“Can you talk us through exactly what happened, when she attacked her husband? Did she say anything first?”
“No,” said Tegan. “She come into the yard, seen what had happened, ran towards Mr. Chiswell, grabbed the hammer and just swung for him. Blood everywhere. It was horrible,” said Tegan, with patent sincerity. “Awful.”
“What did she do after she’d hit him?” asked Robin.
“Just stood there. The expression on her face… it was like a demon or something,” said Tegan unexpectedly. “I thought he was dead, thought she’d killed him.
“They put her away for a couple of weeks, you know. She went off to some hospital. I had to do the horses alone…
“We were all gutted about Lady. I loved that mare and I thought she was going to make it, but she’d given up, she lay down and wouldn’t eat. I couldn’t blame Mrs. Chiswell for being upset, but… she could’ve killed him. Blood everywhere,” she repeated. “I wanted to leave. Told my mum. Mrs. Chiswell scared me, that night.”
“So what made you stay?” asked Strike.
“I dunno, really… Mr. Chiswell wanted me to, and I was fond of the horses. Then she came out of hospital and she was really depressed and I suppose I felt sorry for her. I kept finding her crying in Lady’s empty stall.”
“Was Lady the mare that Mrs. Chiswell wanted to—er—what’s the right term?” Strike asked Robin.
“Put in foal?” Robin suggested.
“Yeah… put in foal to the famous stallion?”
“Totilas?” said Tegan, with the ghost of an eye roll. “No, it was Brandy she wanted to breed from, but Mr. Chiswell was having none of it. Totilas! He costs a fortune.”
“So I heard. She didn’t by any chance mention using a different stallion? There’s one called ‘Blanc de Blancs,’ I don’t know whether—”
“Never heard of him,” said Tegan. “No, it had to be Totilas, he was the best, she was fixated on using him. That’s what she’s like, Mrs. Chiswell. When she gets an idea in her head you can’t shift it. She was going to breed this beautiful Grand Prix horse and… you know she lost a baby, don’t you?”
Strike and Robin nodded.
“Mum felt sorry for her, she thought the thing about getting a foal was, you know, a sort of substitute. Mum thinks it was all to do with the baby, how Mrs. Chiswell’s mood went up and down all the time.
“Like, one day, a few weeks after she came out of hospital, I remember, she was manic. I think it was the drugs they had her on. High as a kite. Singing in the yard. And I said to her, ‘You’re cheerful, Mrs. C,’ and she laughed and said, ‘Oh, I’ve been working on Jasper and I think I’m nearly there, I think he’s going to let me use Totilas after all.’ It was all rubbish. I asked him and he was really grumpy about it, said it was wishful thinking and he could hardly afford as many horses as she’d already got.”
“You don’t think he might’ve surprised her,” said Strike, “by offering her a different stallion to breed from? A cheaper one?”
“That would just’ve annoyed her,” said Tegan. “It was Totilas or nothing.” She stubbed out the cigarette Strike had given her, checked her watch and said regretfully, “I’ve only got a couple more minutes.”
“Two more things, and we’re done,” said Strike. “I’ve heard that your family knew a girl called Suki Lewis, years ago? She was a runaway from care—”
“You know everything!” said Tegan again, delightedly. “How did you know that?”
“Billy Knight told me. D’you happen to know what happened to Suki?”
“Yeah, she went to Aberdeen. She was in our Dan’s class at school. Her mum was a nightmare: drink and drugs and all sorts. Then the mum goes on a real bender and that’s how Suki got put into care. She ran away to find her dad. He worked on the North Sea rigs.”
“And you think she found her father, do you?” asked Strike.
With a triumphant air, Tegan reached into her back pocket for her mobile. After a few clicks, she presented Strike with the Facebook page she had brought up for a beaming brunette, who stood posing with a posse of girlfriends in front of a swimming pool in Ibiza. Through the tan, the bleached smile and the false eyelashes, Strike discerned the palimpsest of the thin, buck-toothed girl from the old photograph. The page was captioned “Susanna McNeil.”
“See?” said Tegan happily. “Her dad took her in with his new family. ‘Susanna’ was her proper name but her mum called her ‘Suki.’ My mum’s friends with Susanna’s auntie. Says she’s doing great.”
“You’re quite sure this is her?” asked Strike.
“Yeah, of course,” said Tegan. “We were all pleased for her. She was a nice girl.”
She checked her watch again.
“’M’sorry, but that’s my break over, I’ve got to go.”
“One more question,” said Strike. “How well did your brothers know the Knight family?”
“Quite well,” said Tegan. “The boys were in different years at school but yeah, they knew them through working at Chiswell House.”
“What do your brothers do now, Tegan?”
“Paul’s managing a farm over near Aylesbury now and Dan’s up in London doing landscape—why are you writing this down?” she said, alarmed for the first time at the sight of Strike’s pen moving across his notebook. “You mustn’t tell my brothers I’ve spoken to you! They’ll go mad if they think I’ve talked about what went on up at the house!”
“Really? What did go on up there?” Strike asked.
Tegan looked uncertainly from him to Robin and back again.
“You already know, don’t you?”
And when neither Strike nor Robin responded she said:
“Listen, Dan and Paul just helped out with transporting them. Loading them up and that. And it was legal back then!”
“What was legal?” asked Strike.
“I know you know,” said Tegan, half-worried, half-amused. “Someone’s been talking, haven’t they? Is it Jimmy Knight? He was back not long ago, sniffing around, wanting to talk to Dan. Anyway, everyone knew, locally. It was supposed to be hush-hush, but we all knew about Jack.”
“Knew what about him?” asked Strike.
“Well… that he was the gallows maker.”
Strike absorbed the information without so much as a quiver of the eyelid. Robin wasn’t sure her own expression had remained as impassive.
“But you already knew,” said Tegan. “Didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Strike, to reassure her. “We knew.”
“Thought so,” said Tegan, relieved and sliding down, inelegantly, from her chair. “But if you see Dan, don’t tell him I said. He’s like Mum. ‘Least said, soonest mended.’ Mind, none of us think there was anything wrong with it. This country’d be better with the death penalty, if you ask me.”
“Thanks for meeting us, Tegan,” said Strike. She blushed slightly as she shook first his hand, then Robin’s.
“No problem,” she said, now seeming reluctant to leave them. “Are you going to stay for the races? Brown Panther’s running in the two-thirty.”
“We might,” said Strike, “we’ve got a bit of time to kill before our next appointment.”
“I’ve got a tenner on Brown Panther,” Tegan confided. “Well… bye, then.”
She had gone a few steps when she wheeled around and returned to Strike, now even pinker in the face.
“Can I have a selfie with you?”
“Er,” said Strike, carefully not catching Robin’s eye, “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Can I have your autograph, then?”
Deciding that this was the lesser of two evils, Strike wrote his signature on a napkin.
“Thanks.”
Clutching her napkin, Tegan departed at last. Strike waited until she had disappeared into the bar before turning to Robin, who was already busy on her phone.
“Six years ago,” she said, reading from the mobile screen, “an EU directive came in banning member states from exporting torture equipment. Until then, it was perfectly legal to export British-made gallows abroad.”
64
Speak so that I can understand you.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm