Deadly Odds

by Jean Chapman

  ‘My son’ll be determined to go back to the stables again to make sure the horse is OK,’ Granger said as Cannon rolled his filthy wet garments into a ball and put them into the proffered plastic bag.

  ‘It’ll be guarded, there are security men there,’ Cannon reassured him. ‘I spoke to one of them who said he had been instructed to stay put, and that his big boss had been sent for. I’m impressed by the way it’s all being handled.’

  Archie joined them, in dry black jodhpurs and green jumper, and said he would take his tea with him to the stables.

  ‘The rain’ll cool it down by the time you get there,’ Hoskins said, handing him a steaming mug.

  ‘I’ll be across in a few moments,’ Granger said, and as the door swung to behind him he said, ‘he’s been father and mother to that horse for years, and nursed it through worse than this, I can tell you.’

  ‘So was Tilly Anders your vet on that occasion?’ Cannon asked.

  ‘Well, yes and no, we certainly couldn’t have afforded to pay her,’ Granger began. ‘She’s … she was a specialist in the treatment of top event and race horses even when we first met her. What she didn’t know about such animals was not worth knowing.’

  ‘So how did that come about?’ Cannon asked.

  Granger shook his head. ‘It’s going back a bit. You could say it was all coincidence. If I hadn’t promised my son a horse for his fifteenth birthday; if Tilly had not been involved in a scandal about the condition of some young horses coming over from Ireland, we might never have met, or had a horse like Jess competing at international level. It was the last thing I ever thought we’d do!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I took Archie to a sale where I’d been told there were some good horses that would be ideal for hacking out and doing some local gymkhanas. The auctioneer made a bit of a joke about one of the young horses, which he said had not travelled well and could be seen outside in a pen. Everyone laughed, one or two made remarks about putting it out of its misery, and of course no one made a bid. Archie became really upset, insisted we go and see this horse.’

  He rose and poured everyone another cup of tea before he went on.

  ‘When we got to the pen, there was this woman making notes. She stood back when we went over, didn’t seem to be taking a lot of notice of us, until my son decided this was the horse he wanted, and I said I wanted him to have a horse he could ride and enjoy. He said he either had this one or he would not have one at all. I was just saying that if we bought the thing, how would we ever get it home. It obviously couldn’t even stand up!

  ‘It was at this moment that Tilly Anders came and introduced herself. She said if I did buy the horse she could arrange for it to be delivered to our farm, and she would help nurse it. Think I said something like I ran a farm, not a nursing home, and she just smiled and said there were no guarantees of course, it could be all for nothing, but everything deserved its chance. That I think decided for me, poor dammed thing did deserve a chance.’

  ‘You and your Archie saved it,’ Hoskins said.

  ‘Archie hand fed it, held a bowl so it could drink as it lay on a great bed of straw he made. For five days it never stood up, but with Tilly Anders supervising and my lad’s devotion, the two of them pulled the mare through.’

  ‘And now it’s rewarding you,’ Hoskins put in.

  ‘Tilly Anders continued to show an interest?’ Cannon asked.

  ‘Only last week she came to X-ray the mare’s feet, then had a lengthy discussion with our blacksmith about special shoes which she said would help the horse be more forward going. She stayed and had lunch with us.’ He paused and added quietly, ‘This will be a real blow to my wife, Tilly had become a friend. I can’t understand how such an accident happened! You are sure it was her?’ he asked of Hoskins.

  Hoskins nodded, reminding him, ‘They tannoyed for another vet.’

  ‘They did,’ Granger agreed mournfully.

  ‘And I’m afraid it was not an accident,’ Cannon was saying as they heard men’s voices outside and there was a sharp authoritative knock on the door.

  Granger went to the door and Cannon frowned as someone enquired for him. He recognized the voice immediately, though what this man could be doing here he had no idea. Built like a compact outbuilding and certainly not someone you would want to run into on a rugger field, he nevertheless combined the charm of his extrovert French mother and academic guile of his barrister father. He managed to grasp Cannon’s hand, tip him a wink and tell him a lie all in a few seconds.

  CHAPTER 3

  Cannon was still pondering the presence of Robert Auguste Austin, and his claim that he was now Frank Austin, head of the security firm overseeing this international event, when he and Hoskins were allowed to leave.

  They had made statements, Austin had given the briefest of nods as several security men waited for his instructions. It had not been the time for reunions.

  ‘I remember ’im,’ Hoskins stated as Cannon drove past the estate lodge and turned out of the drive. ‘Young to have retired.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cannon said, gripping the steering-wheel tighter as they went through the first of many swathes of deep flood water that had collected on the country roads.

  ‘Got the push?’ Hoskins ventured.

  ‘No.’

  That was one thing he would have staked his life on. Austin had been his sergeant when he was in the Met, and had certainly risen in the ranks since. He was a dedicated policeman, a man who would surely serve his time.

  ‘Perhaps he’s undercover,’ Hoskins suggested.

  ‘If he is, it’s something big,’ Cannon answered with quiet conviction, then asked, ‘perhaps you should now tell me why you were so keen for me to come to this event in the first place?’

  ‘I had a proposition to put to you,’ Hoskins replied.

  ‘So you didn’t have any idea there would be trouble, let alone … murder?’ he said, and immediately regretted the word when there was no answer, and he sensed Hoskins sinking lower in the passenger’s seat.

  ‘How do you know it’s murder?’ Hoskins questioned. ‘Did the police think…?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he confirmed, ‘there were marks on her wrists where her hands had been tied.’

  ‘I thought she looked as if she’d been trampled,’ Hoskins said, ‘there were marks, blood stains all over, through her clothes.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ Cannon confirmed.

  ‘Tied up and trampled …’ Hoskins took time to come to terms with this. That’s a terrible thing … Horses were her life …’ He swore under his breath, then added, ‘And now her death.’

  They travelled on in silence for a few moments, then Cannon asked, ‘You had no idea she was in any danger? She hadn’t been threatened, warned off, anything like that?’

  Hoskins vehemently denied anything like that. ‘No, nothing!’

  ‘Why did you ask me along, Alan?’ Cannon said; Hoskins’s first name only came to his lips when things were serious.

  ‘Apart from just hoping it would be a good day out, I wanted you to see young Archie, he’s just a local farmer’s lad, but competing with his own horse at international level – and in a grand setting.’

  ‘I glimpsed the mansion,’ Cannon commented.

  ‘Archie Granger and that horse, they’re good, a great partnership.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cannon agreed.

  ‘Deserve help and encouragement.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cannon agreed, with a degree of suspicion in his voice now, as he wondered just what was coming. ‘So the proposition was…?’

  ‘I thought you might sponsor Archie, publicity for The Trap and—’ Hoskins went on.

  ‘Sponsor?’ Cannon intervened. ‘Money, you mean?’

  ‘Sponsors usually provide kit, like horse rugs, or riding hats or jackets which then have their names on, advertising, you know.’

  ‘You’re very free with my money,’ he replied, ‘and why are you so very interested in this particular young man?�
�� he asked as they reached a good stretch of dual-carriageway. Less than an hour and they should be home.

  ‘You know the old saying, “what goes around comes around.” This all goes back to my father being a real horseman, he wooed my mother riding on a great bay horse, rode away with her.’

  ‘Literally you mean?’ Cannon asked, thinking this man always had a few more surprises to reveal about his past life.

  ‘If that means he really did it, yes,’ Hoskins answered. ‘So I was always good with horses, asked to judge at local gymkhanas, county shows, as my father had done before me. That’s where I first met the Grangers. I think Archie was eight years old, and had entered the best-turned out pony and rider competition. I talked to all the entrants and found every other child had either done very little to help groom and prepare their pony, or nothing at all. Archie Granger had done everything for his pony, mucked out its stable and helped with other jobs in the yard. His clipping and mane plaiting left a lot to be desired, but I awarded him first prize and said why.

  ‘Later, when Granger took on the young mare from the sale, Tilly asked me more about the Grangers. I knew they were hard-working farmers going back generations, who’ve always cared for all their animals and still had – still have – Archie’s first pony, it’s thirty-three now.

  ‘I think he’ll …’ Hoskins broke off, sniffed loudly, then went on. ‘Well, I thought he’d go right to the top with Tilly Anders’s backing, a bit of help and a level playing field.’

  ‘A level playing field?’ Cannon questioned.

  ‘Murder, you said,’ Hoskins said darkly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s been other things since Archie started competing, his father has put them down to bad luck, youths, mindless vandals … but someone seems determined to stop him – at any price.’

  ‘Do you mean it’s some kind of rivalry?’ Cannon asked sceptically.

  ‘I know it’s to stop Archie competing,’ Hoskins asserted. ‘I know that!’

  But Cannon knew that there was no way Austin was engaged in an elaborate undercover operation on such an issue, there must be much more.

  They were approaching the crossroads where Cannon could either take Hoskins directly to his isolated cottage or back to The Trap. ‘Coming back for a drink? Liz will no doubt find you something for your supper.’

  ‘My bike’s at home,’ he said.

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll run you home when you’re ready to go,’ Cannon said and turned towards The Trap.

  Cannon parked. ‘You must tell me more about the Grangers and their troubles,’ he said as they walked from the car park of his pub in through the front doors.

  ‘Ah! The wanderers return,’ Paul Jefferson greeted them. ‘Is it a deal?’

  ‘Is what a deal?’ Cannon asked, looking to Liz, his ex-Met and now life partner.

  ‘Paul’s been telling me about the idea of us being joint sponsors of a wonderful horse to advertise The Trap and the painting courses Paul is running in our stable block, “with new accommodation”’, she quoted from the publicity they had already put out. Then looking from her partner’s face to that of Alan Hoskins, she lost her smile, became immediately sombre, and asked, ‘What’s happened?’

  A public bar is never the place to discuss sensitive matters and Liz did not question further when both men shook their heads. Paul’s reaction was to say that he ‘could not stay until closing time, unfortunately.’

  ‘Come through now,’ Cannon said and held the bar counter flap up so both Paul and Hoskins could follow him to the kitchen. He had no doubt Liz would come too. Alamat, their trusty Croatian live-in help, stood smiling at the other end of the counter, always ready to step in at any time.

  ‘So what has happened?’ Liz demanded as she closed the intervening door firmly.

  Paul and Liz listened to Cannon’s facts and Hoskins’s back story.

  ‘So what are you saying?’ Liz asked. ‘That there is some kind of link between this young man competing in these events and this vet’s death—’

  ‘Austin turned up,’ Cannon interrupted.

  Liz blinked. ‘Our Austin?’

  He nodded. ‘Claimed to be head of the private security firm in charge of the event.’

  Liz laughed aloud. ‘That’s likely …’ but then she paused, looked thoughtful, ‘and a bit of a coincidence. Some of the men in the bar were talking about the event you’d gone to, and saying where it was held, Morbury Hall, has been bought by a man who runs a private security firm.’

  ‘Coincidence,’ Cannon repeated sceptically.

  ‘I remember Austin,’ Paul said, ‘a very cultured gent, though he certainly looks like a man you might hire as a bouncer.’

  ‘If he’s still a policeman, what’s going on?’ Hoskins wondered.

  ‘I know horse racing’s always had its share of villains, but I thought this horse eventing was more a gentleman’s sport,’ Paul added.

  ‘Two kinds of folk in it,’ Hoskins stated, ‘those that love their horses, the Archie Grangers of this world, then those that are in it for the money, horse dealers and the like; they can be a ruthless lot.’

  ‘Don’t say that just when I’m looking to touch base with it all,’ Paul said.

  ‘You?’ Cannon regarded his professional artist friend with surprise, then asked, ‘Is this something to do with Alan’s idea of sponsorship?’

  ‘No, this came after that and only confirmed this afternoon,’ Paul said. ‘It hardly seems the time to have good news, but I’ve been commissioned to paint a horse as a logo for one of the big building societies, and,’ he spread his hands as if in apology, ‘I was wondering in view of Alan’s idea – and I have seen a picture of the Granger’s horse in the local press, it looks perfect for my purpose. I’m wondering if both horse and rider might be willing to be my models.’

  ‘There’d be something in it for them?’ Hoskins asked, with no hint of apology.

  ‘Of course there would be,’ Paul confirmed, ‘and if I get it there’ll be a lot of publicity for us all, The Trap, our painting courses and any horse yard Archie Granger might want to set up.’

  ‘But after today, and with Austin hovering in the wings, how would Helen feel about this?’ Cannon asked; being married to a Police Chief Inspector had given Paul problems in the past.

  ‘I’m certainly not going to get involved in anything shady, am I?’ Paul insisted. ‘I’ll just be on the side lines sketching a horse and rider in action.’

  ‘What we really need to know,’ Liz said, ‘is why Austin is here. Is he undercover? Did he, they – the Met – whoever, expect this Tilly Anders to come to harm?’

  ‘I could just phone Austin and ask what he’s doing,’ Cannon said.

  There was a moment’s silence as if the simplicity of that idea cut speculation down to size.

  ‘Go on then,’ Hoskins urged, ‘go outside, and do it in private like you’ll want to.’

  ‘I’ve no argument with that,’ Cannon said and did as he was bid, but once outside, and before he could reach into his pocket for his phone, it burbled its call. He did not recognize the number.

  ‘Cannon,’ he said.

  ‘Alone?’ Austin asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve not much time. Keep out of this one, John, keep everyone out,’ Austin advised, ‘well out.’

  The phone went dead and Cannon was left, phone still clamped to his ear, with the echo of the Austin’s urgent “keep out of this one … keep everyone out … well out.”

  He turned to walk slowly back towards the kitchen, wondering just what kind of danger Austin himself was in, what he had risked phoning – and what did he tell Liz, Paul and Hoskins?

  Then help arrived in the form of a red and cream coach which swung into the carpark. It slowed alongside him.

  ‘Evening, Mr Cannon,’ the driver called to him.

  ‘Evening, Dave.’ Dave Robinson ran a local bus tour company. ‘Can you cope with thirty odd?’ Dave asked. ‘They
could do with cheering up before I take them back to Boston. It’s been a dismal day for sightseeing, so thought I’d make a detour.’

  ‘Coaches welcome, as the notice says,’ Cannon answered and received a cheer from the passengers as he hurried back to the kitchen.

  Liz was quickly on her feet, ready to alert Alamat and Bozena, his live-in lady friend – but before she left the kitchen, she asked about the phone call.

  ‘I didn’t get through,’ he prevaricated.

  Paul immediately said he would run Hoskins home, and come early the next evening to see if Cannon had managed to speak to Austin.

  He did not reply, and Liz shot him a suspicious glance before heading back to the bar and their business. Private matters came after closing time, and he knew the exact moment. When it neared, he lingered on his front step before locking the doors, answered Alamat’s cheery ‘Good night, boss,’ as he went to his quarters in the stable block. He sighed, noted how wet and foot-marked his front porch was and went towards the kitchen.

  He could hear the chink of the porcelain cups and saucers before he reached the door. The tea ceremony. It was Liz’s wind-down routine for them both. After being in the bar with customers all eager to talk to each other and the landlady and landlord, it was a good habit. Sipping their tea, made from loose leaves and poured through a strainer from a matching teapot into handsome china, drew a line under the mugs and teabags used all day. The slow down meant they discussed all that had happened during the pub’s busy days with an air of some leisurely detachment – or that’s what usually happened.

  Tonight Liz had the tea waiting, as she too sat and waited opposite Cannon’s chair and tea. She looked at him and reached up to take the pins from her blonde hair and ruffled it so it fell long and shining about her shoulders.

  ‘Austin rang me …’ he began.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Hoskins’ll be here anytime, and Paul said he would be in early,’ Liz reminded him the following evening. ‘I hope you’ve got a story ready.’

  ‘I shall just warn them off,’ Cannon said.