Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  Pen shuddered. ‘You said the first part … What else did you write?’

  ‘I omitted most of the rest, particularly the bit about his concern that he might also end up being murdered. That’s what’s causing all the retaliation. Or I think it is. The boss-man doesn’t know what John has written, only that he has given me a letter. As far as he’s concerned, John might have fingered him and given me a name. Now, that would be enough provocation to warrant the demand for the letter. So,’ I sighed, ‘I’m afraid I gave myself some credit and wrote that John was thanking me for saving his life once before.’

  ‘Which you did.’ She nodded. ‘Mike told me.’

  ‘Well, whatever.’ I waved a hand dismissively. ‘Anyway, it seemed quite credible that he might have written that.’

  ‘And if this horrible man believes there is no threat to him, he’ll back off.’

  ‘I’m hoping so.’

  ‘Did you reassure Annabel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So, you see, there’s no need to worry, Pen.’

  ‘Hmm … probably not … well, not about that.’

  ‘What else? Is there something?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Oh, Harry, I’ve been up in the loft, packing away some Christmas decorations, you know.’

  I nodded, and waited.

  ‘Mike asked me to look for an ornate table centrepiece that was put up there after the last party he gave – you were there, and Fleur, you remember? Well, he’s hosting an owners’ drinks party next month and thought it would be good to use it. I did find the centrepiece. But, oh dear, I also found something else …’ She hesitated.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘I think … I mean, it has to be hers. It wouldn’t belong to anyone else, would it?’

  ‘You’re not making any sense. Just tell me what you found.’

  ‘A big sponge bag. A woman’s, obviously – it’s pink and mauve.’

  ‘Monica’s?’

  She gulped and nodded. ‘Yes, has to be, don’t you think?’

  ‘Almost certain to be,’ I agreed.

  ‘How did it get up there, in the loft?’

  ‘No idea. Monica died in Switzerland, in a skiing accident, as you know.’ She nodded, biting at her lower lip. ‘Her body was flown back to England. I assume her belongings from the chalet where she had been staying were sent back, too.’

  ‘I suppose so. What should I do, Harry? Just put it back and keep it secret? Forget I’ve seen it? Tell Mike I’ve found it? What?’ She spread her hands in distress.

  ‘Depends on what’s inside.’

  ‘It doesn’t look as though Mike has opened it or even looked through the bag because there’s one of those disposable cameras inside. It’s not a proper one. This one doesn’t have a strap, just a cardboard case.’

  I felt a lurch in my solar plexus. ‘A camera?’

  ‘Hmm … one that takes about twenty-four snaps and you discard afterwards.’

  ‘And it hasn’t been processed?’

  ‘No. All the shots have been used, but not printed off.’

  ‘Mike obviously stored the bag away because he couldn’t bear to look through it and dispose of the items inside.’

  ‘He’s disposed of all her clothes and shoes, that kind of thing. But this is such a personal thing. Her cosmetics and creams are inside. Together with her flannel, hairbrush … and toothbrush … It’s heartbreaking.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s so selfish of me, Harry, but it feels almost as though she’s come back.’

  ‘Don’t go there, Pen. Much as we all loved Monica, she’s dead. There’s nothing you can do about her death other than accept she’s gone. Mike’s future is with you.’

  Pen burst into tears and I put my arms around her. I knew how insecure she felt about her position in what she still saw as Monica’s house. It had manifested, much to my surprise, when Mike had booked a singer to attend a party he organized. Mike had raved over the woman’s beautiful voice – and she had been a beauty, too.

  Pen had known how deep his feelings had gone for Monica and had felt, unjustifiably, second best. But she had accepted that while Monica had died and was no threat to the new-found happiness she now had with Mike, a living, breathing – and singing – beauty might tip that balance.

  I’d reassured her at the time and thought she’d realized Mike’s love for her wasn’t going to be affected by any third party. Now she had unexpectedly come across so personal a possession as Monica’s sponge bag, and it had released her half-submerged insecurities.

  I was pretty sure something horrific had happened to Pen before she and her brother, Paul Wentworth, had come to live in a nearby village. While Paul was a bachelor, Pen was a widow. She had never revealed her past, and it was only a comment Paul had made to me some months ago that had hinted at a traumatic incident.

  Now I held her close as her tears flowed until, finally, they slowed and ceased.

  ‘Tell you what, Pen, how about you put the bag back in the loft where you found it, eh? I’ll take the camera to have the photographs developed and printed. See what they show. If they are important, then we’ll both tell Mike. How’s that?’

  ‘Oh, yes, thanks, Harry. Let’s do that.’

  She grabbed a tissue from her pocket and wiped her face free of tears.

  ‘Sorry to be such a wimp.’

  ‘You’re not,’ I said firmly. ‘You’re like the rest of us: we all need a life raft sooner or later, in whatever situation.’

  ‘Bless you, Harry.’ She kissed my cheek. ‘Give me your keys. I’ll put the camera in your car while you’re out schooling the horses. That way Mike won’t be bothered with it. At least until we know what the photos show.’

  ‘Good idea.’ I took the keys from my pocket and handed them over. ‘But if I don’t get myself out to the stables, he’s going to wonder where I am.’

  Racing today was at Wetherby racecourse. I wasn’t riding any of Mike’s horses. Surprisingly, I had two rides booked with Mousey Brown’s stable, although I suppose, technically, it was his son Patrick’s. His elder son had taken over when Mousey had been struggling to look after his wife, Clara, in her last couple of years of life. She had died despite the best efforts of the doctors, and it was following that sad occurrence that Mousey had been officially declared an alcoholic and had lost his driving licence.

  Racing’s extended family had cut him a lot of slack during that time, sympathizing with his suffering and thankless struggle, everybody knowing there was only one outcome.

  Personally, I agreed with Mousey. He’d confessed to me afterwards that he’d rather she had died in the accident in Switzerland – like Monica, Mike’s wife – than be brought back in such a parlous state and lingering.

  Mousey’s younger son, Ian, was an accomplished flat jockey. He was rarely to be found on an English racecourse because he was in such demand the world over.

  My rides today were in consecutive races at two o’clock and two thirty. It allowed me to school first for Mike and grab an early bite of lunch before driving off up the A46. I had wondered why Patrick wanted me to ride. It was rare. Usually, he put up the younger jockeys. However, when I’d done my homework and discovered both horses were owned by Lady Willamina Branshawe, I wondered no more.

  She had obviously been sufficiently impressed by my performance at Leicester races to offer me the rides. However, I wasn’t going to hold an inquest. Right now I was up for any – and all – rides offered to me.

  The only way to try to retain my Championship title was to go for it relentlessly and hope nothing blew out of the water to foul up my hopes. The biggest worry, of course, was possible injuries that could lay me up and jeopardize my chances. All the rest of the jockeys were in the same boat.

  I had no doubt that my nearest rivals – one of whom w
as actually a few wins in front right now – were also praying they could avoid having a close encounter with cold, wet grass right in their faces.

  But apart from the business side of agreeing to the two rides, it would also place me in an ideal situation to be able to speak to Keith Whellan, Mousey’s box driver. I had been intending to make a special journey up north to speak to him. It could have been put on the back-burner for a bit until I saw what results the replica letter produced – or, hopefully, nothing further. In which case, I could kick on with my own life.

  However, it was a good bet that Whellan would be at Wetherby and I could get to meet him. What I’d say I had no idea – yet. A case of leap in and see how deep the water was, and just what I could catch.

  There was a decent crowd milling about when I arrived at the racecourse, even though the weather was going downhill again and an icy wind was blowing.

  It wasn’t the only thing that felt icy.

  A short time later, when I went inside the weighing room, the coldness followed me. The weighing room was usually a place of good-natured banter and an air of positive expectation, but as I sat on the bench below my peg, I could feel the concentrated stare. It carried all the coldness of Siberia. I took my time and finished pulling on my breeches before I slowly straightened up.

  Duncan Rawlson had walked in and was standing aggressively, legs apart, with fists clenched by his sides. He didn’t need to say a word. The intense dislike in his eyes directed straight at me was saying it all.

  Pete, the valet, apprehensively came between us and placed my boots down beside the bench.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Rawlson.

  Pete licked his lips nervously and moved out of the firing line.

  FOURTEEN

  I cast a quick glance at the time. Very shortly, the early warning would be given. Somewhat like a curtain call in the theatre, the announcement would state, ‘Five minutes to go, jockeys,’ usually resulting in an organized scramble to get from the changing room over to the parade ring where the owners, trainers and horses awaited us.

  I met Rawlson’s hostile stare. ‘Is there time for whatever you’ve got to say?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it won’t take long. And I’ve got plenty of time. I don’t have a ride.’

  ‘Ha.’ I knew immediately what had upset him. ‘I didn’t ask for the ride.’

  ‘No? But you’re a crawler, a fucking boot-licker. And she’s a bit tasty, i’n’t she?’

  I shook my head in disgust. ‘Give over. I didn’t jock you off on purpose. I never angled for the rides.’

  ‘I always ride her horses.’ His fists clenched and unclenched as he sought to keep control.

  ‘And if I don’t win, you’ll be back in the saddle. She won’t put me up again.’

  He snorted. ‘We both know, with his form, that gelding’s going to walk it.’

  I couldn’t argue with him. Lady Willamina Branshawe’s horses were all top-class. I could well understand his frustration. Being jocked off was potentially going to cost him a lot of prize money. In a similar situation, I wouldn’t be too sweet-tempered either. But the owners paid the bills – bottom line. The choice of who rode for them was only negotiable with the trainer. The tannoy sprang into life and gave us the prompt we had been waiting for.

  ‘Take it up with Mousey – or Patrick.’

  I bent and pulled on my boots.

  ‘I bloody well will.’ Rawlson barged his way through the other jockeys and flung out.

  Lady Branshawe was all smiles when I entered the parade ring. In contrast, Patrick’s face was dour. It was quite obvious he did not agree with her ladyship’s decision to swap jockeys. But, most likely, Mousey had put his foot down on the delicate matter of keeping the owner sweet. Patrick had a lot to learn in the business of diplomacy. He was never going to be the trainer his father was, or, rather had been, until he learned to respect where the stable income came from.

  ‘Lovely to see you again, Harry.’ Pimms’s owner gave me a dazzling smile that conversely increased the depth of Patrick’s frown lines.

  ‘Your ladyship.’ I touched the peak of my cap and turned to Patrick to receive riding instructions.

  ‘Hold him up for a breather halfway, but when you get to the front, don’t let him take the lead until the last few strides. And’ – he glowered at me – ‘don’t use the whip. OK?’

  I nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘Don’t do a “win at all costs”, Harry.’ Lady Branshawe placed a hand on my arm. Clad once again in her warm, ocelot-lookalike fur, she was a strikingly lovely woman. ‘I do want you to bring him back sound.’

  ‘That’s right, Radcliffe,’ reiterated Patrick. ‘Her ladyship favours safety. Don’t forget.’

  I shot him a quick glance as he proceeded to help me into the saddle. Not surprisingly, he didn’t meet my gaze. Patrick was a far from sympathetic trainer. Duncan Rawlson’s flat-out driving style was much more in keeping with his own ideas.

  As I cantered Pimms down to the start, I wondered whether Patrick would be better pleased if we didn’t win. Almost certainly, Lady Branshawe would change back to the usual jockey, and harmony would prevail in the stables. But a non-winner wouldn’t help my Championship chase for a start and, secondly, I liked to win.

  As the starter brought the yellow flag down smartly, I let Pimms run freely before settling him in fourth place on the rails. He jumped like a cat, surely and efficiently, and had an engine that purred along, coupled with a long ground-eating stride, absolutely ideal for the easy turns on Wetherby racecourse. He was an easy ride, smooth and responsive. I relaxed and enjoyed myself.

  Not everybody was so lucky. It turned out to be one of those races that occurs now and again when there seems to be a jinx on it. The horse third from the front was the first to fall and he was quickly followed at the next two fences by a horse down at each. The field was now reduced to four horses.

  I dutifully eased Pimms back just over halfway and let him have a breather. Predictably, two horses gained ground and came upsides. For a couple of furlongs, we raced in a line with just the leader out in front by about six lengths.

  At the second-last fence, the jinx kicked in again. The horse in front put in an extra half-stride and blundered through the top of the brushwood, sending bits of twig flying. Unable to keep his balance, he fell heavily, pitching the jockey over his shoulder and out the side door.

  I held Pimms steady and jumped the last with the other two horses still upsides. Then I kicked for home and Pimms’s response was electrifying. He left the others behind in a matter of strides and kept up his drive right to the post. His dominance was never in any question.

  We were greeted by elated cheers from the punters around the winners’ enclosure. Most had no doubt had a flutter on Pimms as the outright favourite and he had not let them down. But you would have been forgiven if you’d expected the trainer, as well as the owner, to be pleased. Lady Branshawe had a wide, welcoming smile, but Patrick was as mournful as a bloodhound without a quarry.

  Just what Rawlson’s reaction was could be guessed at, and I’d undoubtedly find out in the weighing room. My win meant there would be no easy way back for him to ride Lady Branshawe’s horses. If I kept riding winners, she would keep asking to have me as pilot. But for myself, I was delighted to have brought Pimms home in the number-one spot – and in one piece. It had upped my score for the current season, not to mention earning me a share of the prize money.

  I took my saddle through, weighed in and went through to the changing rooms. I still had a further ride in the next, the two thirty. And, like Pimms, this one was also favourite.

  Rawlson collared me just before I was due to go out to the parade ring. He knew I’d got the ride on Masterful Knave.

  ‘All those fallers,’ he sneered, ‘and you’re still standing. Sod’s law going strong.’

  ‘And I’m after winning the next race, too.’

  He st
uck his face within inches of my own. ‘Well, lose it!’

  ‘So you can get your rides back? Are you mad? The name of the game is winning.’

  I didn’t like rubbing it in, but I was getting sick of his arrogance at what he seemed to consider his exclusive rights.

  ‘You’re going to come a cropper, Radcliffe. I’ll make bloody sure of it.’

  Turning, he pushed his way brusquely past two other jockeys who must have heard what he’d said.

  I shrugged off his threat; I’d had so many in the last few months that it was getting to be par for the course. Race riding demanded the fullest concentration, and I needed a clear head.

  My second mount, although favourite in the betting, was still a bit green and would need to be guided far more than Pimms had done. He was not so sure a jumper either and had come down in his last race. Despite his lack of race experience, Masterful Knave had a devilishly fast turn of speed and could put in a fast finish. It was quite possible we would win, but not such a tied-on certainty as my first ride; I would give it my best effort as usual, but the outcome was unknown.

  No horse in any race was a dead certainty. Horses weren’t robots or machines; like people, they were better some days than others with no explainable reason why.

  Outside in the parade ring, I was given minimal instructions on how to ride the race and then legged up. If anything, Patrick’s moroseness was even more intensified, but Lady Branshawe appeared to disregard his attitude and favoured me again with her dazzling smile.

  ‘As before, Harry, it would be super to have another winner, but not before safety.’

  ‘And don’t use the whip. Doesn’t like it. OK?’ Patrick snapped. The hostility was coming off him in waves.

  I nodded. ‘OK.’

  I could feel the excitement running through the horse. He was eager to get out on to the course. He may have been a bit green but he was learning fast. With much head-shaking and skittering around, we circled the parade ring, allowing the enthusiastic crowd of punters to view him up close from behind the safety rails. And then we were heading for the walkway out on to the course. I allowed him a fairly free canter down to join the other horses.