A Room Full of Bones: A Ruth Galloway Investigation

paper. ‘To Katie,’ Ruth reads. ‘From Dad.’

CHAPTER 5
     
    Nelson drives slowly through narrow wooded lanes. He drives slowly because the countryside always makes him feel nervous, because it has been raining and there are gullies of water running in the ditches and because, every few yards, there are signs warning him to be careful of racehorses. Nelson takes the frequency of the signs to mean that he is nearing Lord Smith’s racing stables. ‘Hope you don’t mind coming to see me down on the farm, so to speak,’ Smith had said on the phone. ‘It’s just that it’s hard to take time off from the yard.’ ‘I’ll come early,’ Nelson had promised. ‘Great,’ replied Smith, ‘I get up at five. The first lot pulls out at six.’ Nelson had no idea what this meant but he knew when he was beaten. He agrees to arrive at seven.
    As he takes the turning for ‘Slaughter Hill Racing Stables’ he sees a line of horses coming towards him, jogging gently through the mist. Nelson stops the car as they go past, the horses wearing blankets and catching at their bits, heads flying up, hindquarters swinging out as if they can’t bear this tedious pace for a single second more.
    Nelson has come to speak to Lord Smith about the death of his curator. The autopsy on Neil Topham had proved inconclusive (though Chris Stephenson had tried his best not to use this word). Topham had died from acute pulmonary haemorrhage which could, according to the pathologist, be attributed to a number of causes including tuberculosis, lung abscess or Factor X deficiency. ‘What’s Factor X when it’s at home?’ Nelson had barked. It sounded like one of those dreadful TV programmes his daughters watch. ‘It’s a coagulation factor that allows the blood to clot; people with Factor X deficiency are prone to pulmonary haemorrhage.’ ‘But you said it could be caused by all sorts of things?’ ‘Yes. Pulmonary haemorrhage can be brought on by infection, or drug use, or even by shock.’ ‘So we’re no nearer to finding out what killed the poor bastard?’ ‘No,’ Stephenson had admitted.
    The body has been released to Topham’s parents for burial but Nelson is still reluctant to close the case. There’s the little matter of the drugs, for one thing. The powder found in Topham’s desk drawer had turned out to be one hundred per cent pure cocaine. The curator’s body had shown clear evidence of drug use. Nothing odd in that, maybe. As far as Nelson can make out, most arty types are on drugs. But were the drugs for Topham’s sole use (there was a hell of a lot there, according to the drugs squad, thousands of pounds worth) and what caused Neil Topham, a man apparently in good health at half past one, to be found dead by two-twenty? And there are the letters too. Someone evidently had it in for Neil Tophamand the Smith Museum and Nelson wants to know why.
    There are security gates across the track but they open at Nelson’s approach. He parks beside a modern bungalow with a sign saying ‘Visitors Please Report Here’. Nelson rings the bell but there is no reply. There are cars in the car park, among them a showy blue Ferrari, but no one seems to be about. Opposite is a high wall with an archway and a clock tower. After waiting impatiently for a few minutes, Nelson marches through the archway, wishing he’d thought to wear boots. Place will be swimming in mud after all that rain.
    He is wrong. The archway leads into a huge quadrangle, lined on three sides with stables. In the middle is a square of grass as smooth and green as a bowling pitch. There is not a speck of mud to be seen. The stalls have a kind of v-shaped rail in the top half, and through this horses’ heads are poking, each one looking as impatient as Nelson himself. He walks up to the first head and the horse rolls an angry eye at him, nostrils flaring.
    ‘Better not go too close,’ says a voice behind him. ‘He’s a bit of a tinker, that one.’
    Nelson turns and sees a woman wearing jodhpurs and a reflective jacket. At her approach the horse neighs, though whether in welcome or anger he can’t tell.
    ‘Can I help you?’ she says, eyebrows raised. She is tall, with black hair hanging loose over her shoulders. Nelson supposes she is quite-good looking but she’s not his type. She has dark eyes, straight black brows that almost meet in the middle and a decided nose. She also looks rather familiar.
    ‘DCI Nelson from the Norfolk Police,’ says