Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [70]
A rug hung over the open door to the third loose box, and he headed towards it. ‘Hello?’ he called.
No reply.
He looked inside but it was empty. He continued along the row and found the seventh stable was the only one occupied. A chestnut gelding, with the name Jester on his head collar, poked his nose over the door. Then, in the distance, Goodhew heard the bay whinny again and was soon able to pick out the sound of hooves. Unlike the others, the horse that was now being ridden into the yard was a thoroughbred. She was a grey and definitely no youngster, walking towards the boxes with the reins hanging loose around her neck. A Border collie trotted alongside, only inches from her hooves.
Her rider wore a crash hat and a wax jacket with its collar turned up, making it impossible for him to catch more than a glimpse of her face.
‘Jackie Moran?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘Yes, that’s me. Give me one minute to sort Suze out.’ She patted the mare’s neck, then swung out of the saddle, landing lightly on the balls of her feet. She led the horse into the third box as the collie sat with its back to Goodhew in the middle of the doorway and watched the untacking. Jackie Moran rugged up Suze, then hauled the saddle on to the door and hooked the bridle on a nearby peg. Neither animal attempted to move until the collie was forced to get out of the path of the closing door.
‘Which way today, Bridy?’ The dog chose the stable and Jackie Moran slid the bolt behind her. ‘She’s a lazy old girl, sleeps half the day now.’
Goodhew guessed she meant the dog.
‘They’re both the same,’ she added, immediately making his guess irrelevant. ‘How can I help you?’ Before he had a chance to reply, she corrected herself, and thus drew an end to her initial informality. ‘I suppose what I should first find out is who you are and what you want.’ She pulled the crash hat from her head and ran her fingers just once through her brown hair, as if that would be enough to unflatten it.
He introduced himself and her expression remained unaltered: cooperative, but not up for having her time wasted. She didn’t need to say ‘Get on with it’, because it was written on her face.
‘I’m here about Lorna Spence.’
‘Thought you might be,’ she said. Perhaps she’d taken stock of him taking stock of her, and she deliberately paused before adding, ‘You’re very young, aren’t you?’, like it was the only thing she’d found worth a mention.
He just shrugged in response.
‘We can sit in there.’ She pointed towards the first stable in the block. ‘Will that be OK?’ She looked hopeful; whatever was in the horsebox-cum-lounge clearly appealed to her. ‘At least it’s dry.’
‘Fine.’ He gave her the ‘after you’ gesture. ‘Go ahead.’
She unbolted both halves of the stable door and he followed her inside. The horsebox-cum-lounge was actually more a horsebox-cum-storeroom with bales of hay and straw, two feed bins and a pile of buckets. She then closed the bottom half of the door – perhaps in the pretence of warmth – and moved two bales so they could sit on them, almost side by side, facing the door.
‘I take the tack and grooming kit home each night to reduce the chance of break-ins. When I was a teenager, I used to bring a sleeping bag and camp out in here, so I could get up early and ride, but I’d never do that now.’
They each sat on a bale, Jackie with her feet planted squarely in front of her, and one hand on each knee; she looked like she was bracing herself.
‘Lorna Spence?’ Goodhew repeated, and let the name hang in the air, hoping she’d conjure up the appropriate question that went with the name. She did.
‘We weren’t close friends, you know, but I liked her and we seemed to get on OK. She helped me exercise the horses once or twice each week.’
‘She rode well?’
‘Very riding-school.’ He looked puzzled, she explained. ‘She’d been taught well, but obviously hadn’t ridden enough to be an unconsciously