Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Here you are.’ Victor returned holding out the slip of paper. ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘No idea, yet.’ I took it from him.

  ‘Keep it. If Nigel finds it’s missing, Paula will have to smuggle it back into their house. If not, do whatever you have to do.’

  I heaved myself up regretfully from the comfortable depths of the armchair. ‘Best be going, Victor. Could you have a word with Paula? Ask her to tell us what time Nigel usually leaves on the Sunday and what road he takes after leaving their place. Also, I want to know what car he will be driving, the colour and the number on the registration plate. I need to be in place well before he leaves so it doesn’t raise any suspicions.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll certainly do that, Harry. Give you a ring when I find out.’

  I crunched my way carefully back down the slope of his driveway and, with the Mazda’s heater on full blast, headed away from the coast back home to the Midlands.

  It was edging towards evening when I got back. Pointless to think of going over to Mike’s stables now. Evening stables would be half over. Far better if I applied myself to writing my weekly column for the newspaper – get it done and out of the way. I routinely procrastinated, sweated, swore and wished myself anywhere but seated at the computer. But in the past I’d been grateful for the regular money coming in. It had been much needed to pay nursing-home fees. Thinking about it, I realized that Annabel now was in the same situation of having to fund nursing care for Sir Jeffrey. Life was a bitch.

  However, the first thing needed was to feed Leo. At the sound of the engine, I’d seen the curtain at the little side window in the lounge sway to one side and had spotted his ginger head peering round. He was only a cat – only! – but how welcome was the sight of him watching for me coming home. Knowing the cottage wouldn’t be empty and the welcome would be warm when I walked in made all the difference in the world.

  Column written, both of us fed and with a mug of scalding tea to hand, I switched on the table lamp in the lounge. Taking the slip of paper Victor had given me, I held it close to the light and scrutinized it. The paper itself was substantial – thick, with a very smooth finish. I tilted it up to let the light shine through it. There was an almost indistinguishable watermark. So, not just a scrap of paper.

  It had been torn from a sheet, maybe even a pad, of expensive paper. Given the amount owing written upon it, that it was quality paper came as no surprise. It immediately gave a clue to the person who had written upon it. Someone with a sizeable bank balance who extended his expensive purchases to include even something as basic as paper to reflect his own personality. An egotist, probably – a well-dressed, self-assured man for whom nothing but the best would do. And the one word written diagonally across the sum – Thanks – was written with an assured hand. A professional man, certainly.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I didn’t get to meet Georgia’s parents – in itself a fair indication of the way the wind was blowing. I parked up on the drive at exactly seven o’clock – the striking of the village church clock confirmed my timekeeping. But before I’d even had time to switch off the engine, Georgia slipped out of the front door, closed it quickly behind her and slid into the passenger seat.

  Her winter coat parted and displayed a full-length black-and-white dress. The split down the side exposed a deliciously tantalizing length of slim thigh. Memories of our night together flicked through my mind, but her choice of footwear effectively earthed my thoughts. Incongruously, she was wearing a pair of much-used battered wellies.

  ‘I did hose them down after doing the stables,’ she commented dryly, noting my down-swept glance. ‘I don’t think they smell.’

  ‘Actually, I was about to say your perfume’s lovely. Not the slightest hint of horse.’

  She shot me a swift smile. ‘Thanks.’ She reached into a bag, partly withdrew a strappy sandal – ‘See, house-trained’ – before letting it slide back inside. ‘So … which way are we going?’

  ‘Is that a logistical question – or merely a loaded one?’

  ‘Shall we just set off, see where the road takes us?’

  I engaged first gear and pointed through the windscreen. ‘Well, it definitely won’t be the scenic route tonight.’

  Stray flakes of snow, no doubt harbingers of a whole lot more, were beginning to float down.

  The snow continued to fall lightly all the way, but it stayed in first gear and didn’t add any depth to the already lying snow. I knew the direction and roughly whereabouts Lady Branshawe’s place was, but the satnav was useful for the last two or three miles.

  The drive itself was a long one, marked by just two well-worn furrows from the many vehicles that had obviously preceded us. A swing to the left at the last minute brought Hempton Hall into view. It was as imposing as I’d expected: a Georgian mansion with sweeping steps leading to the heavy oak door, flanked by two enormous grooved pillars.

  I reached for the circular iron ring and gave it a hefty tug. The ensuing loud peeling could have stood in for a bell in the local church tower.

  ‘Now that’s some doorbell,’ murmured Georgia.

  The echoes were still dying away when a man in full butler fig opened the door and graciously asked us in. He relieved us of coats and, in Georgia’s case, wellingtons, before showing us into the main reception room. All the great and the good seemed to be here; the room was packed.

  Lady Branshawe came forward, smiling widely. ‘Georgia, Harry, so good of you to come. Now, do help yourselves to a drink …’ A waitress had been hovering just behind her and now stepped forward and proffered a tray of filled flutes. ‘Is it still trying to snow out there?’

  Georgia nodded. ‘But it’s only a dusting.’

  Lady Branshawe laughed. ‘That’s good.’ She waved a hand towards the throng of people in the room. ‘I’d have a problem bedding down all my guests if it snows heavily.’

  ‘The hall’s quite isolated, isn’t it? I was glad of the satnav.’

  ‘It is rather remote,’ she agreed. ‘But it probably fools the burglars. They give up looking for us long before they get here.’

  While she was talking, she was discreetly ushering us in the direction of the huge inglenook fireplace. Filled with a four-foot-wide basket crammed with flaming logs, it threw out a massive blast of heat and effectively counteracted any amount of snowfall. But it wasn’t simply her wish to warm us after the journey. Leaning against the wall alcove to the side of the inglenook was a tall man, hair brushed back from a wide, intelligent forehead and a paunch that said life had supplied all his needs – mostly edible, but also no doubt washed down by the finest alcohol.

  He had noted our progress across the crowded room and unhitched himself with a smile.

  ‘Ha, good evening.’ He nodded affably to Georgia. ‘And you are my daughter’s talented new jockey, eh?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Daddy, may I introduce the famous Harry Radcliffe and his friend, Georgia.’ She turned to us, ‘My father, the Earl of Deymouth.’ Hands were shaken all round.

  ‘No racing in this weather, though?’

  ‘No, sir, we’ve been firmly grounded.’

  ‘I did offer him a chance in St Moritz, but he turned it down.’

  He guffawed. ‘I don’t blame him. He doesn’t look like a man to take unnecessary chances.’

  I lifted the glass to my lips to conceal a smile. If he knew some of the chances I’d been forced to take, he wouldn’t make such a glib comment.

  ‘Oh, Aunt Daphne,’ Lady Branshawe welcomed a well-preserved woman who had fetched up at the side of us. ‘My father’s younger sister … Daphne Brown.’ She waved a hand. ‘This is Georgia, and this is Harry Radcliffe, the Champion Jockey.’

  ‘So pleased to meet you,’ purred Daphne. ‘We do have racehorses, but not up here in the north.’ She gave an elegant little shudder. ‘Too bleak. No, we’re down in Berkshire – Lambourn, actually.’

  ‘The valley of the racehorse,�
� said Georgia.

  Daphne beamed a radiant smile at her. ‘Sooo … you’re into racing, as well?’

  ‘No.’ Georgia wrinkled her nose. ‘But it rubs off, having horses and being around racing people.’

  ‘You own racehorses?’

  ‘Goodness, no. I run a flower shop – which doesn’t run to owning a racehorse. I’ve simply taken in a couple of needy ones from Bransby.’

  ‘Ah … yes.’ Daphne scrutinized her. ‘I have heard of them. A horse rescue charity.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And have you perhaps heard of Elaine Brown?’

  ‘Not sure, but I knew an Elaine at university.’

  ‘Elaine is Daphne’s daughter, my cousin,’ said Lady Branshawe. ‘And also a supporter of Bransby Rescue Centre.’

  ‘I see.’ Georgia smiled at Daphne. ‘They do need all the support they can get.’

  ‘Unfortunately, all charities do,’ said the Earl. ‘However, we are fortunate to have Mr Jackson Fellows playing for us tonight. So very kind after he gave his services freely last night as well in London.’

  ‘How did it go, sir?’ I enquired.

  ‘Marvellously well, thank you, Harry. We raised a really substantial sum to swell our fundraising. But you and your lady friend don’t seem to have taken advantage of the buffet …’ He cupped Georgia’s elbow. ‘Come along. After that cold journey, I’m sure you could do with some sustenance, my dear.’

  Georgia managed to give me a swift sweeping glance before allowing herself to be escorted to the far end of the room. Taking my cue, I followed them to where a snowy-white linen-covered table was seriously in danger of collapsing under the weight of an array of food that would have fed an army.

  We loaded plates, although my own choice of delicacies, well spaced out, paid only lip service to that impression. As we turned away from the magnificent spread, looking for a couple of seats, I heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Harry, over here – do join us.’ And I saw Tally beckoning us. She was with Jim Crack and a couple of other people – strangers – at a table for six in an alcove near one of the windows.

  ‘Shall we?’ I queried.

  Georgia nodded, whispering, ‘Do introduce me. I’ve no idea who the others are.’

  ‘I’m with you there – well, as regards two of them.’

  But Tally took the reins. ‘Mr and Mrs Webley, Ernest and Portia. Harry Radcliffe and Georgia.’

  We shook hands.

  I turned to Georgia, ‘Obviously, Tally you already know, and this is Jim Crack, also a trainer and an old friend.’

  ‘Hello.’

  We sat down at the table.

  ‘I gather you had a good trip over to Switzerland.’ Jim beamed at Georgia.

  She responded by blushing. ‘Yes, indeed we did. So glad not to have missed it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I did, this year.’ A voice over my shoulder had everybody looking up.

  ‘Hello, Jackson. Do join us,’ Tally said.

  He was astonishingly like his photograph – the photograph I’d received from Nathaniel Willoughby. The photo I’d carried around at the St Moritz racecourse while desperately trying to locate him among the crowds. Jackson Fellows, the pianist.

  ‘Would love to.’ He spread his hands – sensitive, long-fingered hands. ‘But I’m needed at the piano in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘We’re all looking forward to hearing you,’ Ernest Webley said. ‘It was a real treat listening to you play in London.’

  ‘So kind. Let’s hope I don’t disappoint tonight.’

  ‘Neither Georgia nor I have heard you play before,’ I said, ‘so it’s a first for us.’

  ‘Pressure, the pressure,’ he said, dramatically sweeping a hand across his forehead.

  ‘A shame you missed out on the snow racing.’ I dropped in the bait.

  ‘Yes’ – Georgia innocently carried on my line of thinking and I could have blessed her for it – ‘it was stupendous. But if you normally go, why not this year?’

  Maybe I imagined it, but his jaw seemed to tighten slightly. Georgia’s smile, however, softened the directness in the question. Probably, I wouldn’t have got away with asking, but, like the majority of males she came into contact with, he seemed pleased by her attention.

  ‘I so hate to let people down. Duty before pleasure, you know. I was playing these two venues back to back and I needed to spend time at the keyboard, practising.’ His reply came out swiftly, pat, almost rehearsed.

  She smiled. ‘I understand.’

  And I understood that his no-show at the races was not solely due to his scheduled performances.

  If I had my doubts, they were dispelled as I watched the muscles in his face relax as he walked away. The look of relief was clear as he made his way over to the piano. I doubted that any of the others at our table would have noticed anything, as they weren’t looking, but I was, with my chair angled just right – and I had a good view.

  Georgia had used the word ‘stupendous’. And it was certainly the word to describe the music flowing from beneath Jackson’s fingers as they stroked, glided and firmly claimed the piano keys.

  The buzz of chatter in the room died instantly and we were all held by the passion and feeling in the music.

  He began the recital by playing a rendering of Scott Joplin’s popular and vivacious ‘The Entertainer’, before becoming serious with Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight’ Sonata and moving effortlessly to ‘Fur Elise’, followed by Einaudi’s ‘Le Onde’ – The Waves. We were all swept away by his expertise.

  ‘And to finish,’ Jackson said, as the music trickled away, ‘one of my personal favourites. OK, now I know that can’t be rain coming down outside – it’s white – but I’m sure you can all use your imagination.’

  And he proceeded to take our breath away with Chopin’s ‘Raindrop’ Prelude.

  The storm of clapping that followed was deafening. And I could well understand Nathaniel Willoughby’s appreciation of Jackson’s talent. And his disappointment when, with two fingers broken on his left hand, Jackson had been forced to forgo his performance in Switzerland. But those fingers were well healed now and doing a truly wonderful job.

  The questions that needed answering were who had broken Jackson’s fingers? And how the hell was I going to find that out? Followed by why were they broken? Was it something he’d done, or not done – maybe something he knew? But having listened to his playing, those two deliberately broken fingers took on a deeper significance that smacked at vindictiveness aimed at Jackson’s wonderful talent. Had they not healed correctly – and that must have been a possibility – the loss of his gift would have deprived a lot of people of a lot of pleasure. Yes, there was a very sour and spiteful feel behind the attack, almost as though the person was deeply jealous of Jackson himself. It was a further piece of the jigsaw.

  I mentally stored it away in the box – as yet without an illustration on top – with all the other pieces. One day, without doubt, I’d have enough to join up and I’d see the complete picture.

  And as had happened in the past, sometimes I didn’t need all the pieces. Given a fair proportion, I would mull over what I had and my sixth sense would take a wild leap, giving me the answer.

  Right now, though, there was nothing esoteric about my hands. They were aching from all the exuberant clapping which lasted until Jackson, acknowledging the appreciation of his audience, ran his hands once more over the keys and treated us to Chopin’s ‘Nocturne in E flat’.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘I know I said I was glad not to miss the Switzerland trip, but how wonderful was that?’ Georgia sighed, her face glowing with pleasure.

  ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ I said. ‘I’d no idea he could play like that.’ I’d certainly had reservations before coming tonight, wondering how it would pan out, but, like Georgia, I was very pleased not to have missed that performance.

  Tally and the others at our table nodded agreement. ‘It was marvellous.’

/>   I caught the waitress on her way past our table, took two flutes of champagne from the tray and handed one to Georgia. ‘We’ll drink to a lovely evening, shall we?’

  ‘Why not.’

  Holding eye contact, we took a sip of our drinks. However she wanted to play it was fine by me. Without commitment or expectations, it felt easy and comfortable again between us.

  On the periphery of my vision, I noted Jackson finally managing to withdraw from a tight circle of admirers and head for the door.

  ‘Would you excuse me? Must go to the gents,’ I said, setting down my glass.

  Without hurrying, I followed him from the main lounge and out into the hall, and although by now he’d disappeared, I was pretty sure he was headed for the cloakroom to grab a few minutes’ peace and relief. His adrenaline levels needed a chance to lower. Unfortunately, I was about to push them back up.

  Opening the door, I went in. Like the rest of the hall, it was perfectly equipped to cater for parties, with a run of three separate toilets and a line of hand basins set in a long mirror-backed vanity unit. I swished hot water into one of the hand basins and kept an eye on the mirror, all the time praying that no one else would feel the need to take a comfort break right now. They didn’t. But a toilet flushed and Jackson Fellows was reflected in the mirror in front of me.

  Our eyes met.

  ‘That was some performance,’ I said, and meant it.

  ‘Glad you enjoyed it.’ He washed his hands in the next basin and ran wet hands through his long hair. It was black and lush. He could have doubled for a young Ian McShane. I was sure he had no trouble attracting the girls.

  There was no easy way to open the conversation. I jumped in.

  ‘Sorry you have a problem.’

  His eyes flicked sideways in the mirror. ‘No idea what you’re getting at. I don’t have a problem.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m just really happy for you that those two fingers mended perfectly.’