notebooks out and brows furrowed as witness statements were taken.

Mark strode across the soft turf towards the nearest police constable, a familiar face from the local station.

‘Newton.’

‘Morning, Sarge.’

‘Everyone else here?’

PC John Newton blew on his hands, and then pointed across the gallops to where several vehicles had been corralled in one corner.

Mark recognised the crime scene investigators’ vehicles. Three white-suited figures milled about near the railing in the opposite corner, heads bowed. Next to their van, a grey panel van had been parked facing the cordon, its dark colouring almost fading into the landscape. The mortuary team wouldn’t be allowed to leave until the CSIs were satisfied the victim’s body could be removed. He shook his head at the forced indignity.

‘What can you tell us?’

‘The first jockey in the training string found her,’ said Newton. ‘They all got up here at seven o’clock, just as it was getting light. That’s the trainer over there, MacKenzie Adams.’

‘Is that his vehicle?’

‘Yes. The victim is Jessica Marley, nineteen years old. Lives in Harton Wick and attends the agricultural college nearby. Has a part-time job at the Farriers Arms in the village.’

Mark frowned. ‘You know who she is already?’

‘One of the other lads told us her name. The one who found her wasn’t coherent when we tried to speak with him. Poor bugger’s in shock.’

‘I’ll bet he is.’ Mark peered across to the CSI team. ‘How long have they been here?’

‘About an hour. The pathologist is over there with them. She declared the victim deceased at eight oh five and then stayed. Said she wants to learn as much as possible here before doing the post mortem.’

The police constable tugged at his vest pocket and pulled out a notebook. ‘Just as well one of the jockeys identified her. We found nothing on her – no handbag, no mobile phone, no purse. We’ve been helping the CSIs to check the surrounding hedgerows but have come up empty so far. We’ve got four people on the far side of the gallops over there continuing the search.’

‘Good. Where’s the lad who found her?’

Newton jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘William Brennan. He’s in the back of the ambulance. He was hoping to race at Newbury this weekend. Can’t see how he’s going to manage it now.’

‘What did the other lad say – the one who recognised her – when you interviewed him?’

‘Paul Hitchens. He said he last saw Jessica at the Farriers at eight o’clock last night. He said it was unusual for him to stay that late the night before a training ride but William was catching up with friends he hadn’t seen for a while and they lost track of time. Jessica and another girl, Cheryl, were working on the bar with the owner, Noah Collins, so she wasn’t due to leave until they’d cleared up after closing.’

‘Have the parents been notified?’

Newton’s mouth twisted. ‘Yes, about half an hour ago. There’s a patrol car there now, and a Family Liaison Officer has been arranged.’

‘All right, thanks. Jan – let’s go and have a look, shall we?’

‘Excuse me?’

He turned to see the horse trainer striding towards him, his expression determined.

‘Yes?’

‘MacKenzie Adams. You are?’

‘Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin.’

‘I need to get these horses back to the yard,’ said Adams. ‘They have to be fed, and standing around like this is doing them no good at all, especially the one that was spooked by the girl’s body.’

Mark looked towards the horse to which Adams gestured, a large black beast whose ears twitched back and forth and who seemed more interested in the goings on around it than nervous.

He turned back to Adams and narrowed his eyes at him. ‘You can move your horses once my team have finished taking statements from the riders, not before. We’re dealing with the death of a young woman, and that takes precedence over the horses. They can eat the grass, can’t they?’

‘Detective, these horses were supposed to run three furlongs this morning. Four of them have races at the weekend, and I have owners to report to. When will the gallops be reopened?’

‘When I say so.’ He tapped West on the arm. ‘Let’s go and hear what Gillian has to say.’

He stomped ahead and tried to ignore the biting wind that assaulted his ears, wishing he had a hat to ward off the chill. He settled for shoving his hands in his coat pockets.

‘What the hell is a furlong, Jan?’

‘About a third of a mile.’

‘Got it. Keen on horse racing, are you?’

‘Can’t stand it, but my grandfather used to watch the racing on television on Saturday afternoons and have a bit of a flutter, so I suppose I picked up the jargon.’

They reached the taped-off cordon and scrawled their names across a page clamped to a clipboard guarded by a uniformed constable, and then, once they’d donned protective bootees to cover their own footwear, Mark led the way towards the vehicles parked at the far end of the course.

He glanced over at her as she shivered, smiling at the calf-length boots she wore and envious of the thick woollen scarf she’d tucked into her collar.

His own leather boots sank into the soft layers of dirt comprising the exercise route for the horses, the plastic coverings making progress slippery and every step kicking up a thin layer of mud that stuck to the hems of his trousers.

‘Bet you’re glad you moved out of the boat before the winter now,’ said West, as she pushed her hair from her face. ‘It would have been bloody freezing in this weather.’

‘It was too small, anyway. At least renting a house I could get the rest of my stuff out of storage.’

His estranged wife had been more amenable than he thought he’d deserved, even storing the last of his belongings in the single garage at the house he’d once shared with her while he organised the move, but a sense of melancholy seized him at the finality of renting his own place.

They passed the ambulance, its back doors open and the two crew members speaking with another police constable.

Mark noticed the lonely figure sitting on one of the stretchers, the man’s shoulders hunched as he stared blankly at the floor.

‘We’ll try to talk to the jockey on the way back,’ he said.

They fell silent, Jan easily keeping up with his pace.

As they drew closer to the far end of the gallops, he could see two figures idling next to one of the vans while several others milled about, and recognised the plain paintwork of the vehicle that would be used to convey the victim to the mortuary once the crime scene had been processed.

Approaching the end of the straight line, Mark moved closer to the rail and checked the position of the crouched figure in protective clothing at the apex of the curve ahead.

‘So, the jockey must’ve lined up here to take the corner,’ he said. ‘The grass is long on the inside of the railing, so even with the extra height being on the back of the horse, he wouldn’t have seen her.’

Jan paused next to him, following his line of sight. ‘Why there, I wonder?’

Mark didn’t reply, but began walking towards the bulkier member of the CSI team, and raised his hand.

‘Got a minute, Jasper?’

‘Detective.’ Jasper Smith lowered his mask and scuffed his way through the grass to join them, his breath clouding in front of a short dark beard. ‘We wondered when we might see you. Do you want a word with Gillian too, while she’s still here?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Follow me.’ The technician led them across a demarcated path that avoided a number of coloured markers set out on the ground.

As they moved past, Mark ran his gaze over the team as they worked. Their movements were meticulous, each and every suspect item bagged and recorded in the event of being required for future evidence purposes.

‘Any sign of drag marks?’

‘Nothing, no.’ Jasper sighed. ‘And no tyre marks over this side. Anything that we could’ve taken a sample from near the gate was obliterated by the horses and the trainer’s four-by-four. You’ve seen the mud over there – it’s a quagmire.’

The CSI technician paused a few metres from where the body lay.

Mark could make out a shock of blonde hair matted with a dark thick substance that glistened in the morning sun, the young woman’s face a mottled blue, her lips parted as if in surprise or shock.

She wore a long woollen skirt, thick jumper, and leather jacket, her legs bare. Flat black shoes covered her feet, and Mark’s lip curled at the pink knickers that hung down around one of her ankles.

‘What about footprints?’

‘Hers, obviously, and perhaps a second set. We’ve taken what samples we can from the area but don’t hold your breath. That long grass softened the tread.’

Mark peered at the prone figure. ‘Heavier than her?’

‘Hard to say. If you don’t mind, I’ll get back to my team. We need to get as much as we can before the weather turns again,’ said Jasper. ‘You’ll get our report by the end of the week.’

Mark nodded his thanks, then turned his attention to the Home Office pathologist, who was striding across the churned dirt and pulling the paper mask from her face as the two mortuary workers carrying a stretcher followed in her wake.

‘Morning, Gillian.’

Grey eyes flashed, and then she exhaled as a weariness crossed her features. ‘Before you ask, there’s a blunt trauma wound to the back of the head. I’ll confirm once I’ve had a chance to do the post mortem in the morning whether that was what killed her.’

Mark watched as the two mortuary workers carefully placed the young woman’s body into a large plastic bag.

‘Any sign of sexual interference, given the knickers?’

‘Hard to say at this point. I’ll let you know after the post mortem.’

Mark ran his gaze over the length of the gallops to the gate that led through to the field beyond, and then back to the pathetic bundle that was now being gently lifted into the back of the van.

West’s voice cut through his thoughts.

‘What are you thinking, Sarge?’

‘No sign of any tyre treads. If she walked here, then maybe she knew her killer.’

Chapter Three

Jan West hunkered into the thick scarf she’d tucked around her neck and picked her way across the grass, her gaze sweeping back and forth in an attempt to spot any rabbit holes before her foot disappeared down one.

Turpin walked behind her, talking into his mobile phone and updating Detective Inspector Ewan Kennedy with their findings to date.

Which, Jan mused, didn’t amount to much at present.

She tucked a straggle of unruly hair behind one ear, hitched the strap of her handbag up her shoulder and dipped beneath the blue and white police tape cordon that a constable held up for her, thanking him as she passed.

‘Jan.’

She waited for Turpin to catch up, tucking the mobile phone into the inside pocket of his coat as he jogged across the turf.

‘What’s up, Sarge?’

‘The guv wants us to report back to the incident room when we’re done here. Uniform are out collating statements from the regulars at the pub and the family’s neighbours. They’ll go to the agricultural college where Jessica was studying as well. Her teachers have been informed.’

‘Okay.’

Jan stalked across to the ambulance, catching the eye of the driver as they approached, who wound down his window and leaned out.

‘All right if we have a word with the jockey who found her?’ she said.

‘Derek’s got him in the back.’ The driver of the ambulance jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Makes a change to pick up one of these lads in one piece.’

Jan rolled her eyes, then walked the length of the vehicle to the open back door to where the other paramedic was speaking with the jockey.

‘Excuse me?’ She held up her warrant card and introduced herself and Turpin. ‘William Brennan?’

‘That’s me. Will.’

The jockey’s complexion was stark against the navy padded jacket he wore, and he shivered as he hugged his arms around his slight body. His corn-coloured hair stuck up in clumps, his riding hat upside down on the stretcher beside him.

‘We need to ask you a few questions,’ said Jan.

She thanked the paramedic, who moved away with a knowing nod before climbing through to the front cab to sit with his colleague, and then turned her attention to Brennan.

‘Are you all right? No injuries?’

‘I’m all right. I… I can’t get her face out of my mind.’

‘We understand that you knew her?’

A single tear tracked down the man’s face, and he nodded. ‘She’s – was – my girlfriend, Jessica.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Will.’ Jan sat on the stretcher next to him, and gave him a moment to collect his thoughts before proceeding with her questions. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘Last night. At the pub in the village.’

‘What time did you leave?’

‘Eight. We have to be up early to exercise the horses but I got carried away chatting.’

‘Who with?’

‘Just a couple of the locals. They’re usually a good laugh, and I hadn’t seen them for a while.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Near the yard. I rent one of the houses on the estate with two other blokes who work for MacKenzie.’

‘Who?’

‘Paul Hitchens and Nigel White.’

‘Did you contact Jessica at all after leaving the pub?’

‘We texted each other at eleven.’

‘Can I see your phone?’

Brennan reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a smartphone, then began to flick though the messages.

‘Hang on. I’ll take that.’

Jan swiped the phone from the jockey’s hand, ignoring the surprised “o” his mouth formed, and scrolled through the messages until she found a string of texts from someone he’d saved into the phone as “Jess xx”.

‘Is this her?’

‘Yes. Look, do you have to do this?’

Jan moved to the back door of the ambulance so that Turpin could read the messages over her shoulder. Once she was satisfied the exchange between Brennan and Jessica showed no signs of the woman being threatened by the jockey, she checked the recent calls list.

There were three calls between the two, all prior to the time Brennan said he’d been at the pub.

‘Is that the only phone you own?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right. We’re going to have to take this with us.’ Jan pulled a plastic evidence bag from her handbag and dropped the phone into it before removing her gloves. ‘What time did you get back home after you left the pub?’

‘Just before eight-thirty. It’s only a short drive, and Paul reckons he’s a Formula One driver anyway.’

‘Paul?’

‘Hitchens. One of the lads that rents the house with me. That’s him, over there on the grey horse.’

Jan leaned past the back door of the ambulance until she could see the group of jockeys. The only grey horse was ridden by a man wearing a bright-red cap and green rain jacket. She couldn’t make out his features, but from the way he was hunched in the saddle, he was as impatient as the horse he rode to be back at the yard.

‘You said you rented a house near the yard. Where?’

‘We rent one of the cottages that backs onto the land behind it. MacKenzie owns them. It’s cheaper than renting in the village, and better for the early starts.’

‘Do you own a car?’

Brennan snorted. ‘Can’t afford one. Got a motorbike – only a cheap one, mind. Bought it before I went up north.’

‘Did you go straight home from the pub, or did you stop anywhere on the way back?’

‘We went straight back to the yard. MacKenzie gets irate if anyone gets back after midnight. Says it disturbs the horses.’

‘Did you have much to drink?’ said Turpin.

‘Two or three pints. Maybe a chaser.’

‘Seems rather a lot for a Monday night.’

Brennan’s face began to form a sneer, and then he seemed to think better of it. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve been away for a while. Last night was the first time I’d had a chance to catch up with people.’

‘Where’ve you been?’ said Jan.

‘Up north.’ He sat up straighter, a hint of pride entering his voice. ‘I’ve wanted to be a jockey as long as I can remember. There were no jobs down here for me, so I applied everywhere I could. I took the first offer that came my way.’

‘Whereabouts was that?’

‘Near Ripon, in Yorkshire.’

‘What brought you back here?’

He sagged against the side of the ambulance, crestfallen. ‘Jessica. We kept in touch, you see. Tried to catch up every few weeks. It was because of her that I came back.’

‘Not the racing?’ said Turpin.

Brennan scowled. ‘That, too. Although I’ll be lucky to ever ride for MacKenzie again after today.’

‘Why?’ said Jan.

‘All this, it’ll mess with his reputation. You watch. It’ll be all over the news, and then everyone at the races at the weekend will be talking about it. I’ll be out of a job by Monday.’

‘Seems a bit harsh.’

‘Yeah, well. There you have it.’ He broke off as his stomach rumbled.

Jan frowned. ‘When did you last eat?’

‘I dunno. Lunchtime yesterday, I guess.’

Jan sighed, reached into her handbag, and pulled out a cereal bar. ‘Have this.’

‘I don’t feel like—’

‘Eat. You’ll thank me afterwards, trust me.’

She climbed down from the ambulance, and at Turpin’s signal moved away from the vehicle until they were out of earshot.

‘We’ll need to check his movements with everyone at the pub and the other jockeys he rents with,’ he said. ‘What do you reckon?’

She peered over her shoulder at the jockey, who had unwrapped the snack and was nibbling at a corner of it, staring with a wistful expression at the string of horses that were now being led away from the gallops.

‘There are no missed calls to Jessica, so he didn’t try phoning her after she left the pub. There’s nothing on the phone to suggest they’d argued, but maybe that’s deliberate,’ she said. ‘He could’ve deleted anything incriminating.’

‘Well, we’ll get the phone to digital forensics to see what they can tell us.’ Turpin shielded his eyes with his hand and looked back to where the CSIs were still working. ‘He knows the area well. Could’ve brought her out here after ditching his friends back at the yard.’

‘On a motorbike?’ Jan shook her head. ‘Can’t see it myself. It was bloody freezing last night, and if he did, why not ride it all the way over to where her body was found? There were no tyre tread marks, remember.’

‘It seems too bloody convenient that he was the first on scene to find her body, Jan.’

She had no answer to that, and glumly followed him back to the car.

Chapter Four

By the time Mark had held open the door to the incident room for Jan and followed her through the maze of desks, the place was teeming with uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives.

Two administrative support staff crossed the room between the desks, distributing tasks with ears deaf to complaints in an attempt to organise the growing number of actions required for the new murder investigation.

Mark craned his neck until he could see across the low-ceilinged room to where Detective Inspector Ewan Kennedy paced in front of a whiteboard, his shirt sleeves rolled up over his elbows and his back turned to the room.

Weaving his way across worn carpet tiles and past two junior uniformed officers who were attempting to untangle a years-old photocopier, Mark approached the DI and cleared his throat.

The lanky figure swung around at the sound, then jerked his chin in greeting. ‘Just got back, did you?’

‘Guv.’ Mark glanced over his shoulder as Jan joined him. He held out his mobile phone. ‘I’ve already emailed these to Tracy so she can put them on the system and print out a couple of copies to go on the board.’

As DI Ewan Kennedy flicked through the photos with a grimace, Mark ran his eyes over the content of the whiteboard, his gaze falling on a photograph of Jessica that appeared to have been taken during the summer.

A halo of light shone around her blonde hair, giving her fair features a natural radiance that was amplified by her wide smile. She wore a white vest top with blue cornflowers that accentuated her eyes, and someone out of frame had an arm draped around her shoulders.

‘Poor angel,’ Jan murmured next to him. ‘She didn’t deserve to die like that.’

Mark swallowed, battening down the thought of what he’d do to anyone who harmed either of his daughters, and tried to concentrate instead on studying the young woman’s features, committing them to memory and resolving to find her killer.

‘Her parents provided that this morning.’

Kennedy’s words interrupted his thoughts, and he took a step back from the board.

‘Did a Family Liaison Officer go over there?’

‘About an hour ago.’ Kennedy’s pale-blue eyes peered over Jan’s head and swept the room. ‘All right, I think that’s everyone. Let’s get this briefing underway.’

Mark wandered across the room and sat next to Jan at the side of the gathering investigative team. He took a sheet of paper that DC Caroline Roberts handed to him with a nod of thanks.

Running his gaze down the list of tasks that had been entered into the HOLMES2 national enquiry database and then assigned to each member of the team, he noted he and Jan would be paired up for the duration of the investigation. He turned his attention to the front of the room as Kennedy began the briefing, and flipped to a new page of his notebook, pen poised.

‘Right, ladies and gentlemen. Our victim is Jessica Marley, nineteen years old and from Harton Wick. Her parents tell me she was a busy girl – studied part-time at the local agricultural college and worked two part-time jobs, one at the Farriers Arms pub in the village and then two afternoon shifts at the local supermarket. On top of that, she recently started to help out on an ad hoc basis at MacKenzie Adams’ racing stables.’

Mark raised an eyebrow at Jan.

‘No-one mentioned that,’ she said under her breath.

Kennedy paused while Tracy passed him the photographs Mark had taken at the crime scene, then held each one up before pinning it to the board.

‘Thanks to Mark and Jan who attended the crime scene this morning, the pathologist currently has a theory that Jessica was killed by a single blow to the head, although that will have to be confirmed after the post mortem. Any sign of a weapon, Mark?’

‘No, guv,’ he said. ‘There were no vehicle markings near her body, and it’s unlikely any footprints will be found in the long grass. The CSIs will have to confirm what prints they collect from the gallops – the dirt was churned up by the horse and its jockey, as well as the riders who were next around the corner of the course, so it’s going to take them a while to sort it all out.’

‘Okay. Caroline – make a note to keep on top of that report, please. As soon as it’s in, get it distributed.’

‘Yes, guv.’

‘According to Jessica’s parents, she had no enemies and only a handful of close friends. Despite working at the pub, she didn’t socialise much, and was considered an introvert. Happier studying than going to nightclubs, is what her mum said.’

‘Any problems at work?’ said DC Alex McClellan. ‘Difficult customers, that sort of thing?’

‘That’s what I’d like you and Caroline to find out,’ said Kennedy. ‘Speak to Jessica’s manager at the supermarket. When you’ve done that, head over to the college and speak with her lecturers there as well. Mark – I want you and Jan to go and see the parents this morning. They were too distraught to give much of a statement earlier but we need to learn more about her movements this week, and leading up to her shift at the pub last night. After that, have a chat with the landlord of the Farriers Arms. Like Alex said, find out if there were any problems with the patrons there.’

‘Do you want us to re-interview MacKenzie Adams as well?’ said Mark. ‘Jan just pointed out to me that neither Adams nor Brennan mentioned to us that Jessica was working at the stables when we spoke to them on the gallops earlier. Bit of an omission, isn’t it?’

‘Agreed. If Adams gives you any trouble, let me know. He’s got a reputation for being difficult at the best of times.’

Kennedy completed the briefing by working his way around the assembled officers, ensuring any new team members were introduced, and then made his way back to the whiteboard and rapped his knuckles on the surface next to the photograph of Jessica taken that summer.

‘Nineteen years old, hard-working and with her whole life ahead of her,’ he said. ‘Let’s find the bastard that did this to her.’

Chapter Five

Jan exhaled and then rang the doorbell for number six Ashton Close, going over the questions she wanted to ask Jessica’s parents.

She stepped back off the doorstep, nearly colliding with Turpin who was standing with his hands in his pockets staring at the ornamental path that led back to the street, and then ran her eyes over the picture-perfect front garden.

Jessica’s mother was evidently a keen gardener – a window box of primroses and crocuses clung to the front windowsill of the house, offset by colourful displays in pots placed on the tiles underneath. A large magnolia set off a lush lawn bordered by flowerbeds, the first green shoots of daffodils poking through the soil.

The whole effect was one of homeliness, comfort, and safety.

She couldn’t imagine what they were going through. If either of her boys were harmed, she reckoned that rage would drive her to find justice, tempered by a grief that would never leave her. Her jaw clenched.

A blurred figure appeared behind the frosted glass at the top of the UPVC front door, and then it swung open and PC Grant Wickes peered out.

‘Come in,’ he said, gesturing to a door on their left. ‘Mr and Mrs Marley are through there.’

Turpin held up his hand. ‘Before we go in, is there anything we need to be aware of? Updates to their statements?’

‘They haven’t mentioned anything in the past two hours,’ said Wickes, his green eyes troubled. ‘They were formally interviewed at nine o’clock after they were informed of Jessica’s death – I arrived here half an hour after that. Obviously, they’re both in a state of shock, but Mr Marley has already provided us with photographs of Jessica to help with the media campaign and wants to do anything he can to help us find who did this to his daughter. You’ll find him very forthright.’

Jan pulled her mobile phone from her bag and turned it to silent, wondering if Jessica’s father was as stoical as Wickes thought. No doubt his attempts at helping were a coping mechanism for his grief, and she was grateful the experienced Family Liaison Officer was on hand. At some point, Mr Marley would need him.

‘What about the wife?’ said Turpin.

‘Quiet, as you’d expect in the circumstances,’ said Wickes. He brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his jacket sleeve. ‘Distraught by what’s happened but trying to hold it together.’

‘Thanks, Grant,’ said Jan. ‘Could you lead the way?’