The Man in the Loosebox

By R Nicholls

Inspector Kirkwall investigates murder at the stables but finds a sinister web of drugged horses, blackmail and stolen art. Can injured horse trainer, Bobbie Darrant's, contacts help Kirkwall bring the final showdown to a successful conclusion?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R Nicholls
• Release date: Apr 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370873647

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The Man in the Loosebox

The First Abbotsbourne Detective Story

Author: R Nicholls

Copyright ©2019 R Nicholls

No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Day 1 - Wednesday 08:00

Day 2 - Thursday 0930

Day 3 - Friday 0840

Day 4 - Saturday 0830

Day 5 - Sunday 0800

Day 6 - Monday 0900

Day 7 - Tuesday 0755

Day 8 - Wednesday 0900

Day 9 - Thursday 0200

Day 10 - Friday 0920

Day 11 - Saturday

Day 12 - Sunday

Day 13 - Monday

Day 14 - Tuesday

Day 15 - Wednesday

Day 16 - Thursday

Day 17 - Friday

Days 18 & 19 – Saturday & Sunday

Day 1 - Wednesday 08:00

The body on the loosebox-box floor was that of a man in his fifties, somewhat less than six feet in height with sandy coloured hair cut fairly short. His fawn coloured trousers and khaki woollen jumper were covered with stable debris, hoof marks and a certain amount of blood. He was quite, quite dead.

-

God, it’s cold in here, said Inspector Kirkwall looking around the garage sized hut cum office that the people at the farmhouse had suggested he take over for police use for the time being. Go over to the house will you Pete and see if they can’t fix us up with some kind of a heater.

On my way, Sir, said the detective constable and set off on his errand.

-

Jamie, we’ve got trouble! said the proprietor of the Coach House Equestrian Veterinary Practice over the telephone to his newest and quite promising employee, James Baker MRCVS. Meet me up at Sandy Farm Stables quick as you can and for God’s sake don’t do anything ‘till I get there. They’ve got a horse that’s just killed someone!

-

The Calor gas heater purred and the temperature in the office hut rose slowly from just above freezing to something approaching comfortable.

Right, said Inspector Kirkwall. We’d better make a start with that girl who found the body. Get her over here from the house, Pete. They’ve been looking after her. Oh, and get that WPC who’s down in the barn. Get her in here in case we have any hysterics.

As he walked up the path from the riding school car park to the farmhouse Pete Hargreaves could see the girl and members of the Sandy Farm staff and family through the kitchen window. They were sitting round the big table. Most of them were nursing mugs of tea or coffee. The conversation seemed to have run out.

Mr Brent, the farmer, had pushed his chair back from the table. He was a shortish powerful man in his mid-fifties with the solidity of a cricket ball. He had an improvised bandage tied round his right hand. His wife, a tall angular woman of matching age, was perched on a kitchen stool by the worktop near him. The daughter of the house and proprietress of the horse part of the business sat with her elbows on the table near the middle of the far side. She was quite tall for a woman and pleasantly rounded. She wore her blonde hair in the inevitable pony tail. She looked nearer thirty than twenty. At the far end of the table were sitting a younger, slimmer girl in her twenties and a girl of about sixteen. With them was the girl he had come to fetch.

Accompanied by the girl Hargreaves retraced his steps across the car park and along the wide concrete path that separated the row of stables, of which the office hut formed part, from the large schooling arena with its surface of sand and what appeared to be shredded motor tyres.

Here’s Miss Field, Sir, said Hargreaves opening the office door for the girl.

Thank you for helping us, Miss Field, Inspector Kirkwall began, pulling out a chair for her which he had arranged next to the office desk, not opposite it, but in a similar arrangement to that found in many doctors' modern consulting rooms. It must have been a very great shock for you - a really rotten business, but if you can manage it, it would really help if you could go over it all again with us from the time you arrived.

Sue Field told how she had arrived at the yard as usual and how as soon as she got out of the car she had realised ‘something was up’ from the noise the horses were making. Those in the loose boxes in the Big Barn seemed particularly unsettled. She spoke fluently and carefully and rather softly. Detective Constable Hargreaves had no difficulty keeping up with her narrative as he noted it all down at a folding table near the door. Inspector Kirkwall seated at the office desk (near the stove) prompted the girl from time to time, asked a few questions and made a few notes of his own.

Sue told them she had hurried down the concrete path between the arena and the stables. She had hurried across the lorry park outside the Big Barn. She had slid open the Barn door and been nearly deafened by the racket of all the twelve thoroughly upset horses within the Barn. The most agitated was Sunbeam who was trotting round and round its loose box shrieking and rushing to the door and kicking it with its front feet while lashing out at the loosebox sides with its back feet from time to time. She had gone to the box and seen the body on the floor.

At this point the narrative trailed away and the WPC stepped forward and gently put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. The girl gulped a couple of times and then continued.

She had known the man on the floor was dead - he couldn’t be alive with Sunbeam trampling all over him every few moments - but she knew she had to make sure and rescue him in the unlikely event of him still being alive.

She had gone to the loosebox door and unbolted it, leaping aside just in time as the horse ‘exploded’ out of the door and bolted out of the Barn, making sparks from its metal shoes on the concrete floor. The farm gates were shut - they could catch him later. She had trained in first aid as part of her riding instructor studies. The man was lying face down. She had gone into the loosebox to see if she could do anything for him. When she touched his arm it was stiff and she had caught sight of the side of his face which was a sort of bluey green colour. There was no doubt he was dead. She had dialled the number of farmer Brent’s mobile. She had told him that someone was dead in the Barn and at this point she had thrown up and couldn’t remember much more very clearly.

Nobody said anything for some moments. The girl gulped a couple of times. The WPC remained standing beside her with a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Do you know who the man was? asked Inspector Kirkwall gently.

No, the girl replied. I don’t think so.

Kirkwall left a pause but the girl didn’t elaborate on what she’d just said.

Gently, Kirkwall elucidated that Miss Field wasn’t employed by the Sandy Farm Riding School and Livery Yard nor was she part of the management. She was an associate and permanently rented two stables that she let to her own customers as required. She specialised in ‘Intelligent Horsemanship’ as pioneered by Monty Roberts and Kelly Marks and she did some remedial training of horses for her customers. Sometimes Sandy Farm put work her way and sometimes she helped them out at busy times when they were pushed, but mostly she attended to her own customers and paid Sandy Farm for the use of their facilities.

You’ve done very well, Miss Field, said Inspector Kirkwall presently. Thank you so much for your help. I’ll get one of the uniformed boys and girls to drive you home. You can come and fetch your car when you feel up to it.

The WPC shepherded the girl away and draped a riding coat that had been lying around in the office over the girl’s shoulders.

Now, there’s a young lady with guts, said Inspector Kirkwall after the door had closed.

And not bad looking! added Hargreaves pronouncing the phrase in a way that left no doubt as to his appreciation of Miss Field’s appearance.

Forget it, Peter, said Kirkwall. To get anywhere with that girl you’d have to be able to ride - not like on the beach but like the wind and judging by your showing on that push bike we had to borrow when we were following that guy with all those ‘duty free’ cigarettes I don’t fancy your chances!

Bit vague about whether she knew the guy who was dead, wasn’t she? queried Hargreaves.

Oh, I don’t know, replied Kirkwall. Poor kid comes to work all as usual and then ‘bingo’ her world’s suddenly full of corpses and killer horses - - I bet you’d be a bit vague. I think she did very well. And don’t forget she didn’t turn him over. Anyway, the Doc’s down in the Barn now. Let’s go and have a look at the corpse ourselves.

You know, there are some aspects of police work I really don’t like, said Hargreaves opening the door for his boss.

Only some? replied the Inspector - - You might make Chief Constable yet.

They walked along the concrete path between the stables and the arena with the cheery red, white and blue striped poles and jump wings that looked like the garden fences of a doll’s house but bigger. Somehow it all seemed rather out of place and forlorn this morning. They crossed the lorry park beyond the arena and entered the Barn, still occupied by noisy, now hungry, horses looking over the doors of their looseboxes and kicking at them. A uniformed constable and WPC stood outside the loosebox at the end of the row. Within the loosebox a grey-haired man in a clean grey double-breasted raincoat crouched beside the body examining it. The doctor and the inspector nodded to each other.

What can you tell us, Doctor? enquired the inspector.

Like what? queried the doctor.

Cause of death, for example,

Blow to the head and many other places with a blunt quadruped, probably a horse.

You’re guessing, said Kirkwall dryly.

Yes, agreed the doctor. May be able to tell more when we get him back to the lab. And if you’re hoping I’ll be able to tell you the time of death was 26 minutes past two this morning, I can’t. The human body doesn’t work like that - I keep telling you guys. All I can say is that on the face of it, it seems probable that he departed this world sometime last evening. I am a bit puzzled though by the lack of blood, he went on. I reckon if you’d had nearly half a ton of horse dancing on your bones for eight or nine hours you’d have spilled more blood than this before you croaked."

Thank you, Doctor, said Kirkwall. You have such a fine way with those long medical words.

Well, if I use the proper ones you blokes don’t understand, concluded the doctor.

**********

James Baker, known to most as Jamie on account of his native accent, walked across a couple of fields with his boss, Arnold Sidcot, in pursuit of Sunbeam, the killer horse. Baker was a little over six feet in height and looked as if he played rugby which indeed he had done while at veterinary college. His habitual expression was a smile and he had an easy confidence about him which went down well with most men and horses. He carried a large rubber horse feeding dish with its handles bent together in one hand. In the other hand he carried a headcollar and leading rope. Arnold Sidcot, proprietor of the Coach House Equestrian Veterinary Practice struggled along with a tartan travelling case containing what he called his ‘field repair kit’.

You want to get yourself something like this, he told Jamie. Something that’s easily seen. Something you can grab up in an emergency and know you’ve got all the stuff you’re most likely to need, at least to start with. This little caseful has saved the day, must be hundreds of times.

I’ll remember that, said Jamie.

They found the horse in the third field where it was restlessly picking at the regrowth that had appeared since the field was grazed off earlier in the Spring. They both went into the field and edged towards the horse in a sort of arc, not seeming to give it any attention.

Keep your eye on this bugger! said Sidcot quietly. It’s a nasty piece of work. Cost that girl, Bobby her leg!

Not that girl who used to hold the horses for us when we came to do the vaccinations - the cheery wee thing?

The same. She was riding it for the new owner when it reared up and went over backwards on her. She was lucky it was just her leg.

When was that?

Week or two ago now. She’s still in hospital. Far as I know she’s OK apart from her leg. Had to take it off below the knee, poor kid.

They put the large black rubber dish down and with apparent casualness withdrew to the vicinity of the hedge where they put the case and the headcollar down and waited.

The horse, a finely built, tall, leggy creature began to sidle towards the plate of food.

Put an end to her chosen profession I should say, went on Sidcot. She was a freelance horse trainer and riding instructor. Used to work here before she went on her own. Got all her BHS letters. She’d ride horses that owners were having bother with to try and put them right. - People think horse work is a dream job for a woman, but it isn’t. It’s poorly paid, with rotten working conditions and most of them get smashed up to some extent in the end! Have you met our Miss Castle yet? - Our customer over Blackborough. - Always rings me on my mobile - never uses the office number. Devoted her life to horses and not got a lot to show for it except a dodgy back. Used to be head groom to Linda Scott the Olympic cross country rider. Then she had her own livery yard, only she went bust. Now there’s just her and her bedsit and her old horse and not much of an old age to look forward to. Then there’s our own Margaret. She was a show jumping star - - -

What, Margaret the telephone - the one that cancels our next call and sends us somewhere different instead?

Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way, said Sidcot, but yes. Margaret who does the reception and takes the calls and keeps the stock of medicines at a safe level and writes your salary cheque, don’t forget that - - -. She used to be a show jumper in quite a big way - - and believe me that world isn’t as squeaky clean as its Christmas image - - that is, until her sponsor decided sponsoring a show jumper wasn’t selling that much more garden furniture than he used to without the horse, so he sold it. Left poor Margaret right up the creek and maybe a little disillusioned, poor thing. - - Still keeps a horse here at this yard.

Jamie himself would not have summed up Margaret’s attitude to life in general and especially to new vets in quite this way but he kept his mouth firmly closed.

At this point the horse started to eat the food in the rubber dish and they waited a bit longer for the Sedalin they had sprinkled on it to take effect.

D’you know which hospital that Bobby girl’s in? asked Jamie.

Presently they were able to walk to the horse and slip its headcollar on. In its drug induced state of tranquillity it walked with them like a proverbial lamb. They led it towards the isolation box where it had been agreed to keep it.

Do you know whether the new owner had the horse vetted before she bought it? enquired Jamie as they walked.

Yes she did, replied his boss, and thank God it wasn’t us. The horse was obviously full of ABX but she didn’t ask for a blood test.

You’d think her vets would have spotted something and warned her, suggested Jamie.

Yes - I don’t think they did very well, replied Sidcot. It’s not uncommon these days tranquillising dangerous horses when people come to try them out and this ABX is very effective. I’d like to find whose getting the stuff for them and get the bastards struck off.

**********

When Kirkwall and Hargreaves left the Barn the police photographer was busy capturing the details of the fatal scene for future reference.

Can you get a picture to me of the guy’s face, Kirkwall called to the photographer. You know, clean the image up a bit so it doesn’t look like something from the Chamber of Horrors - something I can flash around without people fainting. Might give us a lead on who he was without having to sift through missing persons.

The fingerprint specialist was dusting any likely looking surface in and on the loosebox without much result and an ambulance had arrived to take the body to the mortuary at the County Hospital.

Kirkwall and Hargreaves walked back towards the farmhouse and ‘their’ office.

Whereas Miss Field’s account had been full and her replies to questions had been as helpful as possible Kirkwall and Hargreaves found Miss Brent’s replies short and her account of events as seen by her was rather minimalistic. Moreover, she threatened to bring the BHS down on them like the Wrath of God if they didn’t at once allow her and her helpers to get on and feed, water and attend to the horses. She was quite, quite sure she had no notion of who the deceased might be in spite of not seeing a photograph or the body itself. Peter Hargreaves broke off taking notes to query her certainty concerning this point and found himself looking into the bluest blue eyes he had ever seen. His query remained unanswered.

Inspector Kirkwall thanked her for her help without much enthusiasm and told her that she was quite free to see to the horses now.

That girl knows a lot more than she wants to say, said Kirkwall as they watched through the office window as she walked up the path to the house.

But she looks so - - well - - nice, said Hargreaves.

Don’t forget, young Peter, the Nazis went very big on blue eyes and blonde hair,

And who’s this BHS she was on about so much? asked Hargreaves.

British Horse Society, answered Kirkwall, They’re like the Maffia only it’s harder to get in and they’re more deadly! Oh, and you have to be a woman to get to the top.

Sort of Godmother, suggested Hargreaves.

Giles Brent, confirmed what his daughter had told them and added a little more here and there.

The horse, Sunbeam, was known to be dangerous and the girls who worked at the yard had strict instructions not to do anything to it or with it unless there were at least two of them there. A new customer of the livery yard had bought it from a vendor a little distance away. It had been advertised as a quiet ‘schoolmaster’ horse suitable for an eager teenager. The lady who had bought it and Bobby Darrant, ex-employee and now freelance ‘rough rider’ had gone to try it out before purchase and it had, in fact, been fine. It had been examined by a vet but as far as he knew the instructions to the vet had not, unfortunately, included a blood test. The purchase had been completed and the horse had been brought to Sandy Farm where it was to be kept. He and the others soon noted that its stable manners weren’t up to much and it did a lot of baring its teeth and turning its back end to people as if about to kick them. However, this was put down to unfamiliarity with its surroundings and things continued in hope. After several days to settle in, while the new owner had bought it a new saddle and new rugs and all the luxuries with which a posh horse is fitted out, the new owner had ridden it in the arena at the farm. It had bucked her off on to the rails in short order and the poor lady had hurt her back.

Bobby Darrant was sent for again and asked to ride it and try and instil some less antisocial behaviour. Farmer Brent told how, within half a minute of Bobby getting on, Sunbeam had thrown a bucking fit but unable to shift its rider in this way it had reared right up vertical and then past the vertical and had fallen on its back, landing partly on top of Bobby who had had to be rushed to hospital where her right leg had been amputated below the knee. The poor owner who had already been heartbroken, as her dream since girlhood turned so sour, now became distraught and was apparently causing those