Dead Reckoning

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘No, you can’t have my keys, nor use my cottage. But …’ he looked woefully at his empty glass, lifted it and upended it, ‘… you can buy me another drink and I’ll let you have the keys to the studio. It’s got electric and water laid on, a bog, a shower and a sink. Bring your own microwave. But it has got a kettle, so you can make tea.’ He slowly lowered the glass until it was sitting rim down on top of the table. Then he gave me a long, lazy smile. I returned it. I put my hand out and picked up the glass.

  ‘Name your tipple.’

  He covered my hand briefly with his. ‘Let’s say, it’s the accolade you didn’t get. I’m wiping the slate clean for Annabel’s baby.’

  ‘No slate to clean.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Just don’t tell me who will be dossing in my studio. And make damn sure they’re gone, long gone, before I get back from Switzerland, OK?’

  ‘Deal.’

  SIX

  Mike wanted in.

  ‘I’ve never seen inside an artist’s studio. Intriguing, don’t you think, the creative force at work?’

  On the way home from the racecourse I’d updated him about Nathaniel’s generosity and said I was due to meet him for a handover of the keys at nine o’clock at Burton Lazars, the village where he lived.

  ‘I think the man’s generosity is amazing.’

  I hadn’t told Mike the underlying reason why Nathaniel had decided to loan me the studio. It hadn’t been brave or heroic of me; I’d simply done what any husband would have. The fact that Annabel and I lived apart didn’t enter into it. Notwithstanding Sir Jeffrey was the man in her life, I still felt protective towards her – always would.

  We’d returned to Mike’s yard earlier in the evening with the partial success of my having ridden all three horses into third place in three races.

  ‘Can’t say you’re not consistent, Harry.’ Pen smiled as she ladled out dinner – in my case, carb-free chicken curry.

  ‘Better if they’d all been first, though.’

  ‘Men,’ she said and shook her head, ‘they’re never satisfied.’ Then turned pink as Mike, chewing a mouthful of dinner, guffawed and nearly choked himself.

  Nudging the jug of water towards him, Pen said innocently, ‘Want to stay over tonight, Harry?’

  Mike gave a massive, gulping cough, cleared his airways and gave me a narrow-eyed look.

  ‘No, no. Thanks for the invite but, when we’re back from Nathaniel’s, I’ll get off to the cottage.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Then I remembered Jake Smith, still in residence, and my heart dropped. Not a tempting choice.

  I looked at Mike who, no doubt seeing my momentary waver, narrowed his gaze some more.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve a feline to feed.’

  ‘I’d love to meet this Leo. He sounds like some cat.’

  ‘Anytime, Pen.’

  ‘Not tomorrow, sweet,’ Mike chipped in, ‘I’m taking you out to dinner, remember?’ He met my eye, meaningfully this time, and I realized he, too, had just remembered about Jake’s presence in Harlequin Cottage. He certainly wouldn’t want her to run into potential danger.

  ‘How about I have a totally informal drinks and nibbles evening … say … Friday?’

  ‘Oooh, lovely. Yes, please.’

  ‘Suits me, Harry. Nothing on Friday, should be clear by then.’

  Taking the hint, I said, ‘Absolutely clear. Eight o’clock then?’

  They both nodded.

  Now, just approaching nine o’clock, Mike was driving me along a narrow country lane that was forever narrowing the further we went. The sat nav spoke up. ‘Turn left and pull up. You have arrived at your destination.’

  Obediently Mike hauled on the wheel, swung into a short gravel drive and cut the engine. On either side a tall holly hedge hemmed in the car, effectively preventing us seeing what building lay behind the prickly greenery. I felt an involuntary grin curving my lips. Even before I saw Nathaniel’s pad it was ticking a good few boxes regarding isolation and privacy.

  We left the car and walked on a few yards, following the drive round a bend and came upon a rambling, very old building. A twisting pathway led on down to the far end of an overgrown garden to a single-storey outbuilding.

  I inclined my head. ‘D’you reckon that’s the studio?’

  ‘Could well be.’

  ‘Better speak to Nathaniel first.’ I put a thumb on the doorbell.

  When Nathaniel opened the door, we could see a suitcase was already waiting in the hall. He’d told me he was booked on an early morning flight to Switzerland.

  Picking up a bunch of keys from the hall table, he took us down the garden path to the studio. Unlocking the door, he switched on the light.

  ‘Come on in, see what you think.’

  The first pungent impression we received was an overwhelming smell of paint and linseed oil.

  All along the far wall, completed canvases were leaned up facing the wall. The side wall was fitted out with partitioned, open-fronted shelves. They were filled with pots and containers of paint and white spirit, plus jars filled with sticks of charcoal, palette knives and innumerable paintbrushes.

  Only one door led off the main room.

  ‘Toilet, sink, shower in there.’ Nathaniel waved a hand towards it.

  An old but comfortable-looking settee was placed beneath the west window. I deduced that was to double as a seat and bed. It would have to do. No doubt Jake had slept in much worse places.

  Mike was looking round with great interest. ‘Mind if I take a look at your easel?’

  The easel was, traditionally, facing a very large, north-facing window. Nathaniel took the cover from it. ‘Help yourself. I’m not precious about my W.I.P. but don’t ask me who commissioned it. I won’t tell you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t do.’ Mike spread his hands. ‘It’s a privilege to see where you work.’

  ‘Are you quite sure, Nathaniel, that you want to let me move someone in?’ I asked.

  Now that we were standing inside the studio, it struck me as a private place, not one that ought to be violated by any negative vibes. And whichever way you viewed it, Jake Smith did give off an aura of threatening menace.

  He smiled gently at me. ‘It’s not a holy of holies … but I take it your “visitor” isn’t going to trash everything?’

  ‘I’ll spell it out to him.’

  ‘Not a clandestine lady, then?’ He raised a mocking eyebrow.

  ‘No. But how about we all move your paintings out of here so we know they’ll be safe?’ I knew I’d sleep easier if they weren’t left in the studio to take their chances.

  ‘Good idea, Harry.’ Mike was gingerly inspecting the paintings facing the wall. ‘These are damn good. Be a tragedy if they came to harm.’

  ‘OK.’ Nathaniel gave in to common sense. ‘If you chaps can give me a hand, we can store them up at the cottage.’

  Between the three of us, carrying a painting in each hand, we got the job done in about seven or eight trips. We took them into the music room, which proved to be a small extension along the back of the cottage, and left the paintings propped up against the inside wall. I breathed a genuine sigh of relief. They were obviously worth a great deal of money. If they had come to any harm because of Jake’s presence, I’d have felt honour-bound to refund the cost.

  ‘You play this Steinway?’ Mike’s voice held a note of respect. He nodded towards the piano.

  ‘Not as often as I’d like, but yes, I do play.’

  Nathaniel sat down on the swivel stool and trickled his fingers along the keys. Note by note, the second movement of Mozart’s twenty-first escaped from the piano and filled the room with haunting sweetness. The music caught Nathaniel in its web. He played on and it was exquisite.

  It meant a great deal to me. My half-sister, Silvie, had loved it. I glanced at Mike. His face wore a strange expression, a combination of hurt and wistfulness. Too late, I realized Monica, his late wife, had loved playing the piano. Before her death s
he’d often entertained us, running through her wide repertoire, usually after I’d gone round for dinner at the stables. They’d been enjoyable occasions, happy times. The lid of the piano had remained closed ever since her death. That particular Mozart piano concerto had been her favourite. Mike had instructed it to be played at her funeral.

  The jolt of synchronicity took me by surprise. Monica had died on the ski slopes in Switzerland. And Nathaniel was flying to Zurich in a few hours’ time. I wondered, briefly, exactly where he would be staying.

  He played the last few notes and allowed the final vibrations to die away into silence before dropping his shoulders, sighing with satisfaction.

  ‘A magnificent composer, don’t you think?’

  Mike pulled himself together with admirable speed. ‘A great one.’

  ‘My daughter, Coralie, usually twists my arm to play when I go over to visit. Her husband farms near Lucerne, has a massive dairy herd. The milk is bulk-bought for making chocolate. They have a good life together. And little Ellie-Anne, my granddaughter, she’s a cutie, always playing tricks on me whenever I’m there.’

  Nathaniel laughed and slapped Mike on the shoulder. ‘Talking of which, if I don’t get started I’m going to miss my plane.’

  ‘Flying from Nottingham East Midlands?’ I asked.

  ‘I wish. No, got to drive down to Birmingham Airport. A right pain but there’re no flights from East Midlands. Still, it’s quick, only about three hours. I’ll be having lunch with my family.’ His face lit up with pleasure at the thought.

  I experienced a lurch in my solar plexus. He was a lucky man. I’d no close family now to share lunch with. ‘Have a great time.’

  He turned, grinned and tossed me a set of keys. ‘Yours for three weeks.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. See you when you get home.’

  The cottage was in darkness when I arrived back. Jake Smith had got his head down on the settee in the lounge. He was sprawled out, oblivious, when I opened the door. But before I’d turned to shut it, he’d uncurled faster than a compressed spring and had a grip on my neck.

  ‘Hey,’ I spluttered, ‘it’s the homeowner, not the police.’

  He glowered then dropped his hand. ‘Don’t creep up on me. Not if you want to go on breathing.’

  ‘I live here, right?’

  ‘So do I, right?’

  ‘Not for much longer.’ I ignored his aggressive tone and dropped Nathaniel’s keys into his hand. ‘There you go, a safe, private billet.’ His fingers closed around the keys; his eyes never left my face.

  ‘Where?’

  Well before dawn the next morning, I padded blearily downstairs into the kitchen. I turned on the tap and filled the kettle. Then stuck my head under the jet of cold water. I needed to sharpen up. Shoving the kettle on to the Rayburn hotplate, I grabbed the kitchen towel and scrubbed away my drips. Leo’s basket was empty; he’d not shown up since Jake had descended upon us. Very sensible was Leo. A pity I couldn’t emulate him.

  I walked through to the lounge. Jake, cocooned under a duvet, was asleep on the settee. I shook him. ‘Time to move.’

  ‘Eh?’ Reluctantly, he sat up. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Nearly four thirty.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘We agreed the time last night.’ He grunted in disgust, running a hand through his hair. ‘Tea’s brewing in the kitchen.’ I left him to it and returned to the bubbling kettle.

  With a mug of strong tea inside, I felt the will to live returning. Last night, before seeking our beds, we’d stuffed the Mazda’s boot with the various necessities of life: pillow, sleeping bag, spare kettle, mug, a couple of saucepans, decrepit toaster, cutlery, etc., plus toilet rolls, teabags, bread. I’d known there wouldn’t be time this morning to mess about. The whole purpose of the early departure was to get Jake into Nathaniel’s studio before dawn broke and any possible neighbours got curious.

  ‘Ready when you are.’ I reached for the car keys hanging on a hook behind the back door.

  ‘Not so fast …’ Jake opened the fridge door. There was one unopened bottle of milk inside. He lifted it out. ‘This is going with me.’

  I shrugged. You didn’t argue with Jake. If Leo came back today, I’d have to get the car out and go down to the Co-op in the village.

  It was a trek to Nathaniel’s but, at that time in the morning, traffic was practically non-existent on the winding country lanes.

  ‘Looks like you’ve cracked it, Harry boy,’ Jake said.

  I turned off the narrow lane and pulled on to the drive, totally obscured by the holly hedges either side.

  ‘Reckon this will do you?’

  ‘A bog and a bed, and it’ll do.’

  I walked him down the garden path and turned the key in the studio door.

  ‘As the owner said, it’s not grand, but it’s as safe as you’re going to get.’

  We unloaded the car and dumped the stuff in the middle of the floor.

  ‘Leave you to it. I’ll take the keys.’

  ‘Like hell you will.’

  ‘Sorry, but they’re coming with me. Can’t risk anybody walking in on you.’

  ‘What about my grub? I’ll need some before dark.’

  ‘Don’t count on it. I’m going racing at Wetherby. You’ve got bread for toast.’

  He completely lost it, launching himself at me. Grabbing my dodgy left arm, he forced it up behind my back then twisted it savagely. The bastard knew the injury from the knife wound was still healing; he’d targeted it on purpose. I felt the flesh and muscle tearing where the surgeon had stitched it back together after the stabbing. Agony roared through my body.

  ‘You’d fucking better get back! If you don’t, I’ll break the window and burn the fucking place down.’

  It was the worst of all scenarios, Jake threatening to torch the studio. Through a mist of agony and clenched teeth, I thought of the precious paintings. Thank God, Nathaniel had agreed to them being taken up to the cottage. They, at least, were intact and safe.

  It remained to be seen whether I was.

  SEVEN

  ‘Did the delivery drop go OK?’ Mike inquired at breakfast, after I’d arrived – late – for morning stables.

  ‘Well, he’s installed. How long for …’ I shook my head. ‘I’ll take him some fish and chips when I get back from Wetherby.’

  ‘Hmmm, feed the beast, eh?’

  ‘His temper could do with sweetening. Still, I wouldn’t like to be first choice for a murder rap.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Harry, right now you’re definitely first choice for harbouring a wanted criminal. Whatever the verdict is on Jake, your charge stands.’

  ‘You don’t need to remind me. If I could ever get the chance of a full night’s sleep, I wouldn’t be able to drop off. I once visited a man in Nottingham prison and once was enough. Chilling didn’t come into it. And that was only in the waiting room, not in the cells.’

  It gave me the quakes every time I thought about ending up in there.

  That man had been Darren Goode, Alice’s husband. I’d gone because I needed to pump him about a murder. I’d thought afterwards the only reason he agreed to see me on a visitor’s pass was because he wanted to pump me about Alice’s state of health. Had he known of a threat against her? It was something I’d not considered before. But now Alice had been murdered … How was he taking the news? I didn’t need to speculate. Like an enraged – and caged – bull elephant. God help the warders at Nottingham prison.

  ‘Expect you could do with a catnap.’ Mike peered at me. ‘Come to the races in my car – I’ll drive. You can have a bit of a kip on the way.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ Without warning, I gave an enormous yawn. The late night followed by an extremely early morning had left me too lethargic to be comfortable. A jockey needed to be mentally on it. The dousing with the kitchen cold water tap in the pre-dawn obviously hadn’t cut the mustard.

  I’d missed first lot this morning but pulled in a ride second
lot on Jellybean. I needed the exercise. I felt stiff and uncoordinated. The tension of treading eggshells around Jake had tightened my muscles and tendons. That coupled with the icy cold on the exposed high ground above the stables exacerbated the tightness.

  Jellybean was a massive seventeen hands and a puller. They could have used him in the Middle Ages and dispensed with the rack. However, pounding the cold gallops as I sought to try and hold him while he used his superior horsepower in effortless opposition to my puny strength, practically pulling my arms from their sockets, had me warmed up and breathing heavily before we were even halfway finished. But the tension had not only tightened up my body, it had an energy-guzzling effect and, I admitted to myself, I was bloody tired. I could use a safe powernap.

  And, in Mike’s car, it would certainly be safe. Unless the blues and twos decided to pull us over.

  I was riding two of Mike’s horses in the first consecutive races at Wetherby. Two, even if I managed to win on both, were not going to gain me any titles, but there was always the chance of an odd ride should any of the jockeys have an awkward fall, God forbid. Not only that, other trainers were likely to approach with an offer of possible future rides. But in the state I was in just now, two rides were probably all I could manage.

  Mike’s altruistic offer of chauffeured transport was in keeping with his generous nature but also rang a warning chime in my head that he wanted me fit for the job. His owners expected nothing less. An hour or two of undisturbed sleep would set me up for a couple of races. With Jake out of the cottage when I got home tonight, I could guiltlessly have an unashamed really early night.

  Then I remembered: after racing I’d have to motor over to Nathaniel’s place, picking up fish and chips on the way and, as Mike had phrased it, ‘feed the beast’. So, no early night after all. And tomorrow I had five rides booked. Sleep deprivation, I could do without.

  Even as I thought about it, the groan-inducing realization dawned: today was Friday. I was supposed to be hosting a drinks and nibbles do at the cottage. I had to cry off. Nursemaiding Jake didn’t allow for such social indulgences.