Keeping the Peace

• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-One
  
• Chapter Thirty-Two
  
• Chapter Thirty-Three
  
• Chapter Thirty-Four
  
• Chapter Thirty-Five
  
• Chapter Thirty-Six
  
• Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
• Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
• Chapter Thirty-Nine
  
• Chapter Forty
  
• Chapter Forty-One
  
• Chapter Forty-Two
  
• Chapter Forty-Three
  
• Chapter Forty-Four
  
• Chapter Forty-Five
  
• Chapter Forty-Six
  
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  

HANNAH HOOTON

Copyright © Hannah Hooton, 2012

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Published by Hannah Hooton, 2012

M
ap-reading was bad enough when it appeared all of the road signs for the narrow country lanes had been pinched for scrap metal. But add to the mix an unfamiliar car and less than a hundred miles driving experience on your licence and you would begin to understand how Pippa was feeling.

The small hire-car juddered as if in disgust at being made to travel at twenty through the potholed West Country. Pippa grinded the gears, frantic to change down and keep from stalling. Living in London, she hadn’t needed to drive anywhere and had only ever used her driver’s licence for ID when getting into clubs. Of course, when she did need to use a car, there was always Ollie.

She allowed herself a smug smile. She had been dating in-between-roles actor Ollie Buckingham for three years now. He had a gorgeous red sports car over which he was terribly protective. Also charming and creative, Pippa liked to think that had he not had an audition first thing tomorrow, he would have offered to be her chauffeur for the day. On the other hand, she wanted to sort this business out herself. Dave Taylor’s posthumous involvement somehow made it more personal. Anyway, Ollie had never been too keen on Pippa’s rather capricious uncle. Or the countryside for that matter.

‘It wouldn’t be so bad if any of the roads had signs on them,’ she grumbled. She batted down the centre fold of the map onto the steering wheel. Squinting ahead into the darkening afternoon, she saw the outline of some life form approaching and it wasn’t a cow or a sheep. Pippa sighed with relief. A human at last!

She stopped the car and wound down her window.

‘Excuse me,’ she called to the jogger.

The young man, his face shiny and his sandy blond hair damp with sweat, slowed to a halt beside her. He rested his hands on his thighs to catch his breath.

‘Y’right there?’ he said with a deep Irish brogue.

Pippa’s eyes widened. She knew she was lost, but Ireland... was it possible? She shook her head, ridiculing herself. There was no way she could drive to Ireland on one tank of fuel.

‘Not really.’ She gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I’m trying to find Aspen Valley Racing Stables. I think I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.’

‘Aye, but you’re not far off course. Go back the way you came, take the first road on your right. That’ll take you for a mile or so to the old oak. Aspen Valley is the next turning on your left after that.’

Relieved that she was still in England, Pippa closed her eyes, reopening them to find the man grinning at her. Could he tell what she was thinking?

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘God knows where I would have ended up if you hadn’t stopped.’

‘Helensvale more than likely or at worst, Bristol. But you’re all right. You’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Not a bother. Good luck.’

Pippa watched his disappearing figure in her rear-view mirror before moving again. This could be tricky. She hadn’t done a three-point-turn since her test eight years ago and certainly never on this sort of road.

‘Maybe three is a bit ambitious,’ she muttered a few moments later as her fourth manoeuvre wedged her across the entire road.

A loud hoot from her left made her jump. Frantically, she rammed the car into First. The car shot forward into the hedge.

‘Bugger, bugger, bugger. Shit, shit, shit.’ She hauled the wheel anti-clockwise and the car groaned. It lurched backwards as she dragged it into Reverse. The silver Land Rover waiting flashed its headlights at her.

‘I know you’re there, you prat,’ Pippa exclaimed. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

It tooted its horn again.

Her blood already pumped with panic, Pippa experienced the cocooned safety of road rage for the first time.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ she yelled, slamming her palm on her horn in response. ‘Just have a little patience!’

She saw the driver’s arm appear out of the window in a heavenward gesture. Pippa gritted her teeth.

‘You are just going to have to wait.’

Two minutes later, she sank back into her seat. The Land Rover blasted past, rocking her car from side to side, and roared off round the next blind bend.

‘Arsehole,’ she muttered, drying her palms on her skirt.

At a more sedate pace, she followed in its wake. Before long, she found the road the jogger had referred to, almost hidden by the bordering hedges. With a triumphant smile, she identified the oak tree and a red and white sign heralding Aspen Valley Racing Stables. The bumpy driveway snaked up a rise, flanked by post and rail-fenced paddocks. Long distorted shadows seeped across the emerald-lush grass from several horses grazing with the setting sun warming their supple bodies. Up ahead she could see two barns. Beside them a large block of brick stables and offices shaped into an EI block with the stables making up the E and the I consisting of offices and store rooms and tack and feed rooms. Her blood chilled momentarily when she noticed a silver Land Rover parked at a haphazard angle in the gravelled car park up ahead.

‘This should be interesting,’ she said as she pulled up beside it. With a quick check of her reflection in the mirror, she tucked a tendril of her short dark auburn curls behind her ear and stepped out into the cool dusk. It really was a lovely end to a gorgeous day, and in spite of the trauma of driving the three-hour journey from London, she had rather enjoyed herself. Moreover, it was bound to get more interesting now, Pippa thought, tripping in her heels over the uneven surface towards the buildings.

Despite the Land Rover parked out front, the place appeared deserted. Only snorts and whickers from the stables’ residents broke the silence. She was tempted to tiptoe amidst the calm. She stopped at the first stable and peeked inside. Suddenly, half a ton of horseflesh came hurtling towards the door, teeth bared, ears pinned back. Pippa gave a startled yelp and jumped out of harm’s way. She yelped again as she collided with a neat cutlery set of pitchforks and spades leaning against the wall. They crashed to the ground around her in a crescendo of sound, the tinny intrusive noise echoing around the block. With her hands clutching her head, Pippa cringed and looked around to see if anyone would come to investigate. Several inquisitive equine heads appeared over their respective half-doors before a heel scraping against concrete behind her caught her attention.

‘What are you doing?’ the owner of the heel called out across the yard.

Pippa pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, revealing her blue eyes. She pasted a smile on her face and walked towards the man, appraising him as she approached. Her smile became more genuine as she got closer. He looked in his mid to late thirties but, Pippa thought, you can never really tell with these outdoorsy types. Tall with broad shoulders covered by a flying jacket, he had dark hair and stern brows. He made no attempt to return Pippa’s smile; his tapered mouth instead set in a grim line above a jutting chin. He stood with his hands on his blue jeaned-hips.

‘I’m looking for Jack Carmichael.’

‘Well, you’ve found him,’ he replied with a curt nod.

Really, Pippa thought indignantly. He could be a bit more polite, considering she might well be a customer. Which she was. For now, anyhow. She wondered if he recognised her from their previous meeting on the road.

‘I’m Pippa Taylor. My uncle was Dave Taylor… he owned a couple of horses here,’ she added when he didn’t say anything.

‘I know who Dave Taylor is,’ he said. Sighing, he softened his tone, ‘I’m sorry to hear about his death.’

‘Thanks, it was a bit of a shock. But you know Uncle Dave – he always loved the element of surprise.’ She attempted a cheery laugh without success.

Jack Carmichael shifted uncomfortably. He gestured to the office behind him.

‘Would you like to come in and have a drink?’

The idea of a vodka and Coke suddenly became very appealing.

‘Ooh, that would be nice.’

She followed his broad jacketed back into what was obviously a reception judging by the big professional office unit directly opposite the door. Standing in an expanse of slate-coloured carpet, Pippa was drawn to the two meagre framed photographs on the glaring white walls. The bright-patterned silks of the jockeys frozen in time injected the only real colour into the room. According to the captions, neither Virtuoso nor Black Russian belonged to her uncle. Jack strode over to an adjoining room on the left.

‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Oh – um – coffee please.’ Damn, that vodka and Coke was looking even more attractive now that it wasn’t on offer. She followed him as far as the doorway to a kitchenette and watched him briskly prepare their drinks. A kettle, imitating a jet engine, made it impossible for conversation. Pippa fiddled with her necklace as she stood against the doorframe. She wasn’t used to someone else making the coffee, being a waitress by day, and by night Ollie always insisted she made better coffee than he did. Which was true, even if she did say so herself.

‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Milk and two sugars please.’ She watched him heap two Matterhorns of sugar into a Jockey Club coffee mug and half a pint of milk. He left the second mug a thick black, stirring it twice before tossing the teaspoon into the sink with a clatter. Pippa wondered how much sleep this man managed every night with that much caffeine raging through his system.

‘Come through,’ he instructed. He led the way back across the reception to the other side where another door led into a second office. He put her coffee down on the heavy wood desk before settling himself in the high-backed leather office chair round the other side. Pippa perched on the visitor’s chair, her gaze drawn to a display cabinet along one wall featuring various trophies and salvers and bronze works.

‘You’re lucky you caught me. I’m only here because I left my wallet.’

Her attention recaptured, she smiled apologetically.

‘Sorry, I should have rung ahead to make an appointment.’

He sat, impassive, not contradicting her. Pippa cleared her throat self-consciously.

‘I wanted to speak to you about Uncle Dave’s horses.’

‘I suspected as much,’ he replied, blowing on his drink.

Pippa primly chose to ignore him.

‘Uncle Dave’s left just about everything to me –’

‘Well done,’ he muttered into his coffee before taking a sip.

Pippa bristled.

‘I haven’t done anything
well
. It’s not like I’ve been working on my inheritance for the past twenty years. I – oh, never mind. Anyway, he left me two racehorses. What would I want with a racehorse?’