Dead Reckoning

by Glenis Wilson

  So, that left the piece of cheese. Both cats and mice loved cheese. Was this a reference to a fourth person? If so, what sex? It was logical to think this person was a female – it made for a cosy foursome. But if so, was this woman another prostitute? Somehow, I didn’t think Alice would tolerate competition on her patch. Prostitutes were notoriously territorial.

  So, if I’d been right so far in my deductions, in which direction did it point me? None came to mind except the obvious one. Darren Goode would be able to answer my query as to whether Alice had any children. But that was the one lead I couldn’t follow. Apart from the practicalities of trying to obtain a visiting order – not viable because of the time delay involved – no way was I going inside that prison again. And his agreement to see me wasn’t a certainty. Darren would be one hellishly angry man. His wife had been murdered while he was stuck, impotently, behind bars. He’d be lashing out at whoever came in striking range.

  Now, on top of Alice’s murder, there were two other deaths. I’d have bet Harlequin cottage on Darren knowing exactly what the SP was for both men’s murders. His last remark before I left the visiting room at the prison had contained more than a hint that another death was on the cards. But I hadn’t expected two, with both victims behind bars themselves.

  However, from a purely selfish angle, the police couldn’t connect me with the killings, nor would anybody be putting pressure on me to discover who the murderer was. There could even be more than one person involved. I didn’t give the police very good odds in discovering the killer’s identity. If any of the inmates knew, they wouldn’t be singing. They’d be far too concerned about using their breath to keep on breathing. I had no doubt the shadow of Jake Smith ruled. The two deaths proved it.

  Breaking into my dark thoughts, the telephone on my desk gave a shrill double ring. It startled me – and electrified Leo. He shot up into the air and streaked out of the room. I heard the cat flap in the kitchen snap closed behind him. He’d gone out into the jungle of a garden. It was safer out there. I shook my head in sympathy. Boy, were his nerves in a bad state.

  I lifted the phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘How’s the head?’

  I didn’t immediately recognize the voice. ‘Hello, who is this?’

  ‘Forgotten what my voice sounds like, Harry? Probably that bang on the head. Mousey here.’

  Mousey? Oh, Mousey Brown, of course. But mouse … as in one of the two mice? Could it be him? No, it was too much of a coincidence.

  ‘We were supposed to meet outside the winner’s enclosure at Wetherby but I’ll let you off.’

  ‘Yes, sorry about that, Mousey.’

  ‘You ended up in hospital, eh?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘OK now?’

  ‘Near enough.’

  ‘Not back in the saddle, though?’

  ‘No, the powers that be won’t let me, you know.’

  ‘Aye, I know. Anyway, I need to see you, Harry.’

  ‘Can you tell me over the phone?’

  ‘Rather not. Bit … er … delicate.’

  ‘Fair enough, so when’s your best time?’

  ‘Seeing as you’re free at the moment, how about today? Can you drive up to the stables?’

  ‘Sure. About elevenish do?’

  ‘Do nicely. Tell you what, come and have lunch in our local pub – does a very mean steak. On me, of course.’

  ‘Guess you’ve twisted my arm, Mousey.’

  He chuckled, ‘See you, Harry.’

  I leaned back in the chair. Going up to Malton would solve my location problem very nicely. The reason why he wanted to speak to me and wouldn’t say over the phone could prove tricky. Delicate, was how he’d described it.

  I mooched into the kitchen and made a mug of strong coffee.

  If I was driving up north, I needed to stay awake.

  TEN

  The Old Rectory Stables was an L-shaped run of boxes facing a majestic, rambling old house. Its glory days as a residence for God’s representatives were long over. However, it had metamorphosed into a gentleman’s des res. Whether Mousey could be described as a gentleman was a bit questionable.

  Apparently, in his youth he’d been a wild card, not noted for sobriety or observing convention, plus his driving was legendary. But that was before my time. Mousey had always treated me fairly and with respect. I treated him the same.

  I drove in between the high pillars either side of the entrance, did a swing round at the end of the long drive and cut the engine. Mousey couldn’t have driven down to see me – he was an alcoholic who’d had his licence withdrawn a long time ago. These days his eldest son, Patrick, himself an ex-jockey, held the business reins and Mousey was the figurehead. The reason for his sink into alcoholism had been because his wife, Clara, had sustained an appalling injury that had led, a couple of years later, to her death.

  Racing, being the close family it has always been, had given its collective support in many different ways. Allowances were made for his excesses.

  Owners, less forgiving, were on the point of withdrawing horses. But after seeing Patrick bring home much-needed winners, decided to leave their horses where they were. I’d ridden for Mousey a few years back but Patrick seemed to favour the younger jockeys.

  That thought pulled me up. A jump jockey’s working life was considerably shorter than riding on the flat. Perhaps it was time for me to give some thought to what my future might be. But what did I want to do? Most people didn’t know – that included me.

  I went up to the impressively studded oak door and rang the bell. Patrick’s wife opened the door. A nanosecond later, recognition brought a smile to her lips.

  ‘Harry. You’ve made it, then? I’m sorry you’ve been injured.’

  ‘Thanks, Jackie.’

  ‘Do come in. Stanley’s expecting you.’

  It took me a moment to realize she was talking about her father-in-law. He was in the study, ensconced in a huge burgundy leather armchair, buried behind a copy of today’s Racing Post.

  ‘Morning, Mousey.’

  ‘Harry, my dear chap.’ He heaved himself to his feet, letting the paper slide to the floor. ‘Very good of you to make the effort, much appreciated. By God, I miss my own set of wheels. Damn fools took away my licence. I know when I’m safe to drive … or not.’

  It was just short of eleven o’clock but a blast of whisky fumes engulfed me as he shook my hand vigorously. Damn fools? I didn’t think so.

  ‘Have a seat, do.’ He gestured to a leather Chesterfield beneath the window. Then, raising his voice, shouted, ‘Jackie, lass, coffee, please.’

  But the summons wasn’t needed. She appeared in the doorway bearing a tray. The smell was wonderful.

  ‘Thanks, I could just do with this.’ I took the mug she offered me.

  Still facing me, she murmured, ‘And Stanley certainly can.’ Then she turned to smile, full-bore, at her father-in-law. It contained all the love and caring needed to take away any possible sting in her words.

  She handed Mousey a mug with the words ‘World’s Best Dad’ emblazoned on the side in red.

  ‘Thanks, lass.’ He took a quick slurp, saw I’d read the lettering and twinkled at me over the rim. ‘Pat brought it back for me from a school outing. It’s lasted a long time, like me.’ A shadow passed across Jackie’s face.

  ‘And we all want you lasting a lot longer.’

  ‘Do what I can.’ He turned to me. ‘How long are you grounded for?’

  ‘Couple of days, thereabouts. The doctor’s got to stamp my card first.’

  ‘Aye, damn red tape. The world’s tied up with red tape.’

  Companionably, we drank coffee and I waited for him to broach the subject of why he wanted to see me.

  But instead, Mousey said, ‘How’s your boss doing?’

  ‘Mike?’ His question had surprised me. ‘He’s fine, yes, doing fine.’

  ‘Has she helped?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His new la
dy friend?’

  You couldn’t swap your socks in racing before the news was doing the rounds.

  ‘Pen’s been good for him, yes.’

  ‘Aye, well, he’s a young chap – needs a woman around. And what about you then, Harry? Got yourself a nice woman?’

  ‘Not sure I want one.’

  He snorted, ‘’Course you do. Going it on your own’s no fun.’

  ‘Sorry about Clara, Mousey.’

  ‘Don’t be, lad. The state she was in … wouldn’t keep a dog like it. I just wish she’d gone straight off … y’know?’

  I nodded. I did know. Clara had gone on a skiing holiday in Switzerland with Monica, Mike’s wife. A freak snowstorm had blown up. There’d been an accident and both women had gone over the edge of a glacier. Rescue teams had battled to reach them and had finally airlifted them on stretchers into a helicopter.

  It was too late for Monica – she was already dead. But Clara was still alive, just. However, apart from multiple fractures of ribs and limbs, she had suffered fractures to C2 and C3 of the spine. The injuries had meant she was permanently paralysed, reliant on a respirator and her life was measured in months as she suffered a succession of lowering lung infections.

  Mousey had had to endure watching his wife dying for nearly two years, knowing there was nothing he could do to help except provide all the private medical care needed to keep her at home for as long as possible, which wasn’t that long. The fact they had both endured emotional agony in the process was crystal clear.

  Mike had avoided coming into contact with Mousey during the whole of the time Clara lay suffering.

  ‘Can’t face him,’ he’d once told me. ‘I’ve lost Monica, yes, but her end was quick and I thank God for that. But poor Clara … it’s bloody terrible.’

  I tried, gently, to steer Mousey’s thoughts away from the pain and back to the reason why he wanted to see me at Wetherby racecourse.

  ‘What can I do to help you, Mousey?’

  Jackie jumped up and began collecting the coffee mugs.

  ‘Leave you two to have a spot of man-talk in private. I’ll be in the kitchen.’ She turned to me. ‘Stop and have lunch with us, Harry.’

  Before I could answer, Mousey cut in, shaking his head, ‘No, no, lass. I’m taking Harry to The Cat and Fiddle for a meal. My treat.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure …’

  ‘We’ve already arranged it.’

  ‘OK, then, enjoy yourselves.’ She disappeared with the tray.

  ‘Rather speak to you over lunch, if that’s OK? Wouldn’t like our Jackie hearing what I’ve got to say.’

  ‘Sure, that’s fine with me.’

  ‘Don’t mean to be cloak and dagger, Harry, but I’m not proud of what I’ve done. And Jackie, well, she’s a lass in a million, a trillion. I would hate her to think badly of me. She’s been a wonderful help when Clara needed it. Patrick and me, we wouldn’t have got through all this without Jackie being there for us.’ His voice lowered. ‘An’ Patrick seems to be taking after his old dad.’ He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Jackie doesn’t deserve that. She worships our Patrick. Wouldn’t like her to get hurt.’

  ‘Look, Mousey, if you’ve changed your mind about discussing whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. I can always shove off, leave you in peace.’

  ‘God, Harry, no. Don’t offer me a get-out. It’s damn hard enough now. And I must tell you, I have to.’

  He rose abruptly and motioned me through the door, grabbing his trilby from the hall peg as we walked through.

  ‘We’re going, Jackie. Not sure when we’ll be back.’

  ‘OK, enjoy the food.’ Her voice trickled through from the kitchen. ‘See you later.’

  Mousey walked me out of the front door and we climbed into my car.

  ‘Directions for the pub, Mousey?’

  The Cat and Fiddle was a typical old Yorkshire pub. Little concession to modernization had taken place but from the welcoming open fire crackling away in the big fireplace to the smile on the landlord’s face, it gave off a reassuring cheerfulness. Before the smoking ban, it would no doubt have been filled with a fug of wreathing tobacco smoke but now, in the clean atmosphere, the many horse brasses adorning the walls were unsullied and gleamed brightly. There was a definite ‘coming home’ feel to the place. Without doubt, you could easily get cast here. And it was already starting to fill up.

  ‘Very popular, it is.’ Mousey nodded to the landlord and made his way to a table in the far alcove. ‘Started coming here centuries ago, when I was a young lad. It’s changed but not that much. The food’s first rate, though – basic beef but real food, if you follow me.’

  I did. I’d scanned the ‘Specials’ board on the way to the table. The selection looked good to me.

  ‘It’s not fancy but neither are the prices. You want fancy, there’re plenty of places selling that – and I dare bet half the tables are empty. Whereas, here …’ He flipped a hand towards the door.

  It was a good job we’d turned up early. The tables were filling rapidly.

  I went to the bar and bought drinks while Mousey had a look through the menu. It wasn’t a hard choice. We both had the same – T-bone steaks. And Mousey was right – it was damn good food. We finished with coffee and that, too, was excellent.

  ‘Right then, Harry lad, the reason why I wanted to see you …’ Mousey set down his cup with deliberation. I waited. ‘Can I swear you to secrecy?’

  ‘Is it legal?’

  ‘You and I both know nothing’s black or white in life. More like a mucky grey.’ I waited some more. I realized why he’d suggested this venue. There was not a cat in hell’s chance of being overheard above the hubbub in the crowded room.

  His voice was so low I struggled to catch what he was saying.

  ‘There’s a lot of folk who would decry me for what I’ve done but that’s their problem. All I want you to do is promise you won’t spread it around nor say anything to Jackie – especially not to Jackie.’

  ‘Whatever you tell me, Mousey, I guarantee I won’t mention it to Jackie.’

  ‘Good man.’ He lifted his coffee and drained it before running a nervous hand through his short grey hair. ‘It’s about Alice … Alice Goode.’ I stared at him in astonishment. ‘Yes, I know, it was you who discovered her body.’ A spasm of pain twisted his face. ‘Was she in, y’know … a very bad state?’ He hesitated. ‘What I’m asking, Harry, is would she have suffered very much? Or could it have been a quick death?’

  ‘You want the truth, Mousey?’ He nodded. ‘She wasn’t in a pretty state. If I had to guess, I’d say hopefully she didn’t live long enough to suffer. The first blow could have killed her but it looked like she’d been hit over the head several times. Sorry, but yes, she was in a terrible condition.’

  He passed a hand across his forehead and made a low, animal sound of distress.

  ‘Why do you want to know, Mousey? What was Alice to you?’

  He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and blew his nose hard. ‘Did you … were you … ever a client of Alice’s?’

  ‘The police asked me that question. And I’ll tell you the same thing I told them – the truth. I never had sex with her.’

  He sighed deeply. ‘Somehow that makes it all right.’

  ‘Makes what all right?’

  ‘What I’m going to ask you to do.’ He blew his nose again and struggled to get control of his emotions. And again I waited, but this time with a distinct shiver tracing itself down my back.

  ‘Harry, you discovered the murderers of Carl Smith at Leicester races – the two that have just died in prison. Damn sure that wasn’t an accident. ’Course, the police will never prove it, one way or the other. And then again, you found the killer of that golf course job.’

  The shiver down my spine increased in intensity.

  ‘Harry, I’ve plenty of money. I can pay you. I want you to find Alice’s murderer for me. Make him pay for his crime.’

  I’d known
it was coming but his words still hit me like a bucket of cold water. We stared at each other and I shook my head uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Why?’

  He gave a brief, sad smile. ‘Because, Harry, Alice was my mistress – for about thirty years.’

  ELEVEN

  My jaw must have hit the pub’s flagstone floor.

  ‘If you never slept with Alice,’ Mousey continued, ‘you wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me,’ I managed to croak.

  ‘Clara, God bless her, was brought up strictly. She was a perfect wife in all ways. Except …’ He stared at his empty cup. ‘She did her duty, as she saw it, by producing my two sons. After that, well … there wasn’t any “after that”. You get my drift?’ I did. ‘Clara, she had the babies, was completely satisfied. But the babies weren’t enough for me. You’ve been married, Harry, I don’t need to say any more.’

  ‘No, Mousey, leave it there.’

  He sat back in his chair and sighed. ‘Knew you’d understand. So, will you do the job?’

  I played with a spare beer mat, buying some time.

  ‘Come on, lad, what’s to think about? Alice was lovely – in her own way, she was a lady.’

  ‘Yes, I do know.’

  ‘So you did sleep with her?’

  ‘I didn’t, not ever. But I know she was a caring person.’

  ‘Oh, she was. She was that.’

  I stopped fiddling with the mat and looked straight at him. The craggy, hard lines on his face seemed to have somehow softened, exposing an almost tender expression. I could see that, strange though it might appear, given her profession, if Alice had kept him going for thirty years, the man must, at the least, have held her in fond regard. I doubt it was love. His love had been reserved for Clara. But certainly Mousey had warm feelings for Alice. Or had done, until her murder.

  The picture of her lying upon the kitchen floor came graphically into my mind. I could see the white, shattered skull bone, the darkness of the congealed blood, the bloated flies … Even the obscene smell, including the terror she must have felt at the last, came back and flooded my nostrils. I clenched my throat to prevent me starting to gag.