Kickback (4 page)

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘Well, let’s get on with it then,’ said Bateman. ‘And keep us posted.’

‘Would you mind explaining what the bloody hell’s going on?’ asked Lewis as they walked out through the conservatory. ‘You’re supposed to be safely tucked up in hospital and the next thing I know I’m getting a call at 4.00am to tell me you’ve just wandered into an armed siege.’

‘I discharged myself from hospital, Sir.’

‘You’re supposed to be off sick.’

‘I’m fine,’ replied Dixon.

‘So, we’ve got a gunman who thinks his brother’s been murdered?’

‘That’s the bones of it, yes.’

‘Where’s the body?’

‘The Co-op in Bridgwater.’

‘Well, you can wake Roger Poland up. I’ll get onto the Co-op and get the body moved back to Musgrove Park.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘I really should be splitting you two up now.’

‘These are exceptional circumstances, surely?’ asked Dixon.

‘We’ll run with that for the time being. But I’m relying on you to keep him out of trouble, Jane.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

It was just before 6.00am when PC Cole dropped Dixon and Jane back at the cottage in Brent Knoll. Jane took a shower and changed clothes while Dixon rang Roger Poland.

‘Hello?’

‘Morning, Roger. It’s Nick.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Six o’clock.’

‘What the...?’

‘It’s a long story but I need you to do a PM as soon as you can. Today. Now.’

‘Now?’

‘You remember last night the soldier who thought his brother had been killed?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s holed up in a house in Pawlett. He’s got a gun and won’t come out until we’ve looked into his brother’s death.’

‘We?’

‘Yes, we.’

‘I’ve got a meeting at 10.00am.’

‘Cancel it.’

‘You owe me one for this.’

‘I do. The body’s at the Co-op at the moment. DCI Lewis is arranging for it to be moved back to Musgrove Park as we speak.’

‘Ok. I’ll get over there now and read Davidson’s notes. Are you coming over?’

‘We’re going to the stables first. Then we’ll come on to you. Ring me if you find anything.’

‘Will do.’

Dixon rang off and then picked up the file. He turned to the witness statement from Georgina Harcourt.

‘I am the proprietor of the Gidley’s Racing Stables...’

He powered up his laptop, opened a web browser and then searched Google for Gidley’s Racing Spaxton. The first result came from michaelhespracing.co.uk. Dixon read the meta description out loud.

‘Michael Hesp Racing is based at Gidley’s Racing Stables, Spaxton, Somerset. Michael trains National Hunt and Flat horses on the edge of the Quantocks in Somerset...’

Dixon clicked on the link and looked at each page of the website. About Us, Gallery, Horses, Ownership and Results. He was just finishing when Jane appeared with two mugs of coffee. She was about to speak when his phone rang.

‘Nick Dixon.’

‘It’s Ruth Marsden, Sir. Just to say that Tom Woodman is conscious and he’s going to be alright.’

‘Thanks, Ruth. I’ll let Jon know.’

Dixon rang off and then dialled Jon Woodman.

‘Jon? It’s Nick Dixon.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Noel’s body is on the way back to Musgrove Park now and Roger Poland will be doing a second post mortem, as agreed. I’m going to Spaxton and then on to the hospital.’

‘Good.’

‘Your father’s going to be fine. He’s awake now and is going to be ok.’

‘Fuck him.’

Jon Woodman rang off.

Dixon turned to Jane. ‘You can choose your friends…’

‘Quite.’

A long gravel drive led to a small visitors’ car park on the right just before they reached Gidley’s Racing Stables. It was just after 8.00am when Dixon and Jane arrived in his beaten up old Land Rover. Jane had driven and Dixon had spent most of the journey on the phone. Noel Woodman’s body had arrived at Musgrove Park Hospital and Roger Poland had made a start on the second post mortem. He had also recovered all of the samples taken from the first post mortem, conducted by James Davidson.

Dixon had telephoned Jon Woodman to keep him up to date with developments and rang off just as Jane was parking the car. He could see two horse lorries, one large and one small, parked off to the left. They walked into a courtyard formed by the old farmhouse on the left, red brick stable blocks on each side and an open fronted hay barn and feed store opposite the house. Dixon could see the roof of a larger barn behind the stables. He counted five stables on each side with a concrete plinth along the front of both blocks. The courtyard itself was block paved and sloped towards a drain in the centre.

Two horses were tied up outside their stables eating hay from nets. All of the other horses were standing with their heads over their stable doors. All except one. The top half of the door was open but blocked off by heavy steel bars. The name on the door told Dixon he need look no further for Westbrook Warrior’s stable.

He was watching the horses tearing hay from their nets when Jane tapped him on the arm and nodded towards the farmhouse. They were being watched from a ground floor window. A groom then appeared from an alleyway between the stables and the barn in the far right corner of the yard. He was pushing a wheelbarrow and turned along the front of the block, heading towards the open stables. Dixon shouted over to him.

‘Excuse me?’

No response.

‘He’s wearing earphones,’ said Jane.

‘They’re a bloody nuisance those things.’

Dixon tried again. Louder this time.

‘Oi.’

The groom stopped and looked over. He took the earphones out of his ears.

‘Yes.’

‘We’re looking for Michael Hesp.’

‘He’ll be in the house.’

‘Get him, will you,’ said Dixon.

‘Who are you?’

‘Police.’

‘Oh, right.’

Dixon turned to Jane.

‘You wait. A Barbour jacket and green wellies.’

‘Tweed,’ said Jane.

They heard the farmhouse door slam.

‘Bad luck, Jane,’ said Dixon.

‘How could you possibly have known that?’

‘Call it an educated guess. It’ll be tweed on race days.’

‘Can I help you?’ asked Hesp.

‘Yes. I am Detective Inspector Dixon and this is Detective Constable Winter. We’re investigating the death of Noel Woodman.’

‘I thought that was closed. Accidental death, surely?’

‘Something happened to open it again, Sir,’ said Dixon.

‘Can I ask what?’

‘I can’t say, I’m afraid.’

Dixon spotted Hesp’s nervous glance in the direction of the farmhouse.

‘Well, how can I help?’

‘Can you show us the static caravan where he was living, please?’

‘Yes, of course, follow me.’

Dixon and Jane followed Michael Hesp across the yard and into the alleyway between the barn and the corner of the stable block. At the end they walked straight on. To his right Dixon could see a muddy path leading to the muck heap. To his left was a large American barn. The doors were open and he counted ten more stables inside. They walked along the side of the barn and turned left. The static caravan was hidden from view behind it.

‘It’s sheltered from the prevailing wind and out of sight,’ said Hesp.

They heard footsteps inside the caravan.

‘It’s occupied?’ asked Dixon.

‘Life goes on, Inspector. And we had to replace Noel.’

‘Where are his belongings? Have the family collected them?’

‘Not yet. They’re boxed up and in the barn over there.’

‘How many boxes are there?’

‘Two.’

‘We’ll get them in the back of the Land Rover before we go.’

‘Fine,’ replied Hesp.

‘Let’s have a look at Westbrook Warrior then,’ said Dixon.

‘Follow me.’

They walked back round into the yard and along the front of the stable block. Hesp stopped outside Westbrook Warrior’s stable.

‘Can we get him out?’ asked Dixon.

‘Er, yes, I suppose so. Kevin, can you come and give me a hand, please?’

Dixon and Jane stood back and watched while Kevin Tanner opened the stable door just wide enough to slide in. He approached the Warrior at the shoulder, making no sudden movements and avoiding eye contact. Then he reached up and put a headcollar on him. Hesp opened the door and Tanner led the horse out into the yard.

‘Stand clear,’ said Hesp. ‘He kicks.’

Westbrook Warrior was jet black with a white blaze and four white socks. Dixon estimated he was nearly seventeen hands.

‘He’s a big lad.’

‘Seventeen two,’ said Tanner. ‘He flies the hurdles.’

‘He’s not shod?’ asked Dixon.

‘We took his plates off after what happened to Noel,’ replied Hesp. ‘And he’s not racing again for a week or so.’

‘Where are the shoes now?’ asked Dixon.

‘No idea. The farrier would’ve taken them.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Simon Whitfield. He comes over from Wellington.’

Dixon walked around the front of Westbrook Warrior looking at his hooves. He took out his iPhone and took a photograph of each hoof.

‘Can we pick up his back feet?’ he asked.

‘Must we?’

‘If you can.’

Kevin Tanner tied Westbrook Warrior to his hay net and then picked up a front leg. At the same time, Hesp picked up a back foot. Dixon moved in and took a photograph of the underside of the hoof. They then repeated the process for the other hoof.

‘If he’s off balance, he can’t kick,’ said Hesp. Letting go of the back leg and stepping back.

‘Who’s his owner?’ asked Dixon.

‘He’s owned by a syndicate. Most of our horses are these days, although we have some that aren’t. Georgina can give you the names and addresses.’

‘Is that Mrs Harcourt watching from the window?’ asked Dixon.

The question caught Hesp off guard. He spun round and looked up at the farmhouse. The figure in the window stepped back into the shadows.

‘Er, yes.’

‘Perhaps later then. I’ll just have the farrier’s number for now if you’ve got it handy.’

Hesp took out his mobile phone and read off Simon Whitfield’s number. Jane wrote it in her notebook.

‘The straw from the stable will be on the muckheap, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does he eat, apart from hay?’

‘It’s haylage actually. His hard feed is Dodson and Horrell Racehorse Cubes.’

‘What about the others?’

‘Some are on the cubes, others on mix. We’ve got a couple on pure oats too. It varies.’

‘How many horses have you got here?’

‘Sixteen at the moment.’

‘One last question. For now.’

‘Fire away,’ said Hesp.

‘Forgive me if it sounds rude but your results...they’re not good, are they?’

‘We’ve had some bad luck. And a bad run. It’ll turn around.’

‘I’m right though. They’re not good?’

‘No, they’re not.’

‘Thank you.’

They loaded the boxes of Noel’s belongings into the back of the Land Rover and drove slowly down the drive. Dixon rang the farrier.

‘Simon Whitfield.’

‘My name is Detective Inspector Dixon. I’m investigating the death of Noel Woodman. I understand you’re Westbrook Warrior’s farrier.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘We need to speak to you now, Mr Whitfield. Where are you?’

‘I’m on a job.’

‘Where?’

‘On a farm near Wellington.’

Dixon wrote down the address.

‘How much longer will you be there?’

‘About an hour.’

‘We’re on our way. Please make sure you don’t leave until we get there.’

They arrived at West Town Farm on the outskirts of Wellington just before 9.30am. Simon Whitfield was waiting by his van, drinking coffee from a plastic Thermos flask cup.

‘Thank you for waiting, Mr Whitfield.’

‘No problem. How can I help?’

‘We need to have a chat with you about Westbrook Warrior’s shoes.’

‘Plates. They’re called racing plates.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Dixon. ‘Is he usually shod or only when he’s racing?’

‘Michael keeps them shod. Some trainers don’t but he does.’

‘When did you last shoe Westbrook Warrior then?’

‘The day before the accident. He was racing the next day at Taunton.’

‘Mr Hesp told me you took the shoes...plates...off after the accident?’

‘Yes, on the Monday.’

‘Why was that?’

‘He said he wanted them off for safety reasons.’

Jane Winter was taking notes. Simon Whitfield finished his coffee and threw the dregs on the ground. Dixon continued.

‘Where are the plates now?’

‘They were new so I put ‘em on another horse. Waste not, want not and all that.’

‘Which horse?’

‘No idea. Could’ve been any one of a number, I’m afraid.’

‘Is there any way you can find out?’

‘Not really. I’d have re-shaped them and they’d have gone in the forge first too, don’t forget.’

‘Is there anything unusual about Warrior’s hooves?’

‘They’re cut a bit squarer than normal, I suppose, but he’s got a good solid hoof, to be honest.’

‘Size?’

‘Average for a thoroughbred.’