Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  I’d touched my cap and smiled agreement. I’m quite sure the noble lord realized it was an impossibility to win without going all out for it – which meant taking risks. But jockeys are paid to please owners, and agreeing with them went with the territory – even when their words were nonsense.

  Lord Edgware was one of that regrettably rare type of owner who actually wasn’t bothered about winning as long as the horse came back in one piece. He was there predominantly to have an enjoyable day at the races.

  Nightcap was a seasoned jumper and judged all his fences with precision. He was a class horse and riding him was a joy. Not only was he a superb jumper, but I knew he had a turn of speed in a finish. However, Nightcap didn’t know that his owner had suggested throttling back if it was needed to play it safe. He gave his usual outstanding performance and we took the race in some style – eight lengths in front.

  Lord Edgware, red-faced with obvious delight in the winners’ enclosure, insisted when I’d weighed in, showered and changed, that I join him for a drink. He went on to compound the situation further by saying he’d also invited Mrs Portly.

  ‘I understand she’s a local lady, and as owners of winning horses, it will be very pleasant to celebrate all together, won’t it?’

  I flicked a glance at Mike. He was nodding encouragement. It was another one of those ‘keep the owners sweet’ moments. I hadn’t banked on this happening. With dismay, I could see no way of getting out of it. Between them, they had five horses at Mike’s stables, and that number generated a great deal of income for him. For me, it also represented regular rides. I certainly didn’t want to jeopardize the goodwill by appearing unsociable.

  However, with both Mrs Portly and the Lord eager to chat, this could take time. They were looking at me expectantly, waiting for my answer.

  But it was already two fifteen and what neither Mike nor Lord Edgware knew was that I had an assignation at two thirty.

  A letter had to be handed over.

  TWELVE

  ‘Oh, you must, Harry. Please, say you will,’ Mrs Portly entreated me. ‘Without your skill, my darling Mudpie might not have won.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mike’s eyebrow raise a fraction. He wouldn’t want any friction in the camp.

  ‘Of course I’ll have a drink with you both. I’d be delighted. Thank you.’

  Mike’s relief was obvious. My own tension notched up a few more degrees. A pity I couldn’t split myself in two – be in both places at the same time and save both situations. Since that wasn’t possible, I needed to think on my feet. Excusing myself to get weighed in, I escaped to the jockeys’ inner sanctum, desperation whirling my thoughts round like a kaleidoscope.

  What was needed right now was a mobile phone – and in the changing room, mobiles were banned. By the time I got out, it would already be two thirty and the contact would be waiting where I’d arranged – in the gents’ toilets.

  And I didn’t have his number. Nor did Annabel. She was waiting for him to contact her. I cursed under my breath. It was Sod’s law that Lord Edgware had pressed me to have a drink; how long that would take was an unknown. But one thing was for sure: whoever the contact was, he was already here on the racecourse. Not a pleasant thought.

  I disrobed, swilled off mud and dressed at the double. Outside, quickly reunited with my phone, I slid round the corner of the building and put a call through to Annabel.

  ‘Harry? It’s gone two thirty. What’s happening? You’re supposed to be meeting that piece of scum.’

  ‘He rang?’

  ‘Yes, of course he did,’ she snapped uncharacteristically. ‘I told him what you said, that you’d meet him inside the gents’.’

  ‘Listen, did you manage to check what number he was ringing from?’

  ‘Caller withheld.’

  ‘Yeah, suppose it was bound to be.’

  ‘What’s happening now?’ Her voice was rising up the scale with stress.

  ‘I’m stuck. No time to explain. He will be bound to ring you back very soon when I don’t show. Tell him I’m officially held up and I’ll be there at three thirty.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t ring?’

  ‘Don’t worry, girl. He will ring. He’s desperate to get hold of the letter.’

  ‘Oh, Harry, for God’s sake, give it to the little shit. Get him out of our lives.’ Since Annabel very rarely swears, it was a yardstick of her state of mind – right up there in the red zone.

  ‘Three thirty, Annabel, right? Just tell him that. He’ll agree. He has no option. Must go. Bye.’

  I cut the call before she could reply. I felt a heel, leaving her in such a state, but there was no point in prolonging the conversation. I thrust the mobile into my jacket pocket and went to join Lord Edgware – and appease Mike. I’d allowed one hour. It should be long enough, but the sooner I joined them, the sooner I’d be free to meet the pond life, hand over the letter – get the job done with.

  Moving the time on one hour, however, had an advantage. Most of the male racegoers would have used the facilities, if needed, and be streaming out of the public car park. The gents’ toilet had been the only place I could think of that was free from crowds, prying eyes and had a solid floor. All essential for what I had in mind.

  In the meantime, entering the bar, I returned the greetings from Lord Edgware and Mrs Portly.

  ‘You’ll have a flute of champagne, won’t you, Harry? We’re already on our second.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Portly.’ I smiled. ‘We’ll toast Mudpie, shall we?’

  ‘What a horse!’ She clasped hands and an ecstatic look came over her face.

  ‘To Mudpie, to Nightcap – and to their jockey, Harry.’ Lord Edgware gave the toast, lifted his drink high and chinked glasses with us. ‘It’s what owning a racehorse is all about,’ he continued, ‘having a splendid day out at the races and watching your horse enjoy his race. And, of course, today’ – he bent towards Mrs Portly – ‘winning has amplified that pleasure.’

  ‘Oh, it has.’ Mrs Portly, fuelled by champagne, was still on a high cloud.

  Mike beamed at his owners. ‘That’s what we aim for – satisfaction.’

  In an atmosphere of general good humour and high spirits, I joined in and managed to forget for a short while what I was facing later.

  On the professional front, today had added yet another two wins to my season’s total. It was also a sure thing both owners would ask me to ride for them again. Whereas Mrs Portly’s horses were possible winners, Lord Edgware’s horses were first class, and more winners would be sure to come along.

  Winners were what I needed to try to retain the Champion Jockey title. I was beginning to claw my way back up, but it was a mighty big ask. However, whatever the title meant to me, when balanced between winning it or saving lives, there was no contest.

  Clearly, in the past, although to my own detriment, I’d made the right choices – three times. Now, possibly facing a fourth, my decision would have to be made on the moment, and from a gut instinct.

  On the personal front, last night had gone very well and I knew when I asked Georgia out again, she would say yes. No doubt it was the bubbly lifting my spirits and making me feel much more positive because, apart from the letter, I found I was feeling optimistic about the future.

  On arrival at the racecourse, I’d left the Mazda near the exit in the jockeys’ car park. Coming in my own vehicle had the double advantage of leaving Mike in the dark about the handover of the letter and also giving me a means of getting away swiftly from the racecourse, should I need it. I’d excused myself from the drinks party after an hour and made my way across the tarmac towards the gents’ toilet, five minutes short of the agreed meeting time.

  There were three possible scenarios. The man – no way could it be a woman – was secreted somewhere nearby, watching my approach. Second, he had decided not to turn up. Or he was already lurking in the toilets, maybe locked in one of the cubicles. My money was on the last.

/>   Just before entering, I swept a swift glance around. It all looked sweetly innocent. And, importantly, no men needing to use the facilities were making a determined beeline in this direction.

  Bracing myself, I went inside. Two men were on their way out. I stood aside and let them go. It gave me the chance to look around with my back safely pressed against the wall. No one was standing around. No one was using the urinals. Which only left the cubicles. Most had their doors standing wide open and were obviously empty. Three, all adjacent, down at the end, had doors firmly shut.

  The sight brought an instant replay to my mind’s eye of the horrific set-up I’d found at Leicester racecourse earlier this year, the first time I’d got myself into the deadly cat-and-mouse game of chasing a murderer.

  Going into the last open cubicle, I bent down nearly to floor level and looked under the narrow gap. The following two were entirely empty. In the last one, butting up to the main wall were a pair of scruffy trainers planted motionless on the ceramic tiled floor. And they were pointing not from pan to door, but across, from wall to wall.

  I pushed the door of my cubicle closed with a firm click. And waited. Two minutes went past and then I flushed the toilet. At the same time, I whipped out silently and flattened myself on the hinged side of the door to the last cubicle, my left shoulder tight up against the wall.

  And waited.

  And prayed.

  Prayed no other men would come in for the next few minutes.

  Slowly, the door began to open. Just before the angle of the door came into contact with my shoulder and gave a warning, I lunged forward and to my left. My hand instantly grabbing for the dark jacket sleeve, the only thing I could see from this angle. Grasping a firm handful, I yanked the arm back and up.

  A satisfying yell of surprise and pain issued from the owner of the arm. I swung the man round and forced his arm even further up his back.

  ‘Bloody fucking hell! Get yer hands off me!’ he yelped, struggling violently.

  ‘Who are you?’ I lowered my voice and put gravel into it.

  The man struggled ineffectively against the restraint and began kicking backwards.

  ‘Get yer fucking hands off!’

  I kept his elbow clamped hard against his backbone and pushed upwards some more.

  He gave a gargling yell of agony.

  ‘Tell me,’ I ground out.

  It was an unfair contest. Despite the fact he was as tall as I was, and thin and wiry, I was a race-fit jockey.

  ‘Harry Radcliffe, ain’t yer?’ He stopped struggling and I eased his arm down an inch. Any further screams could bring someone to investigate.

  ‘And you are?’

  I felt him relax, chanced it and released him. He turned to face me, nursing his smarting arm. We eyed each other with mutual distrust. And then recognition came to me. He was the go-between Jake Smith had used to contact me at Market Rasen racecourse a few months ago.

  ‘I’m here for that letter. Give it me.’

  ‘The last time we met,’ I said slowly, ‘you gave me a note.’

  He shrugged thin shoulders. ‘So?’

  ‘Who are you working for?’

  He set his lips together. Shaking his head.

  ‘Was it Jake Smith again, this time? The man who set you up to come here?’

  ‘You’ve tasted his temper. You know what he can do.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I nodded grimly. ‘I’ve been on the receiving end from him.’

  ‘So, I shan’t be singing, shall I?’

  ‘Was it Jake?’ I persisted.

  ‘Freelance, ain’t I? As long as the readies keep coming.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me who sent you, or not?’

  A sly look came across his face. ‘Or not, top jock.’

  ‘Right.’ I reached into my inside pocket and took out the buff envelope and fingered it. ‘This what you want?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘And if I don’t give it to you, what’re you going to do about it?’

  ‘If he don’t get it, your bird’s posh bloke gets stiffed.’

  ‘If you don’t tell me what this man’s name is, you don’t get this.’ I waved the letter tantalizingly back and forth, just out of his reach.

  ‘Then it’s goodbye posh bloke.’

  ‘So you’re not going to tell me his name?’

  ‘Got it, top jock.’ He was grinning, sure of himself.

  ‘OK.’

  I reached into my trouser pocket and took out a cigarette lighter.

  The smile died on his face, replaced by apprehension. ‘What y’doin’?’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious you aren’t bothered whether or not you get to take this back to your boss – whoever he is.’ I held the envelope between my left index finger and thumb, directly over the pinhole. With my right thumb, I flicked the lighter. The blue and gold flame leaped up. Keeping eye contact, I slowly drew the flame towards the envelope.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ he scoffed, swallowing very hard.

  ‘You think not?’ The flame was now almost touching the top corner.

  ‘Give it us ’ere.’ He lunged forward.

  I swung my left hand high, out of his reach.

  ‘His name,’ I rapped.

  ‘Get stuffed, Radcliffe.’

  He grabbed for it again – and missed. I brought the lighter to the extreme top corner and the paper caught alight instantly.

  ‘Bleeding hell!’

  He grabbed again. This time I didn’t move. His fingers snatched at the blazing envelope, closed round it. His screech of pain was pure animal. I let go of the envelope at the same moment he did. While he danced around, cramming fingers into his mouth, I quickly stamped on the blazing envelope where it had fallen on to the stone tiles. Immediately, the flames went out and left the partly charred letter lying on the toilet floor. Seizing his chance, he grabbed for it and waved the envelope in my face.

  ‘I’ll drop you in it up to your fucking neck, Radcliffe.’

  Then he was gone, running for the door.

  I followed him and, catching the door before it swung back, stood watching him race across the tarmac in the direction of the public car park. He disappeared among the cars. I put the cigarette lighter into my trouser pocket and went back into the toilets.

  I sat down on the nearest toilet seat and let my heartbeat slow down to normal. It had been a close thing. But then I knew it would be, had to be. It had been a close thing too, not long ago, at the hands of Jake Smith. Shakespeare put it beautifully: ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, if taken at the flood, leads on to fortune …’ Very true. I’d taken my chance once before with Jake Smith at the maximum point of the flood. And then today, against the odds, but it had worked perfectly.

  I passed a hand over my forehead, wiped away the film of sweat. And then began laughing. Jake’s one-time go-between had got away with the letter, without letting on what his boss’s name was. It might be Jake Smith or it could be someone else. After all, as he had said, he was freelance.

  I stood up, still laughing. He thought he’d won, got away with it, literally. What he didn’t realize was I’d intended him to take the letter back. It wasn’t the original one – that was safer than the Bank of England tucked away in my bathroom.

  But the important thing was that the boss-man – whoever he might be – he would think the letter was the real thing.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Get away!’ Mike’s face wore an incredulous expression.

  We were having a quick honey-laced mug of coffee before morning stables the next day, and I was relating the incident at Southwell.

  ‘If I’d simply handed the letter over, whoever is pulling the strings would have smelled a rat. This way, with the non-essential part of the letter burned away, he can still read the contents and he thinks it’s the real deal. I must say, my forgery of John Dunston’s signature was pretty good. ‘Course, it took hours of practice …’

  I ducked as Mike
aimed a swing at me.

  ‘How do you know the signature wasn’t destroyed?’

  ‘Ah, because I’d placed it in the envelope directly under the pin hole.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Laughing, I explained.

  ‘But how can it possibly save Sir Jeffrey?’ Pen’s face was screwed up with doubt.

  ‘If I’d simply written a copy of the real letter, of course, it wouldn’t. I did have to amend it somewhat.’

  ‘Somewhat?’ Mike chortled, pushing his chair back in preparation for getting off down to the stable yard. ‘I don’t need to hear. As I’ve said before, you’re a devious sod, and I’ve every faith in you, Harry.’

  He stood up. I made to follow, but Pen caught my arm.

  ‘No. Don’t slope off, Harry. I want you to tell me. There’s Annabel, taking care of Sir Jeffrey, but she must be worried sick. I certainly would be.’

  ‘Leave you two to it.’ Mike grabbed his jacket and headed out the back door.

  ‘I’ve rung Annabel, put her in the picture. I’m sure at the moment he’s not in any danger.’

  ‘Well, put me in the picture as well. From the lurid tales Mike has told me about your previous sleuthing, it’s pretty scary stuff.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Pen, I’m not going to involve Mike in anything dangerous.’

  ‘Hmm … that’s not what I’ve heard.’

  ‘OK. Yes, but only in the end game. I’ve been damn glad of his help before, in that last throw of the dice, but this time I don’t know if it will even get beyond the point where we are now. If the unknown boss-man believes that letter is the original one John left for me, I don’t see it going any further.’

  ‘But what did you write to put him off?’

  ‘I copied the first part, about him losing his son and saying he knew I thought it was on Jake Smith’s instructions. Nothing fresh to get excited about there; the whole criminal underbelly knows what Jake’s capable of. Although John didn’t think it was Jake, I disagree. Alice Goode, the prostitute who was murdered – her husband, Darren, told me Jake had a long reach, and whether in or out of prison, it made no difference. If Jake saw you as a target and wanted you dead, even going to the moon wouldn’t save you. And I know that to be true.’