Dead Weight

by John Francome

  `Sure,’ he said. `He just ran out of puff. I didn’t want to take any chances so I pulled him out.’

  Julia took the reins as Mark slipped from the saddle. Callisto blew a plume of hot air into her face as he lowered his head to be patted.

  `I though he was going to pull my arms off at the start,’ said Mark. `He’s still got the guts for it, all right, but next time don’t waste him on pissy little hurdles.’

  `I don’t know that there will be a next time.’

  Mark looked shocked. `It would be terrible shame not to give him another go. He loves it.’

  `Don’t tell me - tell them.’ Julia pointed towards Jack and Yvonne Mitton, who were slowly walking towards them across the turf. `This might be just a one-off.’

  `Do you want to run him again?’ the jockey asked.

  She considered the veteran horse. He was breathing easily and his ears were pricked. He looked pretty pleased with himself, she thought. `You bet,’ she said.

  Phil was in the weighing-room, still only half dressed, when Julia called. He could tell she was excited, and remembered in a flash that today had been Callisto’s comeback race. He should have looked out for the result. It had completely slipped his mind.

  He listened to her cheerful account of the afternoon’s race. Mark had pulled the old horse up before the finish but not before he’d torn the field apart over two and a half miles.

  `He needed that race,’ she said gleefully. `We’re going to run him at Cheltenham. Maybe in the Grand Annual or the Mildmay of Flete. A shorter race over fences will be perfect for him.’

  `Sounds good, Jules. Congratulations.’

  `How are you, darling?’ He could tell she’d picked up that things weren’t good.

  `I came off. But it’s OK, I’ve just got a couple of bruises.’ `And?’

  Obviously she didn’t yet know about Rebecca. He wished he didn’t have to tell her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Charlie sat wearily on the bed and bent to untie his shoes. It was almost midnight, and he’d had about six hours’ sleep in the last two days. He was determined to get his head down for a few hours, till daybreak at least. He was getting too old for this.

  The irritating chirp of his mobile phone broke the silence. Grumbling to himself, the detective got back to his feet and searched through the jacket which he’d tossed on to the chair by the window.

  As expected, John Petrie came on the line. He’d been trying to trace Rebecca’s father in the States, which had proved to be a difficult task. Richard Thornton ran an antiques business in Philadelphia and spent a lot of time on the road.

  `We’ve finally tracked him down,’ he said. `The Philadelphia PD say he’s on an overnight flight. He lands at Heathrow at around half-six in the morning.’

  `Thanks, John. Get Terry to pick me up at four.’

  `Due respect, boss, but can’t someone else fetch him? Give yourself a couple more hours in bed.’

  `No.’ He realised he sounded angry. He wasn’t angry with John, though. `Put yourself in that poor man’s shoes. If I were him I’d want the Chief Constable himself to show up and tell me what was going on. But he’ll just have to make do with me.’

  Across the road a silver BMW drew to a halt and a man and a woman got out. He was tall and broad, in a well-cut suit; she wore a figure-hugging evening dress and carried a wrap. Their laughter floated up into the bedroom.

  `Anything else?’

  As the couple walked beneath a streetlamp, Charlie realised Amy

  was being escorted home from an evening out. The man had his arm around her shoulder.

  `We’ve had two calls from Phil Nicholas. He says he doesn’t want to be a nuisance, guv, but can you ring him? Any time till midnight.’ Phil Nicholas? Charlie had to think. Of course - the jockey.

  A light came on in Amy’s porch as she searched in her purse for the key. The man, Charlie realised, was younger than her. Much younger than himself.

  Amy opened the door and stepped inside, the man following. He had his hand on the swell of her hip. The door closed behind them. Charlie said goodnight to Petrie and rang off. He stared at the house opposite, waiting for the lights to come on. But in which room? The living room - or the bedroom?

  He chuckled and pulled his own bedroom curtains closed with a jerk.

  Good luck to you, BMW man, he thought.

  Even though it had now gone midnight, Charlie rang Phil. It was now or never - he wouldn’t have time tomorrow.

  The phone was snatched up on the first ring. The jockey sounded agitated.

  `I’m sorry to pester you, Inspector, but I just wanted a word about what’s happened. You don’t think my article in the Beacon had anything to do with Rebecca being killed, do you?’

  Charlie had no idea but he wasn’t going to say that. `No, Phil, I don’t think that’s the case.’

  `It’s just that, having stuck my oar in, I’m worried I’ve made everything worse.’

  The policeman heard the anguish in the other man’s voice. He did his best to reassure him. `Mr Nicholas, we’re all very grateful for your help. Personally, I can’t believe that what you wrote had anything to do with the murder.’

  The jockey took a moment to reply. `Thanks, Inspector. That makes me feel a bit better.’

  As Charlie put the phone down he reflected that the jockey didn’t sound better at all.

  Phil drove to Deanscroft early the next morning, determined not to dwell on Rebecca’s murder. He’d thought for a moment he had a chance to do some good, but it hadn’t worked out. He’d just have to live with it. He wouldn’t normally have turned up for work on a Sunday but, with the Cheltenham Festival just over a fortnight off, the Deanscroft runners were cantering every day. One of Phil’s favourites, Wolf Patrol, was running at Leicester in two days’ time. If he came through that in good shape, Russell planned to have a tilt at the Royal & Sunalliance Novices’ Chase on the Cheltenham Wednesday card. Phil could honestly say he was looking forward to it. Maybe he really was putting his riding problems behind him.

  As he got out of his car, Russell called him over.

  `How are you feeling today?’ he asked. There was an edge to his voice.

  `Fine.’

  `Are you sure?’

  Phil was puzzled by this sudden interest in his wellbeing.

  `Only you weren’t exactly on top form yesterday, were you?’ Russell continued.

  Phil was on the point of explaining why his mind hadn’t been on the job, but thought better of it. No excuse, not even the discovery of Rebecca’s body, would be reason enough for Russell.

  He shrugged. `I’m raring to go today, boss. We’ve got some big races coming up.’

  Russell nodded slowly, as if weighing his words. Phil had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what was coming next.

  `I was going to suggest, Phil, that you took it easy for the next week or so. Get yourself in shape for Cheltenham.’

  `But I am in shape. My knee’s not playing up any more. I’m as fit as a fiddle.’

  Russell’s grey eyes narrowed. `I didn’t mean physical shape so much as mental.’

  `Mental?’ Phil could feel his face begin to colour.

  `I know you’ve been having a few problems. I wish you’d told me you were seeing a shrink.’

  Phil was speechless. How the hell did he know that?

  `To be honest,’ Russell continued, `I feel a bit let down. I trust my jockeys to tell me if they get a knock and can’t ride. If you’ve got a mind problem it’s the same thing.’

  `I haven’t got a mind problem.’ Phil found himself shouting. Russell put a fatherly arm across his shoulder and Phil fought the impulse to brush it away.

  `Listen to me, Phil. You are the best race-rider I’ve ever had on my horses but, right now, you’re not in top form. I need you in good shape for Cheltenham. Take a break between now and the Festival.’

  Phil made a conscious effort to control his temper as he replied. ‘I’d rather not do that, Russ
ell. I want to keep riding.’

  The trainer stepped away from him. `Well, I don’t want you on my horses this week. Take a few days off - it’s in your own interests.’ Phil stared at him.

  `What about Wolf Patrol?’ he demanded. `At least let me ride him.’ `Sorry, Phil.’ The smile had returned to Russell’s face now he had won the argument. `You need a complete rest.’

  `Who is going to ride him, then?’

  But Phil knew the answer to that. Mark would be riding Wolf Patrol and all the other horses that would have come his way. And if he performed well, who was to say he wouldn’t keep the ride at the Festival? Phil drove out of the yard in a rage.

  At first Julia had shared Phil’s outrage at his being banned from Russell Dean’s horses, though privately she wondered whether a few days’ rest from the strains of race-riding might not be good for him. Then, as Phil began to speculate about how Russell could have learned of his appointments with Simone, she fell silent.

  As Phil’s suspicions roamed from a hospital receptionist who might have recognised him to Simone herself, Julia realised at once who it was likely to be. Mark. She’d not meant to tell him and she’d asked him to keep it secret, but it made sense. Who else was liable to profit from Phil’s absence? And she knew how much he resented being number two to Phil.

  She was deeply disappointed in Mark Shaw. But nowhere near as disappointed as she was in herself.

  Gerry Fowler was in a state. He badly wanted to get home but the doctors were insisting he remained where he was for the moment. He could get around the ward on crutches but he remained very sore. He still had a lot of mending to do.

  For two pins he’d ignore the doctors and discharge himself, but he couldn’t ignore his wife.

  `I should be in the yard,’ he begged. `It’s too much for Chris and Louise to deal with.’

  `They’re doing fine,’ Anne said. `Considering the circumstances.’ Gerry fell silent. They’d discussed those circumstances endlessly, particularly Rebecca’s murder and the permanent police presence in the yard. Louise was obviously in danger.

  `I want to keep an eye on her myself,’ he said. `She needs her father close by.’

  `She needs her father fit and well,’ Anne replied. `You can’t walk, Gerry. I’d have to wait on you hand and foot and I’ve got enough to do at the moment.’

  `God, you’re a stubborn bitch.’

  She laughed. `Anyway, you wouldn’t like our new house guest. Some reporter Louise has brought home.’

  His head spun as the words sunk in. `You should see your face, Gerry.’ `Not Hugh Pimlott.’

  `He’s all right. He knows how to make a cup of tea and he pours a mean gin and tonic.’

  `He’s a great mouthy lump.’

  `He’s no glamour puss but I like him. And he’s in the spare room, so you needn’t worry.’

  Gerry glared at her, speechless.

  She leant closer and took his hand. `He’s just a friend, Gerry. That’s what she needs right now.’

  He closed his eyes. Talk about the last bloody straw.

  On Sunday evening Keith caught up on his backlog of newspapers. He read about the discovery of the girl’s body dispassionately. The sensational tone of most reports was just what he would have expected. Many of them ran the same picture - of a smiling Rebecca sitting on a horse - and went on about how young and innocent she was, and how she’d led a blameless life. A load of balls. None of these bleeding-heart writers had been nearly blinded by her. Like most women she was a scheming little bitch when it came down to it. Like the whore Denise and Belinda, his first wife, and even - let’s be honest - his mother. All

  of them pretended to be on your side and then gave you the shaft when you were looking the other way. And now, praise be, one of them had got caught. This Rebecca had run into the Beast and paid the price. Well, tough shit.

  Keith laughed to himself as he tossed the Sunday tabloid aside. He could have predicted every word.

  Yesterday’s Racing Beacon was in the pile, and he read Phil Nicholas’s letter through again. This time it stuck in his throat. Nicholas said he had no axe to grind but that was a bit rich. The Racing Beacon was part of the Hoylake News Group. The same company who published the Sunday tabloid he’d just dumped on the floor. The jockey was part of all that, pocketing Hoylake’s money, while pretending to be an independent shoulder to cry on. This was a transparently put-up job. Did Phil Nicholas think he was born yesterday?

  What an arsehole.

  Phil was twiddling his thumbs at home when the phone rang. Julia was off to check on Callisto, and he knew he should have gone with her. But he wasn’t fit company. He was turning his conversation with Russell over and over in his head. If they’d had a cat he’d have kicked it.

  So he was grateful when Hugh Pimlott called.

  He’d last seen Hugh at Haydock across the unsaddling enclosure. He hadn’t felt like talking at the time.

  `What’s going on?’the journalist said. `I hear Russell’s standing you down for a bit. He says you need a rest before Cheltenham but you don’t agree, particularly where Wolf Patrol’s concerned.’

  `How do you know all this?’

  ‘I’m a reporter, mate. I have sources I cannot reveal.’

  Phil was suspicious. `You’re not ringing me up for a quote, are you?’ ,I’m just concerned about your wellbeing.’

  `You’re concerned about me having nothing to say in your paper next week.’

  Hugh chuckled. `There is something on my mind, actually.’

  Of course there was. Phil had never known Hugh call just for a chat. However, he could not have anticipated what the journalist said next.

  `How would you like to ride for someone else at Leicester on Tuesday?’

  Phil was flabbergasted. `You’re offering me a ride?’ `I know you’re free, Phil. Are you interested?’

  `Only if I’ve got a chance going up against Wolf Patrol.’

  `You can judge for yourself. Come and ride him out tomorrow morning.’

  Phil laughed. This conversation was bordering on the ludicrous. `Pardon me saying so, Pim, but what the fuck would you know about riding out? Or anything to do with a horse that’s not written on a bit of paper?’

  ‘I don’t, maestro. But Louise Fowler does and she’s got an eightyear-old chaser who needs a run before Cheltenham. Are you interested or not?’

  Out Of Time, the Greenhills chaser, was not a horse who caught the eye for the right reasons. He was a small, wiry beast with an ungainly walk - `like a bag of bones’, Phil thought as the horse was led towards him - and his coat was scruffy. Phil wasn’t all that thrilled but he didn’t want to offend anyone so he kept his mouth shut. Besides, as he knew well enough, looks didn’t win horse races.

  He was glad he’d kept his thoughts to himself almost as soon as he climbed on the animal’s back. The horse felt totally different from on top. The ungainly walk now felt balanced and sure-footed. As he urged Out Of Time into a trot, the horse flowed across the turf, all the angles and jerks gone from his movement.

  Phil jumped him along a row of practice fences at a gentle pace, enjoying every stride. He didn’t ride too many like this in a season - the horse was an absolute joy. All he had to do was stay balanced and the animal did the rest. He had the fences weighed up long before his jockey.

  Phil turned to take the fences again. He put his foot down this time, asking Out Of Time to show him what he could do at racing pace. The little horse was even better at speed, whistling over the obstacles with relish and clearly enjoying his work.

  `Well?’ said Chris as Phil trotted over to where he stood on the path by the gallop, Louise by his side.

  `What a gem,’ Phil said, patting a caramel-coloured shoulder in approval. `I’d be happy to ride him anywhere.’

  Louise smiled for the first time since he’d met her that morning. He’d seen her around at meetings but they’d never spoken before. She looked him in the eye and said, `Fantastic.’

  Phil su
pposed it was - now all he had to do was to get his little mount around Leicester racecourse ahead of Wolf Patrol.

  Mark looked up as Phil dropped his bag on to the changing-room bench next to him.

  `Bit of a surprise to see you,’ the Irishman said. `Russell said you’d taken a few days off.’

  Phil had been wondering what might have been said about his absence.

  `You know me,’ he replied. `Can’t keep away. Anyway, I can’t let you have it all your own way, can I?’

  Mark shook his head. `You’re unbelievable, you know. You’re the bloody champion jockey, with the pick of the horses and a stack of money in the bank. And you’ll pitch up at some gaff track on a Tuesday just to make sure I don’t get my nose in front of you.’

  Phil looked at the lad in surprise. `Is that what you think?’

  `Yeah, I do. And I’ll tell you something else - you’re right to be worried. This time I’m on the good rides and you’re not going to get a look-in. By the time I’ve finished this week, there’ll be no point in you coming back.’

  Phil stared at him open mouthed. He had no quarrel with Mark - at least, he’d not thought he had.

  `Look, mate, I worked for my position. No one gave me top spot - I earned it.’

  Mark smiled, but there was no humour in his eyes. `Sure you did, Phil. But that was before you had your little problem, wasn’t it?’

  ,What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean that you haven’t got a prayer of finishing ahead of Wolf Patrol. What did you think I meant?’

  Phil said nothing, but his mind was in turmoil. When he found out how his psychological difficulties had become common knowledge at Deanscroft someone would suffer.

  For once Keith was lucky - he got the first appointment when the walkin surgery opened at three. The doctor was a thin Asian girl in spectacles who looked like she should still be at school. He’d never seen her before - another locum, he thought. He visited the doctor about twice a year - and saw a different GP on each visit.

  His wound wasn’t getting any better - the furrow ploughed by the pencil gaped moistly between two bruise-blackened hillocks of skin, and the eye, still bloodshot and weeping, ached with a dull throb. He was worried some serious infection was setting in, particularly as he couldn’t dress it properly. Finally he’d decided to seek help.