Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Dunno about that, Harry.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘But you’ve got to give it to Martin. He’s a damn good chef.’

  I nodded. ‘My fish was great.’

  ‘Don’t know how you get it down without chips.’

  ‘The same way I get on the scales before and after a race: because I have to.’

  ‘At least you make a decent living from all that abstinence. Not like us poor sods. We have to make contingency plans. Know what I mean, Harry?’ He winked slyly.

  ‘Hmm, not really, not unless you’re moonlighting. In which case, when do you sleep?’

  ‘Nah, after a day’s graft in the stables I’m in no shape to do any more work. But cards don’t count as work.’

  ‘You could find yourself even worse off.’

  ‘Not really. My mam came from Ireland – and you know what they say about the luck of the Irish. ’S’true.’

  ‘One day, Jacko,’ Keith cut in, ‘you’ll come a cropper. Luck’s a tricky lady.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah …’ He grinned. ‘Not when you’ve a touch of blarney to go with it.’

  ‘Right.’ Keith nodded cynically. ‘And you’re there to catch any backhanders, eh?’

  Jacko shrugged. ‘You’ve to get by, haven’t you?’

  ‘And if I wanted a game, how’d I go about it?’

  ‘You’ve a wife and kid to support, ain’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes life gets a bit … stale. A card game might be just the thing to add some zap.’

  Under the table I caught his shin gently with the toe of my shoe in acknowledgement of his attempt to steer the conversation where I needed it to go.

  ‘You talking about a possible big return here, or just chicken feed?’ There was a barely concealed sneer in his voice.

  It was Keith’s turn to shrug. ‘Wasn’t thinking chicken feed, seeing as I don’t indulge much. But don’t get me wrong; I’m not about to make it a hobby.’

  It was time to make myself scarce. Keith would get a lot more information right now than I would. Jacko said nothing, simply upended his pint before setting it down on the table. I seized the chance.

  ‘Can I get you another one?’

  ‘Decent of you, Harry, ta.’

  ‘Keith?’

  ‘Yes, please, that’d be good.’

  I left them to it and went over to the bar.

  ‘Nice to see you in here, Harry.’ The barmaid smiled beguilingly. ‘You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?’

  ‘A man can get a bit bored in this weather. It’s good to catch up with some mates when you get the chance.’

  ‘Would have thought Sundays might be more your style. You know, when the trainers and such are in.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, early Sunday evenings, they mostly drop in for a quick one.’

  ‘And which trainers are they?’

  ‘Well, let me think.’ She put a red talon to her lips and posed. ‘For a start, there’s Mr Unwin. You know, from down your neck of the woods. And, of course, Mr Brown – Patrick, that is. Not his dad.’ She giggled before sweeping her lashes down coyly. But it was too late; I’d already caught the flash of desire in her eyes. Mousey’s suspicions regarding his son’s liberal interpretation of his marriage vows might well be justified.

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Usually a couple of other men – posh, you know. Dressed up in fancy suits. The older one always wears a cravat. I teased him about it once and he said something like “I can’t wear it for business, so I wear it when I’m away from restraints”. Like I say, posh.’

  ‘But you don’t know their names, I suppose?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ she simpered.

  ‘Thanks, anyway. Now, how much do I owe you?’

  ‘Can we … I … look forward to seeing you on a Sunday, then?’ The lashes were now on piecework as she handed me the change from a twenty-pound note.

  ‘Possibly. But of course, it depends an awful lot on what the weather is like.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she agreed earnestly.

  ‘May I ask your name? You know mine, but I’m at a disadvantage here.’

  ‘Sherrie.’

  ‘Most appropriate.’

  ‘What?’ And then the penny dropped and she screamed with laughter. ‘Oh, yes! I see what you’re getting at. Because of my job. Nobody’s ever connected it before. You are clever.’

  ‘Elementary, my dear Watson.’

  ‘Eh?’ She wrinkled her forehead.

  ‘Never mind.’ I smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  I went back to our table. A third person, a young lad, had joined the others. Jacko, who was talking to him, broke off his conversation when he saw me coming.

  ‘See you’ve met our Sherrie. You want to watch it, Harry. She likes older men, especially if they’re well heeled.’

  ‘Too young for me.’

  I started to hand the drinks out and was about to ask if the youngster would like one as well when Jacko waved him away. The lad took a couple of steps, then spun around, all but bumping into me, rocking the table and spilling some of Jacko’s ale.

  ‘The money. Nearly forgot to give it to you.’

  He reached over to Jacko with a handful of springy new fivers.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Jacko frowned. He grabbed them and reached inside his jacket for his wallet. But the ale had made his fingers slippery and the wallet fell from his grasp and landed on the floor.

  I automatically reached down, retrieved it and gave it him back, but a loose piece of folded paper floated out and went further under the table.

  ‘Oh, Gawd!’ Jacko struck his forehead. ‘I’ve bloody forgotten to give that to Patrick.’

  ‘Important?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll say.’

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  It wasn’t an altruistic gesture on my part. It gave me a chance to read what the note said. The fact that it wasn’t sealed inside an envelope told me it wouldn’t reveal anything incriminating, but any snippet of information right now was more than welcome. The paper had slid right underneath the table, so I had to get off my backside and crouch down on one knee. It served my purpose. In that position, nobody could see what I was doing. Flicking open the note, I read the message and refolded it before getting to my feet.

  ‘And who’s sending Patrick love letters, then?’ Keith commented casually.

  As a detective’s sidekick, he couldn’t be bettered.

  Jacko shrugged. ‘Just one of the owners,’ he said dismissively and stuck out a hand.

  I gave him the note. Not that it mattered. I’d read the words – didn’t understand them, but I’d work it out.

  Thrusting the paper back inside his wallet, he turned his attention to supping ale.

  ‘So, you going to tell me what it said?’

  We’d left the pub and the warmth and were driving back through Watersby village.

  ‘Sure, but I’ve no idea what the note means.’

  ‘Well I might have.’

  ‘OK. There were only a few words: I want you there, Patrick, so don’t let the snow stop you. Still, you’d better bring your water-wings, could get a bit choppy if it thaws. Cryptic, or what. Any ideas?’

  Keith nodded excitedly. ‘Oh, aye. It fits with what Jacko told me while you were chatting up Sherrie.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘He was telling me whereabouts to meet up with the other men. He swallowed the story; thought I was serious about a card game. Basically, it’s just up from the Watersby weir and before you get to the nursery and garden centre.’

  ‘What does that tell us? A waterside property perhaps? One whose garden runs down to the river bank?’

  ‘Nah.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t think so, Harry. There are private moorings along that stretch. I reckon the venue might be aboard a boat.’

  ‘OK. Give me directions.’ I patted the steering wheel. ‘Let’s go take a look.’

  It wasn’t that far; t
hrough the village, a swing right and a couple of hundred yards further on we came to the weir. Leaving it behind, following the river, sluggish and pewter-coloured between high banks of snow, we shortly came to the first of the moorings. There were about six or eight, each with an impressive-looking craft secured.

  ‘You think it could be one of these, Keith?’

  ‘Well, anybody owning one of these doesn’t worry about paying his paper bill.’

  ‘Yeah, very true.’

  ‘Drop down. Let’s see what the names are.’

  I obediently went into second gear. Women’s names seemed popular, along with Flying Goddess and Queen of the Stream. And then came the last one. Easily the largest of the houseboats, painted predominantly in red with a band of chevrons in black and white running along the top of the hull, it was a magnificent boat, commanding respect. It was named The Winning Post.

  Keith stabbed a finger in my ribs at the same moment as I put both feet down and brought the Mazda to a stop.

  ‘Got to be, hasn’t it?’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘I think I’ll take you on as my official sidekick. You seem to have a knack for this stuff.’

  ‘Coming from you, Harry, that’s a compliment.’

  ‘Some craft, isn’t it?’

  Keith frowned. ‘Reminds me of something. Can’t remember what, though.’

  ‘Hmm …’ I said, deliberately noncommittal. It reminded me of something as well. But right now I wasn’t sure and didn’t want to voice my thoughts. I could be very wrong. Logic told me I most certainly was, not to mention stupid for entertaining the idea, but gut instinct said, bugger logic, it could be. I prudently kept my mouth shut. But the now familiar tingle ran down the back of my neck. I’d check the theory out when I got back home. Half-baked ideas and hunches, as I’d discovered before, very often paid off.

  ‘What are we doing now? Do you want to get any closer – see if the blinds are down on the far side?’

  The blinds at the portholes along the left-hand side of the boat nearest the bank were all pulled down, obliterating any chance of looking inside.

  ‘No. They’re sure to be drawn as well. We’ll make tracks back to your place, Keith.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  I turned on the engine.

  ‘I’ve got to say it’s been a damn sight more interesting today than lying in bed with Sophia Loren.’

  I laughed. ‘Was she in the film you were going to watch?’

  ‘Yeah, pathetic or what?’

  ‘Come the thaw, you’ll be busy enough.’

  ‘They’re forecasting it’s on the way. Something to do with the wind changing direction.’

  ‘Hope so. Just wish it would hurry up.’

  It was a good job I didn’t know then that that thought would come back and bite me – very hard – in a few days’ time.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It was a long way back in miles from Yorkshire but it seemed to take little time at all. My mind had seized hold of the idea promoted by gut instinct and was going at it like a terrier scenting a rat. Logic was smothered by the possibility that my half-baked theory might just be the right one. If you dismissed credibility entirely and substituted supporting bits of the jigsaw, the picture took shape, albeit in a black-and-white skeleton rather than a fully fleshed Technicolor illustration. When I reached home, I would find out in a couple of minutes whether logic or gut was correct.

  The rise of excitement within me wasn’t so far removed from a Jack Russell’s on scent. We both felt the thrill of chasing a quarry. I thought of Pen’s words: You’re starting to talk like a private eye. Getting involved in chasing murderers had never been up there on my radar in the past; in fact, I’d resisted until that blasted barrel had got me strapped over it with chains.

  I winced. Could it be that Pen was on the right track and I was getting a taste for detecting? I might sound her out when I went over to dinner on Sunday. Mike, surprisingly jubilantly, had said he’d got a ten-pound turkey in the freezer waiting to be cooked and scoffed, and suggested including Pen’s brother, Paul, to make it a foursome. I’d agreed automatically. Pen’s prowess as a cook was a proven delight. Since Annabel had gone to live with Sir Jeffrey, home-cooked food was a treat I wasn’t going to miss out on.

  I felt surprisingly jubilant myself as I swung off the snowy lane – no such luxury as council gritters down here – and on to the gravel drive. But I had to slam on anchors because my parking space had already been taken by an Audi. My flash of annoyance dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. Annabel. My beloved Annabel was here. The kitchen door opened and she stood there, large ginger tomcat clutched to her bosom. I felt the grin split my face; couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to.

  ‘Home is the sailor …’ she said. ‘Been fishing, Harry?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I guess you could say that.’

  ‘And what – if anything – have you caught?’

  ‘Could be a red herring. Got to wait and see.’

  ‘Noses out.’

  I laughed. ‘Not really. Just another of my hunches that could be horribly wrong.’

  ‘Hmm. I know all about your hunches. They’re seldom wrong. Even when the facts say otherwise. That’s what gives you the edge over the others.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know … Rebus?’

  I shook my head. For an intelligent woman, sometimes she came out with the dippiest things.

  ‘He’s Ian Rankin’s detective. He’s not real. And he’s retired.’

  She nodded sagely. ‘Cold-casing now.’

  I took hold of her arm and propelled her back into the kitchen. ‘Tea – gallons of it, scalding hot. And how is Jeffrey?’

  ‘Last seen at eight o’clock this morning; he was fine.’

  I nodded. ‘Give him my best.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘So, who’s looking after him right now?’

  ‘Oh, Molly. You know, the private nurse? Nothing’s too much to ask of her. She’s absolutely dedicated to Jeffrey.’

  I nodded. ‘Sounds the ideal person.’

  And my wildly orbiting hunch was successfully steered away from her thoughts and hopefully forgotten. If she had continued to dig, I might have found myself sounding out my theory on her and that would never do.

  We repaired to the lounge with steaming mugs. I tossed a match to the waiting kindling and the fire obligingly caught and crackled. We sank back on to the settee to enjoy both. Leo gleefully spread himself over both our laps. He was a warm, vibrating bundle of fur.

  ‘Little love,’ Annabel said fondly and stroked his head.

  ‘Hmm … can’t hear yourself think when he purrs that loudly.’

  ‘So, don’t think. Just relax.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve missed him. Nothing like a cat to make a house into a home.’

  ‘You’ve got Jeffrey.’

  ‘I have, yes. But it doesn’t stop me missing Leo.’

  I risked it. ‘Do you miss me?’

  She glanced quickly sideways – our faces only inches apart. ‘My honesty will get me into trouble one day.’

  I waited. Annabel continued to caress the cat. When I’d all but given up on an answer and was sipping hot tea as consolation, she placed her hand over mine.

  ‘I’ve never stopped missing you, Harry.’

  I was about to interrupt, but she shook her head.

  ‘We’ve never needed words. We both know without speaking how things are between us, don’t we?’

  It was true. Uncanny at times, certainly telepathic, we were thinking the same thing at the same time, drawing the same conclusions, our body language mirroring each other’s and doing the talking for us.

  I slid an arm around her shoulders, gave her a gentle hug. ‘I miss you twenty-four/seven. I always will.’

  She gave a little nod of acknowledgement. ‘But it’s different for me now.’

  A mental picture appeared before me of Sir Jeffrey, surprisingly cheerful and adapted to his misfo
rtune, sitting in the wheelchair.

  ‘Of course it is,’ I said. ‘Jeffrey needs you, I know that.’

  ‘But that’s it; he doesn’t.’

  ‘What?’

  She sighed. ‘I care about Jeffrey; I couldn’t be with him if I didn’t. He was never a “convenience”. When I left you, Harry, I didn’t go to live with him simply to have someone. He was in love with me, yes. I knew that. But it’s a powerful incentive to reciprocate the emotion and feel drawn to the person, to the love.’

  I nodded. Annabel was a qualified psychotherapist. She would understand far better than the average person about the workings and impulses of the human heart and mind.

  ‘And I did … do … care about him, probably more than he thinks I do.’

  I remembered Jeffrey’s words spoken to me in the hospital a few days after the car crash. We still share her. I’ve got her affection … but you’ve got her heart … and soul. And I knew she was right. Annabel was never a shallow, selfish woman – never could be; her whole persona was one of giving. She would never have made use of Sir Jeffrey either financially or emotionally. OK, so he was in love with her – I could well understand that – but on her side there had to have been strong feelings; otherwise she would never have chosen to spend her life with him.

  ‘But since the accident, and his appalling injury, something’s changed. Oh, not just physically changed; somehow he seems so much more self-reliant. I know that sounds stupid given his circumstances, but it’s true. He seems to have reached deep inside himself and found a reserve of strength that he didn’t have access to before the crash.’ Her voice wobbled a little. ‘He doesn’t seem to need me anymore, Harry. He’s running now on this new level of strength.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not true, that he doesn’t need you, Annabel. But the way he’s accepted his condition and is dealing with it is absolutely amazing. I have to agree.’

  We sat in silence for a few moments, each with our personal impressions of Jeffrey. Then Annabel drained the last of her tea and seemed to recover her composure.

  ‘Actually, the reason I came over, Harry, was to invite you for a meal with us. I suppose I could just have phoned, but it was a chance to touch base again, you know.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I nodded. ‘See the cat …’