Simon Brett - The Stabbing in the Stables

“No, I’d got the impression Allinstore wasn’t the greatest supermarket on the planet.”

“That is an understatement.”

“And what are they like as employers?”

A shrug. “Probably no worse than most. Anyway, beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Oh?”

But the prompt was not needed. “Hard to find part-time work round here. You know, that’ll fit in with the demands of a teenage daughter.”

“Yes, I’m sure it must be.”

“Still, if your husband walks out on you, what choice do you have?”

There was an impatient shuffling sound from someone lurking behind the pillar. Further extension of the conversation was impossible. Carole was told the total for her purchases and paid in exact change.

But she didn’t think the exercise had been wasted. If nothing else, it had confirmed Jude’s conjecture about Hilary Potton setting herself up as a public martyr. The readiness with which she had started denigrating her husband had been striking. And Carole felt sure there was a lot more where that came from.

When she relayed the information she had obtained to Jude back in Woodside Cottage, it did seem pretty meagre. Basically what it came down to was that Hilary and Alec Potton were going through a very sticky divorce, and there was no love lost between them. Which everyone in Fethering already knew.

But Jude was characteristically positive about the contribution to their investigation. “Though whether we should dignify what we’re doing with the name of ‘investigation’ is a moot point.”

“Well, there’s been a murder-no question about that.”

“No. And we were the first people on the scene, so we definitely do have an involvement. But we have no information of real relevance. We haven’t even got any suspects.”

“Jude, are you suggesting we should give up our nonexistent investigation?”

“Of course I’m not, you idiot.”

The thought, before she’d met Jude, of anyone calling Carole Seddon an “idiot” without losing her goodwill forever, was an unlikely one. Now she found the use of the word rather comforting. Yes, it was possible for a personality even as frozen as Carole’s to thaw.

“No, we’ll press on, in the face of total ignorance, until we find out who killed Walter Fleet.”

“Unless, of course, the police get there first.”

“Phooey. No chance. It would take away the fun if they did, though, wouldn’t it?” Before Carole had time to respond, Jude went on. “Now look, I was about to knock up a prawn salad. You will stay and have some, won’t you?”

“Well…” Carole’s first instinct was to say no. When she came to think of it, her first instinct in response to any invitation was to say no. But Jude had lit a fire whose light flickered pleasingly onto the chaos of her sitting room, and the second glass of Chilean chardonnay was slipping down a treat. The offer was certainly more appealing than the remains of a fish pie sitting in the fridge at High Tor. And Carole had already done Gulliver’s evening routine of feeding and a trip out to the rough ground behind the house to do his business. Besides, sitting at home, she’d knew she’d worry about the fact that Stephen hadn’t rung her back, or feel that she should ring her ex-husband David to find out if he knew anything about the state of their son’s marriage.

“If it’s no trouble, Jude.”

“Of course not. I’m going to do it for myself, so…Help yourself to more wine. I won’t be long.”

After her friend had disappeared to the kitchen, Carole looked around the room, and tried to work out how there could be comfort in such confusion. Jude’s approach to interior design reflected her wardrobe. Everywhere firm outlines were softened by swathes of drapery. What logic dictated must be sofas and armchairs became vague shapes under accumulations of throws, rugs and cushions. Even the horizontal lines of mantelpiece, tables and shelves were rendered irregular by the bizarre collection of objects that were placed on, or suspended from them.

Such untidiness went against Carole’s every instinct, but she couldn’t deny the room was a relaxing environment to inhabit. Whatever she was sitting on seemed to cosset and blur the angularities of her body. From the kitchen, the reassuring mumble of Radio 4 could be half heard. Carole leant forward to the bottle on the table in front of her, and topped up her glass.

“We spoke too soon.”

Jude was standing in the kitchen doorway.

“What?”

“We were guilty of underestimating the police.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just heard it on the news. The police have taken a forty-seven-year-old man in for questioning in connection with the murder of Walter Fleet.”

Carole found herself fumbling with her key when she let herself into High Tor. She had had more wine than she normally allowed herself. But then she and Jude had had a rather frustrating evening. Though they’d listened to later bulletins, and watched the television news-including the local version-nothing more had been announced about the police’s advance in the murder investigation. A forty-seven-year-old man. That remained the sum total of the facts revealed.

Not for the first time, Carole resented the omniscience of the police. They had all the information at their fingertips, which did make it very difficult for ordinary members of the public with a healthy interest in murder to compete.

The red light on the answering machine was flicking, and immediately her anxieties about Stephen and Gaby returned. Not that she was expecting to find out much from his message-he would just say that he was returning her call-but the reminder of his existence was sufficient to press her panic button.

But the message wasn’t from Stephen. And Carole didn’t even have time to worry that he hadn’t called her back. Because the person who had called was much more intriguing.

“Hello. My name’s Lucinda Fleet-you know, from Long Bamber Stables. I was trying to contact your friend Jude, but I don’t know her surname, so I couldn’t get her through the phone book. Actually, I’d like to contact you too, Mrs. Seddon, because you were there that night when…Anyway, I’d be most grateful if you could call me back. I’d really like to talk to both of you.”

Well now, that’s convenient, thought Carole.

“The point is that Donal would never have killed Walter.”

“Sorry, we’re not up to speed on this. Who’s Donal?” asked Jude.

“He’s the one who the police have taken in for questioning. Surely you know Donal? Everyone round here who’s ever had anything to do with horses knows Donal.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never had anything to do with horses.” Carole didn’t mean it to sound sniffy, but that was how it came across. Story of her life, really.

It was the lunchtime of the following day, and they were in the Crown and Anchor. Lucinda Fleet had been keen for them to meet as soon as possible.

Saturdays were normally among the busiest at Long Bamber Stables, but with the police still conducting their investigations, there was nothing Lucinda could usefully do. Just tot up the amount of money she was losing while the stables were out of commission.

“Donal,” Lucinda explained, “is always around Long Bamber Stables. He’s always around anywhere where there are horses.”

“You mean he works for you?”

“No, Jude. Not officially, anyway. I might give him the odd tenner for helping out, but he’s not on the payroll.”

“So what does he do?”

“He’s an ex-jockey. Really does know what makes horses tick. If you’ve got a stallion with a bad attitude, Donal’s your man to sort it out. You’ve got a mare who’s having trouble foaling, same thing. I recommend him to any of my owners who’ve got problems the vet can’t sort out. Donal seems genuinely to be able to communicate with horses.”