Dead Weight

by John Francome

  `What do you mean?’

  `If there’s someone going round attacking racing people …’ Phil laughed. `Don’t you believe it. Who’d want to do that?’

  `But it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? First Adrian, then Gerry Fowler.’

  Phil shook his head and removed the tray from Julia’s lap. `Aren’t you having some?’

  `I’m not hungry.’

  `What have you got dressed for?’ `I’m working Callisto.’

  `No you’re bloody not.’ He hooked an arm round her waist. `I’m not having you going off on your own with these mysterious assaults on racing personnel taking place.’

  `That’s not funny, Phil,’ she protested, but she couldn’t deny she welcomed the feel of his arm around her.

  `I don’t mean any disrespect by it. Gerry’s a bloody good bloke. Gave me a few rides as a conditional. I wouldn’t mind meeting up with the character who’s done this.’

  `Phil!’

  `Don’t worry.’ He pulled her down next to him on the bed, so she lay almost on top of him, his lips brushing her cheek. `I’ll keep a good lookout on dark mornings.’

  It was heaven lying there with him. The horrible news and his closeness had put her misgivings about their relationship to the back of her mind. She couldn’t think about their differences with his mouth on hers and his fingertips tracing the stem of her neck.

  They came up for air.

  `Callisto can wait,’ he said, and began to tug her shirt from the waistband of her jeans.

  It was a blissful twenty minutes. Just like it had always been. Better, in fact. But when it was over and she lay naked in his arms, she caught sight of that damned personal organiser on the bedside table and all her doubts and fears came flooding back.

  Did Phil lie in bed with Simone like this? By not confronting him, was she condoning his other woman? Shouldn’t she have it out with him right now?

  No - she didn’t dare.

  She lay there more confused than ever.

  Louise sat in the small room next to the hospital bed and the swathed and bundled body that was her father. She clasped his hand in hers, a bony horseman’s hand, callused and rough. She’d know this hand anywhere. It struck her that it was about the only part of her dad’s body that wasn’t battered out of recognition. He’d sustained a broken pelvis, a fractured cheekbone and a punctured lung, courtesy of three ribs snapped like chicken bones.

  It was one o’clock in the early hours of Monday morning, and she still wore the grubby work clothes she’d thrown on at 6 a.m. the previous day. She felt travel worn, as if she’d been on a long journey. Since finding her father, bloody and barely conscious, she had been living on nervous energy. She’d talked her mother into going home for the night and arranged to change places with her later in the day. Despite her fatigue, she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep; though her body was tired, her mind was still working overtime.

  Louise was convinced the whole nightmare was down to her, beginning with her slip-up over the declaration and escalating through her unguarded confession to Hugh Pimlott. She was horrified by news reports speculating that the attack on her father was connected to Devious not running at Newbury. At least Dad wasn’t going to die, so they said. If he did, it would all be her fault.

  She hadn’t even had time to make up with him. Saturday night’s row seemed a year ago and yet it still cast a shadow. She’d never seen Dad so angry. After Crispin Rose had called to say he was taking his horses away, Dad had been speechless. Then he’d taken it out on her and, on reflection, she couldn’t blame him. Shed brooded on it all that night and, when shed heard him leave the house, she’d decided she had better try and mend fences. That was why she’d got up so early - to say sorry - and she’d found her father lying in a pool of blood in the courtyard. At least she’d been able to summon help at once. Of course, if she’d got up even earlier maybe she could have prevented the attack taking place at all.

  There was a sudden change in the rasping note of her father’s breathing. She leaned over him anxiously and saw, beneath the skullcap of bandages, that his eyes were open. His head looked the size of a melon, the skin stretched tight over his swollen flesh. It was the face of a stranger; only those eyes were familiar. They focused on her and his puffy lips stretched wide.

  `Loo?’ His pet name for her. He never used it when he was angry - he’d not called her that on Saturday night.

  `Oh, Daddy.’ She squeezed his fingers. `I’m so sorry.’ Sorry for everything, she meant, and started to cry.

  `Ssh,’ he mumbled, stroking her hand.

  This was the first time he’d been conscious when she was with him. He’d spoken to Mum that afternoon, while Louise was in the canteen, sipping a cup of tea. He’d also managed a word or two at the same time with a female detective called Patsy, who’d been keeping discreet attendance. When Louise returned she’d been miffed that she’d missed her father’s few minutes of lucidity. He’d been lying sedated ever since.

  When he next spoke his voice sounded stronger and his grip on her fingers was firm.

  `Do me a favour, Loo. Look after the yard.’

  She was surprised. Surely he wasn’t lying there worrying about the business?

  `What about Chris?’she said. Chris Blackmore was Gerry’s assistant trainer.

  `Keep him sweet. Listen to what he has to say but you’re in charge. OK?’

  She nodded. `If you say so, Dad.’

  He didn’t speak any more, just squeezed her hand and, in a few moments, dropped back to sleep.

  Louise sat in the half-light, mulling over his words. She knew what to do. She’d let Chris get on with training the horses and organising the stable staff, and she’d deal with the owners herself. First thing tomorrow, she’d phone all of them and reassure them it was business as usual - almost.

  She felt better than at any time during the past two days. She swore she wouldn’t let Dad down again.

  Julia heard Phil get up in the night - it was getting to be a habit with him. As usual she lay still, not daring to reveal that she too was awake. She stared unhappily into the pre-dawn gloom, alert to every sound he made downstairs. She heard his footsteps on the tiled kitchen floor, the gurgle of the kettle as he made himself a drink, then the creak of the kitchen door. Would he come back to her? He didn’t, as a rule, return to bed but, in what little glow remained of that morning’s intimacy, she

  hoped that he might. Then she heard the scrape of a chair in the living room and her hopes were dashed.

  What did he do by himself in the middle of the night? Ponder how his life had gone wrong since he’d married her? Pine for his lover? Or plot how he could get free of silly, fragile Julia, who was nothing to him now but a burden?

  She longed to go down and talk to him honestly. Maybe there was still something she could do to mend things between them. Maybe she’d got it all wrong and there was some other reason why he had removed himself from her emotionally. Maybe.

  With Julia safely asleep upstairs, Phil laboriously worked at the task Simone had set him, writing on a lined A4 pad on the living-room table.

  Phil had been dismayed when Simone asked him to write an account of his accident on May Queen.

  Why? he’d asked her, and she’d explained at some length, though he wasn’t sure he’d followed all her reasoning. But did that matter? He wasn’t the kind of man who quizzed the doctor about what was in the medicine he’d been prescribed. All he cared about was, would it work?

  `It’s going to take some time,’ Simone had said, `but I’m sure there are things we can do to help you.’

  One of those things, it transpired, was to record in as much detail as possible the events of that day at Worcester last September. He was now on his third version, condemned to keep returning to it until Simone was satisfied he had captured every last memory on paper.

  Flashes of it kept returning to him as he wrote. He remembered the taste of earth in his mouth as he lay on his back after the fall and
the view of horses’ underbellies as they galloped over him, showering him with grass and dirt. As the sound of them receded - the drumming of hooves, the shouted curses, the slapping of whips - he’d felt surprisingly peaceful. There’d been a floating sensation in his body as his head tried to work out what had happened.

  `A bit of me was thinking, Oh, sod it,’ he wrote, “cause I thought I was in with a chance in the race. But I also thought, I haven’t blacked out, so I won’t be disqualified for the next. Then through my goggles, which were all steamed up, I saw paramedics rushing over. Alongside them was a steward I knew, a stout fellow, and he was running too. I thought suddenly, Christ, I must be bad if he’s running over. At that point I realised I had no feeling in my legs. I tried to lift my head to look down and see if they were still there but I couldn’t move a muscle. The first thing I said to the medics was, “Have I still got my legs?” I had a picture in my mind that I’d left them behind, stuck in the fence.’

  Phil put his pen down and reached for his mug of tea. His hand was trembling.

  So this was supposed to help him feel better? He couldn’t see how. Louise returned home the next day with a clear sense of purpose. She’d managed to doze in the chair by her father’s bed for a few hours so, after a shower and change of clothes, she got straight to work. First she sought out Chris. He seemed relieved when she explained the division of labour - he’d have more than enough to do managing the yard without being polite to owners. She omitted to mention her dad’s wish that she take charge but said that she would be visiting hospital every day to keep Gerry in the picture. Then she hit the phones.

  Naturally enough, everyone she spoke to was sympathetic and the calls followed the same pattern. First she ran through the events of yesterday - the attack on her father, the hospital vigil, the extent of his injuries - then assured them that Greenhills was functioning as normal and (briefed by Chris) moved on to discuss their particular animals.

  She left Crispin Rose to the end. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was going to say - she felt as if he were the enemy now. However, while Devious and his three other horses remained in the yard he was still a Greenhills owner. She found herself repeating what she’d told everyone else. She finished off by asking when he would like to remove his horses. His response took her by surprise.

  `I don’t want to remove them at all,’ he said. `This terrible business has put a few things in perspective. Would you tell Gerry I can’t imagine working with any other trainer and ask him if he’ll keep the horses after all?’

  `I don’t need to ask him, Mr Rose. He’d be delighted.’

  She realised she’d just made her first executive decision as temporary boss of the yard. It felt pretty good.

  Finally she called Rebecca. Apart from her need to unburden herself of all that had happened, she had a proposal to make.

  `How much would I have to pay you,’ she said, `to get you to shift your bum out of bed at six in the morning?’

  `Why would you want me to do that?’ `To ride a few horses.’

  `You’re offering me a job?’

  `Just to help out for a few days. Can’t you miss a few lectures?’ `You bet. But won’t your father mind? I know I’m not flavour of the month.’

  `Don’t worry about Dad. He’s put me in charge while he’s away.’ Hiring Rebecca was her second executive decision. She could get used to making them, she thought.

  The Editor

  The Racing Beacon Re: Gerry Fowler

  As you may have noticed, I’ve been busy.

  Mr Gerry Fowler is guilty of cheating and lying to the betting public. He pulled Devious out of the Tote Gold on a trumped-up story and got caught out, robbing honest punters of their antepost bets. He probably thought he was being clever when he banked his backhander from the bookmakers, but I bet he’s not laughing now I’ve taught him a lesson.

  The cheaters in horseracing are soon going to sit up and take notice - the ordinary punter is fighting back.

  So when are you lot going to take your finger out and do something? I’ve just about had it with the Racing Beacon. You claim to be the punter’s friend but your not.

  Like I said before I want a proper campagne for justice in racing. You’d better start taking the lid off racing scams quick or there will be more like Gerry Fowler with a sack over their heads. I’m giving you till Thursday morning.

  PS If you’re not interested there’s others who will be. This is your last chance.

  `Hmm,’ murmured Charlie as he stared at this latest letter. He was aware that the three others in the room were expecting a dynamic response but this was all he could come up with. He needed thinking time.

  They had convened once more in Duncan Frame’s office - Frame, John Petrie and that shambolic-looking reporter, Pimlott. By tacit agreement of both parties, Scotland Yard was not represented - though Charlie had no doubt Frame would be on the phone to his contacts if he failed to get what he wanted. Charlie was well aware that the editor had his own agenda. So far, however, he had been remarkably restrained in presenting it.

  `A question,’ said Frame, obviously keen to move things along. Charlie looked up from the letter and waited.

  `Is the person who wrote this letter responsible for the attack on Fowler?’

  Charlie decided to be frank. `Almost certainly.’ He needed Frame’s cooperation and he couldn’t see any point in prevaricating. Besides, if he started playing games with some tricky newspaper editor he’d probably end up on the losing side. Honesty - in selected doses - was usually the best policy.

  He indicated the paper in front of him. `We haven’t released precise details about the assault on Mr Fowler. His attacker put a sack over his head before he beat him. So, either the letterwriter has inside knowledge of what happened from the emergency services or the family - or else he’s the one who assaulted him.’

  `So it’s been dropped in to convince us he’s genuine, like mentioning broadpoints in the last letter?’ said Hugh Pimlott.

  `It looks like it.’

  `But the letter is addressed to the paper,’ said Frame.

  `He knows you’ll have gone to the police. He’s quite smart enough to assume we’ll be talking to each other.’

  Frame cleared his throat. Here it comes, thought Charlie, he’s going to make his pitch.

  `I think you’ll agree, Inspector Lynch, that the Racing Beacon has been fully supportive of the authorities in this matter.’

  Charlie nodded. `I appreciate that you’ve agreed not to print any of this.’

  `Quite. However, I’m not sure that it is in the public interest for the paper to remain silent much longer.’

  Frame’s small black eyes stared at Charlie out of his square red face. He was putting a polite gloss on it but he was saying he intended to break the story.

  At last Charlie said, `I agree with you.’

  Petrie shot him a startled look. In all their discussions so far, they’d agreed to try to keep the letters out of the public domain.

  `My reading of this bloke,’ said Charlie, leaning forward in his seat, `is that he wants publicity. He’s dying to be the centre of attention for once in his life - I don’t know why exactly. Anyhow, he’s giving you an ultimatum. Start writing about punters being cheated or he’ll beat up more racing people.’

  `And he’ll deal with some other newspaper,’ said Frame.

  `That too.’ Charlie knew this was probably the most significant point for the editor. Whatever Frame might feel about the public interest, Charlie had no doubt that commercial imperatives would colour his thinking. The idea of losing the inside track on a hot story to a rival newspaper would be unthinkable.

  `Would it be possible,’ Charlie continued, `for you to run a few articles on this fellow’s pet subject?’

  Frame screwed up his face. `We can’t go around accusing people of cheating - I’d end up in the courts faster than the man you’re looking for. And I don’t suppose the Avon and Somerset Constabulary would care to ind
emnify the newspaper against libel damages.’

  `Box a bit clever. Give him a little of what he wants and buy us some time.’

  Frame turned to Hugh, who had been scribbling on a notepad. `What do you think?’

  `Should be possible,’ the reporter said, looking up from his notes. `There’s all sorts of stuff we could do safely.’

  Charlie grinned at him gratefully. So the fellow wasn’t a useless lump after all.

  `Why don’t we actually use his words?’ Hugh continued. `Flash “Justice in Racing” as a banner on the page.’

  `Great,’ said Charlie quickly, as if it were a done deal.

  Frame nodded grudgingly. `OK, but I’m running a separate news story linking Moore and Fowler. Our readers have a right to know there’s a madman out there with a grudge against the racing community.’ Charlie couldn’t disagree.

  They caught a fair amount of traffic heading out of London on the M4. Not that Charlie much cared. John was looking after the driving chores,

  being the kind of fellow you couldn’t prise away from the wheel. Personally, Charlie would be happy if he never sat in the driving-seat of a car again. He’d never cared for them. He remembered being given toy cars as a boy and leaving them untouched in his bedroom till his mum got fed up and gave them away. He’d bet John’s mum never gave away her son’s toy cars. He’d have pushed them till the wheels fell off.

  The irritating trill of `La Cucaracha’ filled the vehicle. John’s mobile phone was another toy Charlie would rather not play with. It had its uses, however. He fished it out of the sergeant’s jacket and took the call from DC Patsy Preece.

  `I’ve got a preliminary report from Forensics on the sack, guv.’ `And?’

  ‘Apart from Gerry’s, they’ve found blood. Animal blood, probably from a fox or a dog. There’s fur and feathers, too.’

  `No other human blood?’

  ‘They don’t think so. Just animals and maybe a bird or two, given the feathers. The sack itself is bog-standard. It looks like it might have originally contained wood because there’s lots of splinters buried in the material. You know those sacks of kindling you buy at garages? That kind of thing.’