‘There was nothing in Lev Malnyk’s flat except for the tubes, found under the sofa, and a hidden passport, like he’d never lived there, or stripped it bare just before the crash. I always thought it was weird. I’ll have to write “Nettles and Hearts” up there.’
‘It sounds like some sort of vegetarian moussaka,’ said Kim, thumbing at one of the notes. ‘Here we go – “Drug tubes”.’
Stevie said, ‘I like that you wrote down “Fat Cops”. The pair who beat you up?’
‘The very same.’
Kim added, ‘Who you arenotgoing to visit without at least one minder.’
‘Fancy it?’ Edward asked.
Ignoring him, Kim said, ‘I also like the fact that the last ten Post-its down the bottom there just say the same thing,’ said Kim.
‘Why? Why, why, why, why, why?’ Edward recited, almost as if the words were a poem.
‘Why did Lev do it?’ Kim asked.
‘No,’ said Edward. ‘Why was the flat empty?’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Stevie had been on a horse only twice before, and it was the fibre-glass one outside Sainsbury’s which her mother had let her ride soon after her adoption. She avoided mentioning this at the stables. She was surrounded by big men and stout women making loud jokes about her height and her lack of eyesight. Making her feel small. The red jacket almost made her walk out.
The Ash Hunt took off from Ash Tremington, a village twenty miles northeast of Sidmouth. Ash Tremington did not have a large local economy – if you left out the local farmers, the place was just a crossroads with a post office and a church. So the stables and kennels where the hunting dogs and horses lived were like Harland & Wolff to Belfast: the centre of almost every working life. Young teens would do work experience as stable hands. Six of the village men worked as groomers to the twenty-four horses, and there was a team of volunteers who gave the thirty-six foxhounds all the love in the world.
The members were mainly local people, but some joined the Saturday rides from as far away as London, and one was even a regular from Manchester. Hunting had changed since aban came in under the Blair government. That had been twenty years ago, but it was still a traumatic memory for places like the Ash Tremington stables. Would anyone take part in fox hunting without the fox?
Stevie had not expected references to a fox – even planning a real-life chase might be illegal – but it became clear the hounds were not supposed to kill anything. A man was standing next to her, dressed to the nines. Her eyes caught his beige waistcoat and she could have sworn it was velvet.
Quietly, he said: ‘Don’t mention “drag”, don’t mention “trail”, not even once. You can say “fox” but if there are hunt saboteurs around it’s best not to speak at all. You’re not a hunt saboteur, are you?’
Stevie pulled her clothes into place. She hated every one of them. They had dressed her up like a toyshop doll in what looked like a child’s red tunic, jodhpurs and leather riding boots. She must look like a character from a horror film.
She had taken Edward’s request to speak to Richard Cammell-Curzon seriously. She did not want to be the Gen Z stereotype – ‘Sorry, he never rang me back.’ She started with a simple google, and quite easily found he was the Master of the Hounds on the exclusive Ash Hunt. It was like being town mayor – they seemed to give a different person the chain every year. This year it was Richard Cammell-Curzon who wore the hunt regalia and led the forays. His bio was brief and had an almost schoolboy tone:
I’m a London VC Specialist and friends call me RCC. Or Richard! I also rent local properties in East Devon and love my time in the county. I’m committed to the environment and passionate about underprivileged, etc. Ash Hunt was introduced to me a decade ago by a pal in the City, and it’s the honour of my life to be this year’s Master. My wife is Ava, my children are at college. Myyoungest is supported (severe Duchennes), so yes I am committed to getting people with disabilities on horses. Not always easy!
PS – VC means venture capital but the least said about that the better. Onwards, with bugles!
Seeing the bio had given Stevie an idea. Could she join the hunt as a way of getting an ‘in’ with RCC? She might not consider herself disabled, but she would fail an army medical. Her scoliosis meant constant back pain. But she wanted to wear high heels and she did.
She was tempted to ask Edward Temmis for his advice on how to join a hunt, but wanted to try something herself first. There was a colleague in the council IT department who had spina bifida and used a wheelchair. She had not socialized much with the woman but knew they were roughly the same age, and the other girl had a loud voice and the surname Rimmer.Claire Rimmer, was it? Yes.
‘Need you to do me a favour,’ Stevie had typed into Messenger when she found Claire’s account. The message came back quickly. The woman was campaign-minded, and a Labour voter, so was more amenable to the scheme than Stevie could ever have hoped. The result was an article taking up most of page four of theEast Devon Gazettea week later, which even trended on X for a couple of hours. The headline: POSH FOX HUNTERS SAY THEY WANT DISABLED PEOPLE BUT I’M THE WRONG SHAPE. And a photo of Rimmer in her wheelchair, looking almost violently angry, with a devastating paragraph below it: ‘The Ash Hunt have apologized to Ms Rimmer for any misunderstanding. They are trying to trace the person who told her this. They claim to have an “open door” policy for disabled riders, and to have six with disabilities on their hunts, but when challenged they admitted that they were included because they wore hearing aids.’
Rimmer had never called the hunt. But Stevie (who had not told her colleague the reason she needed help) contacted the Ash Tremington stables two days after the article came out. She feigned ignorance of the furore. ‘I have disabilities and would love to join the next ride,’ she said. Her call was passed higher and higher up the chain until she thought she might actually be put through to Cammell-Curzon himself. At the other end she could almost hear the hot potato hitting every hand. They fell over themselves to make her feel it was worth waiting on the line for a reply. ‘Bear with us, just a minute more’ – did they think she was a national newspaper reporter, following up theGazettestory? She ended up speaking to a county woman who sounded simultaneously well-off and rugged, the best sort. She was businesslike and diligent, her voice deep and certain, although she lacked a little in the manners department – when she noted Stevie’s measurements, she told her, ‘We have a child’s kit for you. That’s no problem.’ She asked about Stevie’s disabilities and sounded impressed. Stevie even invented a couple of extra conditions for good measure: anxiety and anal perforation. The woman seemed to panic, changing the subject. ‘No chair, though?’ No wheelchair, confirmed Stevie.
Only when she hung up did she realize she had not been asked if she could ride a horse. These people just assume everyone can, she thought wryly.
YouTube videos had showed her how to assemble the kit she was wearing – the necktie was pre-knotted and fixed around the back of her neck with elastic and a clip, to avoid a rider getting accidentally strangled on a fencepost or tree branch. She knew not to button the single-breasted tailored hunt jacket. The crisp white shirt was the only item of clothing she had brought herself. The waistcoat was a thin, shiny wool, with tiny pockets, one of which had an old betting slip in (had the child gambled?). The breeches were a shade she decided should be called ‘beigeridiculous’, because that summed up the entire effect, like a cartoon character, shrunk in the wash. The only item she enjoyed putting on was the pair of leather riding boots, stained mahogany brown. Whichever kid had worn them had even smaller feet than her, but she accepted the pain for the style. They clipped and clopped like horses’ hooves on the wooden outhouse floor, the bronze spurs heavy and purposeful as a cowboy’s.
‘Only for decoration.’
The man standing beside her was rotund with a moustache that looked stick-on, a red nose as crowded with bumps and divots as a topographic map of the Cotswolds.
‘The spurs,’ he clarified. ‘Toy-shop spurs, won’t hurt him. You must be Stevie Masson, so I expected a chappie, ha.’
The man had the bluff manner that people take on when they’ve counted their money and find they have enough to last them the rest of their life, and now they can be as rude as they want to everyone. Stevie had decided to skip the money part, so she recognized a kindred spirit.
