Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  She laughed. ‘That’s right; put things into perspective.’

  ‘Well, you know the answer to the question. Have I ever turned down a chance to eat one of your meals?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There you are, then. When is this bunfight?’

  ‘On Sunday.’

  I groaned. ‘Not this Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I’m already having lunch with Mike and Pen … and probably Paul as well; Mike was going to invite him.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame.’ She made a face. ‘But of course you must go to Mike’s. We can make it another time to come over to us.’

  ‘That would be good. I can’t really let Pen down. It’s a bit short notice.’

  ‘And you mustn’t. We’ll just rejig ours.’

  ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind; it’s worked out quite well for me.’

  ‘Oh, how do you mean?’

  ‘Well, this way, I get to have a Sunday dinner cooked by Pen and then another one cooked by you. Got it made, haven’t I?’

  Annabel jokingly aimed the empty mug at me and I ducked.

  ‘OK, then.’ She stood up and tenderly placed Leo down on the settee. ‘Best be going. I’ll let you know another date when I’ve agreed it with Jeffrey.’

  ‘Fine.’

  She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Take care of yourself, Harry. No undue risks, hmm?’

  ‘The whole of life’s a risk – you told me that yourself.’

  ‘Just don’t go looking for danger.’

  ‘I don’t go looking for danger, but it does seem to find me.’

  ‘I’d noticed,’ she said wryly.

  I saw her out to the Audi and waved her off. Then I went back indoors, went to the lounge and ran a finger along the lower shelf of the bookcase. And found what I was looking for. A racing book, up to date and comprehensive, one that hopefully would give me the answer I needed: Directory of the Turf.

  Among all the data it contained was a section on jockeys’ silks. In particular, which colours were relevant to which owner. These colours were unique, allocated to just one owner, nobody else allowed to use them. These individual colours were required to be re-registered by that owner in the relevant month every year – cost sixty pounds – otherwise they would be re-allocated to a different owner.

  I was looking for the specific colours of red with chevrons of black and white – the same colours in which the boat had been painted. It was a long shot, granted. They might have no relevance whatsoever and simply reflect the boat owner’s taste. But Keith had been sure they reminded him of something. Admittedly, it was a jump to link the colours of a boat to the silks worn by a jockey, but those same colours had also seemed familiar to me.

  I was sure I’d never worn them, which ruled out all the usual owners I rode for. But I could have ridden in a race where one of the other jockeys was wearing those colours and my subconscious had recognized them, triggered by seeing that boat boldly decked out in the same.

  I sat back on the settee and turned to the correct pages. There were a lot of entries. If I ran down all of them, it was going to take ages. But there was one name I was looking for – and that wasn’t going to take long.

  It didn’t – but it floored me. My hunch had seemed ridiculous, but Annabel had said, Your hunches are seldom wrong. And she was right. My hunches came not from cold logic based on fact, but from an inner knowing, impossible to explain, and not something you could call upon at will – you couldn’t go to Tesco’s and buy it straight off the shelf. It didn’t work that way.

  What I was aware of was that the more I got involved in the detecting of murderers, sometimes from the slimmest of leads, the more my hunches seemed to occur. Rather like a muscle, the more it was exercised, the better it functioned.

  And, boy, had it functioned this time.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I poured a large whisky and immediately downed half of it, welcoming the warmth that spread through me. Although I’d half expected this outcome, the confirmation had shaken me. This one piece of information filled in a lot of gaps towards the complete picture.

  This, plus the sight of the piece of paper that I’d fished up off the floor in the Black Cat pub. I was sure nobody else had noticed anything. It had been fortunate I was down on one knee, my face hidden from view, when I’d retrieved the note. I had recognized the paper. The length of time I’d previously spent studying the cancelled IOU Victor’s daughter had found in her husband Nigel’s pocket had ensured there was no mistake. Both pieces of paper had come from the same source. It could not be a coincidence.

  But somehow I couldn’t quite reconcile myself to the fact that this man was a cold-blooded murderer. It seemed so unlikely. And then there was the one seemingly insurmountable problem of the piece of jigsaw that wouldn’t fit. Just that one thing made a nonsense of even considering the man as prime suspect. For goodness’ sake, his name didn’t fit! Without another lead, it was hopeless.

  I smacked a fist down on to the desk in frustration. It didn’t help. All it achieved was barked knuckles. What I had to have was more facts, convincing facts.

  So, I needed to speak to Edward Frame again, ask him if he’d found out anything further during his visit to the racing stables. Far too late this evening to consider haring off into the snow again. It was black outside. After the long haul driving back from Watersby in North Yorkshire, I wasn’t inclined to venture out into the cold again.

  I’d go over to Lincolnshire tomorrow. The roads would no doubt receive a scattering of grit and salt overnight. It made sense to drive over in daylight.

  My assumption was wrong, as I found out when I drew back the bedroom curtains the next morning. The wind had obviously changed direction as the weatherman had predicted and, combined with a sun beaming in and out from scampering grey clouds, there had been a rapid rise in temperature. Most of the snow had disappeared. Persistent pockets remained in the shadows along the bottom of the hedges, safe from the sun’s reaching fingers, but basically winter’s icy grip had conceded big time.

  Moisture dripped from every leaf and branch in the garden. The path was no longer a sheet of white but was now running with water. A blackbird was joyously bathing in the birdbath, flinging up spray with abandon. He brought a smile to my face. Nature never failed to remind you that the simple pleasures were often the most enjoyable.

  But my smile faded when I considered the problem facing me. If Edward had nothing to report, basically I was pretty well stuffed. I had no further leads to follow – except … then I remembered. On Sunday evening I was supposed to be shadowing Nigel Garton from Lincolnshire. It was going to be much easier than I’d anticipated now I knew where he was headed – Watersby.

  I needed to let Victor know. At least I had made some progress and I ought to telephone at the very least, report back to him. The little I’d found out wasn’t going to be of much comfort, but he had to be told. At least he’d know I was putting in some effort on his behalf and he wasn’t dealing with it on his own. In his shoes, I knew I’d be worried sick about the financial situation – not only for his daughter’s sake, as he undoubtedly was, but also for his own future. He was an old man. Having a secure home to live in was paramount to his peace of mind. The not unreasonable fear of possibly losing it would be stressing him out.

  I hesitated. I supposed I could leave it until there was more concrete news, but there were details I still needed to know ready for Sunday evening. I reached for my mobile.

  Victor answered almost immediately. I pictured him sitting in the lounge, views from the east windows looking way out to sea, while he himself was warm and snug by the blazing fire. A beautifully appointed home. It needed to be appreciated with a peaceful heart and mind, not, as I was sure he was right now, racked with anxiety.

  ‘Harry! My dear boy, d’y’know, I was just thinking about you.’

  If you substituted the word ‘thinking’ and inserted ‘worrying’, it would be a much truer picture
. But Victor was old-school, complete with the traditional British stiff upper lip.

  ‘Hello, Victor. Got some news for you.’

  ‘Good or bad?’

  The swiftness of his reply confirmed my appraisal and I was suddenly very glad I’d decided to ring, although my offering was only just a crumb.

  ‘I think I know where Nigel’s headed on Sunday.’

  ‘I think I won’t ask how you’ve found out, Harry. Carry on.’

  ‘It’s near a village called Watersby, situated on the River Ouse. And the probable venue is on board a boat.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘I shan’t know for sure until Nigel gets there on Sunday evening, of course. Do you have those details I need? His starting time from Lincolnshire and the car he’s driving?’

  ‘Yes. All furnished by Paula, of course. She’s beside herself, y’know, Harry. Fearing the worst.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she is.’

  ‘However, I think I’ll keep your piece of information just between us for now. Know what I mean? She’s not a chatterbox, but the stress she’s under could see her—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Victor. I understand perfectly. If you simply tell her I’ve got it well in hand, that should do.’

  ‘She knows I’ve asked you to look into it, Harry. So that alone has to be reassuring for her.’

  ‘Let’s hope we can get a result this time.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  ‘I’ll ring you on Sunday night – don’t know what time – let you know what’s happened.’

  ‘You do that and maybe I’ll get to sleep through afterwards.’ He gave a deprecating snort. ‘Right now, it would be a novelty.’

  ‘OK, then, take care, Victor.’

  ‘And yourself. Bye.’

  I went to the kitchen and fixed breakfast – scrambled eggs, toast and tea. I’d even got as far as hooking my foot around a chair ready to sit down at the table, but there was no chance of enjoying the food. A big ginger head pushed its way through the cat-flap, followed by all eight kilos of the cat himself. He leapt up on to my shoulder, bellowing a greeting. It might have been thawing outside, but Leo’s fur felt icy cold against my cheek. He’d obviously been out all night, probably chasing down the neighbourhood queens.

  I gave up the battle before it began and put my plate of scrambled eggs down on the table. Annabel was his devoted slave but, by God, I was running her a close second. After opening a tin of cat food and loading up his dish with smelly delight, I finally got around to eating breakfast myself. I was downing a second mug of tea when the mobile struck up. It was Georgia.

  ‘Hi, Harry. Thought I’d update you before I head off to The Trug Basket.’

  ‘Would this be about your night out with Lady Branshawe’s cousin?’

  ‘Yes. I promised I would.’

  ‘Did you have a good time?’

  ‘Great time. It was so interesting hearing how their lives had panned out since we all left university.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Elaine and Juliet are both married; somehow I didn’t think they would be. We were all so driven at that last stage of our studies, you know. We’d each fixated on our choice of career, were determined to be successful. There didn’t seem to be time to get to know any men in depth – casual friendships, yes, but nothing of substance. And I really was a dreadful swot, got my leg pulled rotten.’

  ‘But you said Juliet and Jackson were a couple – at that time.’

  ‘Yes, I know. And it’s had a tragic effect. Juliet told me. Because she got pregnant and had that abortion, she’s unable to have any more babies.’

  ‘But she still got married.’

  ‘Hmm. She didn’t know until afterwards. It only became clear when they were trying to start a family …’

  ‘So, it confirms what you told me.’

  ‘Please don’t say anything to her family, Harry. I mean, they’re Roman Catholic … I would hate to be the cause of a rift, or worse. I feel bad about telling you because I promised Juliet I would keep it to myself. Seems like I’m piggy-in-the-middle.’

  ‘Don’t worry. As far as I can, I won’t say a word. But I don’t know where this trail’s going to end, so I can’t promise you.’

  She sighed. ‘I understand, but please try.’

  ‘You know I will.’

  ‘Thanks. And another update for you …’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘About Jackson. Elaine told me. Apparently, Lady Branshawe mentioned that after the piano recital he was off back to Ireland. His mother, Josephine, has a place in Wexford.’

  ‘Really. Now that is interesting. What about his father? Was he going over as well?’

  ‘Oh, no. Elaine said they’d have divorced ages ago if they hadn’t been RC.’

  ‘So they don’t live together?’

  ‘No. But it’s his father who finances Jackson’s training and career, via his mother.’

  ‘Doesn’t Jackson have much contact with his father, then?’

  ‘Seems not.’

  ‘Even more interesting.’

  ‘People lead such convoluted lives, don’t they?’

  ‘Does his father know about the aborted baby?’

  ‘Oh, Harry! Of course not. Can you imagine what a ruction that information would cause?’

  ‘Instant turn-off of the financial tap, I expect.’

  ‘Which would really leave Jackson …’

  ‘… in the deep and sticky stuff.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Does his mother have a job at all? Or is she dependent on the husband?’

  ‘I asked Elaine that question. Seems she’s joint manager of a stud farm. She’s not the owner.’

  ‘Near Wexford?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see it, but I’m glad to employ your grey cells.’

  ‘If I said I see it, I’d be lying. Mainly it’s guesses that either come across or don’t.’

  ‘I have to go, Harry. There’s a shop in Grantham that needs opening up.’

  ‘Off you go, then, do your daily duty. I’ll ring you about having dinner one night, eh?’

  ‘Lovely. Bye for now.’

  I mashed another mug of tea to lubricate my grey cells and mulled over what she had told me. The facts were indeed interesting. By the time I’d finished the drink, I had worked out what I could do to expand on what I knew so far. Going to my desk, I fired up my computer and keyed in ‘stud farms in Ireland’ – in particular ones in Wexford County. It brought up a whole clutch of them. One by one, I opened them up and checked out names. And then extended my search in the surrounding counties. Nowhere was the name Fellows mentioned.

  But one of the names listed – Watersfall Stud – triggered my memory. The day when my breastplate gave way, the horse that won the race, the second favourite, who would surely have won without my competition, had come over as a yearling from Watersfall Stud in Wexford. I’d looked it up afterwards.

  I keyed in Watersfall, followed by the name of the man to whom the red, black and white racing colours belonged.

  He was listed as one of the directors.

  Bingo!

  THIRTY-SIX

  One phone call to make – no point driving to Lincolnshire if he wasn’t there. But Edward was at home – ‘Come round straight away, I’ll have coffee waiting.’

  I closed down the computer, grabbed a jacket and locked the back door after me. I still couldn’t take it in that this man I’d discovered could be a killer, but the insurmountable obstacle of his name had just been knocked on the head. Apart from my incredulity, the pieces of the jigsaw now fitted, showing me a picture – an unpleasant and incomplete one certainly, but one I could work with. There were gaps – some big gaps. But in none of the other cases where I’d tracked down a murderer had I ever seen a complete picture. Guesses and leaps of imagination always had to be made. And what I needed right now was something I couldn’t buy: a lar
ge slice of luck.

  A lot of time had been spent unproductively wondering about, analysing and discounting the people who had attended John Dunston’s funeral. One of them had known I’d received that fateful first envelope. Their names and addresses would have been written on the mourners’ cards, handed out at the crematorium. These cards were no doubt stored away alphabetically, probably by the undertakers, but I didn’t need to see them. The people attending the cremation were familiar faces. But all I’d needed was just the one name.

  Now, I knew. What a blind idiot I’d been.

  The roads were free of snow and the traffic light. But before I’d cleared Grantham, the fitful sun had succumbed to heavy grey clouds sweeping across the sky and it began to rain. Lightly at first, and then increasingly heavily. It was still raining when I pulled up outside Edward’s massive oak door.

  He showed me into the lounge. It was beginning to feel familiar and I sat down on the same chair I’d used the last time I’d been here while he hastened to the kitchen to bring in the coffee.

  ‘Help yourself, Harry. Cream, sugar … honey?’ He raised eyebrows.

  I smiled. ‘Thanks, yes, I’ll have a spoonful of honey.’

  He nodded in satisfaction and pushed the jar closer to me. ‘Now,’ he said, without wasting any time, ‘I’ve been up to Yorkshire.’

  ‘You and me both, but to different parts, I think.’

  ‘Hmm. The Old Rectory Stables are very impressive, I have to say. Patrick runs things very well by the look of it.’

  I sipped the superb coffee and waited, letting him take all the time he needed to formulate his thoughts.

  ‘He told me they were looking to expand, having some more stables built later this year. I managed to bring up the subject of losing his mother by saying I was sure she’d be proud of him for making such a success of the stables for his father. He was quite open about the fact that the money set aside for her private nursing care was now going to be channelled into the expansion. Said he was sure she’d be very happy to see the ongoing improvements at the stables. There was no sign of any financial squeeze whatsoever. O’ course, he could have been bullshitting and up to his ears in hock, but I didn’t see any signs of it.’