‘I’m glad it’s not because of me. Did you say I was coming?’
‘Yes.’ She laughed at the recollection. ‘It made their eyes widen.’
‘You can’t leave it at that.’
She sobered up quickly. ‘Well, since you’re the first man to “come calling” … since’ – she hesitated – ‘they were intrigued.’
I nodded and didn’t press her for any more. ‘Are we still on for dinner at the Dirty Duck?’
‘Oh, yes, please.’ The smile returned to her pretty face. ‘I was busy at the shop today – so busy there was no time for lunch – and I’m starving.’
I laughed. ‘What would you have done if it was still snowing?’
‘Dug something out of the freezer for both of us. If you had actually made it, of course.’
‘I’d have made it,’ I said, looking at her, liking what I saw.
A blush pinked her cheeks and she stepped back into the hall. ‘Come on in, out of the cold. Sorry, I’ve kept you standing there. I’ll just get my coat.’ She led me through to a massive lounge with original dark beams against the cream ceiling. ‘Have a seat. Would you like a drink before we go?’
I shook my head, ‘No, thanks. It might have stopped coming down out there’ – I inclined my head towards the heavily draped windows – ‘but driving is a bit tricky on these back lanes. I’ll save my intake for some wine with our meal. The food will soak it up.’
While she was fetching her coat, I glanced around the lounge. It was obvious that her parents were well off. The pieces of furniture were mostly antiques and the soft furnishings top quality. The house itself was a substantial property. I wondered how much land there was. Georgia, I knew, had adopted two horses, Pegs and Jacko, from Bransby Rescue Centre in Lincolnshire. Maybe there was a paddock and stabling attached.
She reappeared snugly wrapped up. ‘OK, Harry?’
‘OK.’
I stood up and we went out into the cold night.
The Dirty Duck was ablaze with golden lights reflecting off the water of the canal and making the shimmering snow gleam.
The barman acknowledged us with a smile and Georgia wiggled her fingers in a familiar greeting. We were lucky. ‘Our’ table – the one we’d sat at once before, closest to the open fire – was free and we claimed it. The fire had recently been made up and orange tongues were reaching far up the chimney, heat roaring out. All along the walls, scores of assorted and highly polished brass pans hanging there reflected the dancing flames. On a cold snowy night, it was definitely the place to be.
‘White wine?’ I queried.
‘Yes, please. You’ve remembered; how good for my ego.’ Her smile was a little on the smug side.
‘Oh, yes.’ I grinned and went to fetch our drinks. The barman, in anticipation, had already poured Georgia’s out. I carried the glasses back and together we scrutinized the menu.
‘I’m going for the same as last time,’ Georgia decided. ‘I’ll have the vegetarian lasagne. And,’ she warned me with a flash in her eyes, ‘I’m paying my half.’
I took a pull of my lager and studied her. That so attractive pink blush crept up her cheeks.
‘Yes, it does mean no dessert,’ she added.
‘What a shame,’ I said, shaking my head and smiling broadly. ‘I shall make sure that doesn’t spoil our evening.’
Now she was laughing out loud. ‘You’re a lovely man, Harry Radcliffe.’
‘And, as they say in America, back at you.’
I went across to the bar and ordered the food – and paid with my plastic. The barman keyed in the details before saying in a low voice, ‘Good man.’ He nodded almost imperceptibly in Georgia’s direction. ‘She needs someone who can make her laugh again.’
Our eyes met. ‘She obviously comes here regularly.’
‘Used to,’ he said dryly.
‘Ah … before Peter—’
‘Yes.’ It was said abruptly – a definite end to the conversation.
I slipped my card back into my wallet and returned to Georgia.
‘Madam’s lasagne will be here shortly.’
‘Good, can’t wait. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. Oops! Can’t believe I said that.’
I laughed. ‘Hunger makes savages out of us all. But how are they, the horses, Pegs and Jacko? Both OK?’
‘Oh, yes. Fancy you remembering their names.’ Her face lit up. ‘I’m so lucky to have them.’
‘Don’t you think that the reverse might be true?’
‘To an outsider.’
‘Fingers rapped.’
‘No, not at all.’ She reached across the table and stroked the back of my hand to prove her words. ‘You’re not included. The horses are a lifeline. Yes, I’ve got the shop, and, thank God, it’s a success, but that’s just my business life, isn’t it? Horses are … personal, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. They engage your emotions.’
‘Even though with you, Harry, horses are your business life?’
I took a deep drink of my lager. ‘If I were a farmer, say, I’d drive a tractor, get from A to B down the field. No emotions attached to the tractor – it’s just made of metal, albeit metal which moves and takes me to where I want to be.’
‘Whereas?’ She took a sip of her Chardonnay and relaxed back against the padded seat.
‘With horses, any jockey will tell you, it’s personal. You’re sitting on their backs and they’re talking to you, with their bodies as well as through their minds. I suppose telepathy describes it. But they’re living beings, and to get the best result, you engage with them. So, yes, I understand exactly what you mean by “personal”.’
‘Knew you would.’ She released a tiny sigh and smiled with satisfaction.
The waitress eased her way through the tables and the now increasing crush spreading out around the bar area. She placed two delicious-looking dinners before us. ‘Enjoy.’
‘Thank you,’ we said in unison.
The food smelled good and tasted better. Georgia tucked in enthusiastically. I took my chance and flicked a quick glance across the room towards the barman. He was looking at Georgia with unmistakable fondness.
I returned my gaze back to my plate and continued eating my own superb steak. But I wondered …
We spent an enjoyable evening: a superb venue, good food and drink, light-hearted conversation and the company of each other. Easy, relaxed and with the fizz of sexual attraction between a man and a woman lurking just underneath the radar. The chemistry between us was never mentioned, but nevertheless we were both keenly aware of it.
But Georgia had made it quite clear how far she was prepared to allow things to develop between us tonight. I wasn’t worried. There was no hurry, none at all. We both had baggage that would no doubt need talking out before any further moves were made – by either side.
I dropped her off at the gates outside her home at Plungar. No more snow had come down; in fact, it actually felt a little bit warmer than it had earlier. There were no returning car treads imprinting the lying snow, which meant her mother and father weren’t back yet. I wound down the driver’s window and leaned out.
‘I’ll hang on until you get inside. Let you flick some lights on.’
‘You’re a lovely man. I know I’ve said that already tonight, but I do mean it.’ She bent down and gave me a gentle kiss on the lips before straightening up. ‘Thank you for a super evening. I’ve not had one I’ve enjoyed so much for such a long time.’
Before I could reply, she walked smartly away up the drive, sinking a little into the snow at each footfall, but reaching the front door safely without slipping over. She opened the door, switched on the hall light, turned to wave goodbye to me – then closed the door behind her.
ELEVEN
By morning, most of the snow had melted and gone.
I pulled back the curtains and looked out on a soggy garden. Leo was stalking along the hedgerow. A bird squawked a warning and flew off. Leo watched it fly away to safety
, flicking his tail in frustration, before lifting a back leg and giving it a quick shake. I was headed for the National Hunt course at Southwell today, and the going would probably have changed from soft to heavy. For flat racing it didn’t apply. The all-weather fibre-sand track would be standard.
I wasn’t driving over to Mike’s yard first thing. Southwell was very close to where I lived, and Mike’s stables were in the opposite direction. He wasn’t expecting me; I’d prompted him the previous day that I’d a heavy date that night and would meet him at the racecourse at about eleven. Racing at this time of the year started early and finished early, unless the course was floodlit.
I was not only meeting Mike. I’d left a message with Annabel to pass on to the unknown man when he telephoned her that I’d see him at two thirty, after my last race.
I grabbed a mug of scalding coffee and took it through to the office. A free couple of hours first thing were rare and I could best fill them by switching on my computer and writing up my copy for the racing column in the newspaper. It was a second string to earnings as a jockey. The job wasn’t one I particularly enjoyed, but in the past I’d had cause to be extremely grateful for the extra cash it had brought in. No real need now, of course. The necessity to earn a lot of money was no longer relevant. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. The memories it brought were still raw and painful. So I sipped coffee and tapped away at my three hundred words. I’d just finished, checked it and pressed send when Leo slid sinuously through the partly open door. For such a huge cat, he moved soundlessly. Spotting me, he immediately dispelled that observation with a bass bellow that rang in my ears.
‘OK, I know, breakfast. I was thinking that myself.’
We repaired to the cosy kitchen for sustenance. Then, leaving Leo to his vigorous paw-washing routine, I went back to the office and found the buff envelope I needed for Southwell and took a drawing pin from the corkboard above the desk. It was a complete toss-up if the handover would work. There was no point in dwelling on the outcome. At best, it would buy me some time – at worst, it left Sir Jeffrey vulnerable.
Very carefully, I slipped the single sheet of paper into the envelope and noted the position of the signature. On the outside, I carefully inserted the pin at the correct place, so that it pierced only the envelope and didn’t penetrate through to the paper inside. I withdrew the pin and smoothed the edges together. Unless you were aware it had been pierced, you would never know; it was barely discernible. But I knew and, even without looking down at the letter, when I ran my thumb across that corner, I could feel it. It would need split-second timing at the actual handover, but there was no more I could do.
However, before that, I had four races to ride. I needed to focus.
I found Mike at the racecourse, saddling boxes.
‘Seems we’ve escaped the white stuff, Harry.’
‘Yeah. But don’t forget this is England. Could be six foot deep by bedtime, you know.’
‘You’re a cheerful sod.’
He was about to saddle up his runner in the first – Mudpie. The gelding was well named. He was a real mudlark and came into his own in heavy going.
His lady owner, Mrs Portly – a most appropriate name for the generously rounded woman – lived near Southwell and had asked Mike to let him have a run there. Mike, of course, had the last shout on which horses ran where and in what races. But owners paid the bills and he tried to comply with their wishes – sometimes really bizarre ones.
Her request for me to ride Mudpie wasn’t something I was going to turn down. Even if we didn’t win, I’d still earn my riding fee. And jockey fees were what ran Harlequin Cottage – and provided Leo with big tins of pilchards. A win, on the other hand, put the jam on the top of my bread-and-butter fee.
I left Mike to it and made my way over to the jockeys’ changing room and swapped my civvies for Mrs Portly’s silks with colours of orange clashing horribly with fuchsia pink. However, if at the end of the eleven forty-five race, those colours flashed past the winning post ahead of the rest of the field, I’d be delighted. Pete, the valet, handed them over, freshly washed in all their striking vibrancy.
‘Go off all right, then, d’n’t it? Reckon old John would have been OK about how it was handled.’
‘Oh, the funeral, you mean. Yes, it did. No hitches at all. And I suppose it’s difficult for the undertakers when there’s no family left to give instructions.’
Pete was the man who had given me the shocking news of John’s death. I recalled I’d seen him among the mourners at the crematorium.
‘Where did he live?’
‘Near Bridlington. Moved out from his other place when Lilly went. Reckoned he couldn’t stand the memories, y’know.’
I nodded.
‘He shared a rented place with Keith Whellan. Think it was only going to be temporary, like.’
‘Keith’s a box driver, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah. Down with flu at the time of the funeral; otherwise he’d have been there to raise a jar an’ all. See John off properly.’
I nodded again and let Pete get on with his job of handing out gear. It was a useful bit of information. Like most jobs, there was a kind of kinship in a shared occupation and, with no family, John had probably spent time after work in Keith’s company, whether down the pub, most likely, or flaked out in front of the television. And they would have talked, swapped racing gossip, maybe even opened up a bit personally.
I made a mental note that after I’d unwrapped the box, still buried in the cat litter, a word with Whellan might very well uncover some facts or theories. He was box driver for Mousey Brown. John Dunston had worked for Robson and both stables were based in south-east Yorkshire.
Robson had helped me in the past regarding another murder.
I put thoughts of the past very firmly out of my mind and pulled on the racing silks, then followed the other jockeys as we all trooped outside to the parade ring.
Mudpie was waiting with his stable lad, Mike, and Mrs Portly. She was wreathed in smiles, scarf and tweed coat.
‘Harry.’ She beamed coming forward to greet me. ‘We shall soon find out if my little investment can pull it off.’ Her little investment, all seventeen hands of dark bay, tried out a couple of bucks for the hell of it, much to the delight of the crowd around the rails.
I touched my cap deferentially. ‘Indeed, we shall.’
‘Now, I know you weren’t at all sure, Mike, but I do so want to try him in a race on home ground. And he’s very well, isn’t he?’
Mike agreed. Mudpie certainly was well. So well that he was practically jumping out of his skin. I could see I was in for a lively ride.
‘Jockeys please mount’ was called and Mike flipped me up. The moment Mudpie felt my weight on his back, the hooves went up into the air. But it wasn’t from evil intent; I could feel the excitement running through him. This was what he had been born to do – race. And he couldn’t wait.
‘I’ll see you in the winners’ enclosure afterwards, Harry.’ If anything, Mrs Portly’s smile was even broader.
An owner’s enthusiasm is a very positive, warming thing. And she was here to enjoy the day. She infected us all with her bubbling optimism.
The stable lad led Mudpie off towards the course and I took him down to the start at a respectable canter.
Circling round with the rest of the runners and riders, I pulled down my goggles ready to deflect the kickback of the mud splatters that inevitably flew up from the score and more of racing-plated hooves. For a brief couple of minutes, the sun actually appeared, weak, watery and lemon yellow, but nevertheless it seemed an omen of goodwill.
And so it proved. Mudpie claimed the race as his own right from the off, flying the fences with aplomb and banishing any fears regarding his ability to pull it off. Mrs Portly’s faith in him was fully vindicated.
We returned, plastered in muck, and I had to push my goggles up on to my crash cap in order to see where we were heading. That place was one a t
riumphantly clapping Mrs Portly had staked out as her own as soon as the commentator announced that number five, Mudpie, had won by three lengths.
Mike reached up to take hold of the reins, his face full of happy disbelief as he laughed out loud, shaking his head. He slapped the horse’s neck and congratulated Mrs Portly at the same time.
‘I knew he was going to come first,’ she declared. And she went on to make us both laugh. ‘A mother always knows.’ Adding, ‘Mudpie is my late-in-life baby.’
The crowd around the winner’s spot heard what she said and they good-heartedly joined in the fun. I suspected, having seen his high-spirited bucking in the parade ring, they’d risked a flutter on the big horse and it had been justified. His odds were twelve to one. A nice little earner for them.
I carried my saddle to the weighing room and had my weight confirmed. Outside, the punters around the winners’ enclosure heard, through the loud speaker, the words they were waiting for – ‘Weighed in, weighed in’ – and let loose a roar of approval.
I endorsed every cheer, but the next race was coming up fast. Colours had to be shed and handed to Pete, and new silks put on for the next horse with a different owner. There was no time to spare. Races were set at half-hourly intervals which, no doubt, the racegoers might think a bit of a wait, but the jockeys involved had a regular schedule to fit in and couldn’t have managed tighter timing.
I ended midfield on the next two horses: the first hadn’t the speed to do better and the second was boxed in on the rails. But racing is full of such races, and having had a winner to begin with, I was philosophical about the results. However, my two o’clock race was on Nightcap, a horse owned by Lord Edgware, and he was odds-on favourite. He could very well show the rest of the field the way home. I’d ridden him several times before and knew his capabilities. He was a front runner who had done very well last season.
As usual, Lord Edgware had spoken to me in the parade ring prior to the race.
‘Just get round safely, you and the horse,’ he’d said, nodding gravely to emphasize his words. ‘Very nice if you win, of course, but don’t take any unnecessary risks, eh?’
Dead Heat Page 8
