Dead Weight

by John Francome

So, after his late night in Leicester on Tuesday, he’d said little to her on Wednesday morning, just updated her on Mark’s condition. He was riding at Chepstow later, back on Russell’s horses, just as if their disagreement hadn’t happened. He told her he was going to a charity dinner in the evening - a last-minute engagement which did not include her.

  He read the disappointment on her face. It stayed with him all the way to Chepstow.

  `My God, man, what have you done to your eye?’

  Captain Adam Jellicoe peered down at Keith from his horse as the Latchbourne Hunt assembled. The hard ground had softened and the Wednesday meet was on.

  Keith mumbled his excuse about the garden cane but fortunately Jellicoe wasn’t really interested in the cause of Keith’s injury. `Just as long as you can ride that infernal thing,’ he said, referring to the quad bike. Then he added, `I want a word with you about Henry Carrington. He says you’ve bilked him over some old hunter of his.’

  `He’s got it all wrong, sir,’ said Keith with some irritation, but Jellicoe wasn’t listening. One of his pals was hailing him across the yard, which was teeming with hounds, a group of horsemen and a larger band of hunt followers who kept up with the action either on foot or by car. Some of the old boys had been followers for years. They knew where a fox would be found and which way it would run as well as any huntsman.

  `He asked me to put his old horse down and that’s what I did,’ shouted Keith into the hubbub, `and now he’s hanging around the kennels, making a nuisance of himself.’

  `Sorry - can’t talk about it now,’ Jellicoe stated, conveniently forgetting he had raised the subject. `Got to get the show on the road, eh?’

  Then he whirled away to jaw to one of his other cronies. A typical Jellicoe performance, Keith thought, all piss and wind.

  His left eye was throbbing this morning but he could drive the quad OK by squinting through his right. It demanded all his concentration. There would be no racing around on the bike like he sometimes did.

  Soon he was out on his own, following the hounds by keeping to the high ground. Thank God he wouldn’t have to put up with self-important twits like Jellicoe much longer.

  For years he’d thought his way to a better life was through a hot betting streak. But now the game had changed and the stakes were higher. Much higher. He’d be asking for a damn sight more than a hundred grand next time.

  The pack had disappeared into the spinney just ahead. Yelping and barking split the air, and a cloud of steam rose from the wood. Keith gunned the bike over the damp meadow towards the site of another kill.

  Chapter Twelve

  Julia took the call mid-morning on Thursday, just after Phil had set off for Ludlow.

  `Is that Julia Nicholas? The horse therapist?’

  The voice was unknown to her but the West Country burr was warm enough.

  `I got your number from a friend. I need help with an injured horse.’ `I’m busy at the moment,’ she said.

  `I’m not surprised,’ the man said. `They say you can bring back the dead and that’s bound to put you in demand, isn’t it? I reckon old Solomon’s for the knacker’s if you can’t help me.’

  Despite herself, Julia was intrigued. But then she usually was. She had resolved to be firm with these unsolicited calls.

  Her caller continued to talk, his voice soft. `I’ve had him with two different vets and they can’t get him sound. Those kids up at the farm are going to be heartbroken if he’s put down.’

  `Why are you talking of putting him down.’

  `Oh, it’s not me. I just keep an eye on him. Mr Lawrence says if I can’t do something about him he’ll have to go. He’s just hobbling around, getting fat, see? Mr Lawrence like his animals to be cost effective.’

  Julia didn’t like the sound of this. `You mean because the horse is injured his owner’s going to put him down?’

  `That’s about it. Are you sure you couldn’t manage a quick look at him? I reckon it’s only about a half-hour drive from your place.’ How could Julia say no? She scribbled the directions down on the back of an envelope. She’d get over there during her lunch-time break.

  After his second reading of the fibre-analysis report on Rebecca Thornton’s body, Charlie had taken himself off to the gents’ and splashed water on his face for a full minute. The lines of text had been swimming before his eyes. It’s your own fault, he told himself. You can’t work round the clock any more at your age.

  His best hope of catching Rebecca’s killer, he’d thought, would come from forensic analysis of her remains. Happily, there was no sign she’d been sexually abused - though that might have yielded a clue to her attacker’s identity. He’d had a dream the other night that human tissue was found beneath her fingernails and they’d matched the DNA to a known offender. He’d clung on to the hope until the pathologist had dashed it. Nothing had been found beneath the girl’s fingernails but dirt - dirt which had now been analysed in the report he’d been reading.

  `OK, John,’ he said to DS Petrie when he returned to his office, `just summarise it for me. What’s unique about all this stuff they found on her?’

  Rebecca’s body had been in a filthy condition, covered with earth, straw and other materials.

  `Dog hairs,’ said Petrie. `In her hair and all over her clothes.’ `Any particular kind of dog?’

  ‘Short-haired. Light brown, dark brown, white - all sorts. Doesn’t give a breed.’

  `So it could be anything? Or lots of different dogs?’

  ‘I suppose so, guv. Terriers, lurchers, spaniels - those types.’

  They looked at each other. This was helpful. If they had a suspect who owned dogs of that description it might be very helpful indeed. But they didn’t have a suspect.

  The phone rang on Charlie’s desk. Petrie was nearer to it. `Shall I?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Charlie.

  He’d developed a buzzing in his ears. He put it down to lack of sleep. The truth was he didn’t like sleep at present - prophetic dreams about DNA were not the only ones he was having. Some of them simply reran the terrible day spent with Rebecca’s father. Watching the man’s glossy self-confidence evaporate as he learned the pitiless details of his daughter’s death - beaten and brutalised and tossed on the side of the road in a rubbish sack. Then there were the dreams about the dead girl herself, of him standing over her broken corpse in the mortuary. But in those dreams it was Charlie who was the father and the girl on the metal trolley was Claire.

  `Guv!’

  How long had John been staring at him? Charlie shook his head to clear the buzzing, like shaking water from his ears. John’s eyes were gleaming.

  `What is it?’

  ‘There’s been another letter. It arrived second post at the Beacon.’ They both rushed for the fax machine.

  The journey took more than half an hour, as Julia had guessed it would. People always gilded the truth when they wanted you to do something. This Geoff Lamb she was meeting was no different.

  As she drove she reflected miserably on Phil’s coldness towards her. She hadn’t plucked up the nerve to ask him what the matter was - maybe she’d talk to him this evening. She supposed this was what her mother had meant at her wedding when she’d told her marriage was a long road. At the time she’d thought it was a funny thing to say, especially since her mother had never actually been married. Whenever she’d found the going tough shed simply looked for another man. Julia was determined that wouldn’t happen to her. She was with Phil for keeps.

  She’d turned off the A road two miles back and driven through the village of Down Sutton, as directed. She found the unpaved track she was looking for on the left, past a ploughed field. As she drove along it she could see nothing through the high hedge on either side. The track was deeply rutted and obviously little used. She was pleased to note fresh tyre tracks through the puddles ahead - it looked like Geoff Lamb was here already.

  Her way took her uphill and, as she rounded a bend, the hedge to her left was repl
aced by trees. Through their bare winter foliage she could see a horse in a muddy paddock. She had arrived.

  She got out of the car and walked towards a brown pick-up with a lifting device on the back parked by a gate into the field. A big, barrelshaped man in a cap was standing by the vehicle. The first thing that struck her about him was the patch he wore over one eye.

  `Mr Lamb?’

  He nodded and held out his hand.

  Julia looked over his shoulder at the horse, who was ambling towards them. Moving easily.

  `There doesn’t took much wrong with him,’ she said as she accepted his handshake.

  `There’s nothing wrong with him at all,’ the man replied, his grip like a vice.

  Charlie and John read the letter, shoulder to shoulder.

  It is beyond my powers to say how much I regret what happened to Rebecca Thornton. I offer my heartfelt commiserations to her family and friends for their dreadful loss. That such a young girl should loose her life is an awful thing and, believe me, I would give anything to bring her back. BUT IT WAS NOT MY FAULT.

  If Rebecca had done as she was told she would be alive today. But she would not listen to me and her death is the tragic result of her own stupidity. Let this be a lesson for us all.

  In future, I will be better prepared. I am determined to succeed and will not finish my campagne until I have got what I want. Next time follow my instructions to the letter. For Rebecca’s sake.

  `They don’t pay us enough, do they?’ said John. `I feel like some of this bloke’s slime is rubbing off on me.’

  Charlie grunted. He knew just what his colleague meant, but now was no time to analyse their feelings.

  `I don’t like this talk of next time,’ he said. `You mean you think he’ll kill again?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt he’s prepared to do that but it doesn’t earn him any money, does it? I think it’s more likely he’ll take another hostage.’

  It was a sombre thought - especially since there was no easy way of preventing it.

  `I’ll warn the guys watching Greenhills,’ said John.

  Charlie nodded. `Talk to Phil Nicholas as well, will you? Tell him to be careful.’

  `Why him?’

  `Because, apart from that open letter he wrote to our man, he forgot to weigh in after winning a race at Leicester.’

  Petrie looked puzzled.

  `You don’t follow the horses, do you, John?’ `I didn’t think you did either, guv.’

  Charlie proceeded to explain how Phil had inadvertently disqualified himself. He could see John was impressed.

  Charlie allowed himself a grin. Such minor satisfactions apart, there wasn’t much else to be cheerful about. Once they’d alerted Greenhills and Phil Nicholas there was still the rest of the entire racing community to keep watch over.

  Compared to the other one, dealing with Julia was a doddle. Once Keith had shown her the knife she was putty in his hands. It was like she understood everything instantly. That he was the boss and, if she wanted to stay alive, she had to do everything he said. And she did.

  He’d prepared for the moment when he’d take her. He didn’t want a repeat of the struggle with Rebecca. She’d been bigger and full of fight. She’d taken a lot of killing. This Julia seemed paralysed with fear, which made life much easier.

  When he told her to take off her Barbour and put on the anorak that was in the back of the wagon, she did it without protest. The anorak was old - it had once belonged to a skinny kid who did a bit of gardening up at the kennels. Keith had adapted it, sewing tapes and buckles on to the sleeves with thick thread. So now, when Julia put it on back to front as he ordered, it was like a straitjacket. He zipped up the coat at the back and pulled the sleeves around her body, buckling them behind her.

  He’d brought two belts; one went round her thighs and the other round her ankles. She wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

  That just left the matter of keeping her quiet. He’d thought about that a lot. He couldn’t see any way round gagging her, much as he had the other one. But Rebecca’s hair had been a nuisance, getting stuck in the tape and making it difficult to get a tight grip. And this one had even more than the last, a mass of shoulder-length golden hair. He’d decided it would have to go.

  He took a pair of scissors and the battery-operated clippers he used for trimming the hunters out of a plastic bag. She gasped.

  He held them in front of her face.

  `I’ve got to cut your hair, it’s in the way. I won’t hurt you unless you

  make it difficult for me - then you’ll wish you hadn’t. Understand?’ Her eyes, huge with fear, stared up at him.

  `Please,’ she begged.

  `You’d rather I cut something else?’ He held the blades of the scissors against her cheek.

  She bent her head in submission.

  Keith looked round. He’d chosen the most isolated spot he knew, but some nosey buggers always seemed to turn up where you least expected them.

  There was no one about. Keith sat her on the floor of the wagon with her feet hanging over the end and doubled her over so her head hung between her knees. It was easy to get at her hair in this position.

  First he used the scissors, slicing off silky clumps and placing them in the plastic bag. Though there was no time to be neat, he worked methodically, from the back of her head to the front, cutting the hair to within an inch or two of the scalp. Then he used the electric clippers to shave the back of her head, where the gaffer tape would go when he gagged her.

  When he’d finished he admired his handiwork. Without the blonde cloud surrounding it, her face seemed more sculpted, its heart shape more obvious. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, her lips wide and full. She was a beauty, no doubt about it.

  `If you ask me,’ he said as he pulled the roll of brown tape from his pocket, `you look better than ever.’

  She said nothing, but her tears wet his fingers as he taped up her mouth.

  Phil had three rides at Ludlow, two hurdles and a steeplechase - the last of which gave him food for thought. He was conscious every time he lined up for a race over fences that a demon was still lurking in his mind, ready to waylay him. But he’d also learned, through Simone, that the best way to keep the demon at bay was not to run from it. He had to face up to the possible dangers that lay ahead.

  He was reminded of this at the end of the three-mile handicap on Airbus, a big, clumsy horse, hardly the right type to be lumbering round Ludlow’s tight little track. Phil had tried to break away from the field down the back straight but had failed to slip the opposition. Coming out of the final bend into the home straight, with three fences in quick succession, Airbus was slowing fast. He pecked at the first of the three fences, almost falling to his knees, then crashed through the top of the next.

  The pack was all around them by then, the race lost and the demon panic gripping Phil by the throat. He was going to fall. Airbus was going to pitch him under the hooves of the runners behind. He’d end up smashed in a hospital bed …

  But these thoughts had invaded his head before. He told himself to ignore them. They’d not brought him down the last time or the time before that.

  Phil steadied the faltering horse beneath him and they jumped the next safely. He kicked him on but Airbus had nothing left; the needle was stuck on empty.

  They finished down the field, overtaken by five or six other runners. Phil didn’t mind about that. The horse had given all he could and he himself had fought off a panic attack. He could have frozen like before but he hadn’t.

  He’d often questioned the wisdom of visiting Simone, but there was no doubt that, without her advice, he’d still be struggling. He wasn’t out of the tunnel yet, but at least he could see light ahead.

  Back in the changing-room he thought of phoning Julia but changed his mind. He was still angry with her.

  He didn’t bother to check his messages

  Hugh felt a right prat as he lumbered across Clapham Common in his black Nike sweatpan
ts. He’d always been loud in his condemnation of the conspicuous exercise habit. In his opinion, which he’d shared frequently with anyone who cared to listen, exercise should be done in private, like masturbation or nose-picking. But here he was, breathing hard, sloshing through puddles in his new trainers, fighting the stitch in his side. Pray God no one he knew would spot him in the evening gloom. It was enough to ruin a hack’s reputation.

  He’d slipped it casually into the conversation he’d just concluded with Louise.

  `Gotta go,’ he’d said. `I’m just off for a run.’

  She hadn’t commented at all, which, on reflection, was a good thing. He’d half expected a splutter of laughter or a sarky remark, but Louise wasn’t like that. In fact she wasn’t like any of his other friends in the

  slightest. Which was another reason why there couldn’t be anything between them.

  And he certainly wasn’t exercising to try to impress her, nor cutting out the buns and biscuits and ducking into trendy men’s outfitters in his lunch break on her account. He was doing all this because of his beloved sister-in-law, who’d been making noises about him coming round to dinner again. And this time, she’d reminded him, he was bringing his own date. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  The stitch had faded now, which was something. He remembered that about running when he’d done it at school - if you kept going you got a second wind. He was in a steady rhythm as he headed for the pond. A thinking rhythm. And his thoughts were of the latest letter from the nutter - the murderer - which Gemma had brought him that morning.

  The man was working up to some other atrocity, wasn’t he? But where and when? And who would be the next victim?

  It occurred to him that he shouldn’t be here in London. Louise had said there was a policewoman permanently at Greenhills but would that be enough? Suppose the killer really was determined to get to Louise - would one policewoman be enough to stop him?

  He’d ring Louise again when he got back -just to make sure she was all right.

  It was gone seven by the time Phil turned up the lane to Barley Cottage. The place was in darkness, which was a puzzle, and there was no sign of Julia’s car. He wondered where she’d got to.