Judas Horse

Chapter 5

Jack watched Maggie from the lounge door as she breastfed Hannah. It seemed clear that sucking and breathing at the same time was impossible, so Hannah would noisily drag air in through her nose in between guzzles, while something sounded like it was gurgling at the back of her throat — milk? Phlegm? It sounded horrible. ‘She’s so noisy,’ he said with a frown.

‘She’s this noisy at midnight, and 2 a.m., and 4 a.m. Doesn’t seem to disturb you too much then,’ Maggie replied. She said it gently, but Jack knew she was exhausted and couldn’t help pointing out how easy Jack had it in comparison.

Maggie looked down at Hannah, their eyes met and they gazed at each other. Maggie had once told Jack that a newborn baby’s eyesight was only clear between eight and twelve inches; beyond that everything was blurred. Eight to twelve inches was the distance between the faces of mother and baby when feeding, so nature had very purposefully designed a baby’s vision to see Mum far more clearly than the rest of the world. As Jack watched Maggie interact with Hannah so naturally, despite himself his thoughts drifted to Trudie Nunn. Jack’s inadequate birth-mother had clearly had none of the maternal instinct he was watching at work here. She’d walked away from him as a baby, leaving him with his Aunt Fran who, after months of struggling to look after him in addition to her own family, had finally handed Jack over to the fostering system. How fickle they must both have been to walk away from their own flesh and blood, he thought. And how incredibly special Charlie and Penny Warr had been, to love a baby that wasn’t theirs.

‘What are you grinning at?’ Maggie’s question broke into Jack’s moment of reminiscing.

‘I was thinking about Dad.’

There was such a soft, loving look in Jack’s eyes that Maggie knew he was talking about Charlie Warr, not Harry Rawlins. Maggie held out her hand and Jack moved to her side. He leant in and kissed Hannah’s forehead, then rested his own head on Maggie’s shoulder. Hannah’s eyes moved to Jack and explored his face with such intensity that it felt as though she was staring into his soul. Jack whispered to his daughter, ‘I’m going to tell you all about your grandad when you’re older. I hope I can be half the dad he was.’ Maggie stroked Jack’s hair as Hannah continued to take in every inch of his face. Then Hannah smiled and Jack gasped. ‘Look, Mags. She smiled at me.’ Maggie lovingly kissed Jack’s head and decided not to tell him that Hannah had just farted on her knee.

DI Joseph Gifford was outside the police station, waiting for Jack’s taxi to arrive. Parked behind him was a blue Vauxhall Corsa that had seen better days: this would be Jack’s transport for the duration of his stay in the Cotswolds. This station was tiny compared to even the smallest of London nicks, and Jack’s parking space had been stolen from a uniformed sergeant.

Gifford was a short, dumpy man, at least two inches shorter than Jack. His deep voice and rotund appearance gave him the look of an opera singer. He greeted Jack with a handshake that could crush bones, suggesting a streetwise toughness belied by Gifford’s rather sheltered upbringing and uneventful rise up the ranks. ‘Welcome, Jack. Good to have you on board.’

The station was a three-storey, characterless new-build forming an ugly blot on the beautiful Cotswold landscape. The inside was as dull as the outside, and the squad room looked like any other office. If it hadn’t been for the evidence board displaying crime scene photos, it could easily have been mistaken for an estate agent’s. Gifford led Jack to an empty desk near the window, so he could admire the view whilst ploughing through the huge pile of files and statements waiting for him. ‘My office is over there,’ Gifford said with a frown, pointing to a partitioned corner of the main room, which wasn’t really an office at all.

‘Oaks!’ A young male officer promptly appeared at Gifford’s side. ‘DC William Oaks, DS Jack Warr from the Met. Oaks will show you round and answer any questions. He’s been involved from the off, so he knows his stuff.’ Then Gifford pulled his mobile from his pocket and headed to his office to read his messages.

‘Drink?’ Oaks asked, and, with that one word, Jack knew that Oaks did not want him there. Jack declined the drink and instead asked Oaks to sit and talk him through the case notes. Within minutes, Jack had made Oaks feel so important that the young DC was putty in his hands. Oaks’s strong Gloucestershire roots gave him one of those accents that unfortunately made him sound like a yokel; but it was soon clear to Jack that he was as sharp as a tack and had a natural aptitude for the job. And Oaks also clearly cared about the work he did here. That’s why he was initially hostile towards Jack, because he was embarrassed that they’d reached a dead end in the case. Jack knew that he’d do well to keep Oaks close, as he’d be far more acceptable to the local homeowners than a stranger from out of town. After an hour of learning, Jack knocked on Gifford’s office door. ‘If it’s all right with you, sir, I’ll settle into my digs, then have a look around.’

Oaks had driven less than half a mile down the road, when he pulled into a layby. His head was turned away from Jack. ‘Sir...’ he muttered in a shamefaced tone. Oaks plucked up the courage to look at Jack before continuing, ‘I’ve booked you into a right shithole. Me and the lads thought it’d be funny, see. Well, not funny, just... I don’t know. When the Guvnor said a DS from the Met was coming to help out, we... well, we thought you’d come in all bluff ’n’ balls, bossing us about and treating us like we didn’t know how to do the job. So, I booked you into a shithole.’

Jack wanted to laugh out loud at Oaks’s naïve honesty, but instead kept a straight face. ‘Why are you telling me?’ he asked in the sternest tone he could muster.

‘’Cos, I changed my mind. This B&B we’re heading for now is no way to welcome you.’

When Jack finally smiled, his entire face softened and his eyes glowed. Oaks knew immediately that he was forgiven. ‘My cousin, Blair, runs The Fox Hunters in the centre of town. Lovely place. I’ll take you there.’

Jack nodded happily. ‘Let’s go the scenic route, please, DC Oaks. I want to get a feel for the area.’

The Cotswolds were sprinkled with chocolate-box houses, hedged fields and a variety of roaming animals. ‘Them hedges look easy to nick sheep over, right?’ Oaks’s upbeat tone when posing the question made it obvious that them hedges held a secret. ‘From roadside, they’re waist height, but on the field-side most have got a wide trench filled with brambles. No way you can get sheep out over that. I had to cut a tourist’s dog out of a bramble trench once. He’d spotted the sheep, leapt the hedge and landed in, well, it’s like barbed wire once you’re in the middle of it. Poor thing had to be put down... should have been the owner who was put down, in my opinion.’

Everywhere Jack looked there were roads and pubs that gave a proud nod to their long-gone yesteryears — The Railway Tavern was no longer anywhere near a working railway, The Horse and Groom pub had converted its stables into a car park now filled with Land Rovers, and Jack was 100 per cent certain that Oaks’s cousin who owned The Fox Hunters was not, in fact, a fox hunter.

All in all, old and new seemed to co-exist relatively neatly. Even old decommissioned red phone boxes had been reassigned and most now contained defibrillators — presumably to save the lives of overweight, city-dwelling ramblers when they succumbed to heart attacks after thinking that one week of healthy living in the fresh air could make up for fifty-one weeks of a sedentary lifestyle.

Jack noted that a lot of the villages and small towns tended to be served by one main road, meaning there was only one way in and out, so, unlike London burglars, the perpetrators here would not be able to escape like rats in a maze. Which prompted the question, why had Gifford and his team not caught them yet?

As Oaks turned the next corner, he was pulled up by temporary traffic lights. From the opposite direction, three lorries carrying farming equipment and supplies rumbled past, followed by a couple of horseboxes and a half dozen cars. ‘Where’s all of this traffic coming from and going to? How do you keep track of these bigger vehicles?’ Jack asked. ‘Do you recognise all of them?’

‘Most,’ Oaks answered. ‘The riding schools have their logo on the side of their horseboxes, so they’re easy to spot. The unbranded horseboxes belong to renters; I wouldn’t know who’s got them week to week. Horse shows bring thousands of outsiders in, of course; some rent boxes, some bring their own. And the lorries... some are transporting big equipment to and from local farms; some are European, passing through. We’ve seen dozens of local petitions asking us to force the lorries to go around, but we can’t.’

Jack was intrigued by just how confusing this community actually was. There were so many people who didn’t permanently belong. He speculated that a stranger would certainly be noticed, but also ignored, as they’d be assumed to be one of the numerous transients who pass through every week. Jack’s view of the investigation had radically changed in a moment. Now he was thinking, How on earth could Gifford and his team be expected to keep track of everyone?

‘Now I can see your big problem, Oaks,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You live in a moveable community. Private renters with their own staff coming and going every week, famous faces taking a break from life, weekend wanderers, second homes, tourists, horse shows. Fuck me.’ Oaks snorted out a laugh at Jack’s profanity. ‘These burglaries are quick and slick, right?’ Jack continued as the lights finally turned green and Oaks pulled away.

‘Yes, sir. I’d say they were targeted but, truth is, you could break into any of these out-of-the-way houses and you’d probably hit the jackpot. The gang definitely has electronics knowledge ’cos security systems and safes don’t cause them any bother. We had one old fella last month, took him days to notice he’d even been robbed. They went straight for his collection of watches in the dressing table, see, and he never knew till he was getting ready for some golfing awards ceremony. He called his insurance company before he called us. The problem with that burglary, sir, and one of the reasons my guvnor called yours, was that the old fella reckons he must have been asleep in bed on the night they robbed him, ’cos he’d been ill with flu. They wouldn’t have known that, and thankfully he was dosed up on Night Nurse, so didn’t wake up. But it’s only a matter of time before they bump into a homeowner, and I reckon they’d not think twice about killing someone. I mean, if you can stick a letter opener into the ear of old Jonty, you can kill a man...’ Oaks shook his head sadly. ‘How does all that compare to your burglaries in Wimbledon, sir?’

‘These are worse,’ Jack said grimly. ‘Because you’re right, if this gang comes up against a homeowner, things could get out of hand very quickly.’ Jack glanced at Oaks and noted the new worry on his face. ‘But burglars always exhibit patterns of behaviour. What we need to do is find the pattern your guys are leaving behind. Then we can get ahead of them.’

The Fox Hunters was an old sandstone building with wonky walls and small, cross-hatched leaded windows that no longer fitted into their frames. In the reception area, the exposed stonework and wooden beams were tastefully maintained and minimally decorated... but in the bar, the homage to the past had gone into overdrive. The walls here were almost completely covered with sepia photos, horse brasses and tack, and old leather ‘things’ that Jack couldn’t even begin to identify. But the deliberately antiquated feel of the place was in stark contrast to its current incumbent, the 20-year-old, much-tattooed Blair, who looked exactly like a pretty, feminine version of DC William Oaks.

Jack sat on a narrow, creaky bench to call Maggie whilst his new best mate booked him in. Maggie quickly answered, told him to FaceTime, then hung up.

Hannah’s face filled the entire screen! ‘Can you see her?’ Maggie’s voice was unnecessarily loud. ‘Say hello to Daddy.’ Jack looked around the bar. It was scattered with older men nursing pints and reading the newspaper whilst on a long lunch and they could hear Maggie as clearly as Jack could. ‘Hello, Daddy. Talk to her, Jack. She knows your voice.’

‘Mags,’ Jack whispered, unsuccessfully trying to turn the volume down on his mobile, ‘Mags, I’m not talking to the baby. I’m not... Mags, please.’ Jack glanced up to see Oaks dipping under the doorframe and openly sniggering at him. ‘I’m hanging up, Mags.’

Back at the station, Jack told Gifford that he’d like to start at the beginning by re-interviewing one of the very first victims, Maisie Fullworth, as she was their one and only eye-witness to any of the burglaries. Gifford shook his head. ‘Can’t. Maisie’s a delicate girl and has a very overprotective mum. Currently, she’s with her aunt in Swindon.’ Jack’s face showed little sympathy. He accepted that Maisie was only 15 at the time of the burglary, and it would have undoubtedly been traumatic to wake and find a man standing in her bedroom. But that was back in 2018. ‘This is a perfect example of what we’re up against, Jack,’ Gifford explained. ‘Mrs Fullworth is a high court judge in Oxford. If she says we can’t interview Maisie, then we can’t interview Maisie. Her statement’s here, but that’s all you’ll be getting. Oaks!’

Oaks interpreted the booming of his name as an instruction to relay Maisie’s statement.

‘Maisie was woken at 2 a.m. by a noise that she said sounded like someone standing on the creaky floorboard just outside her bedroom. She sat up in bed and, in the mirror of her open wardrobe door, she saw the outline of a man. From the description, which wasn’t bad actually for a scared young girl, he was of medium build and over six feet tall. She guessed his height based on looking at me. He got away with a diamond engagement ring and £500 in cash.’

Gifford looked over Jack’s shoulder at his small team of six men and women. Jack followed his gaze. ‘Why don’t you introduce me before curiosity kills them?’

In the squad room they sat low in their seats, arms folded, ready to be told how to do their jobs by ‘the man from the Met’. But Jack’s opening words instantly threw them off-balance. ‘Thank you for welcoming me to your patch. Don’t get me wrong, I’m the one in charge now and I’ll lead from the front until this gang is behind bars. But I recognise that I’m coming to this case with all of the excellent groundwork already done. So, thank you.’ Then Jack went in for the kill. ‘This gang will not move on and disappear for good. They will not escalate to murder, which I know is your biggest concern. We will get them. And you will have your moment.’

A hand reached out for Jack’s. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s good to have you here.’ Oaks spoke with all the maturity of a seasoned detective constable. Jack took his hand and, with that single act, he was accepted into the Chipping Norton team.