Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  If you don’t want to see your posh bloke in a coffin instead of a wheelchair, get Harry to hand over the letter. I’ll ring tomorrow for the where and when.

  I raised my gaze and met her anxiety-filled eyes.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nasty.’ I shook my head. ‘Did he give a name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. Two things come to mind. Does Jeffrey have nursing assistance?’

  ‘Yes, twice a day – getting up, putting to bed at night.’

  ‘Right. You need to hire a full-time nurse. I think you’ll find if he’s feeling insecure, having a nurse in the house will shore up his confidence and he won’t kick against it.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, makes sense. And what’s the second thing?’

  ‘When this piece of pond life rings again, you tell him where to meet me and at what time.’

  ‘Harry.’ Her blue eyes were deeply troubled. ‘He could try to kill you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘he could. But forewarned and all that, I think he’ll find it a much more difficult job than finishing off poor old Jeffrey.’

  ‘Oh God, you’re so flippant.’

  ‘Come here …’ I reached for her and pulled her close, running my hands up and down her back comfortingly, feeling her shoulders shaking as she tried not to break down and cry. ‘This is not your problem, Annabel. You’ve just got caught up in the crossfire.’

  ‘Again.’ Her one word came out muffled.

  ‘Let me handle it, OK?’

  She nodded, her face still pressed close to my chest.

  ‘Now, let’s go find Jeffrey, cheer him up a bit. And you can make us all a coffee or something. Then, while you’re doing that, you can source the number of a nursing agency and arrange immediate help.’

  She drew away from me and rubbed her eyes with a tissue.

  ‘You’ve got until tomorrow before this man rings again, so you and Jeffrey are both safe tonight, right?’

  She gulped and nodded. ‘Yes, of course we are. I’m being silly.’ She drew her shoulders back. ‘Thanks, Harry. You can always get me back on course.’

  ‘Like all the times you’ve done that for me.’

  We stood and gazed at each other, and the depth of our feelings was practically tangible. Had been from the first minute we met. However, we both knew where the line was drawn. And with the condition Jeffrey was now in, that line was dug deep in concrete.

  Then she frowned. ‘Your face … I thought earlier you must have come off. But he’s already had a go at you, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you didn’t give it to him then, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’ll think of something. Come on, let’s find Jeffrey.’

  ‘Don’t breathe a word about the threat, please.’

  ‘I promise. He needs complete peace of mind right now.’

  ‘He’ll be pleased to see you.’

  She led me up the broad staircase and along the galleried landing.

  We found him in bed. The nurse had obviously been this evening and he was comfortable for the night. His back rest was at an incline, propping him up, and the television was tuned in low to an episode of Lewis.

  His eyes lit up when we entered the bedroom.

  ‘Good to see you, Jeffrey.’ I gripped his hand. ‘Bet you’re glad to be home.’

  ‘I am.’

  Annabel bent and kissed his cheek. ‘I’m going to make Harry a coffee. Do you need anything?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘Leave you two boys together, then.’ She smiled brightly at us and pulled the door closed behind her.

  ‘Busy, Harry?’

  I nodded and sat down beside his bed. ‘Had a great day – four winners.’

  ‘Any chance of retaining it?’

  I laughed. ‘Can’t say. I’m way behind at the moment. Most likely it will be injuries that sort us all out.’

  ‘Strange. Driving a motor car can have just the same effect as being a jump jockey. Luck of the draw, Harry.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jeffrey.’

  ‘Don’t be. All my life I’ve done what I’ve wanted and enjoyed it. The scales are balancing all the good years.’

  ‘What does the specialist say?’

  ‘The prognosis is far better than they thought at first. I’m in the hands of the physio now. And we’re making a bit of progress. How much improvement is up to me and how the body responds. But yes, not so bleak as was originally thought.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news.’

  ‘And, of course, Annabel is giving me healing every day.’

  ‘And we both know the X factor involved there. Without Annabel sending me absent healing when I was grounded in hospital, I doubt I would have healed as I did.’

  Annabel had studied for nearly three years on top of being a qualified psychotherapist and was now also a spiritual healer.

  The door opened and she came in with a tray and two coffees.

  I stood up and took one from her. I didn’t need to ask if she’d put in a spoonful of honey; she knew my preferences. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ve arranged a bit of help, Jeffrey, darling. I hope you think it a good idea.’

  ‘What sort of help?’

  ‘Well, really for me. I’ve engaged a nurse to live in for a little while. It will free me up a bit.’

  He studied her face. ‘I’m sure you need a hand looking after me. I think it’s a most sensible idea. Let you get a bit of rest …’ He smiled fondly at her.

  Annabel flushed a little and took a sip of coffee.

  Her words didn’t fool me: she was feeling as guilty as hell telling a white lie, but it had had the required effect. Jeffrey wasn’t objecting, plus he was getting an additional bodyguard.

  Even though he didn’t know it.

  EIGHT

  Six thirty in the morning and bone-chillingly cold. The horses’ deep snorts threw out clouds of white vapour as their stable lads sat hunched in saddles preparing to leave Mike’s stable yard for the all-weather gallop.

  The frost had really come down last night. I had intended to unearth Dunston’s box when I got back to Harlequin Cottage. But I was pretty sure there would be no midnight callers. Having fired a broadside at Sir Jeffrey, it was now a waiting game.

  An additional safeguard was that the opposition had no idea about the parcel. The letter, yes; they’d certainly seen it handed over to me. But unless John had told anyone else, only his solicitor and I were aware of another item. So with that reassuring thought, coupled with the earth in the back garden hard as the bisecting concrete path, I’d held off getting out the spade.

  Joe, the head lad, gave the signal for the string of racehorses to pull out. I squeezed Penny Black’s sides and kicked him on, following the others out on to the road leading up to the gallops a quarter of a mile ahead. In company with the other lads, I was cold right now, the icy wind cutting my face in two, making my nose drip, but by the time we had put in a half-speed gallop, we would be sweating.

  Above us, a flock of seagulls wheeled in great circles, mewling to the wide grey sky. Snowbirds, Annabel called them, saying it was a sign of bad weather that fetched them so many miles inland from the coast. She could well be right. If the weather forecast turned out to be correct, we were in for some sub-zero temperatures and considerable falls of snow soon. All racing would be off.

  Tally Hunter’s words came back to me. Ironically, it was only when temperatures plummeted in Switzerland and the lakes at Arosa and St Moritz froze over that racing could take place on the snow.

  Meanwhile, the horses filed through the opening on to the gallops and circled while Mike, who had driven up from the stables in his four-by-four and was now struggling with the driver’s door in the strengthening wind, issued his instructions. I’d had no chance yet to tell him about the threat to Sir Jeffrey. He would be horrified.

  But I needed his input on the delicate matter of the proposed handing over of the le
tter. It would have to be broached after breakfast because later I was racing at Huntingdon.

  The horses moved off into a loosening, warming canter prior to doing some work, and Mike lifted binoculars and watched with intense concentration. I was only riding first lot today because I had to be away smartly after breakfast for my drive to Huntingdon racecourse.

  Mike would be charting the progress of his horses in the second and third lots, too. It was essential to know the potential of each horse in order for him to decide on the right races for each, and rather like a class of youngsters in school, their abilities were not uniform. In addition, I knew that he was expecting two or three owners to turn up to watch their expensive investments going through their training schedule.

  Owners were the essential element in racing. Without their involvement and regular payments for the care and training of the horses, racing would come to a full stop. And, as such, they were given respect, deference and, in some cases, downright pandering to smooth the unpleasant fact that they were pursuing a dream and any possible wins would in no way cover the substantial costs of owning a racehorse.

  Of course, the cash outlay was offset by the joy and jubilation they would feel when standing in the winners’ enclosure if their horse did actually win. Something that money could not buy. Plus, there was always the hope that their horse might just prove to be the next Frankel. Slim to non-existent, but there all the same.

  Penny Black, Lord Edgware’s horse, was warmed up and eager. I shortened the reins in company with Josh on Floribunda and we moved smoothly into an upsides gallop. The dusty kickback from the all-weather topping flew up from beneath the blur of hooves that pounded in a satisfying thud, thud, of raw power. The icy wind cut into my cheeks, but the goggles prevented my eyes from watering or being blinded by the cloud of disturbed dust.

  The seagulls lifted in an alarmed screaming cloud of white and powered away on strong wings, outlined sharply against the clear winter sky. We galloped up the all-weather, chasing their progress in the air above us. The creak of oiled leather and smell of steaming hot horseflesh were all part of the exhilaration and feeling of freedom.

  I spared a thought for all the suited and booted office workers who would soon be streaming into towns and cities for a desk-and-chair job. And gave thanks that my personal seat was a saddle. I might have felt cold on the trot-up from the stables, but by the time I reined in Penny Black I felt the trickle of sweat run down between my shoulder blades.

  All the horses, having completed their gallops, were being circled at a walk, and Mike was waving the string back to the stables. He drove away and we formed a line and began the hack back to the stables at a sedate walk to allow the horses to cool down from their exertions. It not only gave the horses time, but it allowed me to run through the plan that had been forming in my mind about what the hell I was going to do.

  I had to hand over Dunston’s letter to safeguard Sir Jeffrey, and yet John Dunston had gone to a heck of a lot of trouble to ensure that nobody but me saw its contents. Having taken a beating to protect John’s message, it would be stupid to meekly hand the letter over on demand. But what to do was a problem. I had to ring Annabel before I left for Huntingdon. The man, when he rang her later today, was expecting to be told a time and place. I couldn’t risk leaving it until after racing because I might not make it back. Not an overdramatic thought. Last March I’d gone racing at Huntingdon and awoken in hospital. I hadn’t made it back home for quite some time.

  The string clattered back into the stable yard and split up as the lads dismounted and led their horses to individual stables. I took Penny Black back to his and untacked. Once he was rubbed down, rugged up and pulling at his hay net, I went back to Mike’s house for breakfast myself.

  ‘Hello, Harry. Scrambled eggs suit?’ Pen, Mike’s partner, smiled a greeting.

  ‘That’d be great, thanks.’

  She poured me a mug of coffee, pushed the jar of honey towards me and slid a further piece of bread into the toaster.

  I stirred my coffee and debated whether to tell Mike about the threat to Sir Jeffrey in front of Pen. But she pre-empted me.

  ‘How’s Annabel coping, Harry? Is her new partner out of hospital yet?’

  ‘Yes, came home about ten days ago.’

  ‘What’s the prognosis?’ Mike queried. ‘He was in a dire state after the crash.’

  ‘Actually, Annabel telephoned to ask if I’d go over last night. I spoke to Jeffrey. He’s surprisingly well, spirit-wise.’

  ‘And otherwise?’ Mike raised an eyebrow.

  I gulped coffee and nodded. ‘Seems the injury isn’t half as severe as was originally feared. He’s doing well on physio and improving all the time.’

  ‘Is Annabel giving him spiritual healing? Could that be what’s making the difference?’

  I smiled at Pen. ‘It most certainly makes a difference. I know. I’ve been on the receiving end myself. It’s powerful stuff – can even start bones fusing. That’s why, when I was in hospital, Annabel had to ask the ward manager for permission, and to check if my bones had been set before she gave me some healing.’

  ‘Wow!’ Pen looked impressed. ‘A good job he’s got her on tap, then.’

  An unwelcome but familiar wave of jealousy swept over me. The feeling wasn’t wanted, was enervating and uncomfortable, but it couldn’t be denied. It was a familiar reminder that I was still hopelessly in love with Annabel, probably would be for the rest of my life. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

  But from the moment of the accident, it had placed her in a very different situation. Not only was she Jeffrey’s live-in lover, but she was now his carer as well. It put her totally beyond my reach, if indeed she would ever have succumbed and returned to me.

  ‘Yes, it’s fortunate for Jeffrey she’s qualified.’ I gritted my teeth as I said it, knew what I needed was a good kick up the backside to restart my private life, get myself a new woman. And I remembered that when I came back from Huntingdon in the evening, I’d arranged to take Georgia out for a meal at the Dirty Duck at Woolsthorpe. It would only be our third meeting, but maybe I should kick on with Georgia. In no way did I want to use her, but perhaps it was the way to get over Annabel.

  ‘More coffee, Harry?’ Pen’s enquiry broke into my thoughts.

  ‘No, thanks, not for me.’ I pushed my chair back. ‘Have to get moving.’

  Then I remembered I’d not filled Mike in about the threat and the demand for Dunston’s letter. But Mike, also through with breakfast, was now on his way to the door. We went out together.

  ‘Mike, got a sec?’

  ‘Hmm …’

  ‘Didn’t really want to say anything in front of Pen.’

  He nodded – and waited. It flitted across my mind that by now, having involved him so much in the past – mostly dangerous stuff – he was braced to hear just about anything. Predictably, he blew a gasket about Jeffrey being promised a coffin if I didn’t comply.

  ‘Look here, Harry, John Dunston’s dead. OK. I’m sorry, really extremely sorry, but he’s beyond further harm. Sir Jeffrey is a wheelchair-bound shoo-in for uncontested violence. He would be totally unable to defend himself. I think you should just hand the blasted letter over and be done with it.’

  I’d been going to mention the box but, following this outburst, I kept quiet.

  With no roadworks and relatively light traffic, it was an unusually smooth and swift journey to Huntingdon racecourse. I drove into the jockeys’ car park and dropped off my saddle in the jockeys’ changing room before slipping through the buoyant crowd of racegoers, all muffled up to the eyebrows. My objective was the bar for a black coffee, but before I got there, I bumped into Nathaniel Willoughby. As usual, he was wearing an eye-blasting choice of waistcoat.

  ‘Don’t need your lights on going home, then,’ I bantered, pointing to the buttercup yellow garb.

  ‘Jealousy,’ he said, sighing, ‘is such an unattractive thing.’

  ‘Buy
you one?’ It wasn’t so much a question with Nathaniel as a forgone conclusion.

  He beamed. ‘D’you know, Harry, I really don’t mind if I do.’

  If I bought him a drink on every racecourse every time I saw him again, it still wouldn’t balance the debt I owed him. Without his help the last time I’d got embroiled against my will with an unscrupulous criminal, my still being around to breathe and race would be highly unlikely. As a man, like the rest of us, he had proved to have feet of clay, but as a professional artist specializing in racing paintings, he was a class above anyone else.

  We walked into the bar and I went to get the drinks while he found a couple of seats.

  ‘Thanks very much. Your good health. May you have a winner.’

  ‘No thanks needed, but I’ll take your good wishes.’

  ‘How many today?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Still aiming for the title, I take it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘Could be pie in the sky after losing so many rides this year, but it was all for the right reasons.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The right reasons.’ He looked into his glass and pursed his lips.

  ‘OK, Nathaniel, what are you trying to say?’

  ‘Remember when I came round your place to get my keys back, after I got back from Switzerland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I believe I mentioned there might be a … problem. A problem that your skills might be called upon to help with.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You heard me. No dice. I’m up to my ears in a “problem” right now. And I don’t know what the devil I’m going to do about it. Anything else, I don’t need. Sorry, Nathaniel, but the answer’s no. I hate to turn you back, especially when you’ve helped me out, but I can’t.’

  ‘Well, if you say so. But it does concern your mate, Mike.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Is it a life-or-death problem?’

  ‘Not Mike’s, no.’

  ‘There you go, then.’

  ‘But it might have been why his wife died.’

  NINE

  I gaped at Nathaniel. ‘Monica died from injuries after she had a skiing accident.’