Kidnap of the King: The Danzig and Hare Murder Mysteries, #1

Principal Characters

Augustus Trajan (aka ‘Jim’) Danzig. Myself. Private eye.

Judith Hare, my assistant.

The Ringland Training Stables

Dave Ringland, racehorse trainer, my client.

Rachel Ringland, his second wife.

Caitlin Ringland, his daughter.

Joe Betteridge, his head lad.

Sean Ringland, his son.

Don Cutler, a vet.

Ringland’s Owners and their Families

Jenson Straughan, importer.

Irene Straughan, his wife.

Ronald Nicholson, bank clerk.

Andrew Nicholson, his son.

Richard Mantle, solicitor.

Cynara Cross, his girlfriend.

Phil Black, businessman.

Betty Black, his wife.

Straughan’s Employees

McGuire, his stud groom.

Shardlow, his butler.

Charlie Burroughs, his chauffeur.

Doug, a hired musclemen.

The Police

DCI Lockwood, investigating officer.

DS Tilson, his assistant.

DC ‘Nobby’ Clarke.

DC Cameron James.

Others

Grant Alderson, chief ranger, Sandford Heath

Victor Nicholson, brother of the missing Ronald Nicholson.

Sylvia Nicholson, wife of Ronald Nicholson.

Alan Craig, journalist.

Wilson Paul, animal rights activist.

Peter (aka ‘Dusty’) Miller   )  local crooks

Duane Ellis    ) 

Perry Mitchell, sports journalist.

Mick Winters, a tough young chap.

Carl Gibson, enquiry agent, of Warwick.

Dan, an eleven-year-old fisherman.

I

IT was the twenty-third of March, which I suppose just about counts as spring. I drew back the curtains. A misty morning, but from the front window it was possible to see the outline of Castletown Gaol across the road. It looked much the same as usual. If you’ve never seen the main gate of Castletown nick on a murky morning in early spring, you haven’t missed much. My name’s Danzig. I’m a private investigator.

I went into the kitchen and poured myself some corn flakes. Halfway through my first cup of coffee the phone rang. It was twenty to nine, rather unusual. Most of my business comes through solicitors, and if you know of one who’s at his desk for twenty to nine in a morning, he’s a pretty uncommon sort of solicitor, and certainly doesn’t live in Castletown.

I hurried back into the front room I use as an office and lifted the receiver. ‘Danzig Investigations.’ I usually say this in case it’s a client. ‘Hello’ doesn’t make much sense when you’re in business.

‘Can I speak to Mr Danzig, please?’

I didn’t know the voice. A middle-aged man, local to within a few miles. It sounded like business, anyway. I grabbed a notepad and perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Speaking.’

‘You won’t know me, Mr Danzig. My name’s Dave Ringland. I’m a racehorse trainer at Little Hartwell. You were recommended to me by Richard Mantle, the solicitor.’

He’d won three brownie points with me already. For one thing he’d used his Christian and surnames; anyone who calls himself Mister sets my teeth on edge. And he’d modestly assumed I’d never heard of him, but in fact most people locally would have heard of Dave Ringland, certainly anyone with an interest in horse racing. Castletown isn’t prime racing country, and he’s the only trainer within twenty miles. Finally he’d come via Richard Mantle, who’s one of the few solicitors I’d trust, in fact about the only one I can call to mind. I made polite noises.

‘I’ve a security problem I’d like you to handle for me, Mr Danzig. It might be best if you visit my stables. It’d be easier for me to explain what’s required.’

I began to lose interest. ‘Sorry, I don’t do security work. You’d be better contacting the police. They’ll be able to advise you.’

‘Ah.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘It doesn’t require any specialized knowledge or equipment, Mr Danzig. If I could speak to you on site, as it were, I think it might help.’

I thought for a moment, then changed my mind. I wasn’t doing so well that I could afford to turn work down without proper enquiry. At worst it’d mean a wasted journey, and Hartwell was no more than ten miles away. An enquiry agent has to get used to doing things for nothing now and again. ‘All right, I’ll come over. When do you suggest?’

‘It’s a bit difficult during the week, with racing. Could you manage Sunday afternoon, three o’clock?’

That was fine by me. He gave directions, which I hardly needed. I wasn’t sure where his stables were, but Hartwell’s a tiny place, so anyone there would know.

I put the phone down and looked out last week’s Castletown Chronicle. When I started this business I decided one of the things I ought to do was read the local paper every week from cover to cover. Like most of its kind nowadays it’s eighty pages or more, half of it property adverts, and the rest far from riveting, but in my line of work you’ve got to know what’s going on locally. At first I used to think I was wasting my time, but over the years it’s surprising how useful it’s proved.

There’d been an item about Little Hartwell, something to do with a missing person. It wasn’t likely to have anything to do with Ringland, but since nothing ever happened there, it was odd that the place had cropped up twice within a few days.

It was a medium-sized article on page 8. Interview with a Mrs Sylvia Nicholson, whose husband had walked out on her after twenty-three years of allegedly happy marriage. Picture of her, middle-aged, frumpish and tearful, together with her lifeless-looking son, a student at the local uni. I say uni; like most modern universities it’s really a glorified poly. Most of the kids there live with their parents within a dozen miles of the place. Anyway, Mr Ronald Nicholson had left for work the previous Monday morning, and never returned. Hardly worth reporting, except that there were one or two odd features. According to his wife there’d been no row, and he hadn’t taken any clothes or toiletries. The police didn’t seem interested, which was no surprise to me, though it was to Mrs Nicholson, who was full of complaints, probably justified. Nothing to do with Ringland, anyway.

I’d heard of Ringland recently, for all that. There’d been one or two items in the local press a few months ago. One of his horses had won a big race. King something, I thought was the name. Mantle would know, anyway. Unlike me he was a racing man, albeit on a fairly casual basis. In fact I seemed to remember his mentioning that he’d had a horse in training with Ringland at one time.

By now it was a few minutes after nine, still early for a solicitor, but Mantle was that rare thing in the modern legal profession, a one-man band. He struck me as the type who got to work early and helped his staff open the post, that sort of thing. I lifted the receiver again.

I was in luck. ‘Good morning. Richard Mantle’s office.’ Joan Littlehales, his receptionist. A cheerful middle-aged woman, been with him for years.

‘May I speak to Mr Mantle, please? It’s Jim ...’

She’d recognized my voice, and interrupted. ‘Just one moment, Mr Danzig, I’ll connect you.’

Mantle came on the line. ‘Morning, Jim. Is it about Dave Ringland?’

‘That’s right. I’m seeing him on Sunday. He tells me you recommended me, thanks.’ Mantle made noises of acknowledgment. ‘Can you give me an idea what it’s about?’

‘One of his horses, King of Shadows. I’m a part owner, actually. He wants you to look after him for a few days.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘No, no. Doesn’t sound as if there’s much to it. You don’t need to know anything about horses. He’ll explain in more detail when you see him. There’s no point in me telling you as well. Shouldn’t take you more than a day or two. It’d stand quite a decent fee, I should think. Everyone concerned is pretty well heeled.’ He sensed I was still uncertain about taking the job. ‘I’ll meet you there if you like. Might help break the ice. When are you seeing him?’

‘Sunday afternoon, three o’clock.’

‘Fine. I go over there on Sundays now and again anyway. See you then.’

I thanked him and rang off. The post came soon after. For the third time in eight weeks I’d won sixty grand in the state lottery for somewhere or other despite the fact that I hadn’t bought a ticket, and they only needed twenty-five quid to process my application and send my winnings. Someone else had a foolproof scheme for making me a hundred thousand a year by doing virtually nothing except spend ten minutes a day on the Internet. For a small payment I’d be provided with full details. There were a couple of letters from charities, which I put on one side in case I felt generous later. My credit card statement showed a balance of £320.58, and the minimum payment ought to be received not later than the fifth of next month. Finally there were a couple of routine letters concerning cases I had in hand, and a cheque from Messrs Harris, Brinkley & Cavanagh, solicitors, of Sandford, in respect of an account I’d sent them nearly a year ago. Fairly typical.

I did the filing such as it was, and was sitting at the desk writing out a paying-in slip when Judith Hare walked up the drive. It’s not really a drive, because you can’t get a car in - more of an old-fashioned garden path. I’ve a front garden of sorts, a long thin lawn with a sapling ash tree at the near end, and at that time of year a few daffs and crocuses and wilting snowdrops.

Judy was spot on half-past nine as ever. She comprises my entire workforce. A thin girl with red hair, attractive in a gawky kind of way. Mid-twenties, and looks even younger. She wears glasses, which I don’t think she needs, but she likes to make herself look serious. She’s worked for me a couple of years, since leaving business college. If she has a boyfriend or much of a social life she doesn’t inflict them on me. In other words an ideal employee.

Judy’s my assistant, what nowadays they call a PA. I can handle most of the paperwork myself, but she’s better with accounts than I am, besides which she makes herself useful in other ways. She answers the phone when I’m out, which during the day is most of the time. An ansafone makes it obvious I’m on my own, and people don’t trust a recorded promise to get back to them. As for mobiles, it’s my ambition to be the last man in the world without one, and I seem to be well on the way to achieving it. Another thing - when keeping observations from a car it’s a good idea to have a woman with you. A man on his own always attracts attention. Judy also does a lot of the routine work, like debt enquiries. Women often make good agents. They don’t incur as much hostility as men, or not from men anyway, and they’re naturally curious about people. For instance it’s surprising how much local gossip Judy gets hold of that doesn’t appear in the papers.

As for why she wastes her time in what’s basically a dead-end job, she enjoys it and intends to go into the same line of business herself one day. I wouldn’t want to lose her; perhaps she might be interested in a partnership. In that case I’d probably get around to moving premises. As it is she’s always on at me to rent an office in the Riverdale Business Centre, where they’ve all the mod cons, rather than a run-down terraced cottage up the north end of town which doubles as my home. Probably not a bad idea. At least parking would be less of a problem. But all that’s in the future. For the present she seems okay with things as they are.

‘Anything new?’ she asked, slinging her coat on the hook on the door.

‘Nothing much in the post. Phone call a few minutes ago. Chap called Ringland, racehorse trainer. Ever heard of him?’

‘Everyone’s heard of Dave Ringland. Trains out at Hartwell. King of Shadows is his best horse.’

‘I didn’t realize you were into racing.’

‘I’m not, but I used to knock about with a lad who was. What is it, divorce? His wife used to play away from home now and again, or so rumour would have it.’

‘No, something to do with King of Shadows from the sound of things. Didn’t know you were so well up in Hartwell gossip.’

‘One of my friends at college came from there. A few years ago, that is. She knew the Nicholsons slightly. That guy there was the article about in the Chronicle.’

I nodded. ‘Yeah. Didn’t sound quite like the usual marriage bust-up.’

‘That’s what I thought too.’ Judy sat on the edge of the desk and began swinging her legs. I always find this distracting, at least when she’s wearing a skirt. For a thin girl she’s got very good legs. ‘What did Dave Ringland want?’

‘Don’t know in any detail, but it seems he wants me to keep an eye on King of Shadows for a few days. I’m seeing him on Sunday afternoon.’

‘Might be interesting. Mind if I tag along?’

‘Will it cost me any overtime?’

She pulled a dismissive face. ‘Come on, Danzig. You know better than that.’

I shrugged. ‘In that case, why not?’

*

I DIDN’T think it’d do any harm to find out a bit more about my prospective client, so I rang Perry Mitchell. He’s racing correspondent for the Mercian Star, the local evening paper. Used to be sports editor for the Chronicle, and I’d met him a few times in the days when I’d been on the Castletown Rovers board.

‘Hi, Jim, what can I do for you?’

‘Just wonder if you can give me a bit of info about a potential client. Off the record, as you people say. Dave Ringland, the racehorse trainer.’

‘Not much to tell. Started life as a National Hunt jockey, but now trains mainly on the flat. Just about your average trainer, neither big nor small. Moderately successful over the years. Best horse was Fan Tan, who came third in the Derby, that’s some time ago now. Went through a bad patch for a year or two after that, but so do most trainers from time to time.’

‘What about recently?’

‘Got quite a decent string at the moment. A horse called King of Shadows, who’s won some good races, just going to stud. One or two others too ...’ He reeled off some names, pausing for thought now and again. ‘Archimedes is quite a useful sprinter, so’s Mistress Quickly ... then there’s Importsman, Country Squire, La Grisette ... Promising two-year-old last season called Scotland the Brave ... He gave me an interview last week, usually does at the start of the season. He’s okay.’

‘How about his reputation?’

‘Squeaky-clean, if you can say that about any trainer. I won’t say he’s never run a horse in a race where he’s a no-hoper, or on going that doesn’t suit, so’s to get his weight down in subsequent handicaps, but they all do that apart from the real big boys. It’s within the rules anyway.’

‘No trouble with the racing authorities, then?’

‘Occasionally one or two of his riders get done for the usual disciplinary stuff. And he was up before the Jockey Club himself a few years ago when a couple of his winners got themselves disqualified after drug tests. Turned out it was down to contaminated foodstuffs, manufacturers’ fault, no blame attached to him at all. Half the trainers in the country had the same problem.’

‘What about his private life?’

‘Can’t help you there, I’m not a gossip columnist. On his second marriage I think, but so are most people nowadays.’

‘Yeah, true. Well, thanks, Mitch. It’s given me an idea what to expect.’

But as it turned out it hadn’t.

II

LITTLE Hartwell lies on the western fringe of Sandford Heath, a diamond-shaped patch of forest and moorland in the Trent Valley that’s said to be the smallest Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty on the British mainland. Not that there’s much beautiful about Hartwell. It’s only ten miles from Castletown, less as the crow flies, but I hadn’t been for years. There’s no reason to go to Little Hartwell unless you live there. It’s got a church, a couple of pubs, a stores/post office and a chipshop. It also has the curious distinction of being twice the size of Great Hartwell a mile down the road, but that’s about all. Mostly it’s just a collection of housing estates, so it’s hardly St Mary Mead or anything like that. The nearest place any size is Bantock, a former mining town five miles away.

Ringland’s stables were set in fifty acres of farmland on the northern outskirts of the village, about the only part of the place that hadn’t been spoilt by development. The farmhouse was a comfortable-looking building constructed from the local stone. I reckoned it eighteenth-century, maybe even earlier.

Outside the stable yard was a small car park consisting of mixed gravel and mud, three-quarters full. Not difficult to deduce that it was for his lads. It contained inter alia a horsebox, a Rangerover, a couple of Ford Ka2s, an MGB which had seen better days, and a motor cycle. I drew up between the Rangerover and one of the Kas. In that company a medium-sized six-year-old Volvo didn’t seem out of place. It doesn’t do to have a conspicuous car in my line of work, apart from there being a limit to what I can afford.

I couldn’t see Mantle’s car, but he was waiting for us at the gate. Like me, a medium-sized darkish fellow in his thirties, that no-man’s-land between youth and middle age. He raised a hand in greeting - ‘Jim,’ then smiled quickly at Judy and said, ‘Hello.’

‘Richard.’ Solicitors are supposed to outrank us socially, but I knew him pretty well. To have called him Mr Mantle in the circumstances would have sounded stuffy or subservient, not that he was the sort to be bothered either way. ‘Judith Hare, my assistant.’

She smiled. ‘Glad to know you,’ said Mantle. ‘Quite a few visitors here this afternoon. The flat season proper has just started, so everyone wants to know when their horse’ll be racing.’

There were several more cars in the yard itself, including two BMWs, a brand new Mercedes,