A Jess Bridges Mystery
White Horse
JOSS STIRLING
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Joss Stirling 2020
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Joss Stirling asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008422615
Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008422608
Version: 2020-09-17
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: Leo
Chapter 2: Jess
Chapter 3: Leo
Chapter 4: Jess
Chapter 5: Leo
Chapter 6: Jess
Chapter 7: Jess
Chapter 8: Michael
Chapter 9: Jess
Chapter 10: Leo
Chapter 11: Leo
Chapter 12: Jess
Chapter 13: Leo
Chapter 14: Jess
Chapter 15: Leo
Chapter 16: Leo
Chapter 17: Michael
Chapter 18: Leo
Chapter 19: Jess
Chapter 20: Leo
Chapter 21: Jess
Chapter 22: Leo
Chapter 23: Jess
Chapter 24: Michael
Chapter 25: Leo
Chapter 26: Leo
Chapter 27: Jess
Chapter 28: Leo
Chapter 29: Jess
Chapter 30: Leo
Chapter 31: Jess
Chapter 32: Leo
Chapter 33: Jess
Chapter 34: Leo
Chapter 35: Leo
Chapter 36: Jess
Chapter 37: Leo
Chapter 38: Jess
Chapter 39: Jess
Chapter 40: Leo
Chapter 41: Jess
Chapter 42: Leo
Chapter 43: Jess
Chapter 44: Jess
Chapter 45: Leo
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Joss Stirling
About the Publisher
To Caroline Walsh – thank you for many years of working together. You’ve always been a rock of stability through the ups and downs of the book world – you are much appreciated!
Chapter 1
Leo
Detective Inspector Leo George knew that death was never pretty, but sometimes it had an infernal majesty, like a fallen angel. It opened a fracture in daily life to remind humanity that we were always standing on the edge of an abyss.
The body was stretched out along the back of the White Horse. She rode on the chalk figure cut from the turf three thousand years ago by unknown hands. The hands that put the victim here were equally mysterious, though only the work of a few hours ago. The girl’s blank face stared up at the dawn sky. How long had she been here? Were the skies dark when she died? wondered Leo. This was too popular a destination for walkers to allow for a body to be left here during daylight hours without anyone noticing.
Leo wished he could take her away from this awful stage-setting, but that was not the job.
He moved round the victim with as much care as he could, hard though that was to do in the white boiler suit and blue coveralls for his shoes. These made him feel as if he were in some clumsy mascot suit for a grim Disney parade. He paused to take in the scene from a new angle. The blood had trickled downhill so that it stained the chalk like a cut to the horse’s neck.
Such a waste of a young life.
The girl’s pale skin was now flushed with an unnatural warmth as a finger of light groped in from the east. The sun had just edged over the crest of the Downs, an ancient landscape of trackways and chalk hills. He stood in the dark and silent past while over to the southwest, modern Swindon with its electric lights and wind turbines hummed awake.
The police pathologist, Geraldine Jones, strode down the bank towards Leo. The White Horse lay just off the crest of the hill, best seen from across the valley rather than at close quarters.
‘So, what’ve you got for me, Leo?’ She always acted as if Leo laid out the victims for her like a banquet he had specially prepared.
He responded as usual with a calm recitation of the facts. You cannot bring emotion on to a murder site, no matter how you may hate what you see.
‘Morning, Gerry. Apologies for the early hour. The body of a young woman, Caucasian, blonde, probably in her late teens or early twenties. Dressed in a white robe fastened at the waist with rope – hemp rather than nylon. Single stab to the heart, done precisely, a small puncture wound so there is little blood splatter but she then bled out. No sign yet of the weapon but we’re looking. She is arranged on the chalk-cut horse so she appears to be lying on its back near the neck.’
Geraldine nodded and crossed her arms, taking her first good look. She made a stocky figure in her wellingtons and overalls, auburn hair caught up in a neat coil at the back of her head. You could imagine Geraldine as a vet, birthing calves from labouring cows, or administering shots to a sick elephant. She had chosen instead the life of a pathologist, the last person to care for the dead.
‘Are you thinking a ceremonial killing?’ she asked. The photographer crouched to get a closeup of the hip where it touched the chalk line. A blood-pattern expert took measurements of the splatter marks.
‘Has to be a possibility. The white robe looks handmade. We’re a few weeks off Halloween so it’s not so likely to be a fancy-dress party or student prank gone wrong.’
‘OK, leave her with me. I’ll let you know what I find.’
Leo walked away, consigning the dead to the forensic experts. His scene of crime team were already organising a search of the approaches to the White Horse, with particular care being taken around the car park and footpath that led there. The victim wasn’t wearing shoes and her feet showed no sign of dirt or abrasion, which meant she didn’t walk here like that. She either hiked in, changed, and her belongings were hidden or removed, or she came by car, dead or alive, and was carried. Leo hoped the forensics would be able to tell him.
DS Wong, a young high-flyer in CID, was interviewing the couple who found her. Leo had asked Suyin to do so rather than his other sergeant, Harry Boston, as Harry had already described them as fucking tree-huggers on the strength of the crystals dangling from the driver’s mirror. Leo suspected that the unlucky pair had come up here for a spiritual dawn vigil only to find a very different experience awaited them.
From the snatches he overheard, Suyin had the interview well under control so he circled the car park. Their campervan was the only vehicle apart from those belonging to the police and the National Trust warden. Powder blue, it had seen better days, rust eating its way up the wheel arches. Peering through the windows, he could see piles of blankets, sleeping bags, clothes. A reason and a warrant to search it would be welcome but so far the team was taking the witnesses at face value.
Harry busied himself logging the contents of the waste bin into evidence. It would be sorted out in the lab.
‘Do we have to do the dog bin too?’ he asked, nose wrinkling in disgust. Harry Boston had the bearing and stature of a heavyweight boxer just going to seed but it was wise not to forget he knew how to deliver a punch. Harry was no fan of Leo’s promotion above him in rank, protesting that Leo had not served as many years on the streets.
‘That’s correct, Harry. Bag it all up. There’s no sign of a weapon or her belongings so we have to be certain they weren’t hidden somewhere here.’
Harry knew this; he was just pushing at Leo, chipping away at his authority. ‘Any word on her identity?’ he asked, waving on the constable who had the unenvied task of bagging up the dog waste.
‘I’ve asked Missing Persons to run her, but no luck yet. We will have more chance of finding out who she is when her description goes out on the morning news.’
‘Yeah. She looks too well-groomed to be long-term homeless. Someone is going to notice she’s not where she should be.’ Harry got out a cigarette, saw Leo’s look, and put it away again. ‘The National Trust wants a word.’ He indicated a man wearing a green fleece with the trust’s logo, standing miserably by his jeep. The National Trust managed public access to the site which included the chalk figure of the White Horse and the nearby Iron Age hillfort called Uffington Castle. The warden’s face was grey and craggy, his hair and beard white; he looked like a Biblical patriarch brought unwillingly to modern times.
‘Thanks.’ As Leo walked away, the cigarette came out again. Leo had long since decided to pick his battles with Harry. This wasn’t one of them. ‘Mr Chamberlain? Hello, I’m Inspector George, Thames Valley. I’m the senior officer in charge of this investigation.’
The warden shook hands. He had the calloused grip of a gardener who digs the soil, one of Leo’s off-duty tribe. ‘Bad business this.’ His voice rang deep and resonant, the kind used to introduce trailers of epic films. ‘I spend my life chasing off vandals, advertisers, and druids who all want to use this site for their own ends, but this is worse than anything I’ve seen.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Desecration, that’s what it is.’
If murder wasn’t so wretched, Leo would have enjoyed hearing this modern-day Moses say words like ‘desecration’. ‘You think the site is holy in some way?’
He looked uncomfortable with the question. ‘Not sure I’d go that far, Inspector, but sacred to our island story. It’s the first great artwork we know of in England.’
Leo turned to look back up the hill. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’
‘It would have had some practical purpose. A sign to warn off outsiders, maybe? But it is delivered with such minimalist style and flair; artists still struggle to beat it.’
Leo had to agree with him. A horse galloping across the brow of a hill described in five lines. It was the spirit of the horse, not one of the Iron Age’s stubby British ponies. It anticipated the arrival of the Arabian horses several millennia later, the same ones that now stocked the racehorse studs thriving close by on the Downs. ‘My colleague said you wanted a word. How can I help you?’
‘I realise my concerns are petty in the face of that –’ his gaze went to the ambulance making its way to the White Horse ‘– but I just wanted to ask how long you think the site will be closed off to the public?’
That was always the challenge for a murder enquiry: the police were stuck at the moment of death while others pressed for life to go on. ‘Shut at least for today, maybe longer, depending on what we find. This site as well as the approaches. I suggest you use the old standby of closed “until further notice”. Are you a local man, Mr Chamberlain?’ He had responded very quickly to the call, getting here only minutes after Leo.
‘Yes. I live in the village just down there.’ He pointed into the Vale of the White Horse where lights twinkled. ‘My house is on the edge of Kingston Beauchamp, near St Martin’s Church.’ Leo knew from weekend drives that the villages in the valley were picture-postcard English with thatched houses, stone buildings, slow rivers, and shady old trees.
‘Would you say it’s a small community where most people know each other?’
He scratched at his beard. ‘People are much less friendly than when I first moved to the area. But I know a few of the families.’
‘It would be helpful if you would look at a photograph of the victim, in case you recognise her.’
‘Oh, I … I suppose I can do that.’ His gaze shifted over Leo’s left shoulder as another van pulled in. That would be more scene of crime officers arriving, hopefully with the blood detection dog Leo had requested to sniff out the trail of the murderer leaving the scene.
Leo drew the warden’s attention back to the photo. ‘I should warn you that this is a photo of the victim. You don’t have to do this, but it would be helpful to our enquiries.’
He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Oh God. What if I see someone I know?’
‘We have no idea at this stage if she is a local but the facts aren’t going to change, Mr Chamberlain, whoever you see in the photo.’
‘It’s just that I’ve never been very good with that stuff. I chose a quiet life working for the National Trust. You need my older brother – he was the one who went into the army. Yes, you need Roger. He lives in the village too.’
He was trying to push Leo off onto his brother which was an odd ducking of responsibility for a mature man. Leo would’ve moved away rather than take a job near a relative who always made him feel like that. Some patterns set in childhood never changed though. ‘But he’s not here and you are. Will you do it?’
Breathing deeply through his nose, the warden gave a nod. Leo showed him a closeup of the girl’s face, one the photographer had taken as soon as there was enough light. He released a breath.
‘No, I don’t know her, thank God. That fair hair is distinctive, isn’t it?’ She was almost platinum blonde with pale eyebrows, suggesting that the colour was natural. ‘No, I’m fairly certain she’s not from one of the village families.’
‘Thank you, Mr Chamberlain.’
He drew a hand over his eyes. ‘I wish I could unsee it now.’
‘Believe me, there are much worse things.’ This girl looked almost peaceful in her death. In fact, her perfection might have been what the killer wanted. That was certainly something to add to the report.
‘I bet there are.’ The warden’s smile was friendly now that the ordeal was over and he had done his bit.
‘Thank you, Mr Chamberlain. No more questions for the moment. We’ll will be in touch if there’re any follow-ups.’
‘You’ll be down in the valley later?’ he asked, getting into his jeep.
Leo rested his hand on the door frame to detain him. ‘She had to come from somewhere. Please don’t talk about the victim to anyone, particularly any details you may have gleaned about how she was found.’
‘Don’t worry, Inspector. I’m not the kind to run my mouth off.’ Leo dropped his hand and the warden started his car. As he drove away, the black Labrador in the passenger seat started barking, lunging at the window to reach Leo, and not with friendly intent.
There came a shout from the footpath that led out of the car park. It went in the opposite direction to the White Horse, along the ancient Ridgeway, heading for the barrow of Wayland’s Smithy, a mile southwest.
‘Sir, sir, we’ve found something!’
Chapter 2
Jess
Flicking through a book on paganism, I was accosted by German elves. Their leader, an Orlando Bloom wannabe, addressed me in what I suspected was Elvish.
‘Sorry, I don’t speak that dialect,’ I said. ‘You could try me with Vulcan but I don’t speak that either.’
This flummoxed them. ‘Dwarvish?’ the elf lord asked, really trying hard to find something in common.
I tapped my pointed ears and then my fake uptick eyebrows. ‘Not an elf – or a dwarf. I’m Spock, or maybe his sister.’ I leaned closer and said in a confidential manner, ‘You see, I’m not exactly taking this seriously.’
Star Trek cosplay was evidently despised by those who fancy themselves one of the Elder Race. The little flock of elves swivelled away in a flap of grey cloaks.
‘Live long and prosper!’ I called after them.
This was brilliant. I just loved it here. Michael’s promise that the Frankfurt Book Fair would be fun had been fulfilled in spades, or in photon torpedoes, as I should say in my current garb. I was in a huge exhibition centre, one hall of many, surrounded by books and freaky people like me who thought donning a costume was a great way to spend their Saturday. I had a little game going with myself where I tried to identify who was who. I was batting about half and half: some good hits, but many whizzed by me, showing me that I was well behind on all the new series that had been spawned by the growth of streaming services. So far, I had spotted the entire superhero universe, or several universes; enough Witcher and Game of Thrones characters to stage a battle between them without CGI-ed extras; some steampunk gangs from … I wasn’t sure where; a few Discworld (I thought) refugees; and a motley selection of assassins, aliens, and warrior princesses.
Michael rumbled up in his chair, not avoiding the soft shoe tips of the departing elves in the squash. His ‘sorry’ did not sound at all sincere. I grinned at seeing him dressed as Captain Kirk in a gold sweater and black trousers, blasting his way through the enemy ships. He did this for me, as his part of our bargain that I come with him to the awards ceremony later today.
‘This place is Bedlam!’ he growled. ‘Has everyone gone mad?’
I kissed him on the cheek in sympathy. ‘Everyone was already mad, Michael. I thought you knew?’
He harrumphed but he was smiling now.
‘How was your meeting with the publisher?’ I asked. We were in front of the display of the shortlisted books for the European non-fiction award that he was up for. ‘What’s the news?’ I knew this meant a lot to him, even though he had been trying to play it down for the last two months since the invitation came through.
‘We’re meeting for coffee if you want to come. Petra’s been promised a place in the top two by the organisers,’ he said, scowling now at his competition. Petra was his editor who worked with him on his bestseller, Type M for Murder, his book on the psychology of killers. He based this on his research in secure hospitals for the severely mentally disturbed. On the table before us, Type M found itself banged up with some strange cellmates. There was the book on modern-day paganism I had been leafing through when the elves arrived, called Pagan’s Progress. Next to that was a lament to the lost ecosystems of the American west coast, entitled Last of the Pelicans. The final contender in this rogue’s gallery was a piece on artificial intelligence with the punchy title You Are F*cked. Is that the last message we’re going to get from computers before they do away with us? I wondered. It started so well with ‘Hello, World!’, but I suppose it was the logical progression.
Michael was getting jealous as I lingered over the opposition. ‘What do you think of them?’ he asked.
‘I see you aren’t alone with the literary pun.’
‘Last of the what?’
‘Mohicans … Pelicans. I thought you’d know that since you know everything.’ I had decided, now we were redefining our friendship after our breakup, that I had been put in this world to tease Michael. ‘I note the dishonourable exception among your foursome. It’s taken the “swear at the general public” route that seems so popular at the moment.’ Any trip to a bookshop meant being confronted by a wall of asterisked covers, your brain supplying the obvious swear words intended.
‘A cliché,’ he sniffed. ‘Cheap ploy to grab attention.’
I secretly thought it worked but he didn’t want to hear that. ‘Absolutely. And you should never judge a book by its cover, of course. That’s what I’d call my book.’
‘You? Write a book?’
We headed for the café where he had arranged to meet Petra. ‘Is that so impossible to imagine?’
He wisely pleaded the Fifth.
‘Anyway, my book will be called Don’t Judge Me by My Cover. Good, hey?’
‘Too many words. Mine’s a black coffee; the lady will have a hot chocolate,’ he told the barista.
‘Don’t you just love that it’s cold enough to have hot chocolate again?’ I hugged my arms to myself. October had arrived and it was chilly here by the doors to the smoking area. I had a pack in my bag but Michael had been moaning at me to kick the habit. Sometimes we still acted like a couple even though we had theoretically got through that.
‘Do you ever stop drinking it?’
He had me there. ‘On very hot days.’
‘Jessica, you always have a cappuccino in the morning, hot chocolate in the afternoon, white wine in the evening.’ He paid for our drinks and I carried them to a table.
‘I don’t!’
‘You do.’
Actually, he might have been right. ‘OK, maybe I do. I’m sure I drink tea too.’ I swiped the dirty cups into the bin to clear a space.
‘Not in cafés.’
‘I’m not paying two quid for hot water and a teabag! I could make that at home for next to nothing.’ I moved a stool so he could bring his chair closer. ‘Some days, though, I have been known to cut out the hot drinks and just stick to the wine. I’m a purist that way. It’s my Drink Wine and Die Young but Happy Diet. I should pitch it to a publisher.’
He snorted in his patrician way. ‘You’re glossing over the risk of liver disease and alcoholism.’
‘Always such a party pooper. Anyway, I’m not being serious.’
‘With you, it’s sometimes hard to tell.’
‘Meow!’ I grinned approvingly at his bitchiness. ‘Point to you.’
His smile turned more reflective. ‘I remember that you did have a phase of drinking green tea.’
That was when I had been with Drew, my ex, who had given me up for the life of a vegan yoga teacher. I didn’t think he had struggled much with the exchange, not like I had. He led me to my rebound guy, Jago, who in turn had swum off into the wild blue yonder on his latest documentary project, with fond feelings and no regrets. My record with men was about as good as my communication with German elves.
Petra approached with a gaggle of her publisher friends. I liked Michael’s editor. I sensed she was hiding him from a life of chaos under the pretence of ruthless efficiency. There was a slightly desperate look in her grey eyes, and an attitude of feverishly attacking life, that I recognised from the mirror. She had her red hair in a feathered cut that framed her face, but neatness went out the window when she was stressed and it stuck up like ruffled plumes on a hen.
‘Michael, Jess, I’ve brought some people I think you should meet before this evening. Michael, this is Tanglewood White, author of—’
‘Yes, I know, Pagan’s Progress.’ Michael smiled tightly at the fifty-something woman with platinum blonde hair that brushed the nape of her neck. I knew he’d very much prefer not to see his rivals as it was far easier to disparage them from afar. He lifted his hand from his lap to the waiting woman. ‘Good to meet you.’