Snow had ceased falling at some time during the night, but at seven a.m. the temperature was well below zero. Annabel had turned on the small television in the kitchen and was watching the early-morning weather forecast as she whisked eggs in a basin.
‘They say it’s going to stay like this for a few days.’
‘Hmm. That’s what Mike was going on about last night when he rang.’
Racing was off. And I was now at a loose end, something that didn’t happen very often.
‘You’ll be a gentleman of leisure.’
‘Not what I need.’
‘No, but you can’t race in these conditions.’
Her words made me think about what the trainer Tally Hunter had been telling me. ‘Apparently, they do over in Switzerland.’
‘What, race on snow?’
‘Yeah. ‘Course, I think it’s mostly with their homebred horses. They are used to the cold climate and the snow.’
‘Do any English trainers fly horses over?’
‘Yes. Not many, though.’
‘Would you like to try it?’
‘Me? Give over. I have enough trouble staying in the saddle when the horse under me is running on grass.’
She laughed, spooning scrambled eggs on to buttered toast.
‘Looks lovely, thanks.’ I took the plate she handed me. ‘Don’t have breakfast at home usually. This is a treat.’
‘Fancied some myself, before I drive back.’
‘The lane might be a bit tricky but the milkman has already been down. I should try driving in his tyre tracks.’
‘Hmm … don’t worry, I intend to. I’ve already had a peep outside and seen the tracks. Anyway, once I take a right on to the main road, that will have been salted and it should be clear.’
‘What time did you tell Jeffrey you’d be back?’
She’d rung him when it was obviously not safe to drive home. When she’d passed the phone over so I could speak to him, he’d urged me to make sure she stayed at Harlequin Cottage overnight, until the belt of snow sweeping across the country had gone and visibility was clear again.
‘She’ll enjoy your company, Harry, and Leo’s, of course,’ he’d chuckled.
There had been no trace of anxiety in his voice at the thought of Annabel being here all night with me – just the two of us. It was this level of trust that held me safe from abusing it. It worked better than a chastity belt.
I waved her off, regretfully, at around nine o’clock. Leo, sitting in the little side window of the cottage, watched her go. His ears were flat to his head. He wasn’t pleased.
‘I totally agree with you, mate. You want her to stay, too, don’t you? Tell you what, how about some more breakfast, eh?’
Annabel had already fed him – a total indulgence – with pilchards. It had been a large tin she’d undone, there was plenty more left.
I’d just set down his bowl on the quarries in the kitchen when the landline extension rang.
‘Racing’s off, then, Harry.’
For a moment, I struggled to place the voice before realizing it was Tal Hunter.
‘Oh, hello, yes, the whole country. Well, maybe not the all-weather, but I should think that’s down to inspections.’
‘So, how about it? You’ve no excuse now.’
‘How about what, Tally?’
‘Going over to Switzerland, take in the racing over there. I was telling you all about it, remember?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. Grass is my thing.’
‘Don’t dismiss it. The whole White Turf racing experience is not to be missed.’
‘I take it you’re going?’
‘Too true.’
‘Well, do have a great time.’
‘Aw, come on, Harry … You’re redundant at the right time. Day after tomorrow, I’ve got a runner – one of Lady Branshawe’s, actually.’
‘Oh, I get it. She put you up to it, did she?’
‘Now don’t be like that. She may have mentioned how impressed she was by your riding—’
‘No.’
‘Doesn’t the thought of a couple of days away watching a racing spectacular grab you?’
‘I’m not saying it wouldn’t be a terrific experience – watching it! But I’m not actually riding.’
‘Well, then, bring a friend, make it a break. It’s not likely you’ll get the opportunity again.’ She laughed. ‘Snow in both countries at the same time, plus it’s fallen just as the racing’s about to go off.’
Annabel’s words rang in my ear. I want you to see Georgia. I hesitated. Georgia was into horses. It might be something she would like …
‘What do y’say?’
‘Tally, let me mull it over for a bit. When are you flying out?’
‘Taking off from Birmingham airport the day after tomorrow. Could give you a lift to the airport in my car.’
‘I’ll think about it; there are one or two things I need to do before I say definitely, OK?’
‘Uh-huh, but if you’re worried about getting a seat on the plane, I can easily look it up on the computer and book you one.’
‘If I do go, you’ll need to book two.’
‘Right. Wait to hear from you. Bye.’
She rang off and left me trying to get my head around the offer. Firstly, I’d need to ring Georgia, or maybe it might be better to simply motor over to Grantham. Surprise her at The Trug Basket. The added advantage of surprise might make her say yes. I caught myself up. Was I seriously thinking of taking this opportunity? With a thrill of anticipation, I realized the answer was yes.
It would provide us with space away from our home ground to see how we got on. Holidays were notorious for either cementing friendships or pointing up the differences and breaking ties.
However, it wasn’t simply following through on what Annabel had said; there was the unfinished business of John Dunston’s plea in his letter. My conversation with Nathaniel Willoughby had reinforced the possible connection with Switzerland when he had told me about Jackson Fellows. And the further question that it might also involve Mike’s late wife, Monica.
At that point, I suddenly remembered. I had the disposable camera that Pen had found. Photographs that Monica had taken while on holiday in Switzerland. So far, the camera was still sitting in the dash of my Mazda. I’d meant to take it into a chemist, get it developed. I’d forgotten.
I made a hasty decision. I’d drive over to Grantham and drop off the camera for fast developing before going to see Georgia.
With luck, the film could be picked up on my way home. It would be very interesting to see just what shots Monica had taken. Especially if they were shots of individual people. According to what Jackson Fellows had told Nathaniel, they were incriminating.
And it would be even more interesting to see what Georgia thought about going abroad with me.
EIGHTEEN
‘D’you know, you’re as bad as that cat, always landing on your feet – well, in Leo’s case, paws. I don’t know how you do it. Wish I did.’ Mike shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘Taking off to fly to another country at a moment’s notice, getting waited on in a hotel – no work to do. And with a beautiful woman to hold your hand’ – he grinned slyly – ‘or anything else.’
‘Mike …’ Pen said warningly. ‘Take no notice of him, Harry.’
‘Pulling your leg, Harry,’ he said hastily. ‘Of course, I’ll feed the main man while you’re away. And, by the way, I’m very pleased for you. Georgia decided she’d like to go. What you need – a new woman.’
‘That’s what Annabel told me.’
‘Did she? Well, she’s right. You go and have a good time.’
‘Appreciate it, Mike.’
I’d called in at the stables on my way back from Grantham. It had been ridiculously easy to persuade Georgia that she couldn’t possibly pass up the chance to see the snow racing.
‘Are you sure you want me to come with you?’
‘Yes, I am sure.’
�
�I’d really love to watch those races. It sounds brilliant.’
Her enthusiasm acted on me like an accelerant on a pile of smouldering logs, and suddenly I found myself burning with anticipation and relishing the chance to go to Switzerland.
‘Is there anything else you need doing, Harry?’ Pen asked as she thrust a mug of tea in my hand.
‘No. As long as Leo’s OK, I guess that’s it. If there is any emergency, you can always ring my mobile. I’ll also give you the number of the hotel, when I get it sorted.’
‘Take plenty of photographs to show us, Harry.’ As soon as she’d said the words, Pen’s face betrayed what she was thinking. I needed to get her off the hook before Mike noticed anything wrong.
‘Don’t worry about any snapshots, Pen. I’ll make sure of them.’
It felt devious, deceitful, to be talking subtext here with Mike standing in the room, smiling at us. But there was no chance to tell her what progress I’d made with developing the photographs in Monica’s camera. At least now she would know I hadn’t forgotten about them.
And until I’d had a chance to unwrap the package I’d collected from the chemist, had a good look through and decided if they were hot or not, it was best to say nothing further.
No fresh tyre tracks indented the snow in the lane leading to Harlequin Cottage. I drove confidently through the open gate and crunched gently to a stop by the back door. Whatever the advantages of this weather, the best one was the sense of security it gave me on arriving home. No need to check if any undesirables were staked out ready to jump me. I knew there weren’t any. Apart from my own footprints – and Leo’s paw prints – the snow lay pristine and utterly beautiful in its smooth perfection.
And if it looked this good in my own garden in England, what would it look like over in Switzerland?
St Moritz was the ultimate venue. Frequented by royalty, the wealthy and assorted film stars – it was alleged Kate Moss and George Clooney had been spotted recently – magnet-like, it attracted the famous and successful too, like the effervescent flat jockey Frankie Dettori. He had certainly raced on the frozen lake. All those fabulous winter sports – not least, the fearsome Cresta Run. With Piz Nair towering impressively above the town and lake, all cloaked in white glory, it was going to be some experience.
With a thrill of expectation, I thought about Georgia. It was high time I broke my duck and shared a bed with a beautiful woman again.
I shoved the kettle on to the Rayburn hotplate and, while it came to the boil, slipped upstairs and gathered up several shirts, sufficient underwear and socks, plus – an afterthought – my silk pyjamas, returning to the kitchen to toss them into the washer.
Going through to the office with a scalding mug of tea, I took the package of photographs from my pocket and sat down at the desk. Picking up the heavy, silver paper knife, I slit open the wrapping. Upending the folder from inside, I shook out the contents. They slithered all over the leather desktop – twenty-odd photos.
Taking a gulp of tea, I sat the mug down on a coaster and nudged the photographs apart, placing them face up. Monica had been no Lord Lichfield. Two or three were useless shots, ruined by too much light. I examined the rest one by one.
Several were shots of Clara, Mousey’s late wife, who had accompanied Monica on holiday. I looked at them and felt a pang of sadness. She looked so happy, carefree. The pair of them did. Obviously, they’d cajoled some other holidaymaker into taking several shots of them together. Both Clara and Monica were grinning cheekily at the camera. In one Monica was waving a ski pole, either having successfully returned from a ski or about to head off down one of the slopes. The overall impression was that they were having a great time.
But for me, the person seeing these photographs for the first time, the knowledge that both women would be seriously injured – in Monica’s case, dead – so soon after was gutting in the extreme.
I stood up, took my mug of tea for a walk around the room and sank the contents.
Then I bent over the desk and looked at the rest of the snaps. Most of them were of the spectacular landscape, Alps in the background, plus hotels, shops and ski-lift. Monica had tried to have a foreground subject to give perspective, usually people. I pondered over what threat could be contained in these innocent-looking holiday shots.
Two or three group snaps showed people clustered around outside tables, drinks in hand, smiles abounding. I didn’t recognize anyone. But just one picture, showing two men standing beside some snow-laden trees, tweaked my antennae. Something about one of the figures seemed vaguely familiar. Not facially – they were both wearing dark glasses – but the stance of the body, undoubtedly aggressive, had me interested. I studied it closely for several minutes, but nothing enlightening came to mind.
Beginning at the first picture, I worked my way through them again. Nothing. However, concentrating on the pair of figures again, I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. Exactly what it signified, I’d no idea. I couldn’t recognize either of the men, but the feeling persisted, niggling at the edge of my mind, that there was definitely something familiar about one of them. It was bloody frustrating but trying to force recognition wasn’t going to work.
Finally, in exasperation, I scooped them up and slid the whole lot back into the folder. They could keep until I returned from Switzerland. Maybe, by then, my subconscious would have come up with the answer. Since I’d been virtually kneecapped into chasing killers, I’d come to rely quite a lot on my sixth sense, intuition … whatever.
The landline on the desk rang. It was Tal Hunter.
‘Everything OK, Harry?’
‘It surely is, Tal.’
‘And?’
She didn’t need to ask if there’d be two tickets needed on the aeroplane: the cheeky lift to her tone said it for her.
‘Yes … two needed.’
She giggled. ‘Don’t forget passports. You’ll need them, have to go through passport control at Heathrow’ – then dropped her bombshell – ‘even though we’re going in Lady Branshawe’s private jet.’
‘What?’
‘Pick you up in my car around nine a.m. tomorrow morning – that all right?’
‘Doesn’t sound like I have a choice.’
‘Now, come on, Harry. These offers don’t come along very often. Think how impressed your lady friend’s going to be.’
‘How come you didn’t tell me straight off about the travel arrangements?’
‘Not down to me. What’s the trainers’ mantra?’
‘Keep the owners sweet.’
‘Exactly.’
I could practically hear the smile on her face. ‘Mike says I’m devious. I reckon you’re way out in front.’
She was openly laughing now. ‘See you, Harry.’
I’d telephoned Georgia immediately. Arranged to collect her from Plungar at eight a.m.
‘You see,’ I said, as we drew up at the cottage in plenty of time to be picked up, ‘far better than you driving yourself here and having to leave your car outside in the snow.’
Georgia stepped out carefully on to the snow-packed gravel while I lugged her suitcase from the boot of the Mazda.
‘Oh, look … is that Leo?’ She pointed towards the back door where a large ginger cat was sitting on the doorstep.
He was sizing her up. I could almost read what he was thinking. Not Annabel – so who?
‘Yep. The village stud.’
‘What can you expect if you don’t have him neutered.’
‘Shhh …’ I said. ‘I’ll be mugged by all the queens.’
‘Idiot.’ She laughed. And walked across to Leo, held out a hand for his inspection. With much whisker-twitching, he sniffed delicately.
‘Will I do?’ she asked.
Leo stood up unhurriedly, prowled over the snow and launched himself at me. Reaching my shoulder, he bashed his head against my face and bellowed a greeting.
‘Does he always do that?’
‘Pretty much,’ I said. I walk
ed up to the kitchen door and opened it.
‘He must weigh a ton, he’s massive.’
‘Can’t argue with that.’ I stood to the side and gestured her into the kitchen. ‘He’s not over-friendly with strangers. Soft as melting ice cream with Annabel, of course.’
‘His mistress,’ she agreed.
We stood there, the echo of her words lingering. I broke the suddenly charged atmosphere. ‘Just get the brute fed. Tal will be here in a few minutes.’
‘Point me to the bathroom. It’s a good drive to Birmingham.’
‘Sure,’ I nodded, ‘upstairs, first right. Oh, and by the way, it’s a good idea because we’re going right down to Heathrow.’
‘But I thought you said …’ She hesitated, a tiny frown wrinkling her forehead.
I nodded again. ‘I did. But Tal’s bowed to the wishes of Lady Branshawe. Apparently, we’re going over to St Moritz in her private jet.’
Tal would have been gratified with Georgia’s reaction to that bit of news. Her mouth opened in an ‘O’ of surprise.
‘My word! I’m very impressed.’
I grinned. ‘Tally said you would be.’
‘She was so right.’
‘Still glad you agreed to come on the trip?’
‘Are you joking, Harry Radcliffe? It’s a fairy tale that’s getting better all the time.’
I put Leo’s dish down on the floor and he took a dive off my shoulder, applied himself to the serious business of eating his breakfast and promptly ignored us.
‘I sincerely hope you enjoy everything.’
She reached out, took my face between her hands. ‘I’m sure I shall. Thank you again for asking me, Harry.’
Then she gave me a very quick kiss before turning and heading upstairs.
A few minutes later, the horseshoe knocker sounded a loud bang, bang, bang on the back door.
‘Ready?’ I asked Georgia.
With eyes sparkling with excitement, she nodded emphatically.
I opened the door. Tally, wearing a furry hat and her St Moritz coat, smiled broadly.
‘Do introduce me, Harry.’
‘I’m Georgia. Hello. You’re Tally Hunter, aren’t you? And yes, you were spot on: I’m very impressed.’
‘You’re happy with the new arrangement?’
Dead Heat Page 13
