Dead Weight

by John Francome

  All in all, he reflected as he locked the door behind him, very impressive. He’d sorted her out and he’d kept the Beast under control. And he’d seen off that interfering old busybody, Carrington. He smiled as he went to quieten the hounds.

  Rebecca wanted to sleep. The pain and the terror were exhausting. She’d taken a lot out of herself in battering the wall, trying to attract attention. But sleep wouldn’t come.

  She’d thought he was going to kill her when he’d come back in and found her with the chair. For a second she’d seen it in those mean muddy-brown eyes that showed through the slits of his woollen mask. Instead he’d smacked her down like a grown-up with a child. Against his strength she was powerless.

  So, was she just going to give up? Pin her hopes on a ransom? God knows how long that would take. Could she bear it, rotting here in this dreadful place?

  Did she have a choice?

  She must have slept. Drifting back and forth between slumber and wakefulness, her thoughts were a jumble. One moment she was lying safely, her face on Kit’s bare chest, his arms around her. The next she was wide awake, straw tickling her cheek and jolts of electric pain shooting up and down her leg.

  She knew her night with Kit had been just a beautiful illusion. Already it seemed distant, part of another, unreal life that she’d never see again.

  Lying bound and gagged, gripped by pain, thirsty and in terrible need - this was now her life.

  She’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry, but what did it matter now? Keith gave the girl an hour. Time enough for her to realise that there was no point in trying to resist him. He’d have liked to have left it longer but he had to get this letter sorted.

  He took her more soup and a couple of aspirins - that should show her there were advantages in playing ball with him.

  He hauled her into a sitting position and took out his knife. Once more he slid it under the tape around her mouth.

  `No noise,’ he said, and waited for her to nod feebly before he cut the gag away.

  He cut the cords around her wrists too but left her legs tied. She wouldn’t need her feet to write a letter.

  She warmed her hands on the mug and sipped as he once more set out the chair and paper.

  `Remember what you were going to do earlier?’ She nodded. He put the pencil in her hand. `Write like I told you.’

  `Can I … ?’ She stopped. `I want to use the bucket.’

  Jesus! He felt like saying no and ordering her to do that letter first. But that was the Beast thinking. Keith knew he needed her cooperation. He bent and roughly hacked through the cord that bound her feet. `Hurry up,’ he said.

  Rebecca hobbled slowly across the stone floor, trying to ease the stiffness from her aching limbs. She fumbled with her jeans as she pushed them down her hips, squatting awkwardly on the cold metal rim of the bucket.

  He stood there by the door, watching her every move.

  If anyone had told her that one day she would relieve herself in front of a stranger without shame she would not have believed them. It was weird how quickly life could change.

  She felt no shame because she could think only of survival. For the first time since she had been captured she wore no chains or bonds - and the door to her prison was unlocked.

  There was only him.

  Keith told her again what he wanted her to say and, at last, she began to write. He stood over her and tried to read what she was writing, but she protested. `I can’t do it with you standing there like that.’

  He backed away and forced himself to wait. She seemed to be taking an age. His patience was running out.

  Finally he peered down at the paper. Dear Editor

  Please help me. I’m being kept prisoner. I don’t know where I am exactly but it’s not more than an hour by road from Greenhills Yard. I’m locked in a shed out in the country and I’m surrounded by dogs

  The little cow. He couldn’t send that!

  He didn’t see it coming. There was just the blur in the corner of his vision and the piercing needle of fire entering his left eye. His body convulsed in agony and his hands flew automatically to his face, knocking aside the skewering piece of wood.

  The bitch had blinded him with the pencil!

  He heard the scuffle of her feet on the floor and the rattle of the door behind him.

  She was getting away.

  He blundered after her, holding a hand to his head, squinting through his right eye. He could see her turning past the first hound pen. He ran after her. He had to catch her.

  He found himself at the back door to the house. Had she gone inside?

  A sudden howling and yapping from the last of the pens next to the field informed him otherwise. The hounds were telling him something. He caught her getting through the gate into the cow pasture beyond the pens. She cried out as he grabbed her by the shoulder, throwing her to the ground.

  Then the Beast took over.

  Keith squinted at the broken doll down by his feet.

  He never meant it to happen. He’d thought the Beast was under control.

  But she’d pushed the Beast too far and paid the price. What a bloody fiasco.

  Keith had lived with the Beast long enough to suffer, many times, for his excesses. But there’d never been anything like this.

  He mustn’t allow himself to dwell on it. As ever, it was up to him to sort out the mess.

  First he got the body out of sight and cleaned up the shed where she’d been, raking it out and hosing it down. He’d burn the straw bedding in the incinerator along with the body.

  He wasn’t squeamish about disposing of the corpse - she was just another dead animal when it came down to it - but he’d have to take exceptional care. No trace of the girl must be left. It would be a laborious task, and his eye was hurting so much he couldn’t start just yet.

  He should have put ice on the wound at once, he thought as he looked at the swelling around the ripped flesh. He’d been lucky, though. The little bitch could have blinded him, but the pencil point had missed the eyeball, gouging into the outer rim of the socket. He remembered it had stuck there, entangled in his skin and the wool of the Balaclava, until he’d knocked it away.

  The eye was full of blood and gunk and his vision was misty. The deep furrow running almost to the top of his ear needed stitching. That was too bad. He washed the eye and disinfected the wound. By the time he had applied a strip of lint and fixed it to his face with a strip of Elastoplast he looked horrific. What he needed was an eye patch - and a good cover story.

  As he worked he thought more rationally. He could yet make something of this disaster.

  When he went back to the outhouse he put the body in a large plastic refuse sack and transferred it to the wagon. He reckoned he could drive with one eye if he took it carefully.

  He drove the wagon slowly through the lanes. He’d be better out on the motorway. He planned to take a long circuitous route back, taking his time so he could pitch up at Middleton’s farm to collect a dead heifer -just like normal.

  He’d find a good spot for the girl. He’d considered a note, but what was the point? The message was clear. Next time they’d pay up without pissing him around.

  Maybe there was method in the madness of the Beast after all.

  Chapter Ten

  Louise was trying, really trying, not to show Justin Delancy that she was falling apart. The banker was not the easiest company at the best of times - he seemed to have no small talk whatsoever - and these were far from the best of times. She suspected the only reason Greenhills was still running Delancy’s horses was that he’d not been able to move Easy Does It to another yard ahead of today’s Grand National trial. It followed, therefore, that their best hope of retaining his business - short of a miraculous recovery by her father - was for the horse to put up a good show that afternoon. Winning well might solve the problem.

  Meanwhile anxiety about Rebecca was eating her up. She should be in Becky’s place. Charlie Lynch had brushed it aside,
but she knew the kidnapper had really been looking for her. The thought was hard to live with, and it got worse as time went by.

  Her mother had begged her not to make the trip to Haydock, but what else was she to do? It was important she was available to gladhand their most difficult owner. Besides, she’d go mad back at Greenhills just waiting for news of her absent friend.

  Delancy had taken a hospitality box to entertain his City cronies and their wives. To be fair, most of them were solicitous towards her. A woman she’d never met before put her arms around her and said she was an inspiration. Louise had thanked her, biting back the tears. Tell that to Becky, she thought.

  On the whole she preferred hobnobbing with the men - balding, bejowled and sleek, pneumatic stomachs straining at their waistbands. They talked money and horses, topics that went hand in glove. And when, briefly, mention was made of her father’s assault and Rebecca’s abduction, they were of the opinion that a swift bullet between the eyes of whoever was responsible would save a lot of time and trouble. Normally Louise would have recoiled at such sentiments, but right now they gave her some bitter comfort.

  Delancy himself was not sleek or jowly. He was tall and lean with an angular face that scarcely moved. Only his eyes were animated, flicking from side to side, recording like a camera shutter, missing nothing. His hair was thin and grey, plastered to his scalp with some kind of gel. A lizard of a man who made Louise’s flesh creep.

  They’d not come face to face before.

  `You’re prettier than your father, I’ll say that for you,’ had been his opening remark.

  She supposed it was a compliment but it unnerved her, and she tried to overcome her awkwardness by talking earnestly about Easy Does It, how well he’d been working and how the soft ground would suit him.

  Delancy listened to her prattle on and said, `Have you spoken to O’Neil yet?’

  Jimmy O’Neil, a well-known Irish rider, had been booked to partner Easy Does It at Delancy’s insistence.

  Before she could reply he added, `I hope you’ve told him to hold the horse up. Now we’ve got a decent jockey on board we can ride a proper race.’

  Louise’s heart sank at this mention of race tactics. Her dad had told her that all the horse did was gallop and stay. His best means of winning was to set the pace from the start and wear his rivals down. Honest performer though he was, the one attribute he did not possess was a turn of speed.

  Unfortunately, his owner did not see it that way.

  Louise replied that she’d had a preliminary chat with the jockey and he was full of enthusiasm for the horse. She didn’t reveal that, when she gave the jockey a leg-up in the parade ring, she intended to instruct him to get after Easy Does It from the start and let the rest of the field try and keep up.

  Delancy’s eyes narrowed. He had his suspicions, she could tell. `You don’t want to discuss it, do you? Answer me this, then - is he going to win? Yes or no?’

  She should have ducked the question, laughed it off somehow as her father would. Instead she hesitated, gulped and said, `Yes, of course.’

  The lizard eyes flickered over her. `So I can expect a refund of my training fees if he doesn’t?’

  He was a horrible man. He didn’t deserve to own horses.

  Phil was prepared for the ribbing that greeted him as he walked through the weighing area and into the changing-rooms. Nothing and nobody was sacred in the confines of the jockeys’ quarters - least of all the disappearance of a pretty girl. As jump jockeys the lads were optimists to a man - as far as they were concerned Rebecca was going to turn up at any moment, and Phil’s article was a source of amusement.

  `You crafty sod. I bet you’ve got her locked up somewhere yourself,’ yelled one of the Geordie lads.

  Phil had no choice but to take the flak - the changing-room was that sort of place. He was more worried about how he would handle a call from the kidnapper should it come through. The police had given him a mobile phone designated for the purpose and he handled it like a primed hand grenade.

  Thankfully he had only one ride to worry about, in the Grand National trial. Captain Redbeard was a relatively inexperienced horse for a gruelling three-and-a-half-mile chase over Haydock’s big, scary fences but, if he put his best foot forward, Phil knew he should go close.

  Suddenly the police mobile burst into life, blotting all other matters from his thoughts.

  He took a deep breath and answered the call.

  Louise excused herself from the Delancy box, promising to see the banker in the parade ring shortly. She needed a break to prepare herself for the next act in this ordeal. She pushed her way through the crowd. When she found Jimmy O’Neil she would tell him to disregard any instructions Delancy might give him about Easy Does It.

  She was so preoccupied she did not see Hugh until he was on top of her.

  ,Louise,’ he said, blocking her path.

  She felt a rush of relief at the sight of him.

  Hugh grabbed her arm, pulling her out of the crowd. `Come with me.’ His voice was insistent.

  She protested. `I’m in a rush, Hugh. I’ve got to talk to my jockey.’

  `They’ve found a body, Louise.’

  The shock sucked the air from her lungs. The people around them seemed to disappear. There was just Hugh in front of her, his face grave.

  He lowered his voice. `It’s not official but they think it’s Rebecca.’ Someone was moaning, a highpitched keening like an animal in pain. The sound was coming from her.

  `I’m sorry,’ Hugh murmured, pulling her into the shelter of his arms. Phil weighed out in a daze. He flicked his whip against his boot as he walked towards the parade ring and flexed his left arm, the one he’d broken. He went through all the regular reflex actions he performed before a race. They helped somehow.

  The phone call had not been from the kidnapper. A DS Stone had told him a young woman’s body had been discovered in a ditch behind a layby on the M5. It was probably the missing girl. In the circumstances, Stone had said, they doubted they would be forwarding any calls.

  Though Phil said nothing, news of the discovery spread round the changing-room and the atmosphere became subdued. A couple of the lads who had been taking the mickey came up to Phil and apologised - not that Phil had even met Rebecca.

  Phil had never felt less like riding in a race. It seemed a ridiculous thing to be doing in these circumstances. What did a contest between a bunch of horses matter?

  `Are you all right?’ Russell said.

  Phil realised the trainer had been briefing him on the race ahead and he’d not taken in a word he’d said.

  `Yeah,’ he said. He didn’t want to go into it. He had no idea what Russell had made of the kidnapping or his article in the paper that morning. But, whatever he felt, Russell wouldn’t want to discuss it right now. He made his living training racehorses, and he was the best in the business. At moments like this, five minutes before a race, that was all that mattered to him.

  `I’m fine, honest,’ Phil added, lying through his teeth.

  By the time Chris got word to stand in for Louise, Delancy and his wife had been chatting to the jockey in the parade ring for a couple of minutes.

  `Where’s little Miss Fowler got to, then?’ demanded the owner. `She’s been taken ill. She’s gone to the ambulance room.’ That was all that Chris was inclined to tell them. He’d head over to see how she was coping once he’d got shot of the Delancys.

  `I thought she wasn’t looking well,’ said Mrs Delancy. `She didn’t eat a thing at lunch.’

  The owner put his hand on Jimmy O’Neil’s shoulder. He seemed about twice the height of the diminutive jockey. `You’ve got your marching orders. Give it your best shot.’

  Chris gave Jimmy a leg-up on to Easy Does It. `Do you know how to ride this fellow?’

  `I reckon so. The owner’s been chewing my ear off. He says I’m on an extra present if I get him home in front.’

  `Lucky old you.’

  Jimmy set off rou
nd the ring. The Delancys were already striding across the grass, eager to get in position for the race. Chris had barely managed to be civil to them. He felt bad enough that Rebecca had been snatched while he’d been giving her a hard time. He rushed off in search of Louise, guilt eating him up.

  A nurse ushered Chris into the ambulance room, where Louise was sitting on the bed with a blanket around her shoulders. A large fellow in spectacles who Chris recognised as a reporter was perched on a chair near by.

  `I heard,’ Chris mumbled.

  He sat on the bed next to Louise and took her hand. She gazed at him with red-rimmed, haunted eyes. He didn’t know what to say. His gaze strayed to the reporter, who was staring at the television above their heads on a wall bracket.

  `What’s he doing here?’ he muttered and, without waiting for her reply, said aggressively `Oy, you, push off. No press.’

  The big bloke looked at him. He didn’t move.

  `I want Hugh to stay,’ she said softly. `Be friends, please, Chris.’ He nodded. Whatever she wanted.

  `Some bastard’s going to pay for this,’ he said. It didn’t make him feel any better.

  The three of them sat in silence as the racing commentary washed over them.

  Phil was riding as if on autopilot - he’d never done that before in a race. He looked down on jockeys who admitted to riding with their minds on other things. To Phil’s way of thinking, the guy rehashing last night’s row with his girlfriend had no place in a horserace. To ride well, to get the most out of the horse beneath you, required a hundred per cent concentration - more, if possible. That was what set winners apart from losers. The longer he kept at it, the more he realised that racing was a mind game.

  But right now his mind was elsewhere - on the broken body of some poor girl he’d never met. He’d often felt sympathy for murder victims, like everyone did. They were someone’s sister or mother, husband or brother. But this time he felt more than just sympathy. He’d been asked to play a part in saving Rebecca-and he’d failed. Failed in a spectacular, public fashion. The carefully composed newspaper article that was meant to offer the poor girl a lifeline had been answered in the most damning way possible. There had been no chance for Rebecca after all. He just hoped what he’d said in the paper hadn’t made things worse.