Dead Weight

by John Francome

  `Ruth.’ Hugh stood three feet inside the office door, farther than he usually ventured.

  Ruth Walters, the editor’s elegantly dressed, well-spoken guard dog, peered at him over the top of her spectacles, her fingers still flickering over her keyboard. `He’s busy.’

  Hugh took another pace into the room. `I’ve got to see him.’

  `I wouldn’t advise it.’ She swivelled her eyes towards the editor’s office and Hugh followed her glance. Through the open slats of a Venetian blind two men could be seen: Duncan Frame, the editor, broad shouldered and bulky, and pink-faced Pat, a greyhound-racing specialist and drinking-buddy of the absent Bernard. Frame perched on the corner of the desk, looming over Pat, jabbing his finger in the air. Hugh drew the obvious conclusion. The ritual early-morning bollocking had been a prelude to Bernard’s departure - it looked like Pat might be following in his old friend’s footsteps.

  `I’m going in,’ he said.

  Ruth stopped typing. `I thought you wanted to carry on working here.’

  `That’s why I’m going in.’

  Whatever unpleasantness Frame was uttering was cut short by Hugh’s entry. The editor stared at him, his finger suspended mid-jab, as the journalist burst through the door.

  `Sorry, Duncan,’ he said, `but this won’t wait,’ and he pushed the

  letter he’d received that morning into the editor’s hand.

  Frame read it slowly. After a minute, without taking his eyes from the page, he said, `You still here, Pat?’ and the pink-faced man slipped out of the door, glancing gratefully at Hugh as he did so.

  Frame looked up. `It says there’s another letter.’

  Hugh handed it to him and the editor read it carefully, grinning as he did so. Hugh knew he would be calculating all the angles, of which `How can I best exploit this to the paper’s advantage?’ would undoubtedly be the most important. He placed the two pieces of paper side by side on his desktop and considered them. Finally he said, `Do you open the envelopes to the readers’ letters?’

  `lemma does. She doesn’t read what’s inside them, though.’ `How do you know?’

  `I asked her when I went to look for the envelope for today’s letter. It was in her wastepaper basket. Postmarked Taunton.’

  Frame nodded. Hugh could picture the cogs in his big square head revolving.

  `I presume you decided not to use the first one.’ `I didn’t think it was suitable.’

  `But you kept it?’

  `Bernard told me to save the dotty letters.’

  Frame pulled a face at the mention of Bernard. `That old soak.’ `He gave me his Loony Letters file. I put the first letter in there and dug it out just now. I’m afraid I never saw the envelope to that one, though.’

  `Have you talked to anyone else about this?’ `No.’

  Frame nodded. `Right,’ he said. He picked up the two pieces of paper by their corners, holding them between thumb and forefinger. `Put these and the envelope in separate plastic folders. Then photocopy them. Don’t show them to anyone else and don’t, under any circumstances, breathe a word to a living soul about any of this.’ As he picked up the phone, he added, `And don’t leave the office. You and I are going to talk to the police.’

  Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Lynch of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary had promised himself a Saturday morning at home for once. More to the point, he had promised his daughter, a Bristol student,

  that he’d drive over with some items for her new flat.

  `Of course, Dad,’ Claire had said, `if you’d bought me a car for Christmas then you wouldn’t have to bother.’

  He’d laughed and so had she, but the remark had struck home. Some of these new friends of hers at university appeared to zip around in brand-new Golfs and Clios, and it touched a nerve to think he couldn’t provide for his offspring in the same way. And now she’d moved into a Georgian terrace in Clifton with a group of them. He hoped she’d be able to hold her own.

  So the phone call from DS Petrie at Maybrick Street nick was hardly welcome.

  `There’s been a development in the jockey case, guv. I’ve just had some super from Scotland Yard on the phone.’

  The jockey case had already caused a disproportionate amount of fuss in Charlie’s opinion. If the unfortunate victim hadn’t been a jockey in the public eye no one would have paid much attention. Which is not to say that it wasn’t high on the list of the DCI’s priorities, particularly after a visit to the boy’s hospital bedside.

  The upshot was a flurry of phone calls and a change to Charlie’s plans. To his surprise, Claire did not kick up much of a fuss.

  `Why don’t I pop over tomorrow instead, sweetheart?’

  `OK. Jennifer’s parents are coming too so we could have lunch together. Her dad’s a QC so you’ll have lots in common.’

  If Charlie had known that, he’d have put off Scotland Yard till next week.

  It was strange for Hugh to be stuck in the office on a Saturday afternoon. As a rule he’d be at a racecourse somewhere, preferably not more than a two-hour train ride from London, giving him time for a decent night out before heading home to Clapham. Today, for example, he should have been at Kempton Park, checking out a variety of contenders, all jostling for position in the midwinter run-up to Cheltenham. As it was, he had to make do with watching the action on the television in the smokers’ room while he waited for the coppers to turn up.

  Fortunately they didn’t do so till after a top-notch two-mile handicap hurdle, which saw an ex-flat racer, Devious, home by a length from his nearest rival despite carrying a full stone more. Afterwards his trainer, Gerry Fowler, told the TV audience that the horse’s next outing would

  be the Tote Gold Trophy at Newbury. Hugh was pleased for Gerry, whose yard, Greenhills, was one of a number of West Country establishments. In the background Hugh spotted Gerry’s remarkably pretty daughter, Louise, making a fuss of their winner. For a moment he regretted not being on the course in person.

  Then Ruth’s face appeared in the doorway, wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale smoke.

  `He wants you,’ was all she said.

  The three policemen were already in Frame’s office and Hugh was introduced swiftly, so swiftly he failed to catch all the details. The young one in the smart suit was from Scotland Yard. Hugh soon came to the conclusion that he was there for form’s sake, representing some police brass of Frame’s acquaintance.

  The other two had travelled up from the West Country. Adrian Moore had been assaulted on their patch and so this was their investigation. The younger detective, John Petrie, wore a scuffed suit and a tie like a nasty Christmas present. His boss, Charlie Lynch, made no concessions to formality at all; his denim shirt and navy fleece were the Saturday wear of the weekday office slave. Being an everyday scruff himself, Hugh had no objection.

  It seemed Frame had already laid out the basic situation and Hugh had been summoned to corroborate and to answer questions about his discovery of the letters. All of which was accomplished in no time. Then they discussed arrangements to fingerprint all staffers who might have laid a hand on them, presumably to inform the forensic examination to which the letters would be subjected.

  Charlie and John sat side by side on the visitors’ sofa, pouring over the two documents lying on the low table in front of them.

  `Not much of a speller, is he?’ said John. `Of course, it could be deliberate,’ he added. He seemed keen, Hugh thought.

  Charlie said nothing but gave his colleague a warning glance, doubtless to shut him up. The officer was obviously well aware he was sitting in a newspaper office.

  `What else have you got in this Loony Letters file?’ Charlie asked. `Nothing like this,’ Hugh said. `I went through it. It’s full of suggestions like adding novelty jumps to steeplechases and staggering the start in handicaps. Crackpot stuff.’

  Charlie grinned. `You don’t mind if we double-check?’

  `The Racing Beacon will cooperate in every way, Inspector,’ announce
d Frame. `Our only concern is to catch whoever is responsible.’ `That’s much appreciated,’ said Charlie matter-of-factly. Hugh had no doubt that similar remarks had been exchanged before he’d arrived. `Do you really think this bloke might have done it?’ he asked. `I thought the ones who blew off steam were generally harmless.’

  Charlie turned towards him. `You’re probably right but we’re duty bound to follow everything up.’

  `You think there’s something in this, though, don’t you?’ Hugh persisted. `Is it the stuff about broadheads? Whatever they are.’

  There was a small silence. Charlie appeared not to have heard. Then the London policeman broke in. `There are some details of the investigation that I’m sure DCI Lynch would prefer not to divulge at present.’

  Charlie switched his gaze to Frame. `We have an agreement, don’t we? None of this information appears until we say so?’

  The editor nodded gravely. `My newspaper is at your disposal.’ Lying toad, thought Hugh. Even in circumstances like this it was hard to give Frame the benefit of the doubt.

  The policeman appeared to take the editor at face value, however. He nodded and said, `The fact is, Mr Pimlott, Adrian Moore was hit in the legs by two aluminum arrows, about seven inches long, apparently fired from a crossbow. The tips are made of three razor-sharp blades which expand on impact to make a hole in the flesh about an inch and a half in diameter.’

  Hugh winced. Poor lad.

  `These arrows are known as broadheads,’ Charlie added. `Does that answer your question?’

  It did indeed.

  Chapter Four

  Louise Fowler surveyed her father’s office through a mist of fatigue and last night’s overindulgence. The gunmetal-grey filing cabinets, painted breeze-block walls and a wastepaper basket brimming with yesterday’s wadded-up tissues and brown apple cores made a depressing sight. The desk was a mess of scattered papers and open files - evidence of an early-morning visit by her father. Whatever he’d been searching for, she doubted he’d found it. He was useless in the office - which was why she’d been ordered off the gallops and told to fill the vacuum caused by Helen, the office secretary’s latest failure to appear.

  Louise filled the kettle and spooned instant coffee into a mug. Crisis or not, she needed to get her head together before she could tackle the chaos. Last night, having a giggle with Rebecca and those two new lads who’d chatted them up in the Cat and Fiddle, shed shrugged aside the thought of the following morning. And back at Rebecca’s later, holding a post-mortem on the evening, though she’d known it was daft for Becky to open another bottle of wine, shed drunk it all the same.

  What she hadn’t bargained for was standing in for Helen. Surely flu didn’t strike that quickly? Anyhow, here she was, on Dad’s orders, sitting at a desk instead of riding out on her gorgeous grey filly, Skellig. Louise could cope with a hangover on horseback in the open air, but suffering in this poky room under the glare of a humming striplight was a different matter. No wonder Helen was ill so often.

  She began to tidy the papers on the desk, pettishly chucking them into a filing tray. Honestly, if she’d wanted to be a secretary she could have got a job in an office in town and be earning some proper money.

  As she waited for the computer to boot up, the phone rang. It was just after nine, about the time that jockeys’ agents began to call.

  `Morning, Greenhills Yard. Louise speaking.’ Her voice sang out cheerfully. Perhaps she should be an actress? `Oh, hello, Mrs Davenport - how can I help you?’

  As the owner of one of their hurdlers prattled on, Louise continued to tidy the desk. Where was that list of things to do that Dad had been going on about?

  Charlie Lynch sat glumly opposite John Petrie in the trendy coffee bar round the corner from the Maybrick Street nick. They’d spent the first hour of the day reviewing progress on the Adrian Moore case and John had suggested a change of scenery from the canteen. Personally Charlie would have preferred a pint but the Maybrick Arms wasn’t open yet.

  They had returned from their trip to the Racing Beacon full of optimism. The letters - with that reference to crossbow arrows - had looked like leading them to Adrian’s attacker. But that had been almost two weeks ago and since then they’d not got much farther. Forensic analysis of the paper and print of the letters had yielded nothing useful. The only fingerprints had been identified as belonging to Racing Beacon staff. The notepaper was bog-standard A4, available at every stationer’s in the country, so too the envelope. The letter had been generated on a computer and printed on a standard ink jet printer like hundreds of thousands of others.

  They’d also drawn a blank - so far - with the materials used to assault Adrian and his dog. The blue cord with which the attacker had tied Beatle was common. The same could not be said for the crossbow and its lethal broadheads, in the sense that they were not everyday items like paper or printers. On the other hand, as John had pointed out, specialist sporting goods were easily acquired these days courtesy of the internet. They were trying to find the source of the vicious little arrows that had made such a mess of Adrian’s legs, but they weren’t having a lot of luck. They could have been purchased from the website of some store situated halfway round the world.

  Charlie watched John happily stuffing his face with a long brown jobby, first dipping it into his frothy drink, then sucking it down with relish. A biscotti, he’d called it, some kind of fancy Italian biscuit that went well with a double-strength cafe latte. Charlie wasn’t impressed. All he knew was that a cup of tea and a digestive in the canteen cost a fraction of the price.

  `What next, guv?’ said John, wiping crumbs from his chin.

  Charlie shrugged. `Officially, we keep plugging away. The investigation is on-going.’

  `But between you and me?’

  `I think we’re at the point where we trust it’s a one-off. That our nutter has satisfied his personal grudge and that’s the last we hear of him.’

  `That’s what you think?’ `It’s what I sincerely hope.’ `So it’s not what you think.’

  Charlie didn’t say anything. He had a bad feeling about this. He didn’t believe the author of those letters was just a piss-and-wind merchant. And the nutter had made it clear that this was just the beginning.

  Just before ten the phone went for what seemed like the hundredth time and Louise sailed into her customary greeting. Keeping upbeat was becoming a bit of a strain.

  The voice on the other end was youthful but weary - her drinkingcompanion from the night before.

  `Bit early for you, isn’t it, Becky? I thought you students never got out of bed before midday.’

  Rebecca groaned. `Who says I’m out of bed? I’m only awake because someone rang me.’

  `So?’

  `So don’t you want to know who that someone was?’ She didn’t wait for Louise to reply. `Leo.’

  Leo was one of the boys from the night before. The one Rebecca had fancied. She was now in full flow. It seemed she and Leo had talked for some while and, weary or not, she was prepared to divulge every detail. Louise cut in.

  `Can this wait a bit, Becky? I’m supposed to be working here.’ `So you don’t want to know about next Wednesday?’

  `What about it?’

  `Valentine’s Day. Me, you, Leo and Kit.’ Kit was the other boy, the moody one with the sky-blue eyes. He hadn’t taken them off Louise all evening. `They want us to go to a club in Bath.’

  Suddenly the day had become less dreary. `Wow - fantastic!’

  `I said we might be busy.’ `Becky, I’m not doing anything!’

  `They don’t know that. Let them sweat. Honestly, Louise, you’re clueless about men.’

  ‘Louise-‘ Her father was standing in the doorway pulling off his gloves; his cap and Barbour were glistening with beads of rain. ‘Gotta go, Becky,’ said Louise hastily. `Catch you later.’ And she smartly replaced the receiver.

  `Don’t you spend enough of your life in that girl’s company without tying up my phone line?’<
br />
  `Sorry, Dad. She just rang me.’ `Did you do the things on that list?’

  `I couldn’t find it in all this mess. And the phone hasn’t stopped.’ `So you haven’t rung Weatherby’s?’

  `I didn’t know I had to.’

  There was a silence. Louise could see that her father’s usually cheerful face had taken on a look of panic. Cold fury, she knew, would soon follow.

  He yanked the phone from its rest and began to punch in numbers he knew by heart.

  As he waited for the connection he looked her full in the eye. `If we’re too late to declare Devious at Newbury tomorrow, there will be trouble.’

  Louise glanced anxiously at the clock on the wall. As every trainer’s daughter knew, declarations had to be in by ten o’clock the day before the race. The authorities were not known to be flexible.

  The time was now six minutes past ten. Her heart sank.

  `Have you told your wife yet?’

  It was almost the end of the session and Phil was tired. He felt as if he’d spent the morning in the gym lifting weights rather than an hour in a softly padded armchair in the beige haven of Simone’s office. Mental exercise, he was discovering, could be more exacting than physical exertion.

  Her question took him by surprise. It was the first time she had raised the subject since the dinner for Snowflake.

  `I don’t want anybody to know I’m seeing you,’ he said. `I’d be

  finished as a jockey if it got out I’d lost my bottle.’ `Julia is not just anybody.’

  `All the same, I don’t want her to know.’ `Why not?’

  Her words hung there. He’d asked himself that question more than once and shied away from answering it. He struggled to put what he felt into words.

  `Before I met Jules, she’d had a bit of a rough time. Men had really buggered her around. I swore I’d never do that.’

  `How would sharing your problem “bugger her around”?’

  `I can’t tell her I’ve got mental problems. She relies on me. I’m supposed to be the man of the house.’