‘The Fire Brigade don’t think so. They reckon accelerant has been used. The seat of the fire was in this building which used to store the tack. It burned down a treat and caught the adjoining stables. Have a look at this.’ Jane moved to the first of the stables, now a dirty, ashy-grey, muddy mess. She pointed to the floor. Henry followed the line of her finger and, initially, could not make out what she was pointing at.
Then he made sense of what he was seeing.
There was a dark, black shape amongst the debris on the floor. The shape of a horse which had been burned to a frazzle.
Henry stepped back, shocked, but said nothing. He turned away and caught a gulp of fresh air amongst the rising smoke. His head slowly revolved back. He eyed Jane, who stood there impassively.
‘There’s another dead horse in the next stable,’ she said, matter of fact.
Henry checked himself to get a grip. He had seen numerous dead bodies during the course of his career, but they had been human beings — exclusively — with the exception of a few dog accidents he’d reported during his time as a probationer PC in uniform, over twenty-five years earlier. He had seen bodies dismembered, blown to bits, drowned, shot, knifed, you name it, he’d dealt with it. But the sight and stench of a roasted horse was actually making him queasy. What was it about horses? he thought. He did not even like the beasts.
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘They got the other horses out in time, released them into a field.’
‘Anyone, any person hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Arson, then?’
‘Very perceptive.’
‘I’m sharp like that. Used to be a detective.’
‘The best,’ Jane said under her breath.
Henry did not quite catch it. ‘Eh?’
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly, covering her tracks. ‘Anyway,’ she coughed, ‘the burned-down buildings and the horse steaks are not everything. Come here.’
She took him across the stable yard, treading carefully over the hosepipes.
It was truly morning now. The sun was squinting in the sky. Things could be seen very clearly now with the fresh, raw light of that time of day. Henry surveyed the devastation the fire had wrought. His upper lips curled in distaste. He was beginning to feel that anger which had often driven him in the past. The anger born of the belief that no one should be allowed to get away with such crimes. It was an emotion that had often spurred him on when he had been a ‘real’ detective. Now that his status had changed, it did not mean that the anger and drive was any less within him.
Jane Roscoe was a few feet ahead of him. She was dressed in a very practical trouser suit that did little for her. Henry experienced a sudden pang of something in the pit of his tummy he could not quite explain. All he knew was that it was linked to the affair he and Jane had been conducting.
She went to a stable door, stopped and faced Henry. ‘I could see you were affected by the dead horse.’ He did not deny it. ‘There’s a mutilated horse in here,’ she declared.
‘Someone seems to have a downer on the Wicksons,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘It’s not nice. You don’t have to see it if you don’t want.’
‘Let’s do it,’ he said bravely.
Seconds later he wished he hadn’t been so bold.
A truck from the local knacker’s yard was reversing into the stables when Henry and Jane reappeared from the loose box. They watched as the two thick-set men in blood-stained overalls ran chunky chains around the corpse of the horse in the burned-out stable next to the tack room.
‘How much of an interest will the police be taking in the plight of the Wickson’s now?’ he asked.
She yawned. ‘Some, I suppose.’
‘I take it this isn’t the first job you’ve been to tonight?’
‘No — a serious wounding in Blackpool, an iffy suicide in Lytham and another bad assault in Fleetwood.’
‘Busy night.’
‘Normal night.’
‘I’m envious.’
‘Don’t be — it’s generally shite I get turned out to. Thick, poor people, hurting other thick, poor people. Or, as in this case, hurting thick, rich people.’
‘You’ve become a cynic.’
‘You made me into one, Henry.’ She turned to him, sorrow in her eyes. ‘I thought love could see anyone through anything.’
He was stumped.
‘I was wrong, wasn’t I?’ she said simply and walked away.
Behind him, the stable door opened and Charlotte Wickson, Tara’s daughter, emerged, together with the vet who had been treating the horse. Charlotte was tearful and deeply upset because it was her horse, Chopin, her own, her very own. And someone had violated him again. He had already had an ear severed. Now this torture.
‘He’ll be all right, won’t he?’ she said to the vet.
‘Yes, he will, but he’s going to need a lot of care and attention from now on. The wounds will heal. He’ll never see again through that eye — but he’ll be able to get used to that, eventually, though I would not recommend jumping any more. It’s the psychological damage that’ll take time to heal. Do you think you can give him all the love and attention he needs?’
Charlotte nodded bravely.
‘I’ll be back later in the day to remove that eye under anaesthetic. I’ll call in to see your mother before I go,’ the vet said, nodded sharply at Henry and ambled across the yard.
Henry heard Charlotte emit a long, stuttering sigh.
‘How you doing?’ he asked her.
‘Shit,’ she said, startling him. ‘He’s a mess, isn’t he?’
‘Yep.’ Henry could not actually shake the vivid image of the injured horse from out of his mind. The slashes, the cuts, the fear in the eyes. ‘So what’s this all about?’ he asked Charlotte.
The young girl shrugged, her eyes slitting momentarily in a gesture Henry had seen on hundreds of people in the past. It made him become alert, because he had not expected it from her. It meant she knew something, or had some idea.
‘Who do you think did this?’
‘How would I know?’ Her voice contained a trace of irritation. ‘There’s hundreds of suspects out there,’ she said with a sneer. ‘Fucking hundreds — including me.’ She pushed her way past Henry and hurried towards the house. Henry was tempted to give chase, but refrained. She could wait till later.
Jane Roscoe was standing on the other side of the yard, observing the interaction with interest. Henry mooched across to her, hands thrust deep in his jeans pockets.
‘How much time are the police going to dedicate to these particular crimes?’ Henry persisted.
‘How much time would you, Henry? Some wooden buildings have been burned down, a couple of dumb horses have been killed, another one cut to ribbons. No one’s been hurt. I have a desk full of unsolved crimes which are performance indicators and this one isn’t. I’ll refer it to the Arson Team and let them get on with it.’
‘It’ll get a good half hour, then?’
‘If they’re lucky.’
‘In that case, it won’t hurt very much if I do some snooping around on behalf of the family.’
‘You are very misguided, Henry. If I were you, I’d leave it be. The Wickson family are a pretty sad bunch-’
‘How do you know?’ Now she had alerted his senses.
Her eyes went very snake-like. ‘I just do,’ she said in a tone that left Henry in no doubt: Don’t push it, is what she was saying.
‘I haven’t seen John Wickson, husband and father,’ Henry said. ‘Is he knocking about?’
‘Away on business, but on his way back now, I believe.’
Henry and Jane regarded each other. His nostrils were filled with the smell of burnt wood and flesh. Neither spoke even though both of them knew there was a great deal of unfinished business between them. Despite Henry’s urge to delve into her feelings, he held back, not wanting to go down there and relight the flames he had well and truly doused months before.
‘Any news on the inquest? Trial? My discipline hearing?’ he asked instead, hoping to steer the conversation away from anything connected with their emotional entanglement to a subject which he knew was equally controversial. He should not have been surprised when she said, ‘You know I can’t talk to you about that. I’ve been warned not to.’