Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Well, he’s out of his torment now an’ I think we should give him a toast for how he coped. Well, up until he jumped. An’ it must have took a whole lot of guts to do what he did.’ Phil grabbed his beer. ‘Here’s to John.’

  We all followed his lead and took a quick pull of our drinks. ‘To John,’ we echoed.

  The pub was just starting to clear. For the mourners from racing stables, work at evening stables was beckoning. Several of the other tables were now empty.

  Ted pushed back his chair. ‘Reckon I’ll be getting back to the stables.’

  We all took it as a signal and stood up. There was a general slow drift towards the door, but before I could follow, a voice at my side stopped me.

  ‘Mr Harry Radcliffe?’

  I turned and saw it was the solicitor, Caxton.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps we could have a quick word?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I followed him to a vacated corner table. He placed his briefcase carefully down on the top.

  ‘Mr Dunston gave me his very specific instructions and entrusted me to ensure the arrangements were carried out.’

  ‘You did a good job. It all went off beautifully. I’m sure John would be very satisfied.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He permitted himself a slight smile. ‘However, there is one more thing I need to do.’

  He unzipped his briefcase and reached inside.

  ‘Mr Dunston asked me to hand this to you personally …’ He withdrew a foolscap envelope and gave it to me. ‘I’ve no idea what the letter says. I was merely instructed that should you attend the funeral, I was to make sure you received it.’

  With some misgiving, I took the letter from him. My name was written on the front, along with the words Private and Personal – only to be opened by Harry Radcliffe. The words were heavily underlined, twice. I turned the letter over. It had not been tampered with in any way and was securely sealed.

  I felt a familiar shiver run down the back of my neck – maybe I was getting psychic. I’m sure Annabel, my wife, would have endorsed that. Apart from being a psychotherapist, she was also a qualified spiritual healer.

  But I was strictly a down-to-earth person, wasn’t I? I’d always considered myself practical and not given to whimsical thoughts. However, the events of this last year had seemed to question that assessment. Even I couldn’t explain how I seemed to know certain things when there was no logical explanation.

  But that shiver … it was something I couldn’t ignore. Too many times it had warned me that life was about to get bloody dangerous.

  And right now I knew the letter I was holding was a time bomb.

  As soon as I opened it, it would go off.

  FOUR

  I unlocked the Mazda, tossed the envelope on to the passenger seat and fired up the car. Still unopened, the envelope lay there taunting me all the way down from Yorkshire.

  I caught myself casting glances at it as I drove home. Just what it contained would remain a mystery until I’d lit the fire and wrapped myself around a mug of tea. After that, there’d be no further excuse to avoid opening it.

  The big question was: why me? There had been upwards of forty people attending the funeral. What made John single me out? Caxton had said he’d been instructed to hand it to me personally. That meant John had wanted to be sure I got it. But the proviso had been that I was only to be presented with it if I actually attended the funeral. What did that mean? Probably, if I cared enough to bother going.

  However, maybe John had thought I might meet somebody else who was attending the funeral.

  I pondered on the variables all the way back to Harlequin Cottage.

  As soon as he heard the key in the lock, Leo appeared and welcomed me back by leaping up to sit on my shoulder – his favourite position. He bashed his ginger head hard against my cheek and vociferously demanded some attention.

  ‘Good to see you, too, Leo.’ I rubbed behind his ears ‘How about a bit of grub? Reckon you could tackle some?’

  Damn fool question. He was down on the quarry tiles before I’d even begun to pour him a dish of milk.

  I took a mug of welcome tea – and the letter – through to the lounge, placing both on the side table. Taking the paperknife from the desk, I slit open the envelope and left it beside the mug while I squatted down in front of the fireplace and struck a match. I’d buried a firelighter under the wigwam of kindling when I’d cleared out the grate this morning and it caught straight away.

  I sat back on the settee, toed off my black funeral shoes, wriggled my toes in relief and relaxed. Reaching for the tea, I sipped the sustaining, scalding liquid. It’s what every Englishman or woman does, isn’t it? Any sort of crisis or dilemma prompts the making of tea. But I couldn’t put off the moment any longer.

  There was only one sheet of paper inside the envelope.

  It read: Harry, if you’re reading this, then you’ve just been to my funeral. Obviously, it seems I’m dead and they got me.

  I drew in a deep, ragged breath, my heart now thumping away. So, it hadn’t been suicide. To be honest, I’d never bought into the theory in the first place, but it was still a real facer. John was telling me he’d been murdered. I took hold of my mug and drained the hot tea. Pity it wasn’t whisky. I read on:

  I knew they’d make a good job of faking a suicide but, believe me, I want to live as much as the next man. I also want justice, Harry, and you’re the only one who can give it me. You saved my life once. Don’t let these bastards get away with it.

  My son, Frank, was murdered, too – in prison. I expect you know that, probably blame Jake Smith. But was it? I don’t think so. I do know Frank died because he had a nail stabbed through his eye. The other man had a blow to the head and died later in hospital. The authorities reckon he killed Frank and was thrown backwards as Frank lashed out.

  I’ve left a parcel for you with the solicitor. It contains the only bit of proof. I’m asking a lot because these are murderous bastards, but if you want to help, ask Caxton for the parcel – your decision.

  John

  I sat staring at the letter in frozen horror. No wonder I’d felt a shiver of premonition down the back of my neck. The information I’d just read was devastating. The details of Frank’s injuries hadn’t been made public. For John to learn that his son had met his death in such a ghastly way was enough to unhinge the man. But then John’s own death must have been preceded by sheer terror. Knowing he was to be thrown from the cliffs to die on the rocks in the crashing sea far below …

  I rubbed a trembling hand across my eyes at the enormity and horror of both deaths. And now John was asking for my help. The very last thing I wanted to do was get involved in any more murders. I’d had more than my fill.

  But how did you walk away from something like this?

  You didn’t.

  I’d saved John’s life a few months ago. This outrage made a mockery of our combined efforts to help him stay alive. But, like falling into an evil-smelling swamp, it seemed the more I tried to extricate myself, the deeper in I sank. Getting involved in tracking down killers was never something I’d signed up for willingly, but circumstances gave me no choice. And where other people’s lives were threatened – people I loved – a man had to find the guts to ensure their safety.

  The situation now presenting, however, was very different. John had been murdered. Nothing I could do would alter that grim fact. Nobody’s life was in jeopardy now. And that made all the difference.

  If I tried to find out who the perpetrators were, undoubtedly the only person facing possible extinction would be me. I should let it go. It would be the sensible thing to do. And yet … this was a cry for help from beyond the grave.

  I got up and poured myself a much-needed whisky, then mended up the fire, although the extra logs weren’t necessary. But I still felt frozen by the graphic details. The drink helped, warming me inside as I sipped. It also helped free me up mentally.

  John had said
there was a parcel waiting at the solicitor’s office with my name on it. Even the solicitor didn’t know what was inside. It could do no harm to collect the parcel and see what it contained. The only bit of proof, whatever that meant. It was tantalizing. Why hadn’t John said straight out? Had he phrased it in that way to deliberately dangle the carrot in front of me, tempting me?

  I sighed and tossed back the last of the whisky. One thing was very clear. The letter itself was dynamite. If the killers got wind of its existence, they’d be determined to destroy the evidence. A second thought followed that: they’d be even more desperate to destroy whatever was sitting inside the parcel in the solicitor’s office.

  That unpleasant thought brought me up short. I’d been complacent. I was wrong. There was another person in the firing line – Caxton himself. Only he was totally unaware of it.

  John had thought he’d given me a choice – your decision, he’d said – but having realized the danger, I had no choice.

  However, there was nothing I could do this late in the evening. Caxton wouldn’t be in his office now; he’d have gone home.

  So it would have to be tomorrow – except I had five rides booked at Leicester racecourse. I swore forcibly. The number of rides I had lost through chasing killers was gutting. I was no longer out in front of the other jockeys. And the Championship was looking increasingly unattainable.

  I’d have to phone Caxton as soon as his office opened in the morning, ask him to get the parcel into the post. At least that way he wouldn’t have it in his possession if he got an unwelcome visitor. But if I couldn’t ring Caxton, there was someone else I could – should – ring.

  Reaching for my phone, I called Mike.

  ‘Hi, how’re things? How’s Pen going on? Is she feeling any better?’

  Mike’s reassuring chuckle was a welcome sound. ‘Thanks, Harry, yes, Pen’s much better.’

  ‘Oh, great. And we’re still on for tomorrow’s racing?’

  ‘Absolutely. Chloe and Samuel are intending to be there. Chloe told me she’s not only putting her shirt on White Lace, but the entire contents of her wardrobe.’

  ‘Oh Lord, no pressure to win, then.’

  He laughed. ‘We both know with the line-up in White Lace’s race, you’re going to walk it.’

  ‘What’s that saying? The only dead certainty in life is death.’

  ‘Ah … talking of death … how did Dunston’s funeral go?’

  ‘Smooth, no hitches, lovely spread afterwards at the Mulberry Bush pub …’

  ‘But? I can hear a “but”, Harry.’

  ‘Hmm. John’s solicitor was in attendance – a Mr Caxton.’

  ‘And?

  ‘And he singled me out at the end. Apparently, John had left a letter with him to be handed over personally to me, should I actually attend the funeral.’

  ‘Have you read it yet?’

  ‘Yes. It’s dynamite, Mike. I don’t want to say too much over the phone – rather tell you in the morning.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘And the rest.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And it also means that straight after racing tomorrow, I might possibly have to get myself up to his office to collect something. I’m hoping he’ll be willing to post it, but you know solicitors – they’re reluctant to let anything out of their possession without a signature. Don’t know whether they’re better or worse than the police. Anyway, I’ll phone him first thing, get the full SP.’

  ‘We need to be off to Leicester by ten, don’t forget, Harry.’

  ‘I expect his office opens at nine. Shouldn’t think it will take long to sort it out. But since reading that letter, it is pretty urgent.’

  ‘OK, see you when you get here, then.’

  ‘Yes, see you, Mike.’

  I put the phone down and reached for the letter again. It read no better the second time. I decided I wasn’t going to take it with me to show Mike; the message was written in my brain. It would be enough simply to tell him what it said. Get his take on it. His view was always practical and sound. I relied on his input and support in life: he was my childhood friend, my boss, and a good mate.

  He had, in addition, helped save my life on three occasions. When your back was up against the wall – or, on one hair-raising occasion, pinned to the stable door – there was no finer person to have on your side. I was most definitely in his debt for life.

  I slid the letter back into the envelope and stood up, undecided about where I should put it for safekeeping. And it definitely needed keeping safe – somewhere it couldn’t be found in case anybody tried tossing the cottage to get their hands on it. Desks and drawers were no good. Hiding it inside books or with other paperwork would certainly slow down anybody intent on finding it, but it wouldn’t defeat them. That ruled out most of the rooms in the cottage. Except one. I went through to the kitchen and rooted around in the odds-and-sods drawer until I came upon a roll of cream-coloured masking tape left over from when I’d painted the kitchen window frame.

  I took the tape and the letter upstairs to the bathroom. Dropping to my knees beside the hand basin, I felt around for the water outlet pipe. Running from the back of the basin and feeding out through the wall, the pipe was practically invisible unless, like me, you were at an unnatural corkscrewed position on the floor.

  I rolled the letter tightly around the cream-coloured outlet pipe. Then I proceeded to unroll the tape and wind it round and round the pipe, on top of the envelope, until the whole thing was entirely hidden. Even though I knew it was there, I would never have discovered it. It appeared to be simply a piece of pipe. Satisfied it was never going to be found, I went back downstairs to the kitchen.

  It wasn’t terribly late, but I decided an early night was very desirable. Leo was circling around near the back door. His nightlife was out there waiting for him. He had a cat-flap, but when I was around he didn’t deign to use it and expected me to act as his doorman. But since, by God, I owed that cat, I played along and was happy to dance attendance.

  I slipped off the safety chain and opened the door a few inches.

  ‘There you go. Have a good night.’

  He shot out. But before I had time to wonder why he took off so suddenly, the door was slammed wide open in my face. Two men burst into the kitchen. Totally unprepared, I lurched backwards, cannoned into the table, and the first man landed a jabbing punch to my jaw.

  ‘Where is it? We know you’ve got it.’

  Before I could answer or return the punch, the second man, much taller than the first, joined in the fun and delivered an incapacitating punch to my solar plexus. Doubling up, gasping for non-existent breath, I was incapable of speaking.

  ‘Come on, where the fucking hell is it?’

  He landed two more body punches into my ribs for encouragement. I knew it was the letter they were after, but with tightly wrapped scarves over their lower faces, I had no idea who they were. I needed to play for time. With enough rope, they were bound to let slip some clue to their identity. The only thing I did know was that they were professionals. Their blows were landing in all the right places to bring me to heel.

  ‘Wh … a … t?’ I gasped, feeling like a boxer’s punchbag as several more punches battered into my ribcage.

  ‘You stupid fucker. Caxton gave it you; we saw him. Now give.’

  He rocked back, aimed and kneed me in the crotch.

  Pain seared through me, red-hot and vicious. But ironically, even as I went over, clutching at myself, I knew I had him. Although he had his face covered, with those few words he’d given himself away as being one of the people in the pub this afternoon.

  And I also knew they weren’t going to finish me. If they did, they would never know if I’d passed on the information contained in the letter. They didn’t even know what the contents of the letter said. And, even better, I knew damn well they’d never find it. Tucked away in the bathroom, it was safer than in a bank vault.

  But I could play dirty, too. J
udging the moment when he was about to land a right-hander and had all his weight balanced on his left leg, I brought my right heel down hard at a sharp angle and connected with the tall man’s kneecap. With satisfaction, I heard his scream of pain as it dislocated.

  Ignoring his writhing sidekick, the first man lost it completely. Drawing his foot back, he smashed his heavy boot straight in my face.

  My last thought before I lost consciousness was five rides – I’d got to ride five races tomorrow.

  FIVE

  God knows how long I was out cold. Long enough for at least one of the tossers to trash my desk. I discovered that devastation only after attending to my own physical mess. Consciousness and pain arrived simultaneously.

  I found myself flat on the kitchen quarries surrounded by a fair puddle of blood – it wasn’t a lake, thank heavens – which had obviously drained down my bashed-up nose. OK, there were other cuts and grazes putting in their pennyworth, but it was a relief to find my skin otherwise intact.

  Still lying there, I wriggled toes, fingers, flexed arms and bent knees. They all worked. No limbs broken. It was an each-way bet whether my nose was or not, but with the level of pain in my face, I wasn’t going to prod about to find out right now. I just hoped my cheek and jawbone had withstood the battering.

  Breathing was reduced to shallow breaths. With the hammering my ribs had taken, it would be surprising if they weren’t cracked.

  Gingerly, I levered myself up to a sitting position, slewed sideways and sat, suppressing groans, propped up by the table leg. It was simply a matter of enduring the pain until it eased back. I’d been here a hundred times before. But mostly the injuries had been caused by falling off a horse, guaranteed to cause bruises and grunts.

  One happy non-event: I’d not been sick. Moving my right index finger from side to side, I was further heartened to only see one finger. It seemed I might have got away without concussion. Had I have fallen on the racecourse and blacked out, the stringent rules would have seen me automatically grounded. But apart from the hoods that had laid me out, nobody knew I’d been knocked unconscious. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone.