That honour would be going to Mike’s new second jockey, Tim Herring. Tim, who had immediately been nicknamed Kipper by the other lads, was a competent, likeable young man. At twenty-two, he had the time in front to go on and achieve great things. From how White Lace had just performed, it was more than likely she, too, was going places. And right then, I saw the number of years left in front of me as a top jock all too clearly. They were very few. Like footballers, jump jockeys had a short sell-by date. My frustration at the imposed racing ban losing me valuable rides ran high and hot.
I walked the mare back to the stables and untacked. Leaving her rugged up and contentedly pulling hay from the full hay net, I walked over to the tack room, put the saddle over the peg and hung the bridle over the central steel hook hanging from the ceiling. White Lace was the only ride I had this morning.
Calling a goodbye to Mike, I walked away across the yard. It was ten o’clock and I needed to make tracks for home. Thrusting my head into the kitchen, I said a quick goodbye to Pen.
‘Offer still stands for dinner if anything goes amiss with your arrangements with Uncle George.’
‘Belt and braces, eh?’
‘Sure,’ she agreed, laughing.
‘Thanks. See you tomorrow, OK?’
‘OK.’
I nosed the car out of the gateway and headed home.
In the bathroom, stripping off my work clothes, I soaped away under a hot shower. The question mark over my future reared up in my mind. If I reached an age when I couldn’t continue race riding, and that was a sad certainty, what else beckoned as a gainful living? It was the ogre living in the dark cave that faced every jump jockey.
It boiled down to the question: what was I good at? Apart from race riding, of course. And at that, my mind stalled. The image that had been thrown up was catching criminals.
I lifted my face to the hot, wet needles and let the soap and the smell of horses and stables rinse away down the plughole. I wouldn’t say I was good at catching them, rather, I’d just been lucky in tracking down a couple of murderers. How unlikely was that as a creditable career move? Hardly an inspiring entry to list on my CV.
I scrubbed myself dry and put on a navy shirt and clean jeans. It would take about twenty minutes to drive over to the Dirty Duck at Woolsthorpe. I had time for a quick coffee and a trawl through the Racing Post.
Uncle George and Aunt Rachel were already happily ensconced in the pub enjoying the warmth of the open fire when I walked in.
‘Harry, son.’ Uncle George nodded genially.
‘Lovely to see you.’ Aunt Rachel patted the chair next to her. ‘Bring your drink and come and sit down.’
I did as I was told.
‘Now.’ Aunt Rachel tilted her head to one side and assessed me closely. ‘Tell me, what were you doing with that girl? Who is she?’
TWENTY-ONE
Cheek was one word for it, sheer bloody nosiness were three more.
‘We happened to see her, in that red mini.’ Uncle George, looking ashamed, softened the bluntness of his wife’s questions.
I shrugged. ‘We were just having a drink, that’s all.’
‘But what’s her name?’ Aunt Rachel persisted. ‘Is she a new girlfriend? I mean, there’s Annabel and the baby.’
I held down my smouldering annoyance. ‘Much as I wish Annabel were still living with me, Aunt Rachel, she isn’t. And the baby’s nothing to do with me. Sir Jeffrey is the father.’ Even as I said it, the words conjured up an unwelcome picture of him in bed with Annabel. I took a savage pull at my drink. ‘Just let it drop, please.’
‘Annabel is still your wife.’
‘Technically, yes.’ I gritted my teeth. What was it with her? Her interest in the coming baby was bordering on obsession. OK, Annabel had asked them to be godparents but I wasn’t the baby’s father. If I had been it would have put a totally different perspective on things, a case then of bloodlines and family.
‘Shall we order?’ Uncle George was looking acutely uncomfortable and had probably noticed my stormy expression.
‘Good idea.’ I withdrew from the inquisition by picking up the menu. It wasn’t needed. Having eaten here with Georgia on Friday, I knew pretty well what was on offer. ‘I’ll have the beef, without potatoes.’
‘Good choice,’ Aunt Rachel said, nodding. ‘Got to keep your strength up ready for racing.’
‘Er … yes, I will.’
She smiled at me and, from the corner of my eye, I saw Uncle George’s tension release itself as his body relaxed.
I felt a little prick of conscience on two counts. Firstly, because she had no children of her own and couldn’t have any, she was bound to be intensely interested in Annabel’s baby.
Secondly, George and Rachel’s new-found happiness was fragile. George urgently needed to keep things amicable; the long years of disharmony and misunderstanding had left deep scars beneath the surface. He was desperate to avoid any situation that could threaten their precious togetherness that had been lacking for so long.
I certainly didn’t want to upset either of them. They were my only remaining relatives – Uncle George being my father’s only surviving brother. Maybe it was because my father was dead that I felt a certain responsibility towards both. They had no son to look out for them. A comfortable, enjoyable shared Sunday lunch wasn’t asking much of me.
Aunt Rachel, having rediscovered the joy of married bliss, wasn’t to be blamed for wishing everybody else was as happily paired off. Following Uncle George’s heart attack, she’d discovered how much she really cared for him. Plus the fact that she’d found out she’d mistakenly blamed him for a very human slip from grace many years before. Now she was trying to salvage as much as she could from the barren waste she’d inflicted upon them both. Yes, her intrusive questions had been unwelcome but I could surely rise above the probing.
‘How about a toast?’ I suggested, raising my glass. ‘To a long and happy life with the people you love.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Aunt Rachel turned a radiant smile on Uncle George.
‘I’ll drink to that an’ all, son.’
The difficult moment melted away.
The waiter arrived bearing three attractively arranged plates of perfectly cooked roast beef.
‘Thank you,’ Aunt Rachel said. ‘It looks and smells lovely.’
Conversation lapsed for a few minutes as we enjoyed the delicious meal.
‘When do you think the doc will let you get back in the saddle?’ Uncle George asked as he enthusiastically cut into his beef.
‘Don’t know exactly. With concussion it can be up to three weeks.’
‘At least you didn’t break any bones, Harry.’
‘Yes, I can do without any major injuries.’
‘Are you after the championship, son?’
‘I’ve lost a lot of ground.’ I flipped a hand. ‘Unavoidable, of course. I mean, this year’s been a brute in lots of ways …’
‘But you’ve gone through the worst things that could happen and come out on top. Nothing else will go wrong, I’m sure.’ Aunt Rachel nodded, emphasizing her words. ‘You deserve some happy times now.’
What they would say if they knew I’d found Alice’s dead body, knew of the abortive gun attack and the fact I was hiding a criminal … I prayed their ignorance of the true situation would continue until I’d sorted out the godawful mess.
‘Talking of happy times, Mike’s giving a party on Wednesday. Perhaps you’d like to come? I’m quite sure he’d be delighted if you could. Nothing grand, just an informal bash.’
‘What do you say, Rachel? Shall we?’
‘We’ve nothing on that evening … yes, I’ll look forward to it, thank you, Harry.’ She dabbed her lips delicately with the serviette.
‘Good, glad you’re free. I’ll tell Mike.’
‘It can be a pre-birthday outing.’ George patted her hand affectionately.
‘Of course, it’s your birthday in a couple of weeks, isn’t it? What woul
d you like for a present? Give me an idea.’
‘I’m not fussed. I’m very lucky – I’ve got the most important thing.’
I smiled at them. Their pleasure in each other was so at odds with how they’d spent the last twenty-odd years, it was nothing short of a miracle their marriage had managed to endure.
‘I’ll think of something as a surprise, then.’
‘I’ve already ordered mine.’ Uncle George smugly tapped the side of his nose. ‘Not telling you what it is.’
She laughed. ‘Two surprises, it seems.’
‘Mike and I had a surprise last night.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘We spent the day at North Shore, golfing—’
‘A lovely course,’ Uncle George interrupted, nodding.
‘Hmm, and afterwards we saw a show at Southview Park. They’d got a new singer, a girl – well, woman, I suppose. And she was good, wowed the crowd. Mike intends to book her to sing at Wednesday’s party. You’ll get to hear her. Apparently she’s just returned to England from Mexico. The singer that was booked caught a bug and this woman stepped in at the last minute.’
‘What’s her name?’ Aunt Rachel inquired.
‘Just uses one name, no surname – Lizzie.’
‘Surely she must have a surname,’ Uncle George said.
‘Oh, yes, of course, but she doesn’t advertise herself as that. It’s Hibbertson.’
‘Ah, not the most glamorous. Doesn’t roll of the tongue, does it?’ Uncle George finished his meal and placed the cutlery neatly together.
Aunt Rachel followed his example and laid down her knife and fork.
‘What time does Mike want us to turn up, then?’
‘Not rigid, Uncle George. As I say, it’s informal but probably seven to seven thirty. OK?’
He nodded. ‘We’ll be there, won’t we, Rachel?’
She nodded.
We finished our drinks and I saw them out across the car park. Aunt Rachel was limping. Uncle George saw me looking at her halting progress.
‘Going to get a hip replacement. When she gets the call from the hospital,’ he explained.
I opened the car door and she slid in with difficulty, her face puckered with pain.
‘Take care of each other. See you both on Wednesday.’ I waved them off, then collected my own car. Switching on, I sat for a moment. Duty was done as regards my relations. Neither of them, I realized sharply, was young. And I’d not noticed Aunt Rachel’s disability before. I was so glad I’d not been petty enough to take offence at her innocent questions.
I suddenly felt weary. It was tempting to head straight for the cottage now and get my head down for a couple of hours. However, there was the slight matter of checking on Jake Smith and his by now depleted food stock. From here I could cut across country and call at Burton Lazars before I went home. It made sense. That way I wouldn’t have to set out again later this afternoon. Once I’d checked him out I could go home and spend a quiet evening in peace. Right now, peace seemed to be something in very short supply.
Mercurial as ever, Jake was in a foul mood, his earlier good humour long gone. I pushed open the studio door and he let me have both barrels of vitriolic abuse.
‘About fucking time. Where’ve you been till now?’
‘Anybody would think you’re my wife,’ I said mildly. But his anger was in control and he thrust his face aggressively towards mine.
‘Have you found him yet?’
‘Who?’
‘Who?’ he shrieked, his spittle flying. ‘The fucker who topped Alice.’
I shook my head.
‘You’re taking too long.’
He began pacing up and down like a caged feral animal, unable to contain himself. The burn had obviously begun hours ago and he’d been stoking the fire ever since.
‘I’m doing my best—’
‘Your best,’ he spat the words at me, ‘ain’t fucking good enough. Got it? You’ve got three days, right? Three days to come up with the bastard’s name and get me out of here or you and your woman are dead meat.’
‘I can’t do it in that time frame.’
‘Oh, yes, you bloody well can.’
I was totally unprepared for his assault. His hands snaked out around my neck, both thumbs thrusting hard into my flesh. ‘I’m going fucking stir crazy in here.’ As he said each word, he slammed my head repeatedly back and forth against the wall. ‘Fucking … crazy … crazy … crazy …’ he ranted and slammed.
I believed him – the strength in the man was phenomenal. I was struggling and wrestling but it was like getting to grips with a bear – no contest. I clawed at his hands, raking and ripping with my nails, scoring deep into his skin and flesh, drawing blood, but he was so far gone it had no effect and I couldn’t loosen his grip in the slightest.
Each time my head connected with the unyielding brick wall, pain reverberated through me, shaking every tooth in my jaw … bang … bang … bang. The whole room spun in a crazy red-and-black whirling maelstrom. He’d effectively stopped my airflow and a thunderous roaring filled my ears. My lungs filled with liquid fire, sobbing for oxygen that wasn’t there.
His face in front of me melted at the edges, lost form. Blackness began to take me down.
With the last of my strength I drew a knee up sharply and smashed it into his crotch. For a brief second, his hands loosened. I sucked in lifesaving air. Swinging both arms up from low down in front of my chest, I connected with the underside of his wrists and, with a massive heave, flung them violently up and apart. At the same time, I kicked his left shin from under him and bashed my forehead into his face.
The result was gratifying. His hands came away from my throat and he cartwheeled away, hitting the opposite wall with a massive thump. A bottle of linseed oil catapulted off the shelf above his head, arced out and smashed on the floor. It hit the ground before he did. The liquid flowed out into a large puddle and filled the studio with a distinctive, overpowering smell.
Gasping and choking, I saw Jake’s eyes roll back in his head. Arms outstretched sideways, he slid down the wall in slow motion before crashing full length on to the floor. I crawled over to where he lay. He was out cold. Pressing my fingers under his jaw, I felt the throb of a pulse. Thank God I hadn’t killed him was my instinctive thought, followed by what the hell was I going to do now? Short of tying him up, there was nothing I could do. All I could hope for was that, when he came round, the volcanic eruption of anger would have burnt itself out.
I staggered into the tiny bathroom, ran the cold water tap and filled a non-too-clean mug. The cold water was purgatory to swallow but it cooled my burning throat. I leaned over the showerhead in the corner, turned it to cold and stuck my head under it. The shock of the icy water had me gasping again but it brought me back to full control. Shaking myself like a sodden Labrador, I staggered back into the main room.
Jake was still in the same position sprawled on the floor, still completely out of it. I’d made a mess of his hands and wrists – they were bleeding into the spilt linseed and enlarging the spreading wet patch.
‘And they soddin’ well hurt.’
My heart gave a quick lurch.
He was still lying flat but his eyes were open. He was watching me watching him. Giving a huge sigh, he rolled over on to his back. ‘How many days then?’
‘Might find out Wednesday night. Got something lined up that could be key.’
He grunted, all fight now dissipated. ‘If I let you live till Wednesday you’re going to have to do something for me.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Can’t go messen.’
He was hurting and it broadened his Nottinghamshire accent. It wasn’t something that gave me any pleasure, inflicting pain on either animals or humans.
‘Where – and to do what?’
‘Newark, see how my old man’s doing.’
I stared at him. ‘I was going to Newark tomorrow …’
‘Right, you can call on th
e old man then, can’t you? And I’ll let you keep breathing for a bit longer – you and that pregnant bird of yours.’
I didn’t rise to it but continued staring at him. We all had our Achilles’ heel. It seemed Fred Smith’s well-being was Jake’s.
‘Deal,’ I said.
What I didn’t say was I’d already decided to go to Newark tomorrow and call at the police station – before they called on me.
TWENTY-TWO
The weather had out-foxed the council. No frost had been expected overnight so no gritters had sprayed the roads with ball-bearing lookalike chunks of salt. The temperature had dipped suddenly at about dawn and left the pavements and roads covered in a cobweb-thin coating of ice.
I was glad, after spraying and freeing my windscreen, that I’d returned to the cottage and dug out a scarf and a pair of leather gloves. I’d also turned the central heating on again. While it didn’t matter for myself – I wasn’t going to be here – there happened to be a large ginger tom giving me a baleful one-eyed stare from the depths of his basket. Locking the door, I reflected it wasn’t only Annabel who was a sucker for that moggy.
Reaching Newark, I parked down a convenient side street and made my way from there into the centre of the town. Despite the cold walk, disconcertingly on entering the police station, I found I was sweating a little. There was something ‘poised ready to spring’ about the atmosphere inside a police station, unnerving for even the most innocent member of the public. And I certainly wasn’t innocent.
The old cliché of Daniel entering the lions’ den came forcibly into my mind. It was fractionally more suited to my situation than, say, the one about angels. I wasn’t innocent, neither was I an angel. In fact, thinking back to Jake and myself eating the jacket potatoes together, supping with the Devil was far more apposite.
‘Yes, sir? Can I help you?’ the officer behind the glass partition inquired.
I swallowed hard and asked to speak to whoever was handling the case of the two men who had died while on remand.
Dead Reckoning Page 15
