A Cut for a Cut (Detective Kate Young) by Carol Wyer

Author:Carol Wyer [Wyer, Carol]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2021-06-28T16:00:00+00:00

Uttoxeter Racecourse hosted year-round chase and hurdle meetings, along with other events such as concerts, family-days out, exhibitions and private functions. The sign to the entrance indicated eleven were to be held this month, including a doggy day, a quilt and stitch village and two outdoor cinema experiences. Nothing, however, was programmed for today and groundsmen on green tractors, or wielding heavy-duty strimmers, were tending to the vast, oval-shaped course. In spite of living close to one of the UK’s leading hunt tracks, Kate had never attended a race day. She wasn’t a mingler or a party animal. Many would call her dull, but Chris had understood her reluctance to mix with others in large gatherings where she often felt isolated within a crowd. She felt more relaxed at small occasions, friends’ parties or evenings out with one or two other couples.

She’d googled the name of the manager and one of the grounds staff directed her to Paul Avery’s office where she found him hunched over a table filled with photographs. He stood up to greet her.

‘Good morning. What can I do for you?’ The voice was gentle, his face youthful and earnest, with sandy hair and cornflower-blue eyes. His outfit of jeans, shirt and jacket created the right balance of professional and relaxed, and Kate couldn’t help but notice the gleam from his light-brown leather boots. Chris had always believed in good-quality footwear and even when abroad on assignments, he’d taken a travel-set of brushes and polish to keep them shining.

The sudden recollection of her husband pulled her up short. She hadn’t spoken to him in a while. Palpitations accompanied the thought. He was slipping away from her, little by little.

The man in front of her was waiting for a response. She dragged herself back into the moment, lifted her card and introduced herself. His sparse eyebrows pulled into a light frown.

‘I’m here about Heather Gault.’

‘Heather? Why?’

‘You definitely know her, then?’

‘Yes, we’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Friday evening, after work. She came around to my house and we shared a bottle of wine and a takeaway. What’s this about?’

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. I’m sorry to tell you that she’s dead.’

He rested his palms on the table, covering the pictures of horses thundering towards the finish lines with cheering masses in stands urging them on, and released a long breath before saying, ‘Okay . . . Okay. When did this happen?’

‘Saturday night. She was attacked on Newbury Avenue.’

‘Attacked and killed?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m very sorry. Do you feel up to answering a few questions for me?’

He flopped onto the chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut. ‘I can try.’

‘Firstly, can I ask your whereabouts for Saturday evening and night?’

‘I was here. There was a large private event and I had to be here to ensure it all went well.’

‘Can anyone confirm you were here?’

‘Many people. It was a drinks event, and I was on hand all evening.

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