A Room Full of Bones: A Ruth Galloway Investigation

Nelson. ‘I’m here to see Danforth Smith.’ He’s buggered if he’s going to add the ‘Lord.’
    ‘Oh, you want Dad,’ says the woman. ‘You’d better come to the office.’
    Surprisingly, given the extreme order of the yard, the office is a mess. There are racing papers everywhere, half-drunk cups of coffee, even a slightly chewed doughnut. A large ginger cat squats by the computer, eyeing the doughnut beadily. The cat – and the doughnut – remind Nelson of Ruth. Racing silks, clashing pink and purple, hang on the door.
    ‘Sorry about the state of this place,’ says the woman, ‘but I’ve got to get the declarations done by ten.’
    ‘Declarations?’
    ‘Saying which horses are running where.’
    It’s a foreign language, thinks Nelson. He is experiencing the unusual sensation of being in an entirely alien habitat. A horse and rider pass by the door. To Nelson’s untrained eye, the animal looks magnificent, its plumy tail swishing against silken hindquarters. He is struck by how big the horse is close up. The rider’s stirrups are on a level with the window. Other horses are coming out of their stables now, breath steaming in the cold air. More men (and women, he thinks) in yellow reflective jackets are putting on saddles and swinging themselves up on the narrow backs. Soon the yard is full of sidling, prancing horses parading slowly around the square of grass.
    Though he has never told a living soul, Nelson loves horses. He still remembers his father’s horror when, asa child, he had asked for riding lessons. He soon realised that he had made a terrible mistake; ponies were for girls, football was for boys. He had quickly switched his request to football training and had the pleasure of seeing his father’s face when he scored his first goal for Bispham Juniors. Archie Nelson had attended all his son’s matches, yelling himself hoarse on the touchline, though he was a quiet man in all other ways. His sisters had both done ballet, he remembers, but this had not counted in the house the way Harry’s football had counted. He’s sure his father never went to a single dance performance, although his sisters were both meant to be quite good.
    So Nelson had suppressed his fascination with horses, had limited it to yearly bets on the Grand National. He even enjoys watching the racing on TV, the horses swirling into the paddock, cantering up to the starting post with the wind in their tails. It seems incredible that the jockeys can stay on, perched up on the necks of these twitchy muscle-bound monsters. Nelson has never been on a horse and it’s too late now.
    ‘The second lot’s just going out,’ says the woman, who has been checking something on the computer.
    ‘Where are they going?’ asks Nelson, wondering if this is a stupid question.
    ‘To the gallops.’
    ‘For exercise?’
    She turns and gives him a slight smile. It doesn’t suit her; her features are designed for tragedy. ‘Six furlongs, uphill. It’s exercise all right.’
    The word ‘uphill’ reminds him of something.
    ‘Funny name this place has got. Slaughter Hill.’
    ‘There was a battle here ages ago,’ the woman says vaguely. Then, with evident relief, ‘Here’s Dad now.’
    Danforth Smith appears in the doorway. He too is wearing jodhpurs and boots. Uniform of the upper classes, thinks Nelson. But it looks kind of impressive all the same.
    ‘Hope you haven’t been waiting long,’ says Smith genially. ‘Caroline been looking after you?’
    ‘She has,’ says Nelson. He is surprised to see Caroline blushing.
    ‘Let’s talk in the house,’ says Smith. ‘We’ll be more comfortable.’
    ‘Sorry about the mess,’ says Caroline, blushing again. Her demeanour has changed completely with the arrival of her father. ‘Are you declaring Tommy Tuppence for Newmarket?’
    ‘No,’ says Smith. ‘He’s still not right. I’ll turn him out later on today. This way, DCI Nelson.’
    Smith leads the way across the grass to the far side of the yard. The horses are heading out through the archway now, hooves clattering on the tarmac.
    ‘How many horses have you got here?’ asks Nelson.
    ‘Eighty,’ says Smith with some pride. ‘Both flat and jump. The flat season’s nearly over but the jump season’s just beginning. We’ve got an all-weather track so we can ride out all year round.’
    ‘Do the same horses run in flat races and jump races?’ asks Nelson.
    ‘Good God no.’ Smith stops by a box at the far