I thought back to the only time I’d visited Alice at her house. My preconceived, distasteful idea of a prostitute had been correct only in how she was dressed: in an extremely short, provocatively tight black skirt, buttocks bouncing, Alice had shimmied away down the hall in front of me. At her trade of getting men going, she was undoubtedly an expert.
For a wild moment, I wondered if the inspector had experienced that same, calculated turn-on, too. And if so, how had he reacted?
For myself, all I’d been interested in was how I could get Alice to tell me the name of the man who had just beaten me up.
But before leaving, I’d seen the other side of the hard image with which Alice surrounded herself. It had dissolved, literally, as she’d cried over the death of her close friend and I’d found myself warming to her, not as a prostitute but as a caring woman. The fact that just before I left she’d offered a short utopia for both of us – which I’d declined – I discounted.
If the man in front of me had followed Alice down that hall, had he been strong enough – or sufficiently scared of sullying his reputation – to decline? I looked at the handsome, chiselled planes of his face, the expensively cut hair. He met my gaze with sardonic raised eyebrows. If I was allowed to bet, I’d take six to four on that Alice’s powers of persuasion hadn’t failed her. Pity I couldn’t prove it, couldn’t use it as a lever against answering his question.
What it came down to was a long, slow burn in Nottingham prison for perjury versus a swift end at Jake’s hands.
I told the inspector what he wanted to know.
‘Much as I like dear old Leo, a ginger tom is no defence. What I suggest is you trade him in for a couple of German shepherds.’ Mike took a long slurp of tea.
‘Thank you for that little diamond.’
Pen giggled and thrust a steaming mug into my hand.
‘Thanks. Look, what choice did I have?’
‘You could always enter a monastery, Harry,’ she said.
‘Pen, my sweet, Jake would simply don a habit and walk straight in unchallenged.’
‘What Mike’s trying to say, Pen, is now I’ve snitched to the police there’s no hiding place for me.’
‘But what’s the worst he could do?’
Mike and I raised an eyebrow to each other.
‘Let’s hope he’s hauled in smartly – and kept in.’
I played down the probable scenario that, even if he was, Jake could still activate what Darren Goode, Alice’s husband – currently serving time in Nottingham Prison – had called ‘his long reach’. Apparently, even if you were already in jail, it was no safeguard. If you were on Jake’s hit list you could confidently put a sizeable chunk of money on getting hit.
‘Shouldn’t think he’ll find you at the races, though,’ Pen said with satisfaction.
Again, our eyebrows were raised without her being aware.
It had been at Market Rasen racecourse that Jake had first contacted me. That contact had set off what I thought of as the ‘second round’, and he’d been in prison at the time.
What I desperately hoped was that there would be no ‘third round’. I’d put my life in danger by being forced to answer the inspector’s questions about Alice’s death and felt it was now their baby – nothing to do with me. I was very sorry indeed about Alice; she didn’t deserve her violent end. But having to sort out who was responsible and mete out punishment wasn’t my problem.
I pushed back my chair. ‘Better make tracks to the track.’ I was due to ride in three races this afternoon at Towcester. My hunger to retain the champion jockey title was still as strong as ever but with the way my life had gone in the past few months, right now it seemed as likely as catching a hot air balloon to Mars.
‘Good luck.’ Pen smiled.
‘Thanks. I think I’ll need some.’
None of the horses were from Mike’s stables and all three of them were pretty much no-hopers, would be extremely fortunate to come in the frame, but the bottom line was I needed rides. Needed the income. A jockey’s cash flow came from the bread-and-butter fee from simply riding in a race. The jam, if there was any, came from a percentage of the winnings. At the moment there were quite a few no-jam days.
I’d parked up at Towcester, was making my way over to the weighing room when I heard my name called out.
‘Harry, over here … glad to see you.’ The racehorse trainer, Clive Unwin, stepped forward through the crowd of racegoers. ‘How are you? Is that arm in working order?’ He nodded towards my upper left arm.
‘Yes, thanks, Clive. I’m a fast healer.’
I didn’t add that I also enjoyed the additional plus factor of receiving spiritual healing courtesy of my estranged wife, Annabel. She was a fully qualified spiritual healer and I’d had cause to be extremely grateful to her in the past for her help. Her unselfishness in helping me to get fit for returning to racing was staggering. Especially so because it was my racing career that had driven her away in the first place.
Annabel couldn’t stand seeing me suffering from injuries caused by all the falls a jump jockey inevitably sustains. For her to consistently give me healing so I could continue riding spoke loudly about her unselfish, caring nature. I was still hopelessly in love with her – and hopeless was the right word.
When she had finally left, she’d gone to live with Sir Jeffrey, the man in her life ever since. I’d still entertained the slim hope that one day she might return, but it was crushed when she found out she was carrying Sir Jeffrey’s baby.
I had very ambivalent feelings towards him. As a man, I found myself liking his friendly personality and ethics but, conversely at the same time, I was wildly, insanely jealous that he was the baby’s father, not me.
‘Not like a broken bone, I suppose,’ Clive continued.
‘No. Once my body had made up the blood loss, I felt a whole lot better.’
No point in telling him that, in order to get to sleep, I took a couple of painkillers at night. Today was the first ride since I’d sustained the injury. No sense letting him know that either. The trainer, as well as all the punters, needed to have confidence in the jockey. It was up to me to project the correct positive image. Any niggling doubts I personally might have needed suppressing.
But a short while later, being carted down to the start by a complete yak that needed its head aimed at a crazy angle towards the rails to prevent a complete bolt, I felt the burn begin in my left arm. Race riding demanded its own level of fitness and it was hard luck that this first race looked like proving a bastard.
However, during the actual race, Milligrams had sweated up and used so much nervous energy already that, halfway round the course, he gave up fighting and trailed along as backmarker. There was no point in my trying to shake him up – his bolt was shot and I ended the race on a very tired horse. I just hoped Clive Unwin understood the animal’s temperament. And, just as important, let the owner down gently, too. A disappointed owner was not something I needed. Walking back in, the stable lad took the reins.
‘Not a surprising result, Harry,’ Clive said as I dismounted.
‘No,’ I replied with some relief at his acceptance of the situation.
‘See how you make out with Respirator.’
‘Am I looking at a similar situation?’
He smiled. ‘The owner is here but she just dotes on him. If you get round in one piece, she’ll be ecstatic.’
I grinned. ‘See what I can do.’
What Respirator and I did was not only get round in one piece, but at the second fence from home, when the leading horses came to grief in a horrible multiple fall, we took a beautifully clean jump. We landed safely, avoiding the melee of thrashing horses and colourful, rolling jockeys, and Respirator galloped away. He was one-paced but, finding himself out in front, gave his all.
Clearing the last fence, he kept on and just held the lead, taking first place by a short head. If I found it difficult to believe, it was nothing to what his lady owner thought.
With tears streaming down her elderly, lined face, she clasped both hands together and kept repeating, ‘I knew he could do it, I just knew he could do it …’
It was patently obvious to everyone that if the leading group of horses hadn’t fallen at the second last, Respirator would have ended the race way back in the field, probably around eighth place, if he was lucky. But the fortunes in a race can and do change dramatically. Today was Respirator’s day. For the first time in his life, he’d come first.
And I had gained my ten per cent of the prize money in addition to my riding fee.
But the joy his win had given to his owner was incalculable.
My third race of the day followed the example of the first and faded into obscurity. But I’d expected three also-rans this afternoon and Respirator’s win had lifted the day. I was delighted for his lady owner and, as I walked back through the car park after racing, I was well satisfied.
My left arm had stood up to the race riding and that was a big relief. Once again, I gave thanks to the man upstairs for allowing me to continue racing. I was very grateful. It was a ritual now. I’d spent so much time in a hospital bed earlier this year with a smashed patella, among other injuries, facing the bleak prospect of the likelihood my racing days were over, that to be back in the saddle again warranted gratitude.
The Mazda was cold when I unlocked it – definitely in need of the heater on the way home, the first time this winter. I switched on, waited a couple of minutes then drove out of the gates.
I was concentrating on driving, avoiding the crowds streaming out from the racecourse and the heavy traffic, plus the heater was belting out and making a row, so it wasn’t until I was several miles north of Towcester that I became aware of the sound of soft laughter. So soft that at first I couldn’t place what it was or where it was coming from. But as I drove on the sound grew louder.
Then, in stunned disbelief, I recognized the sound – and I knew who was laughing. I turned my head to look.
A voice from behind the driver’s seat said, ‘Keep your eyes on the road, Harry boy.’
And my worst nightmare became reality. He wasn’t safely banged up in a cell in Newark Police Station; Jake Smith was sitting behind me on the back seat of my car.
Despite the chill inside the vehicle, my hands on the wheel were slippery with sweat.
FOUR
Fear ran all the way through my body. My stomach felt like it was filled with ice cubes. Instinctively, I clenched my buttocks. That kind of humiliation I could do without.
‘Keep your right foot down and drive.’
The sharp prick of a knife blade dug into the back of my neck, emphasizing his command.
‘Where are we going?’ My voice was high and betrayed me. Jake would know I was scared stiff.
‘Back to yours, Harry boy.’
‘To mine?’
‘That’s right. All you have to do is drive home.’
‘You’re coming back with me, all the way?’
‘Too right I am. Now I’m getting my head down for some kip. But don’t get any fancy ideas. You will regret it; I’m a very light sleeper.’
With that, the point of the knife was removed from my neck and reflected in the mirror. I saw him slide down and make himself comfortable on the back seat, pulling the travelling rug over him. He’d probably hidden underneath it before I got into the car at the races. My heartbeat gradually started to slow. I needed to calm down, think what to do.
It was a clever move on his part to go to the races. A classic ‘hide a tree in a forest’ job. With the crowds of racegoers milling about there, Jake could be fairly certain of remaining anonymous.
But what did he intend to do when we got back to Nottinghamshire? I had maybe an hour and a half to dwell on it. What were my options right now? There weren’t many. If I flashed another vehicle down and tried getting out, I’d be placing the driver in extreme danger. That was if I could even get a car to stop. I could pretend we were out of petrol. But as a professional jockey dependent upon four wheels turning, it wasn’t going to wash. Or I could try a controlled crash. Might get away with it, might not … I didn’t fancy risking it. Any more injuries I could do without.
Which just left me doing what I’d been told – driving back home. Whereas before, there had been soft laughter, now it had turned into low snores. I marvelled at the coolness of the man’s nerve. In his position, to be able to switch off to the extent of going to sleep smacked of a level of supreme self-confidence that was staggering.
I concentrated on driving. As long as I could keep hearing those gentle snores I knew I wasn’t going to feel a knife in my back. And I’d had enough of being on the receiving end of a knife blade just lately. That thought wasn’t the brightest to have at the moment. It brought my attention back to my arm, in particular my left biceps. It was starting to hurt like hell.
His snores lasted all the way as I kicked on north up the M1, past Leicester Forest East and up the A46. However, the snores stopped as I swung off at Saxondale and turned for home down the A52. We were getting close now. The cottage was only three miles in front.
‘Before you ask,’ Jake said from the back seat, ‘I don’t want dropping off anywhere. I’m a man who goes all the way, Harry boy. And when we get there, you can get the kettle on.’
At that moment, I realized when he’d said ‘drive home’ he’d meant it literally. Jake Smith intended to come back to Harlequin Cottage with me. And, worse, there was nothing I could do to stop him. But I had to try.
‘You do know the Newark police are looking for you?’
‘Since you put them on my trail, yes. Why do you think I was miles away at the races?’
‘But you can’t come home with me. I’ll get done for harbouring.’
‘Why do you think I’m coming home with you? Because Harlequin Cottage is the last place in the land the police will come looking. And, as you say, if you grass me up you’ll get done for harbouring. Perfect solution, don’t you agree?’ He began laughing softly.
The sound made cold water run down my back.
When we got back to the cottage, he went straight upstairs to use the bathroom. He didn’t need to ask directions – he knew where it was. Once, some weeks ago, he’d broken in and come looking for me. I’d been in the bath, soaking an injury caused by a horse kicking my thigh. He’d given me no choice that day either: find his sister’s killer or get killed. Oh, yes, Jake knew where the bathroom was all right.
I fed Leo, who was prowling round, eyes wide and wary. He didn’t like strangers, they made him nervous.
‘I’m with you there, big fella,’ I told him and placed his dish down on to the red quarries. Then, dutifully, as directed, I made some tea.
Jake appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘So, how many bedrooms do you have?’
‘Three.’
‘All upstairs, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmmm, well, you can make me up a bed on the lounge settee. I’ll kip there.’
If he was going to take up residence in the lounge, it meant I’d either have to sit in the office or go to bed.
‘There’s a perfectly good bed in the guest room …’
‘Save it, Harry boy. I’m not a guest, right? I’m staying in the lounge. No way am I going to be trapped upstairs if we get any visitors wearing blue.’
‘There’s the conservatory, if that’s any good.’ I was getting desperate.
‘Forget it. They’re useless inventions, scorching hot in summer and bloody freezing in the winter. No, I’ll take the lounge settee.’
I spread my hands in resignation. While he was staying here he’d be running the ship, not me. I didn’t like it one bit, but I was stuck with it.
Leo finished his meal and disappeared swiftly through the cat flap, jammy sod. I wished I could follow him.
‘How long are you going to be here?’
‘As long as it takes.’
‘To do what?’
‘For you to
find Alice’s killer. And pass me that mug of tea, it’s going cold.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve every faith in you.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Tea?’
Thunderstruck, I passed it over.
‘You’re saying you didn’t kill Alice?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘You told me you spent the night with her.’
‘I did.’
‘But you didn’t kill her?’
‘We were busy doing other things … I’d spent the last four years banged up, don’t forget.’
‘She was still alive when you left?’
‘Yep.’
‘Why don’t you tell the police that?’
‘You think they’ll believe me? With my pre-cons? Don’t be fucking stupid.’
‘But surely you don’t expect me to find out who did kill her?’
He shoved the mug at me. ‘Look at your track record. No use denying it – you’re good at sussing out killers.’
‘Oh, no, I’m done with that.’
His face darkened. ‘You dropped me in it with the police, told them I’d been with her, had the opportunity and the motive. So it’s up to you to clear me. And, believe me, you’re going to. Because, if you don’t, it won’t just be your neck for the chop. Oh, no, Harry boy, Annabel gets it first – you get to watch.’
‘For God’s sake! She’s pregnant.’
‘So, you get me off and she stays alive to drop the sprog.’
Leo didn’t come back for breakfast. I didn’t blame him. Jake’s presence filled the cottage.
The night had passed without incident and Jake was sitting at the kitchen table, awaiting breakfast.
‘Porridge, Harry boy,’ he’d answered in response to my query if he wanted anything to eat. ‘You’d think I’d have had my fill of it, done my share of stir.’ He’d laughed; this time it actually did contain some humour. ‘But I just like porridge.’
‘Sorry, not something I keep in stock. There’s toast, grapefruit or eggs.’
‘Well, you may be keeping weight off but I’m not. I’ll have the lot.’
I cracked three eggs into a basin and slid bread in the toaster.
Dead Reckoning Page 2
