Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Hmm,’ he agreed, making inroads into his gin.

  ‘She fell down a glacier.’

  He gave me a sideways glance. ‘If somebody falls off something – say, a balcony – it’s questionable whether it’s an accident or not. A case of did they fall or … were they pushed?’

  My jaw dropped further. ‘Are you saying Monica’s death may not have been an accident?’

  He shrugged. ‘That sort of question is one you’re more able to answer than I am.’

  ‘Now hang on, Nathaniel. As far as Mike’s concerned, her death was a tragic accident. Are you saying it could have been murder?’

  ‘All I’m saying is that it’s possible someone organized the “accident”.’

  ‘No. I don’t buy it.’ I shook my head and drank some steadying black coffee. ‘Monica was a lovely person. No reason on earth why anyone would wish her harm.’

  ‘I don’t think her personality is in question. But she might have been in the wrong place, seen something she shouldn’t have seen.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Harry, I don’t know, I’m speculating. But she was there in Switzerland when it was the snow racing that year.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t know much about the actual racing side, but I generally go over for the piano recitals. Well, last year there was a new young talent, Jackson Fellows, an amazing pianist. I was hoping to hear him play this year.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s the only son of a businessman. Between the lines, I’d guess that’s where his funding comes from. His father’s madly proud of Jackson’s talent. But he didn’t come over to play this year – just to attend and be part of the audience.’

  ‘I’m listening.’ There was something coming that I knew I didn’t want to hear.

  ‘I’d met Jackson last year. Told him how much I’d enjoyed his playing. Said I’d be here again this year and hoped to hear him play. He asked if I played and, anyway, we got on very well, had a drink – quite a few actually. I think this was why he opened up a good bit. I won’t say he got merry – he most certainly did not. He told me he was also into White Turf racing, comes every year to watch. But his main interest, obviously, is the piano recitals, so it made conversation easy – common ground, y’know?’

  I nodded. ‘So, if he was all set to take part this year, why didn’t he?’

  ‘Because he’d got two broken fingers.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I commiserated, asked him how he’d broken them. He said somebody broke them deliberately.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I asked him what the hell for, he said, “Sorry, can’t tell you. They’re my price for some silence.”’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  Nathaniel nodded grimly. ‘Seems like it.’

  ‘Did you ask him anything else?’

  ‘I asked if his father could help. His reply was, “God, no. That’s why I need the silence. As far as Dad’s concerned, I don’t know this man, never met him.”’

  ‘Do you know who he was referring to?’

  ‘No. But Jackson said if it hadn’t been for some stupid tourist and her bloody camera, it would never have surfaced. Still, it didn’t matter about her anymore; she wouldn’t be taking any more pictures. Then he added – a bit ruefully, I thought – “nor playing piano”.’

  ‘Are you talking about Monica?’

  He shrugged. ‘She was there at that time.’

  ‘So were thousands of other tourists.’ I took a deep breath. ‘And don’t forget, Monica’s friend, Clara Brown, was there, too. She was badly injured at the same time.’

  ‘Yes, Mousey’s wife, I know; she died recently.’

  ‘After suffering for three years. Another bloody tragedy.’

  ‘You think I’m overreacting to what Jackson told me?’

  ‘I think you’re reading too much – far too much – into it.’

  ‘It’s been worrying me, Harry. Thought perhaps Mike should know.’

  I shook my head. ‘Definitely not. There’s nothing that ties up. I’m sure Monica’s death was just a ghastly accident.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so. Thanks for settling my mind. I’m glad I’ve told you. With your track record in nabbing “baddies”, you’re the expert.’

  ‘Give over. Anyway, must go.’ I drained my now cold black coffee. ‘Races to ride.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I took a couple of steps, then stopped. Curiosity prompted me to ask, ‘What nationality was Jackson Fellows?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘Right …’

  Lady Willamina Branshawe, the smiling owner of Lucy Locket, my first ride of the afternoon, was waiting in the parade ring together with the Midlands trainer, Jim Crack. I took one look and winced. The ocelot fur must have looked stupendous when the big cat was alive and wearing his own coat. Not that Lady W didn’t look stunning; the fur made a big statement on the dreary, overcast day. And her long blonde hair, contained within a fancy tan clip at the nape of her neck, added a further touch of colour. In her late thirties, the young widow of Lord Rudolph Branshawe was certainly feeling merry.

  I walked across to them and touched the brim of my crash cap. ‘Your Ladyship.’

  ‘Hello, Harry. So pleased to have you riding again for me.’ She flashed me a wide smile before turning to Jim. ‘Are we going to beat Midnight Sun, do you think?’ She nodded towards our main rival, the favourite in this race. The bright chestnut was stalking grandly round the parade ring – definitely all presence: arched neck, erectly pricked ears.

  ‘He’s certainly a strong contender, but with Harry on board Lucy Locket, we’ve more than an even chance of beating him.’

  Her smile grew wider. ‘There’s nothing to beat the feeling a win gives you, don’t you agree?’

  We nodded.

  ‘And I’ve had a little flutter – well, a little bit more than a little.’ Her blue eyes sparkled with mischievous excitement. ‘So you have to win for me, Harry.’

  Her high spirits were infectious. And I wasn’t immune to her gentle flirting. She was a lovely woman; it was a great pity about her taste in clothes.

  ‘Do my best.’

  Then, hearing the summons, we followed the other jockeys’ example and Mike flipped me up into the saddle.

  Holding the eager horses to a walk from the parade ring on to the course, we cantered down to the start. Joseph Williams, Midnight Sun, jockey, was having a job holding the big horse. The rest of us gave him plenty of space as the chestnut bucked his way over the sad tussocks of the winter-blasted turf. The wind had risen to near gale force, whipping tails and manes, increasing the horses’ skittishness.

  We formed a ragged line behind the tape, still avoiding Midnight Sun, who was playing up big time and had added cow-kicking to his repertoire. Joseph turned him in a tight circle and, as he came back to the tape, the starter let it fly high and we were away.

  The manic chestnut bolted in front and flew the first fence, leaving the rest of the field trailing and trying to sort itself out. I opted for two in front of the back-marker and let Lucy Locket find her stride. She lobbed along comfortably, judging the fences with a measured, efficient accuracy. She was a perfect example of a stayer – could go for ever – but I knew she had no finishing burst of speed. I needed to keep creeping up the pack ready for when the front runners began to tire from the exertions that had initially taken them into the lead.

  Lucy Locket’s sure-footed jumping was a big bonus and we gained ground at every fence we cleared. By the time we were on the second circuit, three fences from home, we were lying joint second from a field of eight starters.

  We chased along upsides Pixiecap – one from Mousey Brown’s stables, ridden by Davey Marriott – a very consistent horse that regularly came in the frame. But the only horse out in front we both needed to beat was Tal Hunter’s taxing ride, Midnight Sun. The gelding was still a good ten lengths in front and going like a train. It was easy to see why h
e was the outright favourite with the betting public.

  We all cleared the next fence safely. If we held the same placings when we passed the winning post, at least we would be in the frame. Not a bad outcome.

  But not a win – and racing was all about winning.

  With two left to jump, there was nothing in it between me and Davey. It was going to be a battle between us for second place.

  Midnight Sun galloped up to the second-last fence, took off half a stride too soon and raked his way through the brushwood top before pitching forward, throwing Joseph out the side door.

  I’d seen the misjudgement as we chased up behind, but for a brief second, after clearing the fence, I saw a brightly coloured red-and-blue-striped ball rolling on the ground – Joseph – and the inert form of the horse stretched flat out close by.

  Not what you ever want to see.

  However, as a professional jockey, Joseph knew the risks, as we all did, and the lucky ones still in the saddle could not afford to lose focus. It was now a contest between just the two of us.

  The rest of the horses were strung out behind, the nearest one some six or seven lengths behind.

  With one fence left to jump, we were now working on our horses and, with both safely over, were scrubbing the head off our mounts. As the winning post came up, we flashed past, and it was all on the nod.

  But I was sure Lucy Locket had the race. She had reached forward with her head a split second before Pixiecap had done the same.

  We eased back the horses to a circling walk as the commentator gave out the winning number, and I reached out and shook hands with Davey.

  ‘Bloody close there, mate,’ he panted.

  ‘You’re so right.’

  We walked our tired mounts over towards the entrance leading back to the winners’ enclosure. I glanced back down the course and saw with a jolt of dismay that there were screens set up three fences back. I knew behind those screens there was a horse receiving veterinary attention, a horse ambulance standing by, the crowd in the stands holding their breath for the outcome.

  However, I had to walk Lucy Locket away from the course and go on through to the winner’s spot. But the very moment I turned my head away, I heard an almighty roar of approval from the crowd followed by much clapping and cat-calls. A grin settled on my face. Quite a few times in the past I’d encountered the same miracle myself. I knew the prostrate horse, far from suffering life-threatening injuries, had only been winded. He’d recovered his breath and stood up, all was OK, and the vet had nodded for the removal of the screens, to the rapturous relief of the people anxiously awaiting the outcome.

  It made my win now a cause for celebration.

  But the celebration had to wait until after my third and final ride of the afternoon. My first win had been backed up by a couple more, and going into the owners’ and trainers’ bar later, I accepted a glass of champagne from Lady Branshawe. If I was on a high, which I was, she was fizzing more than the champagne.

  ‘A wonderful day’s racing. Thank you, Harry.’

  She chinked her glass against mine in delight.

  ‘Your horses are the ones we should be thanking. They’re class acts. I’m only as good as the horse I’m riding.’

  ‘Oh, I agree with you – my big babies are splendid,’ she gushed, ‘but they can’t do it by themselves. You sell yourself short, Harry.’

  ‘Very true,’ Jim Crack put in.

  He himself had been an accomplished jump jockey before eventually turning trainer. Eventually, because in the interim he’d been in business as a private investigator. I accepted his praise because he knew all about race riding – and what it took to win. Praise from a fellow jockey was always sweet.

  ‘I want you to ride for me again,’ Lady Branshawe said, nodding. ‘You will, won’t you?’

  ‘Be my pleasure.’

  Her horses were always top notch and Jim was a talented trainer who brought them to perfection for each of their races – winning was then so much more achievable. Suddenly, the Champion Jockey title appeared more doable. I took a satisfied gulp of champagne and was pleased with the day’s work. Three wins and a promise of more work – couldn’t be better.

  We sat and chatted a little longer until Jim heaved himself to his feet and declared it was time to go; he needed to oversee the loading up of his horses for the journey home.

  ‘Me, too,’ I said, following his example. ‘Best get back.’

  ‘Wait, Harry.’ Lady Branshawe caught my arm. ‘Just one thing …’

  ‘Yes?’

  She leaned in and whispered, ‘The coat’s not real; it’s faux fur.’

  As I felt the flush redden my cheeks, she laughed. ‘I saw your grimace in the parade ring.’

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly. I’m glad. You’re obviously a caring man.’ Her lips brushed my cheek very lightly. ‘And thank you again.’ She swept out of the bar, taking her coat with her, leaving me to return the chairs under the table.

  As I walked towards the door, a familiar figure came in.

  ‘Harry, congratulations on the wins.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Tally. Thanks.’

  She brushed her hands down her coat; it was dusted in snowflakes.

  ‘Snowing?’ I queried, and looked out of the wide windows.

  ‘Oh, yes, coming down like a punctured quilt out there.’

  ‘Not what the doctor ordered. At least the racing’s at Southwell tomorrow.’

  Southwell was an all-weather course. When the rest of the racing was called off, the all-weather ones kept going. Even so, Southwell had been the victim of extreme flooding in the past which had resulted, unfortunately, in a complete shutdown.

  But Southwell, I’d already decided, wasn’t simply the venue for racing; it was where I intended to hand over Dunston’s letter.

  TEN

  The journey back to Nottinghamshire from Huntingdon took a lot longer than getting there. Drivers obviously took note of the weather and were all intent upon reaching home before it worsened.

  By the time I drew up on the gravel outside the kitchen door at Harlequin Cottage, the snow lay almost two inches deep, but for the last twenty minutes no further flakes had drifted down.

  As I turned the key in the back door, a big ginger streak bounded across the pristine white snow and launched itself at me. With wickedly sharp grappling hooks, the cat clawed his way up my jacket to reach my shoulder. He bellowed a greeting down my ear.

  ‘Hiya, Leo.’ I reached up and rubbed his chest. His fur felt cold. ‘Come on, let’s get indoors.’

  The Rayburn gave out a welcoming warmth that wrapped itself around us and shouted ‘Home!’ in a loud voice. Leo leaped down on to the red quarries and sought out his food bowl – empty.

  ‘So impatient.’ I shook my head at him as he bellowed again, glaring with emerald eyes.

  Pushing the kettle on to the hob, I dug out the can opener and found a tin of his favourite pilchards in the pantry. His mood changed instantly as the metal teeth pierced the lid and let forth the pungent smell of fish.

  I left him to it and took my mug of tea into the lounge. Now that the snow had stopped, the evening was looking good. I was due to collect Georgia from her parents’ house in Plungar – Vale of Belvoir country. Again – this would be the second time – because it was conveniently near and the food excellent, we were having dinner at the Dirty Duck in Woolsthorpe. Belvoir Castle, situated on the top of the hill that towered above the pub, dominated the landscape with its grandeur.

  The pub was situated on the bank of the Grantham Canal. In spring and summer, the punters liked taking walks along the side of the canal that stretched for miles in each direction. I doubted anybody would be tramping along tonight. What the rest of the evening would bring, after our meal, was an unknown. It was ball in her court.

  I’d met Georgia when I was trying to discover the identity of the person who had placed white roses on my mother’s grave. The only clue
had been the card tucked in with the flowers that gave the address of a flower shop, The Trug Basket, in Grantham.

  I’d followed it up and discovered Georgia, not the person who had sent the flowers, but the girl who owned the flower shop. I suspected that for her, like me, work had taken the place of a special person. In filling that gap, however, work had its limits. I was looking forward to seeing her again.

  But before that there was something I needed to do. Draining the mug of tea, I went into the office and took out a buff foolscap envelope. I needed to implement my idea of what the hell I was going to do about John Dunston’s letter. The original that Caxton, the solicitor, had handed to me, which had been clocked by the men who had attacked me, had been an identical buff envelope, the sort that was available countrywide. It was exactly this wide availability that had given me the idea.

  In desperation, before I called Annabel in the morning, I’d hatched a half-baked idea that might or, more probably, might not work.

  Tomorrow, at Southwell racecourse, I’d find out.

  I took the A52 almost as far as Bingham, then swung off on the right towards Langar, the first of the many small villages that snuggled into the Vale of Belvoir. Threading my way along glistening white back lanes that linked the picture-postcard-pretty dwellings, I drove at a steady thirty miles an hour. The snow had fallen thickly out here in the sticks and in places had drifted up into soft banks at the base of the hedges.

  Arriving at Plungar, I followed the directions Georgia had given me and nosed the Mazda through a pair of wide iron gates that allowed access to a broad tarmac drive. The outside lights beamed out over the wheel tracks that showed someone had driven away a short while ago.

  I parked and rang the bell on the mahogany front door. Georgia opened up and smiled when she recognized me.

  ‘Harry, you found me.’

  ‘Indeed, I did.’

  We stood and smiled at each other. Then, peeping round me, she looked down to the gates.

  ‘You’ve just missed Mum and Dad. Now it’s stopped snowing, they decided they’d carry on with the usual routine. Once a week, they go round to Aunt Josephine’s for dinner.’