‘You planning on staying very long?’
‘Why?’
‘First, I’ve got work to do, I’m due at the stables. And second, I’ll have to buy in more food.’
‘You think of anywhere safer, I’ll go.’
‘You could hand yourself in, tell the police you’re innocent.’
‘They’ll bang me up again – that would leave my old man on his own. He couldn’t take any more right now.’
‘I’ll come with you; tell the inspector I believe you.’ We stared at each other.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘You do?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded slowly. ‘I guess I do.’
‘Nice to know. But it won’t wash. Unless they get a lead on the real killer, I’m their prime suspect.’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘No, I’m not going near the nick.’
‘But you can’t expect me to find out who killed Alice. I’ve not a single thing to go on.’
‘You can do it – you’ve done it before. You have to, Harry boy. It’s my neck on the line – you put it there.’
I poured scrambled eggs on to his toast.
‘What I have to do is go and ride out.’
‘I meant what I said last night.’ Jake’s voice dropped chillingly low. ‘I’ve got the old man to think about. I don’t make idle threats. This time it’s my skin … or your wife’s.’
‘You’re going to have to give me a lead, something to go on,’ I said, fighting down rising desperation. ‘Last time you put me over a barrel, you gave me a list of possibles … without that I couldn’t have done it.’
He glowered at me. ‘Get off – do your riding. I’ll think about what Alice told me.’
Driving slowly, of necessity, down the ice-covered Leicestershire lanes, I was late getting to Mike’s racing stables, didn’t bother with the usual drink, just got stuck into the mucking-out routine. Champion jocks didn’t usually, but he was a mate.
The stable yard was freezing but it was warm inside White Lace’s stable. The sheer size of the big animal gave off a good deal of natural central heating. She swung her head round, gave me a good-natured nudge against my shoulder and blew a gusty blast of hot air down her nostrils. It was like standing in front of a fan heater. I pulled one of her ears gently and ran my hand down the powerful arched neck. Paul Wentworth, Pen’s brother, had been right when he’d commented that horses asked for very little and gave back so much.
I began grooming her. The rhythmic swish of the Dandy brush down her withers was soothing. It freed my mind to range over the godawful mess I was in, through no fault of my own.
Sir Jeffrey had jokingly asked what would I do if there was a third time?
I’d jokingly replied I couldn’t stand another hellish situation like the previous two. Now, yet again, I was facing having to hunt down a killer.
Jake was an enigma, I didn’t trust him at all, knew he was entirely ruthless if he was crossed. Yet at the same time, I recognized, like everyone else on earth, he wasn’t all bad. We shared emotionally painful common ground. I’d seen my own pain reflected in his eyes. And, I reminded myself, he’d not lost one member of his family but two.
I could sympathize with his concern for his father’s welfare. Fred Smith wasn’t coping with the sudden violent deaths of his son, Carl, and daughter, Jo-Jo. His excessive smoking and drinking, coupled with not eating, was rendering him a pathetic skeletal wreck. I knew. I’d seen him. Jake’s concern was justified.
And I still couldn’t throw off the guilt hanging around my shoulders that I was in part responsible for Carl Smith’s death. OK, the guilt I felt was irrational and totally unjustified but it didn’t help.
I leaned in against the comforting, warm bulk of the mare and brushed the silvery gleaming flanks. White Lace belonged to Chloe, Samuel Simpson’s daughter. Samuel had bought the mare as a present for her. Chloe was also suffering from the fall-out following Carl Smith’s death. I’d been amazed at the sympathy Samuel and Chloe had shown towards me when, just as easily, they could have shown antagonism. Apart from sympathy, they’d also become friends and Samuel had instructed Mike, as trainer, to give me rides on his other horses in the stables.
I finished grooming the mare, holding out the long, thick tail and running the brush down the strands of the silvery flow. All the time I’d spent grooming, I’d been running over options regarding Jake Smith’s last comment. ‘If you find me somewhere safer, I’ll go.’ Having him staying in Harlequin Cottage wasn’t going to work. Although unspoken, we both knew that for a fact.
My overriding concern was for Annabel’s safety. Jake had laid out his terms: find Alice’s killer and clear his name with the police or risk Annabel’s life. Not just Annabel either – she was carrying a baby. Two lives then at risk.
And Jake knew there was no way I could refuse to do as he said.
I was back over the bloody barrel.
So where the hell did I hide a wanted man?
FIVE
Breakfast in Mike’s kitchen, two hours later, was the usual mix of banter, laughter and good humour. Since Pen Wentworth had moved in, though, it was much enhanced. I’d never seen Mike so relaxed and happy. Only happy wasn’t the best word – joyful was much better.
Pen had effectively stopped Mike’s ongoing grieving for the loss of Monica, his first wife. The irony of it was that Mike hadn’t displayed any signs of depression or, indeed, sadness following Monica’s death. On the surface, I doubted if he realized he was grieving. He was fine, taking life as it came and rejoicing in his work, especially when the stable had a winner.
I was, perhaps, the only person who could see through the protective layers to the rawness inside. Maybe it was because I’d lost Annabel that the empathy between Mike and myself had strengthened in the last three years. The arrival of Pen in his life had effectively given him back his joy in living.
Deliberately, I swallowed a tiny, bitter bubble of jealousy. Never in my life had I ever felt the slightest bit jealous of someone else’s success or happiness.
Until Annabel had told me, gently, she was expecting Sir Jeffrey’s child.
It had bombed my world, killed the slender, fragile hope that maybe one day she’d return. The green devil of jealousy had descended, swamped me, enervating, stultifying, a hateful feeling to have. I was still doing battle. Any more jealousy I didn’t need.
But I wasn’t jealous of Pen. She was a warm, straightforward woman, exactly right for Mike. But I recognized that the situation between Mike and Pen, their personal relationship, the magic one-to-one exclusive closeness, was holding up a mirror in front of me. It showed me what I was missing out on.
‘Harry, what’s your poison?’ Pen waved a wooden spoon back and forth.
‘Beans, please, one slice.’ I was riding Lytham at Leicester racecourse this afternoon. The horse belonged to Paul, her brother.
Previously, the horse had belonged to Benson McCavity, his cousin. Benson’s wife, Helene, had lost her life in a car crash. Then the garage he ran near Grantham had hit financial trouble due to a road re-route and he’d been forced to sell Lytham, much against his wishes. The horse had been named after the place where Benson and Helene had first met. To help out, Pen and Paul had bought Lytham. ‘To keep him in the family,’ Paul had said.
We stood a good chance of a win today.
It was another reason why Jake’s threat was not needed. If I was to have any chance of retaining the title of champion jockey, I needed scope to accept any, all, rides that were offered. Racing time was precious. I didn’t need any other commitments eating into it.
Being late this morning had scuppered any chance of having a word with Mike on our own. And I needed to. For years he’d been my back-up in all sorts of ways. Without his help in the first murder case, I probably wouldn’t be alive.
He’d once said, ‘If ever you find your back up against a stable door, you can depend on me.’ That phrase had proved shockingly prophetic.
I needed his help now. As a
trainer with a lot of stable lads in his employ, he was responsible for providing accommodation. Their wages were low but one of the perks was free or heavily subsidised housing. I needed to ask him if he had any ideas where I could house Jake.
The big snag to this was I didn’t want to implicate Mike. I was breaking the law right now by allowing Jake to live at the cottage without informing the police. But to involve Mike wasn’t on. One way out would be to go to the police myself, come clean and point them straight towards Harlequin Cottage. If I did they would no doubt instigate charges against me.
They would certainly take Jake into custody. And however much I wanted him out of my home, out of my life, I couldn’t do it. He was innocent of the crime. I had enough guilt hanging over me already – I didn’t need any more. If I could, as he’d suggested, find somewhere safer, then it would give me a breathing space to negotiate.
If he came up with a viable lead on who the real killer was I could give it my best and, if it didn’t secure the result he wanted, at least I’d have tried. He’d have to admit that. But the most pressing thing was to find some sort of safe shelter so he could move out of my cottage.
My chance to talk alone with Mike came later on in the morning. We had two horses loaded up and declared in two consecutive races at Leicester, which meant two lads were needed to go with them, plus the box driver. No more seats spare. Mike said he’d take his own vehicle; Leicester wasn’t far away. I took the passenger seat and joined him.
I let three or four miles slide away beneath the tyres as we followed the horsebox south at a sedate pace. Without knowing how to broach the problem, I jumped straight in.
‘I’ve got someone living at the cottage.’
‘Have you now?’ He gave a slow, knowing smile. ‘Female?’
‘No, and I need him out, like, before he arrived.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, laughing, ‘it’s not the dreaded Jake Smith?’
‘I wish I could say it wasn’t.’
His head whipped round. ‘Dear God! Surely it’s not?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you do it, Harry?’ He smacked the steering wheel hard. ‘He’s a wanted man. You’ve got to get him out.’
‘Couldn’t agree more, Mike, but he needs a billet. Any ideas?’
‘Anybody giving him a bed will soon be joining him when they throw the man back in jail.’
‘I know. But he didn’t kill Alice. He’s innocent.’
Mike snorted disparagingly. ‘And you swallowed it?’
‘I think it’s the truth.’
‘You think … with his record of violence?’
‘Yes, Mike, I do.’
He drove in silence for a couple of minutes, absorbing my words. Having taken time to get my own head round it, I could appreciate his difficulty.
‘I’ve always rated your judgement, Harry. Pretty sound, I’d have to say. So … if you’re right, it begs the question: who did kill Alice?’
‘Now you have the crux of this scenario. Jake’s tossed the problem of finding out who it was into my lap. Says, quite rightly, I’ve dropped him in it with the police. He’s parked in Harlequin Cottage until I can come up with the killer’s name.’
‘That could take some time.’
‘Hmm.’ I nodded. ‘But I need him out. I don’t fancy risking jail. Equally, neither do I want to involve you in taking a risk. But it you’ve any ideas where Jake Smith could lie low, I’d really like to hear them.’
‘Have to think about that. As you say, it’s a risky number all round.’
‘Let’s shelve it for now. If lightning strikes, well, you can tell me after racing.’
Mike seemed relieved and we drove on to Leicester in an easy, companionable silence. Approaching the racecourse, the horsebox peeled off to the separate box park while we headed for the jockeys’ car park. The familiar aroma of frying onions, hot dogs and fish and chips floated tantalizingly towards us as we walked towards the weighing room. The baked beans and single slice of toast had long since become a memory.
Mike must have seen my nostrils start to twitch. He grinned and lightly punched my right arm.
‘We’ve got loads of time. Sign in and I’ll see you in the bar, eh? Black coffee doesn’t have any calories.’
I grinned back. ‘Sure.’
Leaving Mike to amble along to the main bar, I walked on into the jockeys’ inner sanctum to declare I’d arrived, and then went and deposited my racing saddle.
Shortly after, I wove an erratic path towards the bar through the good-natured racegoers. I’d always enjoyed my racing at our local course, despite the horrific murder that had been committed here. A happy, relaxed atmosphere permeated the whole complex. Everyone was here to have a good time and enjoy themselves – maybe get lucky with a judicious punt – and knew they would be able to fill their boots with whatever kind of food they preferred. I deliberately pushed the thought away. It was a good job the smell of food wasn’t fattening.
I headed towards the glass doors and went into the bar, settling for a sugar-free black coffee. Mike was sprawled in a chair opposite a man wearing a striking daffodil-yellow waistcoat. Both looked up as I approached.
‘Hello there, Harry.’ The man in the eyeball-blasting waistcoat waved his glass at me. Nathaniel Willoughby, the famous artist, whose racing paintings were superb.
‘Nathaniel.’ I nodded. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘Good, good. Even better now Mike’s given me an unexpected commission.’
I cocked an eyebrow at Mike, hooked a chair towards me and joined them at the table.
‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Well, not at the moment. It’s for Samuel.’
‘Don’t tell me – a painting of White Lace so he can give it to Chloe.’
Mike gaped. ‘You getting psychic?’
‘No.’ I laughed. ‘But she does have a birthday coming up soon and what do you give a girl who already has most things?’
‘Do you know,’ he said, eyes narrowing, ‘that sounds like you got there with that idea before Samuel.’ He looked across at Nathaniel, who innocently buried his face over his liquid lunch.
‘I promise I won’t breathe a word to Chloe or Samuel. Surprises don’t need spoiling.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. Samuel had already sworn me to secrecy. I was hoping I might catch Nathaniel while you were in the weighing room.’
I shook my head. ‘And there I was, thinking you were showing sympathy for my not having any lunch by suggesting I have a coffee when all the time you were being devious.’
‘Give over.’ Mike snorted. ‘Just don’t tell Chloe.’
I held up a placating palm. ‘Promise.’
He pushed back his chair. ‘Leave you with it then, Nathaniel. Things to do down the stables. See you in the parade ring, Harry.’
I nodded. They’d be saddling up soon. No doubt Samuel would be arriving before long. He owned one of the three horses I’d be riding this afternoon. No forelock tugging needed for the third horse’s owner. He was away in Barbados with his missus, sunning himself. I smiled to myself at the thought. I didn’t envy him one bit. Crazy, maybe, but I wouldn’t swap my saddle for his sun-lounger. I’d get more satisfaction coming in first, possibly, than deepening a tan.
‘So, Harry,’ Nathaniel said, placing his empty glass on the table. ‘Any ideas yet on the ETA?’
Nathaniel Willoughby, horseracing artist, in a class of his own, already commissioned by me to paint a portrait of Annabel’s forthcoming baby, twinkled across at me.
‘Sorry, I’ve no idea. Annabel hasn’t mentioned a date.’
‘Never mind, old chap.’ He nodded sagely, screwing up his eyes, ‘Let’s just be thankful the baby’s still on his way, eh?’
‘You heard about that?’
‘With all the media coverage, you couldn’t very well not. But I suspect your part in the drama wasn’t given the accolade due. You ended up on the receiving end, didn’t you?’ His eyebrows rose questioningly.
At the thought, my guts gave a sudden clutch. Jake Smith. I’d forgotten about him for the last couple of hours – now he was back in the forefront of my mind. And the problem of where the hell did I hide him? All hell would break loose when the police traced him to my home. Without doubt, they would do.
‘Thought it best to keep schtum just now, you know,’ Nathaniel was saying, ‘when Mike was on about work …’
I dragged my thoughts back to the moment. ‘Yes … eh, yes, thanks. Not that it would matter really, Mike knowing.’
‘Best to keep the ladies’ surprise a secret. Be a shame to have it leak out and spoil their pleasure.’
‘Absolutely, yes.’
‘Mind, I told Mike I can’t start work straight away on the one he wants. I’m going away on holiday for three weeks.’
‘Somewhere nice?’
‘Very nice. Visiting my sister in Switzerland … and my niece. Don’t see enough of them.’
‘Sounds good.’
And suddenly it sounded good to me, too.
‘Where do you live, Nathaniel?’
‘Out in the sticks, backside of Melton Mowbray. I’ve an old cottage, nothing grand, don’t do grand. But it has got a studio in the garden. It suits me.’
I Ieaned forward. ‘You could help me out here because, you see, I’ve a bloody awful problem …’
I didn’t tell him the problem. No way was I going to shaft him, but I asked if I could have the keys to his place while he went to see his family.
‘I can’t tell you the reason why, or who the person is – for your own safety – but I desperately need secure accommodation, safe above all else. It will save my bacon and, if you are in complete ignorance, you won’t have any flak flying in your direction. What do you say?’
He looked at me steadily. ‘The answer’s no, Harry.’
I felt the jolt of disappointment. I’d really thought this might have worked. However, I didn’t blame him at all. It was entirely up to him.
Dead Reckoning Page 3
