Race To Death E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 476

Beschreibung

Second in the new series featuring DI Ian Peterson 'Moments before, he had been enjoying a day out at the races. Now he could be dying.... As he fell a loud wind roared past his ears, indistinguishable from the roar of the crowd. The race was over'. A man plummets to his death during the York Races. Suicide or murder? Newly-promoted DI Ian Peterson is plunged into a complex and high-profile case, and as the body count increases, the pressure mounts for his team to solve the crimes quickly. But the killer is following the investigation far more keenly than Ian realises and time is running out as the case suddenly gets a lot closer to home...

Leseprobe

Second in the new series featuring DI Ian Peterson

‘Moments before, he had been enjoying a day out at the races. Now he could be dying…. As he fell a loud wind roared past his ears, indistinguishable from the roar of the crowd. The race was over’ A man plummets to his death during the York Races. Suicide or murder? Newly-promoted DI Ian Peterson is plunged into a complex and high-profile case, and as the body count increases, the pressure mounts for his team to solve the crimes quickly. But the killer is following the investigation far more keenly than Ian realises and time is running out as the case suddenly gets a lot closer to home...

About the Author

Leigh Russell is the author of the internationally bestselling Geraldine Steel series: Cut Short, Road Closed, Dead End, Death Bed, Stop Dead, Fatal Act, Murder Ring, Deadly Alibi, Class Murder and Death Rope. The series has sold over a million copies worldwide. Cut Short was shortlisted for the Crime Writers Association (CWA) John Creasey New Blood Dagger Award, and Leigh has been longlisted for the CWA Dagger in the Library Award. Her books have been #1 on Amazon Kindle and iTunes with Stop Dead and Murder Ring selected as finalists for The People’s Book Prize. Leigh is chair of the CWA’s Debut Dagger Award judging panel and is a Royal Literary Fellow. Leigh studied at the University of Kent, gaining a Masters degree in English and American Literature. She is married with two daughters and a granddaughter, and lives in London.

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

'taut and compelling' – Peter James

'Leigh Russell is one to watch' – Lee Child

'Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural' – Marcel Berlins, Times

'A brilliant talent in the thriller field.' – Jeffery Deaver

To Michael, Jo, Philippa and Phil

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Dr Leonard Russell for his medical advice, James Brennan, Head of Marketing at York Racecourse, for his invaluable help, Clara Nugent for her expert biological guidance, my contacts on the police force for their generosity with their time, my editor Keshini Naidoo for her unerring judgement, Alan Forster for his superb cover design, Claire Watts at No Exit Press for her unshakable serenity, together with Jem Cook and Frances Teehan who attend to my queries with supreme and cheerful efficiency. Above all I would like to thank my publisher Ion Mills, and my editor at No Exit Press, Annette Crossland, without whom Geraldine would be merely a voice in my head. Producing a book is a team effort, and I am extremely fortunate to have the support of such a wonderful team.

Finally I would like to thank Michael, who is always with me.

Glossary of acronyms

DCI

–

Detective Chief Inspector (senior officer on case)

DI

–

Detective Inspector

DS

–

Detective Sergeant

SOCO

–

Scene of Crime Officer (collects forensic evidence at scene)

PM

–

Post Mortem or Autopsy (examination of dead body to establish cause of death)

CCTV

–

Closed Circuit Television (security cameras)

VIIDO

–

Visual Images Identifications and Detections Office

1

DOWNINGTHEDREGSOF his third pint, Adrian fell into conversation with an official in a uniform green jacket and matching tie.

‘This is our first visit to York Races.’ Adrian waved his free hand in the direction of the Knavesmire Racetrack. ‘I once had a girlfriend who came from York but that’s as close as I’ve been to the place. We’ve been to Kempton Park, but we’ve not been here before.’

The other man paused in his stride and nodded, apparently paying attention. Adrian tried to size him up. As a local, familiar with the track, he might be able to offer a few useful hints, if Adrian could gain his confidence. It would have been easier to judge the situation if he was sober. He wished Vivien was beside him. With her good looks they might have stood a chance of coaxing a decent tip out of the bloke, but Vivien had gone on ahead with Adrian’s brother.

‘I mean,’ Adrian went on expansively, ‘we’re no experts, far from it. We like a bit of a flutter though. My brother just won a tidy little sum. Lucky bastard. So,’ he leaned forward, swaying slightly, ‘you’re in the know. Any tips for a beginner?’

He winked at the steward who just smiled and wished Adrian luck before turning away.

Another man came and hovered beside him, wearing the same uniform green jacket. He was studying the crowd up ahead so Adrian couldn’t see much of his face, only a light bushy beard and the frames of his gold-rimmed spectacles.

‘Your first visit here?’ the steward asked.

Adrian said it was.

‘You after a tip, sir?’

Adrian laughed and said it would be nice. The official suggested Adrian check out the view from the Shirley Heights Bar.

‘Take the lift up to the fifth floor of the Ebor Stand and look out from the balcony. It’s well worth a visit. You won’t regret it.’

He knew that wasn’t the kind of tip Adrian was hoping for.

Disappointed, Adrian hurried off to catch up with his wife. Eventually he found her standing outside one of the champagne bars. He paused to admire her for a moment.

‘Where’s Charles?’

‘He’s gone to blow some of his winnings on a glass of champagne. You’d better go after him if you want one. He’ll probably get a bottle. He said we should have the best.’

‘You’ve got the best right here,’ Adrian replied, thumping his chest with one hand.

He threw his other arm round her white shoulders, grumbling cheerfully that his brother was showing off again. ‘Him and his money,’ he added a trifle enviously. It was all right for Charles. He didn’t have a wife to support.

It was no surprise when Vivien refused to accompany him up to the Shirley Heights Bar.

‘In these shoes,’ she protested, laughing, ‘you must be joking.’

She tossed her head, flicking her long blonde hair across her bare shoulder. Adrian could never understand why his wife chose to wear uncomfortable shoes, the heels so high she struggled to walk at all. It was amazing she hadn’t done herself an injury.

‘I’ll stay here and wait for Charles. But you go up if you want to. I’d rather keep my feet on the ground, and drink champagne.’

‘Suit yourself. I’ll be back before he gets through that queue.’

Adrian walked past a list of former winners displayed on a glass board beneath a sign in huge chrome letters: ‘Ebor Stand’. He looked back when he reached the entrance of the elegant glass and brick construction that towered above the walkway. He couldn’t see Vivien or his brother in the mêlée. Facing the entrance was a cabinet packed with trophies, photographs and other memorabilia of famous horses. To his right images of jockeys on horseback had been etched onto a glass wall. He crossed a smart hallway. As he made his way round the corner to find the lifts, the sense of luxury continued. The lift had carpeted floor, wooden walls and a large mirror. Vivien would have liked that.

Shirley Heights Bar was packed. There was a queue of people for the bar itself, which was all wood and chrome and shiny black surfaces, modern and classy. He had drunk too much already, and the day had barely begun. Turning, he made his way out through large glass doors onto a spacious balcony. People were seated at small chrome tables, enjoying the view. It was a cheerful scene, everyone in their Sunday best intent on having a good time. Which was what he should have been doing, downstairs with Viv and Charles. Still, now he was up here it would be daft not to look at the view. He might catch a glimpse of his wife, far below. He wondered if she was looking up, hoping to see him, high above the ground.

Leaning on the thick chrome bar that ran around the edge of the balcony, he gazed down at the forecourt. To his left the brick wall of the Ebor building obscured the view towards the racetrack. A few inches in front of him a chest high reinforced glass barrier surrounded the balcony. Below that, pots of flowers masked the view immediately beneath him. He looked up across the car park and the Knavesmire to the city, a mile or so in the distance, where he thought he could make out the Minster rising above the rooftops. Looking to his right he saw a tall clock tower looming over the vista. There was a flurry of movement behind him as everyone on the balcony began making their way inside. In the bar ubiquitous screens displayed the action. The next race was about to begin. Above the cacophony an excited commentator was shouting from the monitors.

Turning, Adrian found his way blocked by the steward who had recommended the view to him.

‘I'm going to the bar,’ he said. ‘If I can just get past you –’

The other man didn’t budge. ‘If you go to the corner, you get a great view of the clock tower.’

‘I saw it,’ Adrian muttered.

All the same he looked round, not wishing to be rude. As he did so, he felt a sharp prick on his neck.

‘Ouch! I’ve been stung!’

He turned back. The face in front of him looked fuzzy. His throat felt as though it was closing up. Fumbling to loosen his tie, he realised he had drunk far too much. His fingers wouldn’t work properly. He opened his mouth to cry out, but his lips seemed to be frozen. His tongue felt thick. He tried to move his head. It was fixed, his neck rigid. Barely conscious, he felt someone grip him tightly under his arms.

His relief at being helped turned to anger. The steward was wasting valuable time. Adrian needed urgent medical attention. He had suffered a stroke, or an anaphylactic reaction to an insect bite. Moments before, he had been enjoying a day out at the races. Now he could be dying. Someone he dimly recognised was lifting him off the ground. With eyes stuck wide open, he registered a beard and gold-rimmed glasses. He was being held upright, propped against the railing. With a jolt he felt himself hoisted upwards and pushed forwards, in danger of slithering helplessly over the edge. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t move or call out.

As he fell a loud wind roared past his ears, indistinguishable from the roar of the crowd. The race was over.

2

PEOPLEWEREMILLINGABOUT chatting, laughing, queuing and drinking. Women in party frocks and smart suited men mingled with grave punters, all there to chance their luck on the horses. Adrian had gone to look at the view from the fifth floor, leaving Vivien with Charles who had gone to buy a bottle of champagne. The two brothers had left her on her own for ages, standing alone in the chattering crowd. At first she didn’t mind. With so many gorgeous dresses to look at, it was like watching a fashion show. After a while she grew anxious, afraid that Adrian and Charles would never find her again. Nervously she searched the assembled throng, looking for a familiar face. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves except her. At last she spotted Charles pushing through the crowd towards her. She looked away to hide her relief. Although she was pleased to see him, she was embarrassed watching him barge past other people to reach her, as though he was afraid to leave her by herself. He hadn’t minded abandoning her earlier.

He joined her, red-faced and out of breath. Three champagne flutes jiggled precariously in his grasp as he wiped his damp forehead with his sleeve, grumbling about the toilets and the queue for drinks. Raising her glass to take a first sip, she was vaguely aware of a commotion behind her. A shrill scream rang in her ear, reverberating painfully inside her head. At the same time, people started jostling one another violently all around her. Someone jogged her arm and she dropped her glass. It shattered on the ground. She barely noticed its contents fizz and splash her shoes, because by then Charles had grabbed her by the elbow to drag her away from the disturbance. One of her shoes fell off as she stumbled after him. Pausing only briefly in his stride, he heaved her bodily off the ground, with one arm. Carrying her at his side, he forged his way through the crowd that was surging past them towards the source of the tumult.

‘Don’t look round!’ he yelled at her.

Nearby she heard someone sobbing.

Reaching the edge of the crowd he put her down. Everyone around them seemed to be talking at once. An authoritative voice was yelling above the din. Vivien couldn’t make out what he was saying. Other voices nearby clamoured in a disjointed chorus.

‘Oh my God!’

‘Did you see that?’

‘From the balcony on the top floor.’

‘Dropped like a stone.’

‘He needs help.’

‘Is there a doctor here?’

‘It’s too late for that.’

As if losing a shoe wasn’t bad enough, Vivien noticed for the first time that her frock was spattered with champagne. She swore. Straightening up, she felt her face blush with shame. A man had fallen from a balcony. There was no need for her to see past the crowd of onlookers to know he must be dead or at least badly injured. Blood was probably still oozing from his shattered skull, and she was concerned about having her dress dry cleaned. With a shudder, she glanced around. No one was paying her any attention.

In the mêlée, security guards began shepherding spectators over to the side of the terrace where Vivien was standing behind Charles. Holding his arm for support, she pulled off her shoe. The area where the man had fallen was speedily cordoned off, watched over by a team of security guards. Unceremoniously corralled together, the crowd all seemed to be talking. Once the initial shock had worn off, the mood of the onlookers became irascible.

‘How long are we going to be kept here like this?’ a drunken voice yelled.

A chorus of complaints broke out.

‘We paid good money to come here today.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now,’ a policeman answered firmly. ‘I’m afraid no one is allowed to leave until we’ve had a chance to speak to you all.’

‘Well, go on then, speak up.’

‘We need to speak to each of you individually, sir,’ the copper replied stolidly.

Vivien moved to one side of Charles, but there was nothing to see. Several uniformed police officers had gathered around the body, masking it from view. A burly man was running and bellowing, waving his arms vehemently to intercept two security guards who had almost reached the entrance to the Ebor building. Above the sporadic din, Vivien could just about make out the orders he was barking.

‘Don’t go in. No one is to go inside the building until we get the green light. Guard all the exits. Don’t let anyone in.’

A security guard started forward as two men emerged from the building. Just then, several people surged forward in front of Vivien, blocking her view.

Adrian had been gone for about an hour. She searched the crowd in front of her but it was impossible to find anyone in this scrum. At her side, Charles leaned down and yelled in her ear.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. Have you seen Adrian?’

Instead of answering, he seized her by the arm and began pulling her towards the front of the crowd. Awkwardly she hobbled after him, worried about broken glass, or her toes being trodden on.

‘Stop pushing,’ a man growled.

Other voices joined in. ‘We all want to see what’s going on.’

Ignoring the chorus of protests, Charles carried on shouldering his way through the throng. He dragged her over to a uniformed policeman, where he loosened his hold on her. The two men had a hurried conversation. As Charles was speaking, the policeman turned to stare at Vivien. Unnerved by the intensity of his gaze, she felt a tremor of fear.

The two men fell silent when she stepped forward to hear what they were saying. Charles stared fixedly at something over her shoulder. The constable shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

‘What’s happened?’ The words rose hysterically in her throat. ‘Something’s happened to Adrian, hasn’t it? Has he – did he – is it him? I want to see.’

‘Are you sure?’ Charles asked gently. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. I’m his brother. I can do it.’

‘Do what?’

He hesitated before answering. ‘They need someone to have a look at the man who fell from the balcony and confirm if it’s Adrian or not.’

He couldn’t meet her eye. They both knew.

3

THENARROWSTREETWAS packed with tourists, rubbing shoulders together, enjoying the crowded walk along The Shambles, York’s well preserved medieval street. Half closing his eyes, Ian could almost have believed they had stepped back to the fourteenth century, if it weren’t for the modern shoppers, girls with cropped hair and tattoos, boys wearing anoraks and earrings, and everyone in trainers. He looked up at quaint wooden shop fronts, which he could see over the top of his wife’s head. It was one of the advantages of being over six foot tall. Bev’s delicate beauty made him smile, but although he looked robust beside her apparent fragility, the reality was inevitably more complex. He watched her eyes flit from one side of the narrow street to the other, taking in displays in the shop windows: jewellery, silverware, chocolates, tearooms, and all manner of knick knacks and confectionery. From time to time she gave an excited cry, but for the most part she stared, wide-eyed, at bow windows with their squared panes, interspersed with white walls and black timber. If they had been in York on holiday she would have been in raptures over the displays, but her pleasure was restrained.

Although she was putting a brave face on it, Bev wasn’t happy about their move to York, hundreds of miles away from her family and friends. Having worked his way up from a detective constable to his recent post as detective inspector, there had never been any doubt in Ian’s mind that he would accept promotion, wherever it took him. As it happened, it wasn’t entirely chance that had taken them so far from Kent. Keen to make a success of his marriage as well as his career, he wanted to put some distance between himself and his in-laws. Despite his rapid promotion, Bev’s parents had never thought him good enough for their daughter and he wanted to take her as far away from their stifling influence as he could.

At lunch time they walked through a park to a small café from where they had an impressive view of an historic monument. Clifford’s Tower stood on top of a high mound. Ian smiled at the sight of kids clambering up the steep slopes and rolling down again. They had just started eating when Ian’s work phone rang. Bev’s neat features puckered with annoyance. ‘Can’t you ignore it? We’re eating. We can’t just get up and go.’

They both knew the answer to her question. If the call was a summons to a crime scene, the sooner Ian set off the better.

After listening intently for a moment, he gave an apologetic grimace.

‘It looks like I’ll be paying a visit to the races sooner than I planned.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve got to go to work right now. What about lunch?’

‘Why don’t you finish your lunch, then go and have a look round the market and get a taxi home?’ He pulled out his wallet. ‘You wanted to go to the market –’

Although she smiled at his clumsy attempt to placate her, he could see her eyes were glistening with disappointment.

‘I’ll ask them to pack it up for us. We can have it later,’ she said, although they both knew he might not be home for dinner.

‘Come on,’ he said, standing up. ‘Let’s sort out the food and get back to the car and I’ll drop you home.’

He gave a guilty grin, doing his best to hide his impatience. He didn’t want to abandon his wife, but his thoughts were already on the brief report he had just heard.

‘What do we know?’ Ian asked the sergeant who was waiting to drive him to the races.

Ian had been introduced to Detective Sergeant Ted Birling, but this would be the first time they worked together. The sergeant was in his mid-twenties. Ian found it strange to think that there was nearly ten years between them. He didn’t feel any older than his colleague. With black hair and very dark eyes, Ted looked Italian or Spanish. He would have been classically handsome if his eyebrows weren’t so thick. The lower half of his face was covered in stubble and the backs of his hands were covered in coarse black hair. While Ian wanted to find out as much as he could about the death they had been called to investigate, he was also keen to discover what sort of officer Ted was. The sergeant’s wiry physique gave an impression of physical power in spite of his relatively short stature.

‘It’s a simple case really, sir. A man fell to his death from a fifth storey balcony at the racetrack.’

‘So are we looking at suicide?’

‘It appears that way, on the face of it, although the constable on site says there’s a question over how he came to fall.’

Ian sighed. If they had been dealing with a murder case, the detective chief inspector would have attended the scene herself. As it was, his boss had chosen to ruin Ian’s Saturday by sending him to check on a man who had jumped off a balcony.

‘Selfish cow,’ he muttered.

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘Nothing. Do we know why we’ve been called out?’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘It’s not very clear, but several witnesses reported seeing a second person on the balcony with the victim just before he plunged to his death, and apparently a race official found someone lurking on the balcony shortly after the incident.’

They turned off the main road. Ahead Ian could see the sweep of the white fences of the racecourse.

‘Lurking, eh? Let’s not go jumping to conclusions before we have all the facts. This is probably a suicide, or an accidental death. The dead man had probably had a few too many.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Despite his cautious words, Ian felt a rush of excitement. The incident might be suspicious, in which case he was about to embark on his first investigation as a detective inspector – and he was going to be the first senior officer on the scene.

4

A LONGSTRAIGHTAVENUE took them past more signs. They turned right towards the racetrack. To their left a stunning art deco clock tower soared high above the other buildings in view. ‘Terry York’ was written in large lettering on the clock face. As they drew closer, Ian was disappointed to see many of the window panes were broken. The building was derelict.

‘That clock tower’s amazing,’ he said aloud.

‘Yes, it’s a listed building.’

‘I wonder what’ll happen to it?’

Ted didn’t answer. A moment later they drew up beside a triangular porch on their right bearing a sign, ‘Welcome to York Racecourse’. Ahead of them a white arch spanned the road bearing the same inscription. Before they were out of the car a uniformed constable appeared, striding towards them.

‘This way, sir.’

They followed him through the turnstile.

The walkway that led to the racetrack was broad enough for a white forensic tent, with room to stand around outside it. Behind the tent, two uniformed officers guarded the entrance to the five storey Ebor building. Sending Ted to find out whether anyone had accompanied the victim to the races, Ian spoke to a portly grey-haired sergeant in charge of a team providing a police presence on site.

‘That’s where he jumped from, sir.’ The sergeant squinted up at a vertical series of balconies. ‘All the way from the top, five floors up.’

‘Jumped or was pushed,’ a constable beside him added, in a voice high-pitched with excitement.

‘He didn’t stand a chance,’ the portly sergeant said, shaking his head. ‘Lucky he didn’t land on top of anyone. The place was heaving before we cleared the area.’

Ian looked up at the balcony. Once the man had fallen, it looked as though a fatality was inevitable.

‘It must be a drop of over fifty feet,’ he said.

‘Something like that, sir.’

It seemed a very public way to commit suicide. But if the man had thrown himself off the balcony, presumably he hadn’t been thinking straight. Ian turned back to the sergeant waiting patiently at his side.

‘There must have been any number of witnesses?’

‘Yes, there were hundreds of racegoers here. Hundreds.’

‘Had most of them been drinking?’

‘Not all of them, sir. There’s many are serious about the horses.’

‘We’ve got a list, sir,’ the uniformed constable piped up.

Ian gave a brisk nod.

‘This could have been an accident,’ he said, speaking more to himself than to his colleagues.

‘An accident, sir?’

‘I’m just wondering whether he could have gone too close to the edge of the balcony because he was too drunk to appreciate the danger he was in. Or he might have been high, having a good time on his day out, and misjudged the risk.’

‘I couldn’t comment on that, sir,’ the sergeant answered impassively. ‘But I understand there was something suspicious about it.’

Ian felt his heart begin to race, but before he could ask any questions Ted joined them. He looked animated.

‘Several witnesses claimed they saw a second figure up on the balcony with the victim, and we’ve got the other man in custody,’ he announced triumphantly. ‘One of the race officials brought him down shortly after the incident. It looks as though they were having an argument up on the balcony, and the suspect pushed the victim over the edge.’

‘We don’t know he was pushed, and if he was, we don’t yet know it was deliberate,’ Ian pointed out.

‘There are several witnesses –’

‘Let’s not start making assumptions, Sergeant.’

Ian turned and thanked the grey-haired sergeant in uniform before walking away with Ted.

‘It’s a long way up there,’ Ian said as they approached the entrance to the Ebor Stand. ‘No one down here could have seen exactly what happened. Things are not always what they seem. The suspect might have been trying to stop the victim jumping. That could have looked from down here like he was pushing him. Don’t confuse speculation with conclusions based on clear evidence.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Meticulous forensic scrutiny of the balcony and lifts was under way. Ian and Ted pulled on protective suits and shoes and entered the lift. On the fifth floor, white-suited photographers and scene of crime officers were at work, examining every inch of the bar and balcony. There was nothing to suggest that a struggle had taken place. Crossing to the perimeter, Ian glanced over the barrier. As a rule heights didn’t bother him, but he felt slightly giddy looking at the ground far below. A stout metal bar ran round the balcony, roughly waist height on a tall man. Less than a foot beyond that a thick barrier of reinforced glass ran around the outer limit of the terrace. There was no way anyone could have slipped past the protective barrier by accident.

‘I can’t see how there could have been anyone else involved,’ Ian said to a nearby scene of crime officer, ‘not without someone up here noticing a struggle. It’s odd, don’t you think?’

The other man barely glanced up from his work.

‘Unless everyone else was inside watching a race.’

Ian frowned. He should have thought of that himself, it was so obvious. A race had been due to start. Everyone enjoying the view from the balcony had gone inside to watch the screens, while outside a man had been pushed over the barrier. It wouldn’t have been easy, but it would certainly have been possible, especially if the victim had been caught off guard. It was fortunate the other man involved had been apprehended at once. Not only were they investigating a murder, but the killer was already behind bars. The detective chief inspector had done Ian a favour, after all. Within a day of arriving in his new post, his reputation seemed assured.

5

STILLINTHEIRPROTECTIVE suits and shoes, Ian and Ted took the lift back down to the ground floor. A team of uniformed officers had been drafted in to question race officials and security guards. Yet more uniformed officers were moving along a line of spectators noting down contact details, in an atmosphere of chaotic organisation. Members of the public had been corralled there for over an hour. Dressed in garish finery, they were subdued, talking in muted tones, as though attending a funeral. Meanwhile, the next race had been delayed while the police took down details of potential witnesses.

A woman with dyed blonde hair was sitting just inside the cordon, sobbing. At her side, a man in his early thirties stared disconsolately at the forensic tent.

‘That’s the victim’s wife and brother,’ a constable told Ian. ‘They’re here from London.’

‘When are they leaving?’

The constable shrugged.

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘I’ll speak to him,’ Ian said.

He didn’t think he would get much sense out of the woman.

‘This is the dead man’s brother,’ the constable said clumsily, by way of introduction.

Dealing with the bereaved was difficult under any circumstances. To make matters worse, the man was pale and shaky, obviously suffering from shock. Ian was loath to intrude on his grief, but the job had to be done. He spoke as gently as he could.

‘I’m very sorry about your brother, sir. Is it all right if I ask you a few questions?’

The two men stepped away from the weeping widow. Once they were out of earshot, the victim’s brother leaned forward and began talking in an earnest undertone. Beneath cropped light brown hair he had a broad forehead above widely spaced blue eyes, a thick fleshy nose and square chin.

‘I knew my brother, Inspector.’ He stared fiercely at Ian as he spoke, his blue eyes intense. ‘I knew him well.’ He broke off for a second, his chest heaving in a deep sigh. ‘They’re saying he jumped, but he would never have done that. Someone’s responsible for this and I’m going to make damn sure they pay for what they’ve done. They won’t get away with it.’

Ian concealed his surprise. ‘Are you telling me you know who pushed him off the balcony?’

It was the other man’s turn to look surprised.

‘Pushed him?’ he repeated. ‘Good God, no. Why would anyone want to kill Adrian? No, what I’m saying is, someone’s responsible for this. With all the bloody health and safety they’re so obsessed with these days, how could they allow it to happen? There should have been a proper safety rail up there. The place was a death trap. As soon as I get home, I’m seeking legal advice, and I’m going to screw this place for every penny they’ve got. I owe it to my sister-in-law to get compensation for this. And I’m going to see to it this racetrack is shut down. I’m not an idiot, Inspector, and I’m not going to let this rest.’ His face flushed with anger, and his hands clenched into fists.

Ian didn’t point out that there was a sturdy thick metal rail around the balcony, supplemented by a strong reinforced glass barrier. Instead he asked where the victim’s brother was staying. He didn’t recognise the name of the hotel, but Ted knew the location. It was in the city centre and easy to find.

‘It’s five minutes walk from the station,’ the sergeant added.

‘We need to speak to you both,’ Ian explained, turning back to the victim’s brother. He glanced over at the distraught widow. ‘It can wait till tomorrow.’

‘We have to get back to London tomorrow. Our train tickets are booked. We’ve got seats reserved.’

Ian shrugged. The man had just lost his brother and he was worried about missing a train.

‘We’ll do our best to accommodate you, sir, but you might find your sister-in-law isn’t ready to travel so soon.’

‘She’ll be better off away from here…’ A worried look crossed the brother’s face. ‘And I have to get back to the office.’

‘What time is your train?’

‘Around two. We thought we’d have lunch – Adrian wanted… '

‘Fine. We’ll meet you in the reception area of the hotel in the morning. Shall we say ten o’clock?’

Muttering condolences, Ian moved away. He was keen to view the body before it was moved.

After glancing up at the balcony, he entered the forensic tent. The victim looked as though he was in his mid-thirties, about the same age as Ian. He was lying on his back, where he had fallen, arms and legs awkwardly splayed. He had a large oblong face with a prominent nose, and light stubble. His hair was cut very short above his square face. If it wasn’t for his extreme pallor, and a pool of blood on the path beside his head, he could have been sleeping. Apart from his flabby torso, the resemblance to his brother was marked, even in death. A doctor was carefully feeling the dead man’s limbs with deft fingers. About forty, plump and brown-haired, she looked thoughtful.

‘There are a few broken bones,’ she said in answer to Ian’s question, ‘but I can’t be sure of anything right now, except that he’s dead. At least his face is intact,’ she added. ‘Not that it makes any difference to him.’

‘He landed on his back then?’ Ian asked.

The doctor paused before answering.

‘Yes, the position of the body is certainly atypical.’

With a tremor of anticipation, Ian asked her what she meant.

‘Accidental falls from a significant height usually result in injuries to feet, legs, pelvis, vertebrae, because instinctively the victim will turn in the air to land feet first. But when the person is unresisting – dead, drugged or otherwise unconscious – the body shifts to a horizontal position during the descent, ending up either flat on its back or flat on its front.’

‘So you’re saying he was already dead when he landed?’

‘He bled from an injury to the back of his head which looks as though it was sustained when he landed on the ground.’ She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but it’s not clear-cut. I won’t be sure exactly what happened until the body’s been properly examined, and the results of the toxicology report are back. There’s something not quite right about it, and that’s all I can say for now. I might be wrong,’ she added with a complacency that belied her words, ‘but I’m going to recommend the coroner requests a home office forensic pathologist to do a post mortem.’

Ian decided not to risk irritating the doctor by pressing her to say more. Her co-operation could make his work a lot easier.

‘Yes, it looks as though that’s the way it’s heading,’ he agreed. ‘But in the meantime it would be really helpful if you could tell me the probability of anyone surviving a fall of – what, fifty feet?’

Her response was so pat he suspected she had researched the information before coming out.

‘With a fall of a distance more than twice an individual’s height there’s more than a fifty per cent probability of serious physical trauma. Falling over fifty feet onto a hard surface is almost certain to prove fatal.’

The doctor had nothing more to tell him.

Ian didn’t merely dislike viewing corpses; it actually made him feel physically sick. He had learned to control his feelings enough to hide his queasiness from his colleagues, but he was constantly on his guard. It shouldn’t make any difference, but he always felt particularly distressed when he viewed victims who had been around the same age as him. This body was somehow especially disturbing as Ian had spoken to Adrian’s brother a moment before entering the forensic tent. The family resemblance was strong. He could have been speaking to the dead man just before he saw his body. Eager to escape into the fresh air, Ian hurried out of the tent with its morbid interior.

As they walked back to the car he and Ted discussed what the victim’s brother had told them. Ted thought the brother’s statement bore out the theory that a third party had deliberately pushed the dead man off the balcony.

‘I can’t see any reason to question it,’ he insisted. ‘We’ve got the man who did it.’

‘Have we questioned the steward who found him?’

Ted shook his head. ‘He’s only given an informal statement so far.’

‘Chase that up, Ted. He should be easy enough to find. Now, what do we know about the suspect?’

‘The guy who pushed him?’

‘You’re assuming the suspect’s guilty before we’ve even spoken to him.’

‘Do you think he might not have done it, sir?’

Ian suppressed a smile. Apart from his personal passion for justice, it wouldn’t do his reputation any harm to have his first case as an inspector wrapped up so promptly.

‘Let’s see what the suspect has to say,’ he replied impassively.

6

A MURDERINCIDENTROOM had been set up in the police station in York. There was a business-like atmosphere in the entrance hall. A couple of officers were chatting as they heaved on stab vests. Apart from the fact that all the faces he saw were unfamiliar, Ian could have been back in his old police station in Kent. Passing two officers, he smiled at their Northern accents. Behind his back they would refer to him as the Southerner, even though his family originally came from the North and he still retained a slight accent. Entering the incident room, his excitement was dampened by the sombre mood. It formed a stark contrast to the cheerful atmosphere that characterised the station as a whole.

‘It’s a straightforward case,’ Detective Chief Inspector Eileen Duncan was saying as Ian entered.

A hefty woman in her late forties, with dark hair already greying at the temples, she had a sharp nose, thin lips, and a square chin. On balance he felt reassured by her air of fierce determination. Despite her forceful air, she was attractive. He wondered whether she had a family, or if she had dedicated herself to her career to the exclusion of everything else. He knew it could be hard for a woman to rise up through the ranks if she took career breaks in order to have children.

‘Adrian Curtis died as a result of falling from a five storey balcony,’ she was saying. ‘We have a suspect in custody, so we should be able to wrap this up quickly, and be done with it before the papers get busy. We need to play it down, hopefully as an unfortunate domestic, with no hint of blame landing anywhere else. If possible, avoid any criticism of the safety measures in place at the racetrack.’

A murmur of agreement greeted her announcement. Even a newcomer like Ian was aware that the races were worth millions in revenue to the local area. Everyone was twitchy about any potential bad press. Eileen turned to Ian.

He cleared his throat. ‘It certainly doesn’t look like an accident,’ he said. ‘The coroner’s calling in a home office forensic pathologist to conduct the post mortem. The circumstances are suspicious, ma’am.’

‘Are you sure?’ Eileen asked, ‘or does it just look that way at the moment?’

Everyone turned to stare at Ian.

‘We’ve just come from the racetrack, ma’am. It could have been suicide or murder, but it definitely wasn’t an accident. The rail round the balcony can’t have been easy to climb over. I don’t know if you’ve been up to Shirley Heights Bar on the fifth floor.’

A couple of officers muttered something.

‘There’s no way anyone could have fallen off that balcony by mistake.’

‘The victim’s insurance company are going to love you,’ someone muttered.

‘The racetrack will be pleased,’ someone else said.

Convinced Adrian hadn’t plummeted from the balcony by accident, they urgently needed to discover whether anyone else had been with him when he fell. If his death had been murder, the faster they established that fact, the sooner they could begin their investigation.

‘Is there anything to suggest he might have been at risk of suicide?’ Eileen asked. ‘However difficult it might have been for him to climb over the railing, there’s no telling what a man might do if he’s desperate enough.’

‘It’s a selfish way to go, if it was suicide,’ Ted said. ‘Why would anyone want to inflict that on other racegoers, strangers enjoying a day out?’

‘There might have been one particular person he wanted to be there to witness his dramatic death,’ Eileen replied. ‘If there’s a connection between the victim and anyone else at the racecourse this afternoon, we need to follow it up.’

‘His wife was there,’ Ted said.

Ian repeated what Adrian’s brother had said. He wasn’t surprised when Eileen discounted that statement with an impatient wave of her hand. Adrian’s brother was hardly a reliable witness. He must have been in shock. Besides, he had already admitted he intended to sue the racetrack for negligence. Any suggestion Adrian had deliberately clambered over the rail would damage the chance of compensation.

‘I appreciate it’s in the family’s interest to deny there’s any chance the death was suicide, but I believed him, ma’am. He was so adamant about it.’

‘As you’d expect if he was lying.’ The detective chief inspector gave a tolerant smile. ‘Sometimes the more certain a witness seems, the less he should be believed.’

There was a mutter of agreement in the room. Ian felt uncomfortable at her patronising tone, but he held his tongue. He didn’t really mind. He was a newcomer on an established team. His colleagues were sizing him up, just as he was making his mind up what he thought of them. So far he was cautiously pleased with what he had seen.

The man who had been brought down from the balcony by a race official had been taken to a cell to sober up. He woke up after a couple of hours and began shouting for attention.

‘Is he in a fit state to answer questions?’ Ian asked.

‘He’s awake enough to demand to see a lawyer,’ the custody sergeant replied. ‘He wasn’t that drunk in the first place, and whatever ill effects he had, he’s slept it off now.’

Ian hesitated. If he attempted to question the suspect while he was still under the influence of alcohol, anything he said would be deemed inadmissible in court. On the other hand, the longer they delayed speaking to him, the more time they were wasting. With a nod at the custody sergeant, Ian had the suspect brought to an interview room.

In his twenties, Harry Moss was slender, with straw-coloured hair. A snub nose and round cheeks gave him a boyish appearance, but the effect of his youthful looks was spoiled by a surly expression. He launched into a rambling response to Ian’s opening question, ‘What were you doing at the races today?’

He claimed to have gone to the races for a day’s outing, only to be abruptly swept along in a wave of accusations culminating in his being locked in a cell. His voice rose in a crescendo of indignation as he demanded to see a solicitor. Ian sent for the duty brief. It was growing late when at last they were ready. The suspect had been read his rights, and the duty solicitor was seated bolt upright at his side. Ian wondered if it was her first case. She looked very young, with short dark curly hair and sharp eyes. After going through the preliminaries, Ian began to question Harry in earnest. He said he didn’t often go to the races, but he enjoyed a flutter.

‘It’s a nice day out, but I don’t take it as seriously as some.’

When Ian asked what he had been doing on the fifth floor balcony, he laughed, passing freckled hands nervously over his chin.

‘Me? Catch me up there? You are joking. Scared of heights, me. You ask anyone. It was never me up there.’

‘Are you saying the steward lied?’

‘What steward?’

‘The one who found you on the balcony.’

‘I told you, I wasn’t there.’ He threw an appealing glance to the solicitor who sat listening intently. ‘Look, I keep telling you, you’ve got this all wrong.’

‘The steward was quite clear about it.’

‘Well he’s got it wrong then.’

‘We’ll be speaking to the witness.’

‘Speak to who you like. I’m telling you the truth.’

‘What were you doing in the Ebor building?’

‘I went in for a look around, a few drinks, you know.’

‘By yourself?’

‘Yes. That is, I went to the races with a couple of mates, but they were only interested in the betting. I like a flutter, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not obsessed with the horses, not like some. There’s plenty more to see there.’

‘You mean women?’

Harry seemed to have relaxed and spoke readily about his day at the races. He looked Ian straight in the eye, with no appearance of unease.

‘Look, it was just a day out. I like a bit of a chat. What’s wrong with that? I’d paid for my ticket, same as everyone else. I wanted to have a good time.’

‘We know you went up to the fifth floor.’

‘So I was there. I never said I wasn’t. I went to the bar, had a few drinks, nothing wrong with that, is there? Jesus, it’s not illegal for a bloke to have a day out, is it? I was having a good time until you lot showed up and before I knew what hit me I was being bundled into a police van.’

However hard he was pressed, Harry insisted he had never been out on the fifth floor balcony. At last Ian gave up and the suspect was escorted back to the custody suite, grumbling.

Ian thought Harry might be telling the truth, but Eileen dismissed his reservations. He hesitated to contradict his new detective chief inspector. She had already questioned his judgement once. He listened in silence as she continued firmly.

‘We’ve got our suspect secure, and we’ve got a witness. You can get a formal statement tomorrow. There’s nothing more needs doing tonight. You can go home, Ian. You look all in.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He knew she was being considerate, but he was riled. He wanted respect, not kindness. As a sergeant he had been used to having attention paid to his views, even if his senior officer hadn’t always agreed with him. As an inspector, he had expected to be given at least as much credence as before. He dropped his gaze and stared down at his shoes, carefully polished the previous evening, now dusty from the racetrack. He had arrived determined to make a good impression. Eileen had seemed happy for him to join her, but it was clear he was going to have to work hard to earn acceptance on the team.

Worn out with the demands of his first investigation since his promotion, he was pleased to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of the police station. Picking up his own car in the police station car park, he put his foot down. Guilt at leaving his wife alone in an unfamiliar city was an added strain. Bev was doing her best, but he knew she was finding it difficult to cope without the support of her family and friends. He wanted to be there for her. When he arrived home, she was sitting at the kitchen table, flicking through a book of wallpaper samples. Looking up, she held up a page and asked for his opinion.

‘I think I’ve narrowed it down to the lemon or the pale green,’ she added.

There was no need to decorate, but he understood she needed a project to occupy her mind.

‘You know you’re much better at things like this than I am,’ he replied, kissing the top of her cropped blonde head.

‘And then there’s the floor,’ she went on. ‘Carpet would be warmer, but I’m not altogether sure I like the idea of carpet in the kitchen. They say it’s fine, that special kitchen carpet, but I’m not sure. What do you think?’

He nodded, reluctant to respond in case he said the wrong thing.

It was late and he was tired.

‘If you want carpet in the kitchen, that’s fine with me.’

‘But what do you think? You go into lots of people’s houses. You must’ve seen kitchen carpet in some of them… ’

‘Do you know, I’m not sure I ever have?’

As if he would have noticed something like that when questioning a witness in a murder investigation.

‘Then maybe it’s not such a good idea, if no one else has got it. Honestly, to listen to the salesman, you’d think everyone had it and we’d be odd if we didn’t go for it.’

‘Well, you decide. Whatever you want. I’m sure you’ll do a great job.’

He hoped he didn’t sound patronising.

They had both eaten but it wasn’t too late to sit down together over a glass of wine. When he told her they had a suspect behind bars, she clapped her hands.

‘That’s great. Your first case as an inspector, and you’ve solved it already!’

He smiled, hoping she was right. But he had an uneasy feeling the truth would prove more complex, and more terrible, than anyone else yet suspected.

7

IANWENTINTOWORK early on Sunday morning, leaving the house before Bev was stirring. At the bedroom door he looked back at the mound of her sleeping figure with a faint flicker of regret; it might have been guilt. Driving through residential streets that were almost deserted at that hour, he dismissed thoughts of his wife and turned his attention to the coming day. After grabbing a coffee, he went straight to his desk, impatient to start work. A race official had apprehended Harry on the balcony. The police constable who had taken the official’s name and address was on duty that morning. Ian decided to quiz him in person, hoping he had something useful to add to the information he had recorded.

All the constable could remember was that the official had been an odd-looking man aged anything from late twenties to early forties, with a mop of fair hair. The constable was balding. His uniform was stretched tightly across his barrel-shaped chest. He didn’t give an impression of incompetence.

‘What do you mean by “odd-looking”?’ Ian asked. ‘Odd in what way, exactly?’

‘I’m not sure, really, sir. I didn’t pay him much attention, to be honest. Seeing as he was a race official, I assumed he’d stay around to help. I was more interested in the suspect. But I seem to remember he had an awful lot of blond hair.’ He frowned. ‘Of course there’s nothing to stop a bloke dyeing his hair, but it didn’t look natural.’

The official’s name was Barry Gordon. He lived in Newton Terrace, near the centre of York. The sat nav directed Ian along Fishergate and past Clifford’s Tower. He barely had time to glance up at the ancient edifice before his route took him across the river. With Clifford’s Tower behind him, he turned into Cromwell Road, then followed the base of the city wall along a narrow street of terraced properties with large bay windows. Ignoring the parking restrictions, he drew up outside a small house. A willowy woman opened the door. She had pale blue eyes and very fair straight hair that fell in a long fringe.

‘Is Barry in?’ he asked, after introducing himself.

‘What’s he gone and done now?’ the woman asked with a weary sigh. Turning, she yelled down the hall. ‘Dad! Dad! Get out here now!’ She turned back to Ian. ‘He does his best, but he’s such hard work. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with him. I’m not that young myself and – oh, here he comes.’

She broke off as an elderly man came into view, hobbling towards them. He blinked short-sightedly at Ian.

‘What?’ he called out in a quavering voice as he approached. ‘What is it?’ Before he could say anything else his slight frame was shaken by a chesty cough.

When he was finally able to speak, he confirmed that his name was Barry Gordon.

‘Barry Alfred Gordon,’ he announced, and commenced another coughing fit. His daughter muttered under her breath about smoking.

Ian checked the address. There was no doubt he had come to the correct house. He pressed on with his enquiry, although it was hard to believe that this frail old man could conceivably have wrestled with Adrian, let alone lifted him off his feet and heaved him off the balcony.

Ian enquired whether there was another Barry Gordon living there, a son or grandson of the old man who shared his name, but the two people in the hall were the sole occupants of the house.

‘She moved back in with me when she lost her husband,’ the old man explained.

From the shrewish expression that crossed the woman’s face, Ian guessed her husband had left her. Barry confirmed that he had been at the races with his daughter the previous day. She nodded her head, her anxious face relaxed into a smile.

‘He likes a bit of a go on the horses, don’t you dad?’

It didn’t take much to prompt them to reveal they had been outside the Ebor building when Adrian had fallen from the balcony.

‘We saw it all,’ Barry said with a malicious grin. ‘We were that close to it. There was such a fuss. People rushing about all over the place, and police and ambulances and the security guards, and all those young women in their fancy get ups.’ He cackled.

‘Show some respect, dad,’ his daughter admonished him with an embarrassed glance at Ian who stood, stony-faced, hiding his disappointment behind a mask of indifference.

Ian didn’t stay long. The constable who had taken down people’s details at the races must have muddled up Barry Gordon’s contact details with those of the official who had apprehended Harry. A call to the station confirmed that no one else called Barry Gordon lived at the property Ian had just visited. There was nothing else to do but return to the station where the Criminal Intelligence Unit set to work examining the other witnesses’ details. They all checked out. There were two other Barry Gordons and a Bartholomew Gordon listed on the York electoral register. None of them worked at the racecourse. Looking further afield, they discovered a Barry Gordon living in Leeds who had worked for the security firm employed by the racetrack. He hadn’t been a race official in a green blazer, but at least he had worked there when the races were on, checking no one was drinking too much or otherwise risking causing a disturbance.

8

TAKING TEDWITHHIM