Edward slurped his coffee. ‘I mentioned my visit to the snow racing in St Moritz, kept it very casual, low-key, you know, just chatty. Said I’d also been over there two or three years ago, not for the racing but for the concerts, and I’d seen the brilliant pianist Jackson Fellows perform. Asked Patrick if he knew him, had maybe heard him play?’
‘And?’
Edward shook his head. ‘Not a flicker. Denied knowing Fellows. I reckon Patrick would make a very good card player.’
The irony of his words wasn’t lost on me. ‘What about Sunday? Did you invite him out for a meal?’
‘I did, yes. And the answer was a firm no. Said he was always busy on Sunday evenings. Which was a blatant lie, of course; I mean, even if he’d been racing in the afternoon, he’d be back for supper.’ He frowned with frustration. ‘So it doesn’t seem as though I’ve helped you much, Harry.’
‘The very fact Patrick purported not to know Jackson Fellows has helped. And he’s confirmed he’s busy this Sunday evening.’
‘Is that important?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Edward nodded. ‘Well, I’m glad to have helped, even if it’s only a bit. You do seem to go it alone, Harry. And let’s face it, these circumstances you go into are damned dangerous. If you need back-up, any time, feel free to ring me, OK?’
‘Thanks, Edward. I appreciate it.’
‘Will you let me know the outcome?’
‘Sure, maybe even by Sunday night, if I’m lucky.’
I stayed for a coffee top-up and the chat turned inevitably to racing and the horses Edward had committed to buying. Outside, the rain ran continuously down the windowpanes, obliterating the wide-sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. It was going to be a wet drive home. When I left, I did a quick run to the shelter of the Mazda. After the previous days of dry, frozen weather, the teeming rain was a sharp contrast. It continued as I drove over the county boundary into Nottinghamshire, and by the time I reached the cottage, it was absolutely siling down.
I parked and locked the car, hastened over the crunching gravel and pulled the big gate closed and slid home the latch. It was a day to go to ground if you got the chance – and I had the chance. I wasn’t going anywhere else today.
Leo was still where I’d last seen him, sated by females and food, flat out and fast asleep in his cosy basket above the warm Rayburn. He barely raised an eyelid as I dripped over the back doorstep into the kitchen and shrugged off my wet jacket.
‘Don’t blame you, mate. You’ve got the right idea. Definitely not weather for cats out there.’
Was it a sigh I heard? Probably, but it sounded a deeply contented ‘do not disturb’ kind of sigh. And I heated a tin of tomato soup and buttered hot toast without interruption.
The frost might be long gone, but with the coming of the rain, it was now bone-chillingly raw. I prodded the lounge fire into a blaze, drew up a low footstool right in front of the flames and sat spooning up steaming red soup. Delicious: exactly what I needed to thaw out.
Lunch over, I made a mug of tea, put on a Chopin CD and slobbed on the settee with the John Dunston file of notes. I started at the beginning, reading it coldly, keeping any emotion well out of it. I needed to assimilate everything, see the facts clearly, let nature’s magnificent creation, the human brain, do the job it excelled at: finding solutions to problems. I just needed to feed in all the known details, then get myself out of my own way.
The fire crackled while the notes of the piano carried me away, and I simply read the file from beginning to end, absorbing everything but making no judgements, simply allowing the subconscious to seek connections that were beyond the grasp of the conscious mind. The CD tinkled gently to a close. I finished reading and laid the file down on my desk.
Then I went upstairs, ran a deep bath, stripped off all my clothes and climbed in. The water dispersed and eddied around me as I slid down and lay back. I closed my eyes, relaxed and mentally asked for answers. Lastly, I added the one other essential thing – complete trust.
Water was a wonderful medium. Famous writers including Agatha Christie and Dick Francis used it to work out tough plot problems. I’d used it myself, too. And I knew it worked. So I lay in the hot water and let my mind drift, confident that the answers I so badly needed would be revealed.
Sunday morning, eight o’clock and still lashing down with rain, I drove slowly, creating huge arcs of spray either side of the car, down the quiet Leicestershire country lanes to Mike’s stables. He was expecting me to ride out at nine on a new horse, a grey gelding, Granite, which Samuel Simpson had recently bought. But the days of enforced rest due to the snow had left my muscles in need of toning up and an hour or so of mucking out was just what I needed to start the day. I wasn’t unfit to the point of flabby musculature, but race riding was a sport for which a jockey had to be totally fit – racing demanded, as did the owners, a high level of stamina and strength.
Declining Mike’s offer of tea or coffee before I started, I took myself straight down to the stable yard. Fifty per cent of Mike’s workforce was already hard at it mucking out, refilling hay nets and water buckets, and I greeted them and happily joined in. Working with horses was not only a job and a way of life, but also a drug. Apart from the few stable lads who came into the business and swiftly left again, all these lads putting in the solid graft were committed to their horses – living, breathing, sleeping horses.
We all suffered from its hardships, knew it for the addiction it certainly was, yet we gave thanks for it and were grateful to be spending our young years working in a physically and emotionally satisfying job.
Inside White Lace’s stable, I fell into routine and received a warm blow of hot air from the mare’s flared nostrils. It was the equivalent of standing in front of a fan heater. I pulled one of her ears gently as I drew the body brush down her smooth, strong neck, and she harrumphed back at me, turning her head to nudge me in the shoulder. I felt some of my tension release where it had begun building up around my head and neck. Not for the first time, nor the hundredth time, did I wish myself a very long way away from the approaching confrontation.
Everybody’s job is stressful these days – one of the blights of twenty-first century life speeding up and exacting demands. But the sure fact that in less than twelve hours I’d probably be facing down a murderer was over the top any way you looked at it. I deliberately squashed the unpleasant thought. Concentrate on the job you’re doing right now, Harry, I rebuked myself. Mindfulness, the new buzzword for today, actually did work, but it also required effort. I swept my brush in long strokes from the mare’s head to her withers. I cast a quick look at her. Her eyes were closed as she enjoyed the grooming and attention. She was clearly employing mindfulness herself, without effort. But it wasn’t a one-way street: attending to White Lace had calmed me down, too.
Conversely, Granite, Samuel’s new horse in the next stable, was looking like a taxing ride. Mike came into the stable as I was finishing tacking up. The horse had blown himself up as I tried to tighten the girth and it would mean walking him round the stable yard before I could fully cinch it up.
‘Showing what he thinks of you, Harry?’
‘Soon get rid of the flies when I get him out on the gallops.’
‘Yes, thank God the snow has gone. They’re all like a classroom full of kids that can’t go outside to burn off the energy.’
‘Hmm. Seems we’ve swapped the snow for rain.’
‘That what you call it? More like a continuous monsoon, if you ask me.’
And indeed, it had been raining continuously for three days now – and it didn’t look like stopping any time soon. Coupled with the melt from the ice and snow, the whole countryside was awash; flood warnings up in the red zone covered the nightly weather charts for the whole country on television, warnings that looked extremely severe for certain areas. The most notable ones were where rivers had burst their banks or were about to do so.
‘We’ll have coffee
when you’ve ridden Granite, and you can tell me what you think of him. Samuel’s well made up to have had the chance of buying him. Thinks he’ll make a stayer. Must say, I’m in agreement there – I mean, look at the quarters on him.’
I did. Beneath the gleaming iron-grey coat, there was a ton of power in the spread of solid muscles.
I nodded. ‘I’m inclined to agree, but let me ride him first.’
By the time we’d covered ground on the gallops and returned to the stables, I knew Samuel’s instinct for sussing out good horses had, once again, not let him down. I made my way across the yard to Mike’s house and shed my dripping coat.
‘Well, what did you make of Granite?’
‘He’s an exciting prospect, Mike.’
I sat down in the warm kitchen and Pen pushed a steaming mug of coffee into my hand.
‘Wrap around that, Harry. It’s a pig of a day out there.’
‘Hmm. Not looking forward to a drive to Yorkshire tonight, I have to say.’
‘Yorkshire? It’s a flood hotspot, you know.’
‘I do know, but it’s something that has to be done.’
‘Whereabouts are you going?’ Mike queried.
‘Place called Watersby. Apparently, it’s on the River Ouse.’
‘Which is one of the rivers likely to burst its banks according to weather coverage on the television.’ Pen frowned. ‘You remember, York was flooded a year or two back? That’s because the Ouse is fed from the upper reaches of other North Yorkshire rivers.’
Mike nodded. ‘No loss of life, though, thankfully.’
‘You are staying for lunch, Harry, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, please. Home-cooked food isn’t something I pass up lightly.’
Pen laughed. ‘Twelve thirty on the dot. Turkey and trimmings do you?’
‘Yes, very well.’
‘Oh, and Paul’s coming as well.’
Paul Wentworth was Pen’s brother who lived in a nearby village.
‘Is there any special reason for all this indulgence?’
She lowered her eyes and a blush spread over her cheeks. ‘Well, actually, yes, there is … I was going to wait until we’d eaten and then tell you and Paul, but since you’ve asked …’
Mike chortled. ‘Yeah, go on Pen; you know you’re dying to tell him.’
‘Oh, Harry’ – Pen grabbed my hand, her face suffused with excitement – ‘I’m expecting a baby.’
‘Well! Congratulations, Pen.’ I turned to Mike. ‘You sly old dog, you kept that a secret, didn’t you?’
‘I was afraid it might come out. Remember John Dunston’s funeral? Pen was taken really poorly, couldn’t stop being sick. So, of course, I couldn’t abandon her. That was the reason I didn’t get to see John off with the rest of you.’
I smiled and shook my head at them. ‘It’s great news. I couldn’t be more pleased for you.’
‘And, Harry, wait for this … girl or boy, we’d love you to be godfather. What do you say?’
‘What an honour. Thank you, I’d be delighted. I’d better make damn sure I survive the Yorkshire floods tonight, hadn’t I?’
THIRTY-SEVEN
I lost sight of the black BMW as we headed north from York on the A19. It wasn’t late, barely seven o’clock, but the night was black – no starlight, no moon – and the everlasting rain was still falling in torrents. There was only one person in the vehicle: Nigel Garton.
I’d been waiting in a big lay-by on the outskirts of Lincoln, one that curved between the entrance and exit with a plentiful growth of tall shrubs and trees that screened the centre curve from the road. I was confident Nigel was unaware I’d pulled out and was now following at a safe distance a couple of vehicles behind him.
Traffic, as expected on a Sunday night, was light and I was constantly monitoring my position, allowing one or two vehicles to overtake me. I was sure he’d not noticed my black Mazda. Talk about two black cats on a black night. Still, it made trailing him so much easier now that I knew where he was heading.
However, coming off the ring road, a bright yellow delivery vehicle had slipped between us and effectively blocked my view. If Nigel attempted a right-hand turn, fine, I’d see him come across. But I kept a sharp watch out for any left-hand turn he might decide to take. In the meantime, I assumed he was still somewhere ahead of me on the road up front.
The sparse line of traffic motored on, swishing through the rain. The hypnotic drone from the windscreen wipers was soothing but didn’t stand a chance with my nervous system locked on to red alert. Some miles further on, the delivery driver called it quits for the night and swung off down a side road, and I caught a glimpse of Nigel’s BMW on a bend now and again. It was enough.
I was sure Watersby would be his final destination, but another thought had occurred to me. The barmaid at the Black Cat had said the men usually called in for a quick one. Maybe Nigel intended to meet up with them there before going aboard the boat. If so, I had about ten minutes, less maybe, before he headed into the pub car park. We were getting so close now, I decided to take a chance.
One of the vehicles between the BMW and me peeled off to the right and I gunned the Mazda and overtook the next two cars and, with a clear road up ahead, continued on, overtook Nigel and swung left at the next junction. The country lane was winding but without any other vehicles in sight, I broke the speed limit and soon found that the lane eventually led to the village.
I headed towards the pub, did a swift spin around in their car park, noted the vehicles already parked and drove out again. I parked close by in a small cul-de-sac with the Mazda’s bonnet pointing to the exit.
It was only a few yards to the pub and I walked smartly back. Tucking into the shadow of the wall, I waited. Not for long. The black BMW nosed into the car park and pulled up beside a four-by-four in the far corner. From where I was standing, I could see there was a side door to the pub. I made a quick decision. Take the enemy by surprise was a strategy that had worked for me before. I pushed open the door and went straight up to the bar.
‘Hello, again. Pint of Theakston’s, please.’
It was the same blonde barmaid, Sherrie, from the last time.
‘Harry! Well, well, nice to see you.’ Her smile was a full thousand watts as she reached for a glass and the beer pump handle.
But before she could pull the ale, a man appeared at my elbow.
‘Got a taste for the real McCoy, then, I see.’ He leaned towards Sherrie. ‘Make that two, love.’ He slid a note across the bar.
‘Hi, Keith, thanks.’ I must be slipping. I’d forgotten he’d been angling on my behalf for an invite to the card game. Not that I’d heard anything back from him either way.
‘Let’s take the drinks where it’s a bit quieter, eh?’ He nodded to the pool room, and I followed his lead. As we stepped through, I saw Nigel Garton enter the public bar. He didn’t see us.
‘I tried you earlier, but your phone wasn’t on.’
‘No. I was at a bit of a bash most of the day.’
He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. Jacko didn’t tell me I was in until middle of the afternoon. So, what’s the game plan?’
It was my turn to shrug. ‘Blessed if I know, Keith. Did Jacko tell you who else was going tonight?’
‘No. Just that a couple had cried off, including Rawlson. Might be the foul weather. Not what you need for going boating.’
‘Could be why you got the invite. Well, the bloke who walked into the bar as we came in here is headed for the boat. I’ve just trailed him up from Lincolnshire.’
‘Right.’ His eyes gleamed with anticipation. ‘Knows you, does he?’
‘Yes. He’s the son-in-law of Victor Maudsley – you know, the trainer that retired some years back. I used to ride for him a bit.’
‘Yeah, I know … wouldn’t have thought a bloke in his position would go in for card games.’
I made a snap decision. Everything tonight was definitely a case of going with the flow. It was a sit
uation where events could not be predicted. I’d been here before and it needed quick thinking at every moment to stay afloat. Exhilarating – or scary – depending on how you saw it. And sometimes you had to make things happen.
‘Look, Keith, do you mind if I ask Nigel to join us?’
He pulled a face. ‘That wise?’
‘Probably not. But I ought to give it a chance.’
‘What’re you going to say?’
‘God knows.’
I put down my pint and returned to the bar. Nigel was propping it up, staring moodily at his whisky. He did not look a happy man. I clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Nigel. How are Paula and the boys?’
He jumped like a cow encountering a cattle prod.
‘I–I … what are you doing here?’
‘Appealing to your better judgement. I know where you’re headed tonight.’
He lifted the glass and took a slug of whisky. ‘Parents … you know … visiting the parents.’
I nodded. ‘Wouldn’t be playing cards – and probably losing another ten grand, then.’
He gaped, the colour leaving his face. ‘How do you—’
‘Know about that? Because Paula knows, that’s how.’
‘Oh, God!’
‘She’s in hell right now. Worrying about how much you’ll lose tonight. And it’s not just your wife; Victor is in a right old state, too.’
‘Oh, God!’ Nigel repeated.
‘If you care anything for them, you’ll pack the gambling in now, right now, before you get in too deep to stop. Because it happens.’
He finished the last of the whisky in one gulp.
‘Come on, Nigel, think of the kids; you don’t want to run the risk of losing the house – it’s their home.’
It was possible his face turned even more ashen. ‘Patrick’s already done that.’
‘What?’
‘Not my house – Mousey’s. He’s already handed over the deeds for Mousey’s house and stables. Hasn’t told Mousey. Keeps hoping he can win them back, stupid sod. At least I didn’t bet that much.’
Dead Heat Page 26
