Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Dear Harry’ – she pressed my hand to her cheek – ‘what else is there to do?’

  I looked into her beloved face and knew I would love her forever. ‘We simply don’t have an alternative, do we?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. The baby will be fine now. I must think of Jeffrey.’

  I remembered Annabel was a spiritual healer with strong beliefs. I’d felt that incredible power flowing through her to me, via the palms of her hands. It had helped heal me and there was no way I could deny it. We didn’t have all the answers to life and some things couldn’t be explained – but they did exist, without any doubt.

  ‘I haven’t told you about Aunt Rachel’s baby yet, have I?’

  Her eyes widened incredulously.

  ‘Yes, it is true. A baby she had as a young girl – not George’s.’

  ‘What?’

  I told her the whole story and how it had, later, become intertwined in the hunt for Alice’s killer.

  ‘Gracious! It’s all about families, isn’t it?’

  I nodded. ‘Samuel has already coined that phrase. But yes, you’re both right. And this case has similarities to the other ones. They were all about families, too. It would have saved me a great deal of time if I’d considered that aspect in the beginning. It’s one thing the police fall down on – they can’t get close enough to access family bloodline secrets.’

  ‘But what a wonderful thing to happen to Aunt Rachel. There’s a kind of wild justice – I’ve lost my baby and she’s been given hers back.’

  ‘Only you could think such a magnanimous thought. You are the most generous woman I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ She gave me a wan smile. ‘Life is so unpredictable. That’s what makes it magnificent. But, Harry, I’ve been so wrong.’

  ‘You’re never wrong, my darling.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve always thought your work the most dangerous sort in the world. Stupidly, I’ve been so fixated on that I’ve totally forgotten that life itself is lived dangerously, at the sharp end, all the time. I found that out two days ago.’

  Before I could reply, the horseshoe doorknocker banged against the back door. It was Nathaniel Willoughby, the racing artist, returned from Switzerland. As gently as we could, we filled him in on the developments.

  ‘It’s so sad; you won’t be needing a portrait now.’

  Annabel looked bewildered so I quickly explained I’d commissioned him to do a painting of the new baby when it was a few months old, and now, of course, it wouldn’t be painted.

  ‘My dear’ – he patted Annabel’s hand – ‘life gives … and it also takes. You have to stay strong.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Jeffrey needs me.’

  He turned to me. ‘I’ve really come to collect my keys, Harry. I take it the, er … “lodger” has departed?’

  ‘Of course.’ I went to find my jacket and fished his keys from my pocket. ‘Thank you so much, Nathaniel. Don’t know what I would have done without the use of the studio.’

  Nathaniel’s generosity in allowing me to use his rural and isolated studio where he painted his masterpieces of horseracing art had solved a major problem for me when I’d been landed with a most unwelcome house guest. Without alternative accommodation at that point, I was deep in it. It wasn’t too strong to say he had probably saved me ending up on a police charge that might even have led to me being convicted and going to prison. I owed him big time.

  ‘And you, Harry,’ he said, ‘you have to keep going. We need you to keep sorting us all out.’

  ‘No more! I’ve had enough with this last case to put me off for life.’

  He stood there smiling, somewhat sadly, and shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so. I may need your help. I’ve discovered something over in Switzerland. It involves Mike’s late wife, Monica … But I’ll tell you at a later date. You look after this lady.’ He bent and kissed Annabel. ‘She needs comforting right now.’

  He made his way across the room and I saw him out. Then I closed the back door firmly against the world.

  ‘You see,’ Annabel said, when I returned to the lounge, ‘we all need you, Harry. And I need you more now than ever before.’

  Later that evening, although neither of us felt much like eating, I cooked a light supper, which we merely picked at, but it was sufficient.

  At nine o’clock, I took her to my bed.

  She put her arm tightly around my chest and pressed her cheek to my shoulder. And in safety, comforted by each other’s presence, we slept, chastely, like spoons.

  ONE

  From the tall chimney a curl of smoke wound its way up into the sharp blue sky. Unseen, in the bowels of the crematorium far below, the furnace burned efficiently, fired by unfeeling flesh. The escaping smoke signified more sombrely than the tolling of a bell the departure of a human soul being sent off on its journey.

  I stood and watched. Felt the now familiar, totally unfounded guilt settle heavily on my shoulders before walking on up the steeply rising hill for the cremation of one John Dunston, former horsebox driver.

  His body had, finally, been recovered from the merciless North Sea. After protracted police investigations, including inquest and post-mortem, the coroner had now released the body.

  Without my intervention in solving a murder some months ago, John’s recently deceased son would still be alive. That alone would have given John sufficient reason to live. I couldn’t escape that fact. The barrel I’d been over at the time was not, to me, sufficient to excuse my actions. Which was irrational and stupid, but didn’t make one jot of difference to how I felt.

  We all did things we felt were right at the time, but so often the ripples from those actions continued to spread, widening and becoming far reaching in ways totally undreamed of. And, as we could never undo those actions, we had no option but to live with the results.

  Life, like a horse race, demanded we go forward. We could never go back.

  As a parent, John’s responsibility had been hard-wired into the contract that came with his baby son’s birth. That responsibility was sufficient to make continuing to draw breath a priority. Certainly, suicide wasn’t an option when someone was relying on you being there for them.

  But when the last member of your family was gone, you had to be strong to get up off the canvas and continue. I’d thought John very strong – I’d been wrong.

  In the absence of any surviving relations to mourn and pay respects, racing’s own extended family stood in. I joined the rest of the mourners in front of chapel number three, the designated one. There were four others. All were in use and business was ongoing. The smoke, obviously, was from an earlier cremation.

  My appearance produced a few approving nods and, conversely, there were also two or three tight, condemning glances. The guilt crept coldly up the back of my neck and I repressed an involuntary shiver.

  What they didn’t know was that I condemned myself.

  TWO

  ‘Harry.’ Ted Robson, the Yorkshire racehorse trainer John Dunston had worked for, acknowledged me. ‘Pity you weren’t around to save John this time. Still, they do say, if you’re going to commit suicide, nothing will stop you, but it’s a bad business.’

  ‘Have to admit, when Pete told me, it was a hell of a shock.’ Pete was the valet from the weighing room who looked after my clothes and kit. ‘Could hardly take it in …’

  Robson gestured towards the other mourners. ‘Reckon we all feel the same. John had got himself together again after losing Lilly … thought he was going to be all right.’

  ‘At least there’s a good turnout.’ I scanned the faces – all very familiar to me as racing colleagues, jockeys, other box drivers, one or two trainers – and finally my gaze came to rest on an unfamiliar person. Although the majority all wore suits – jockeys as a breed were keen on sharp suits – the tall, thin man was wearing a definite City pinstripe. I wondered vaguely what his profession was.

  But there was no way to satisfy my curiosity. We
were being ushered as a group, gently but firmly, through the double doors and into the small chapel where muted strains of Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ played through unseen speakers.

  Dunston’s coffin was placed on the raised dais at the far end, tall candles, lit on either side, guttering madly in the stiff breeze generated by the open doors that allowed in the bitingly cold wind. The crematorium being sited on the top of a hill, it caught the prevailing west wind.

  I’d no idea who had arranged the funeral, but it had been done very correctly with ‘Order of Service’ sheets placed in front of each seat, along with a small, discreet card asking for mourners to write on their names and contact details.

  While we shuffled and settled ourselves, I filled out my own card. Since, to my knowledge, no family remained, it seemed odd that the cards had been issued. Of course, normally, it was a comfort to the next of kin to be able to see who had taken the trouble to pay their respects.

  Had Dunston made a will setting out his wishes? Since his death had been by his own hand, and premeditated, the answer was, probably, yes. Just who the cards were going to be handed over to after the service was the question.

  Unaccustomed singers, we nevertheless made a fair fist of both hymns – predictably ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’ and ‘Abide with Me’ – giving them volume if not tuneful harmony. Robson gave the eulogy. He drew on Dunston’s ability for hard work and, when under extreme pressure, caring for his sick wife, his tenacity to hang in and keep going.

  I ventured a swift glance across the body of mourners and wondered if any of them, apart from me, noticed the irony of Robson’s words, given the circumstances of Dunston’s death. But it seemed no one had.

  The final prayers over, the gates swung closed and we mentally said goodbye before trooping outside to stand in small knots of twos and threes, talking in low voices and viewing the sparse floral tributes.

  ‘Well, he’s got his wish …’ Pete came to stand beside me.

  ‘Hmm … joined his family.’

  ‘At the end of the day, what else have any of us got?’ Pete said glumly, reaching for a cigarette before thinking again and sliding the packet back into his pocket.

  I winced as his words hit home. I’d lost most of my immediate family and could appreciate how John must have been feeling before he threw himself off Flamborough Head. I wished Pete hadn’t said it. My own family had dwindled in recent times and in dire circumstances. But even if I had no family left, I couldn’t envisage myself doing what John Dunston had done.

  It’s been said that it takes guts to go on living, and no doubt the cliché is true. But standing inside the chapel, looking at the coffin containing his body, I knew it must have taken even more courage to throw himself from the top of those cliffs, knowing that below waited the jagged, unyielding rocks and the wild seas that raged and foamed around them.

  Whether it had been guts or just desperation, his actions didn’t fit the man I’d known. The man who’d struggled to keep breathing with a knife buried in him and, from the brink, had forged his way back to life when it would have been so easy to take the way out being presented.

  I shook my head sadly. He’d come through the toughest of times only to chuck away all that effort.

  It made no sense.

  THREE

  The tall man in the City suit cleared his throat. ‘If I could have your attention …’ he said in a slightly raised voice. The subdued murmuring faded away and we awaited his next words.

  ‘My name is Caxton, and I am a partner in the firm of Caxton, Blithe and Attewood. I act for Mr John Dunston. I am his solicitor. His instructions were to offer all the mourners free drinks and refreshments after the service at the Mulberry Bush public house. The undertakers’ cars are at the disposal of anyone requiring transport.’

  ‘I was wondering who he was,’ Ted Robson muttered.

  ‘Hmm, me too,’ I said.

  Caxton was busy marshalling the straggling group, and Ted and I made our way to our respective vehicles, allowing the big funeral cars clear access out on to the main carriageway before following the rest of the cars in convoy. It was only a short journey to the pub.

  There was a cheerful log fire crackling away inside the Mulberry Bush. Everyone’s mood had now lightened – elbows were being lifted and drinks sipped. In company with most of the men, I’d ordered a whisky. The cold at the crematorium had been bone-chilling.

  ‘Please feel free to help yourselves to the refreshments.’ Caxton waved a munificent hand towards the loaded table opposite the bar.

  Mousey Brown, trainer and alcoholic, quickly downed his double whisky, waved the empty glass aloft and voiced the thoughts of all of us.

  ‘Good on you, John. It’s a bloody lovely spread.’

  And it was. We loaded our plates with cold meats, pies and quiches along with accompanying salads and pickles, found seats and got stuck in. Clive Unwin, who trained in Leicestershire, together with his travelling head lad, Phil, joined us at our table.

  Mousey, predictably, went to the bar for a refill before starting on the food. It was a good job his son, Patrick, was here to do the driving. Mousey had lost his licence a long time ago.

  I flicked a glance at the other jockeys enjoying their meal and knew that none of us were likely to eat anything else today. For myself, I had five rides booked for tomorrow at Leicester – two of them for Clive and the rest for Mike. That was assuming the temperature didn’t drop any further overnight and result in a severe frost. It was a tricky time of year for jump racing. We were booking rides and hoping. But the weather was in charge, and if it turned dirty, it could halt racing.

  ‘Mike not here, then?’ Clive said.

  ‘No, probably is in spirit, but he couldn’t be in person. Pen was taken ill in the early hours so he’s stayed to look after her.’

  ‘Nothing serious, is it?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Nothing he’s calling in a doctor for, anyway. Says he should be going to the racecourse tomorrow afternoon as normal.’

  ‘You riding for him as well as me?’

  ‘Yes, three actually.’

  ‘I’ll make sure I ask after Pen when I see him. She’s a lovely woman.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, ‘the best.’

  Phil dug into his well-filled plate. ‘Pity the do’s because of John topping himself,’ he said, indulging in a massive piece of pork pie and loading his fork with pickles to accompany it.

  ‘Never know, do you?’ Clive shook his head. ‘I mean, what constitutes a man’s breaking point, eh?’

  ‘What, indeed.’ Ted chewed thoughtfully. ‘He never gave any indication it was all too much. Yes, I know, his son died and he was the last of the family, but John wasn’t a stranger to death and tragedy. He’d lost Lilly … Now if anything was going to prompt a quick exit, you’d think it would be his wife dying, but John seemed to accept that.’

  ‘Terrible to say it, but Lilly falling downstairs was a mercy in the end,’ Clive put in.

  ‘I’ll second that,’ said Mousey. ‘By God, I will!’

  We all buried ourselves in the business of eating. None of us knew quite what to say.

  Mousey’s wife, Clara, had certainly paid the full price after the horrendous accident that left her paralysed and clinging to life for the next two years while every day saw her fighting a battle that could only end one way. I knew for sure that Mousey saw her death as a blessing – he had told me so. But that was between Mousey and me, and I wasn’t going to air it. Before her accident, Mousey hadn’t been an alcoholic. Coming here today, I suddenly realized, couldn’t have been easy for him. Memories could be stirred up by other people’s events. And they weren’t always good ones.

  ‘It certainly ended Lilly’s suffering,’ I said, trying to restore conversation to fill the tense silence.

  ‘That’s right.’ Mousey nodded fiercely.

  ‘Anyone ready for a top-up?’ Phil volunteered to go to the bar with the orders. He knew Mousey cer
tainly wouldn’t turn down a drink and that the atmosphere needed lifting. But he added diplomatically, ‘Got to see John off right. An’ don’t forget, he’s picking up the tab.’

  His attempt at humour brought smiles to our faces. Of all of us, Phil was the one who had seen most of John, both being horsebox drivers out on the road all day long, using the same box parks for their vehicles at the different racecourses up and down the country. He was going to miss a familiar face.

  ‘Oh, go on then.’ Ted laughed. ‘It’ll see us along on the way home.’

  ‘One more’s not going to put us over the limit,’ said Clive, ‘so, yes, same again, please, Phil.’

  We all opted for another whisky. My first one had hit the spot and I could actually feel my toes again. But a second one would certainly warm the journey home. And it was a fair drive from Yorkshire back home to my cottage in Radcliffe-on-Trent, in Nottinghamshire. The fire was laid ready to have a match tossed on to it and the Rayburn would be ready to produce a scalding mug of tea. But, like John, I had nobody waiting there for me. I paused in my thoughts. Not a person perhaps, but Leo would be there. Leo, my enormous ginger tom cat. Having saved my life not once but twice, he was pretty special.

  ‘To be honest,’ Phil said, seamlessly continuing the conversation when he returned with a loaded tray, ‘I reckon John was relieved. OK, it was a hell of a shock an’ all that, but she was never going to get better, was she?’

  We all nodded in reluctant acknowledgement. Poor Lilly had been facing a drawn-out period of suffering, and the end result would still have been the same. The strain on John must have been tremendous: not simply the physical caring but also the financial burden of paying for live-in carers when he was out working, trying to earn the necessary money to keep the whole show going.

  Ted swallowed the last of his food and sighed heavily. ‘He never let on that he couldn’t cope. Just shows, you never know what’s going on inside a man’s head.’