Page 45 of His Worst Crime

Santi stared at him for long moments, while Ramon tried to gage what thoughts were going on behind his boss’s poker face.

“So,” Santi finally said, “when you get over there and start asking around, try and keep an open mind about the investigation. Don’t let your… preconceptions cloud your judgment, Ramon. OK?”

“Yes, Sir.” And with that he was dismissed, like a dog that had been disciplined, its tail between its legs.

Ravenscragg Stud Farm was a tricky property to find, even using the navigation app on their phones, and they drove past the unsignposted lane several times before taking a chance on it. Finally they came to a high weathered white-painted fence bordering a hilly property, over which towered a rugged escarpment carpeted in sessile oaks and birches, punctuated by sheer limestone cliffs that looked out toward the sea.

“That’s Ravenscragg, and the stud farm should be around here somewhere,” Jaume said, checking his phone. “Ravenscragg. What sort of a name is that?”

“Sounds like something Bram Stoker would have invented,” Ramon agreed, “but the countryside’s stunning.”

The road was taking them around the base of the hulking mountain, and as they came out on the seaward side, the view was breathtaking. Soon after, they arrived at an entrance gate, where a board beside it read “Ravenscragg Stud Farm” in faded green lettering. The gate was open, so they turned into it and drove up the long narrow drive bordered with silver birches.

“Weren’t we supposed to wait for our contact, Officer Benson?” Jaume asked.

“He’s meeting us in the village. But we’re here now. We’ll just take a quick look.”

To be honest, Ramon didn’t want to waste time on bureaucratic wrangling with a foreign police force, not while Davey was lying in a coma back in Barcelona. He wanted to solve this case fast. At the top of the drive, they came to a sprawling collection of whitewashed buildings with gray slate roofs. The whole complex had an unkempt look about it, though in the past it had clearly been an impressive property.

So this was where Davey was from? Ramon could imagine him living and working here, though he would never have let the place get so rundown. Parking up by the main house, both policemen got out. A couple of stunning thoroughbred horses were standing behind the near fence, watching them, one a dark bay, almost black, and the other a lighter bay with a white blaze on its face.

“Beautiful animals,” Jaume commented.

“Yeah, though they could use some exercise. They’re running to fat.”

They walked up to the door, knocked, and waited. And waited. Jaume knocked again, and then after waiting some more, tried the door. It opened.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

There was a muffled yell from a distant part of the house, as of someone waking and struggling out of bed. Ramon looked at his watch: eleven-thirty a.m. They stood at the door waiting, until an unshaven disheveled man of around sixty appeared in the hallway. Ramon knew immediately he was Davey’s father from the photo he’d seen above the tack room. They had the same eyes, but whereas Davey’s were that deep amber-flecked blue, like deep pools you could drown in, his were a faded, grayer tone, though likewise flecked with honey. He was short like Davey, and walked with that same fluid lope. But there the resemblance ended. This was a man who was wrecking himself with alcohol. And those same Davey-like eyes were ringed with red, while his face was a fine patchwork of burst blood vessels. His graying blond hair was greasy and uncombed, and the faded shirt and sweatpants he wore bore numerous stains, including what looked like red wine.

“Simon Howard?” Ramon asked as he came toward the door.

He coughed, clearing his throat and nodded. It cost him to speak, as if he was unused to it, but he finally got out:

“Yes, that’s me. Who’s asking?”

“I’m Officer Ramon Rovira, and this is Officer Jaume Pellicer, from the Mounted Unit of the Catalan Police Force. We’re investigating—“

“Mounted, eh? Didn’t think they were still active anywhere. I thought you lot only did ceremonial parades nowadays. Here, we got ’em, but mainly for parades and the like.”

“Yes,” Jaume broke in eagerly in his halting English, “we have one hundred twenty horses and policemans, all active, working traffic, parks, festivals, wherever there is need.”

“What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“We’re here about the assault and battery that occurred here a year ago. On October sixth, wasn’t it?”

“Still got the lump on my head.”

And Simon Howard bent his head forward, spreading his greasy hair apart with his fingers to show a prominent lump on his scalp. Had Davey done that, hit his own father? Ramon’s stomach turned over. He couldn’t believe it.

“So, your son David…” he began.

“Davey didn’t do it, I can tell you that.”

“But his fingerprints, we have them, on the… the bar that hit you,” Jaume blurted out.

Davey’s father looked up at them, squinting and shaking his head.