They track down Joe Warner at the Royston Riding Stables where he works as a trail guide and instructor. The bored teenager in the office barely glances up from her phone as she explains that Joe is in the east paddock saddling the horses for the nine o'clock ride. It's just gone half eight, and none of the scheduled riders have shown up yet, thank goodness. Best not to approach a murder suspect with civilians around, if it can be avoided. Bad enough that there will be horses present.
Robbie grimaces. It's not that he dislikes horses, exactly. They have their place, even in policing. The Oxfordshire Mounted Unit, over in Milton Keynes, does good work keeping the Queen's peace at sporting events, but he feels about them the same way he feels about the Firearms Response Team, and for much the same reason. Too bloody dangerous. At least a gun won't go off on its own accord...
He guides the car down the dirt lane in the indicated direction. Just beyond a green metal building is a largish grassy area enclosed with a rail fence. A gate on the far side marks the beginning of a trail leading across the open field, and into the woods. Inside the paddock, half a dozen horses are milling about. Four of them are still unsaddled. A short, wiry man―Joe Warner, Robbie assumes―is bent over a grey horse, fussing with the saddle. He doesn't look up as James and Lizzie open the gate nearest the lane, or when Robbie shuts it behind him. Only when the straps are adjusted to his liking does Warner turn to greet his visitors.
Robbie can see the exact moment when their suspect recognises them as coppers. The welcoming smile disappears, and three heartbeats later Warner is on the back of the grey horse. Three beats more, and he's leaping over the fence, galloping at full speed across the field.
"No, you don't!" James snarls. A few long strides, and he's flinging open the trail gate, then darting back to grab the reins of the only other horse wearing a saddle.
Is he daft? "James! You'll break your neck!" Robbie allows himself just a second to be gobsmacked at the sight of DI Hathaway, racing away on a black horse that matches his elegant three-piece suit. Bloody hell! He runs towards the entrance gate, cursing under his breath as he fumbles with the latch. He's halfway to the car when he realises that Lizzie isn't following him.
He turns, and there's Sergeant Maddox, left foot braced on the lower rail of the fence, swinging her right leg over the back―the very high, very bare back―of a ginger horse that looks big enough to carry a medieval knight in full armour. "Sorry, sir," Lizzie shouts. "Can't let him go alone." And then she's through the gate, whooping like a footie fan after a goal. He watches for a few seconds, holding his breath as she urges the horse into a gallop, trying to catch up to her governor and the suspect. She's bent low over the horse's neck, and he hopes to God that she's holding on tight.
Robbie can't question her loyalty. Her judgement... that's another matter entirely. And you never recklessly followed Morse into a dangerous situation? He brushes the thought away. No time for woolgathering. He takes a moment to shut both gates before jumping into the car. Bad enough that coppers have 'borrowed' two of Royston's horses for a high-speed chase; Moody won't be pleased if the others are allowed to wander off and become lost or injured.
He drives back up the lane in a cloud of dust. Time to call for backup. It's a good job he's got a map of Oxfordshire in his head, because the satnav is bloody useless for this. He's able to suggest the most likely route for intercepting Warner, though he has to tell the Desk Sergeant twice that yes, the suspect is on horseback, and so are the two officers in pursuit, and for God's sake, lay off the blues and twos.
The end of the chase is anti-climactic. Robbie finds his colleagues and the suspect where he predicted, on the grass verge of a secondary road. The horses are further back, at the edge of the wood, tethered to small trees. Lizzie is standing next to the grey one, stroking its neck and speaking softly to the beast. James is pacing back and forth. Warner is seated on a moss-covered stump. They might be any group of casual riders, stopped for a rest or even a picnic, except that one man is wearing a posh suit and another has his hands cuffed behind his back. It's like watching a film that has suddenly changed from spaghetti western to Fellini.
"Robert! You found us!" Is it Robbie's imagination, or does James sound faintly surprised?
"I'm not that easy to lose," he replies. Though you might have let me know you two were all right. He doesn't need to say it aloud.
"I was about to call you," James says, "only we had a bit of first aid to take care of."
"What happened? Who's been injured?"
Warner answers, "It's Maisie. She's hurt, and they won't let me tend to her."
Who's Maisie? Lizzie catches his eye and nods at the grey horse.
"I told you, she's going to be fine, Mr Warner," James says in the flat tone of someone who's answered the same question too many times. "Sergeant Maddox got the stone out."
Lizzie continues the explanation. "It didn't cut the frog. Maybe a bruise, at worst." She turns to Lewis. "That's how we caught him so quickly, sir―Maisie picked up a stone in her hoof."
He's got more than a few questions for her, but they have to wait. Backup has arrived. As two sturdy constables lead Warner to their car, he keeps twisting his upper body around, pleading with Hathaway and Maddox to take care of 'poor Maisie'. Robbie might feel sorry for Warner if he hadn't seen the pitiable, battered corpse of the young woman he killed.
"So, what are we doing with poor Maisie? And her friends?"
"Royston Stables are sending a trailer to pick them up," James says. "It will take them a little while to call someone in. Apparently, the only employee on duty today who is capable of transporting three horses just got arrested for murder."
"And Maisie will be all right?" Robbie asks. Lizzie looks vaguely offended, as if he's questioned her competence, and he hastens to add, "I thought you might've lied to Warner to keep him from going spare."
James jumps in. "It really is a common, minor injury. Only if the frog―the pad of the foot―gets cut, there's danger of infection. Luckily, the resourceful Sergeant Maddox keeps a toolbox in her pocket."
Lizzie produces one of those folding thingummies that have everything from knives and screwdrivers to wire-cutters and bottle-openers. "It was a Christmas present from Tony." She flicks open a surprisingly large knife. "Not exactly designed as a hoof-pick, but it did the job. Good Sheffield steel."
"Clean many hooves, do you? And while we're on the subject, where'd you learn to ride like that, city girl like you?" No doubt there are riding stables in Leeds, same as in Oxford, but from what he knows of Lizzie's working-class background, he doubts that the family budget extended to frivolities like riding lessons.
Lizzie grins. "I was horse-mad as a girl. Spent some of my summers with my gran up in the North Riding. There was a horse farm near her village, and the owners were willing to give me lessons in exchange for cleaning tack and mucking out stables."
"Ah, the joys of mucking out," James says with a sardonic twitch of his mouth. Robbie has no doubt that James is well-acquainted with stable-related chores, and not because he was a horse-mad boy. He remembers Briony Graham leading horses at Crevecoeur, and he's certain that James was doing the same, even at a younger age.
"The first day, I made the mistake of wearing my best pair of jeans and my favourite Spice Girls t-shirt." Lizzie says ruefully.
James laughs softly. "Horses and good clothing are not an advisable combination." He gestures at his suit. "Case in point. I just got this back from the cleaner yesterday."
Robbie keeps one eye on the road as he listens to the two of them natter on. James tells a few humourous anecdotes about inept riders and cantankerous horses he's known. Lizzie counters with a tale about a gelding at the Yorkshire farm who'd very nearly taken a bite out of her arm. "I thought he was called 'Gherkin,' like one of those little sweet pickles. I asked the stable master why they'd named the nasty beast that, because he may've been small, but he definitely wasn't sweet. And he told me, 'Nay, hinny, he's called 'Gurkha' because he's a fierce warrior.'"
Their laughter is punctuated by the rumble of an engine. A battered black Land Rover towing a very long trailer pulls to the side of the road. The side of the trailer is painted with the Royston Stables name and a stylised image of a running horse. Robbie notes that the driver is careful not to let the trailer tyres onto the grass verge. The trailer is bigger than some of the caravans he'd hired for family holidays when the kids were young. With the weight of three grown horses inside it, it might sink into the rain-softened ground.
The driver, a tall woman with streaks of silver in her short-cropped dark hair, switches off the engine and climbs out of the Land Rover. She's wearing faded jeans, a khaki shirt, and a pair of ancient green wellies. "Brenna Royston," she says, by way of introduction. "Is it true about Joe?"
James steps forward and introduces himself. "Mr Warner has been taken in for questioning, yes."
She sighs. "A pity. I'll have to see about a lawyer for him." Her gaze sweeps across the horses. "One of them picked up a stone?"
"Maisie did, yeah." Lizzie indicates the grey's left front hoof. "I cleaned it out as best I could."
"Thank you for taking care of her." Ms Royston approaches Maisie. "Let me take a look, sweetheart. There's a good girl." She lifts the hoof and inspects the underside. "You'll do. Let's get you home, eh?"
A few minutes later, they watch the trailer disappear down the road. Robbie turns to James and drawls, "All right, Butch Cassidy. If you and Sundance are ready, I reckon we can mosey along to the pokey."
He's met with a dark glower. "Very funny, Robert."
Robbie holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "You won't hear another word out of me. Course, I can't make any promises about the rest of the force."
"Oh, God," Lizzie mutters.
James gives her a stern look. "Perhaps you should have thought about that before re-enacting National Velvet, sergeant."
"You didn't give me much choice, sir. Did you really think I wouldn't follow you?"
"I expected that you would follow me in the car, with DI Lewis."
"Leaving you to handle a murder suspect and two horses by yourself?"
"What gave you the impression that I wouldn't have been able to manage?" James says loftily.
"I'm sure you could handle a whole gang of murderers and an entire herd of wild horses, sir, but it is my job to help you." She grins. "Besides, why should you have all the fun?"
"Why, indeed?" James replies.
Three days, and a tonne of paperwork later, the Warner case is handed over to CPS. Robbie talks James into going out for a proper pub lunch to celebrate. Lizzie is sitting at her desk, looking with suspicion at a small cardboard box. She grabs a pencil, and uses the tip to carefully lift the lid off the box, then peers inside. "Oh!" Her tone is half puzzled, half amused.
Robbie steps closer. "What have you got there?"
By way of reply, she removes a plastic figurine from the box. It's a toy pony. Robbie vaguely recalls that Lyn had some like it when she was a girl, all in outlandish colours. This one is orange, with a blonde mane. A glance at James's barely-concealed smirk tells him everything he needs to know about the source of Lizzie's gift.
"C'mon, James―I'm near-starved. Lunch awaits."
"So it does." James turns to Lizzie. "Come along, Maddox. Lunch awaits."
"Sir?" Apparently James had forgotten to tell Lizzie that she was invited.
"Don't dally, sergeant. DI Lewis is starving."
"The Three Bells does a bang-up steak pie," Robbie says cheerfully. He pauses. "But if you'd like to bring your new friend along, Lizzie, I'm sure they can find a couple of carrots."
- The End -
Author's note: Written for the Tropes/Cliches Challenge on the Inspector Lewis Challenge comm on LJ. The trope I chose to write about was "special powers and skills".
I am not a rider, nor was I ever a horse-mad girl. I tried to research the horsey details as best I could online. I hope there are no glaring errors.