Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘No, not much, only the odd ten thousand.’

  He nodded morosely, his usual suave urbane manner totally absent. I could almost see common sense fighting the gambling urge. ‘On the drive up, you know, I was coming to that conclusion myself: it’s not worth it.’

  ‘Good man.’ I clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘And tonight it looks like it might get a bit rough.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Hmm … wouldn’t do your image much good. I mean, however innocent you might be, mud sticks.’

  He nodded grimly and pushed the empty whisky glass back across the bar. ‘I’m off, Harry, I’m going home right now. I needed a kick up the arse. Thanks.’

  ‘Come clean with Paula and Victor, eh? Give Victor a call; he really is worried to death.’

  ‘I will, soon as I get home.’

  ‘Good man. Just one thing … before you go, can you tell me the names of the other players?’

  He hesitated. ‘Well, there’s Patrick and—’ He stopped short because the door to the public bar opened as a scowling Patrick walked in. He wasn’t alone. The man with him was wearing a wide smile – and a cravat. Nigel took a deep breath. ‘And … him.’

  It was Jackson Fellows’ father – his stepfather.

  With Keith driving his vehicle, I sat scrunched up on the passenger seat with Tugboat taking up most of the space. We followed Patrick’s SUV through the dark streets of Watersby, heading for the river. The two men in front were unaware they were being tailed. I wanted to keep it that way. It was obvious they were going to The Winning Post, but I’d no idea what was going to kick off.

  There were gaps – gaps that I needed to fill in to see the entire picture. One of them was to do with Jackson. I knew Patrick had broken Jackson’s fingers, but I didn’t know why. I suspected Jackson was privy to some damning information because blackmail was involved. I also suspected John Dunston had met his death because he’d discovered something about Patrick. What was it? And then there was Alice Goode, the prostitute from Newark. A question mark hung over her death. Patrick had been in that neck of the woods the same day, at Southwell racecourse. The police weren’t interested, but I needed to know the truth about what happened.

  One thing I did know: it all came back to Patrick.

  And a second was that there was no way I could call upon back-up this time. Previously, I’d relied heavily on Mike. He was my main man in a crisis and had saved my life more than once. But tonight Mike was safely tucked up at home with his pregnant wife. As it should be.

  However, with Nigel gunning his way back to Lincolnshire, plus the two or three players who had declined to brave the rain and the floods, the odds were now pretty much even.

  It left me and Keith facing the two of them – Patrick and Jackson’s stepfather.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I couldn’t see the weir as Keith drove slowly past through the black night, but I could hear the angry roar and imagine, only too well, the white topped waves whipped up into spray as they pounded over the weir to drop down to the level below. Not only was the rain tumbling down, increasing the volume of water in the river, but the Ouse was massively swollen with the waters draining down from the upper reaches of the other rivers that fed into it from North Yorkshire.

  Involuntarily, I shivered and was given a comforting lick from a sympathetic Tugboat. Motoring on closer to where the boats were moored, Keith voiced what I was thinking.

  ‘It’s not bloody safe, you know. The river’s barely holding. I don’t fancy going on board. If the moorings go … it’ll be straight down and over the weir.’

  ‘You don’t have to—’

  ‘I can’t leave you to go on board on your own.’

  ‘Yes, you can, Keith. In fact, it might be better if you stay in the vehicle. Might be glad of a getaway driver if things get too hot.’

  ‘Aren’t they going to think it strange if I don’t show up?’

  ‘We got out of the pub without them seeing us. Since the other players have all cried off, it’s logical that you might have, too. As far as they’re concerned, you’re most likely home, headed for your bed and an early night.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  I nodded. ‘Let’s face it, only a fool would be out on a night this bad.’

  ‘Well, them two are out …’

  ‘It’s his own boat.’

  ‘And Patrick?’

  ‘I think Patrick hasn’t any say in it. He jumps when he’s told to jump.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping to find out – plus other things.’

  We’d reached the upper stretch of the river where all the boats were moored. They appeared to have come to life. Snatching and tugging at their ropes, they bucked and rolled in the swell of the fast-running water. At the end of the line was the red, black and white boat, and I could also make out Patrick’s car parked up on the tarmac road above the towpath. At least his vehicle was safe, unless the river did burst its banks. But safe or not, I needed to get on board The Winning Post, find out the answers to my questions.

  ‘Drive on past, Keith. Drop me off near Patrick’s vehicle and park close by.’

  ‘OK.’

  A light came on in the living quarters of the boat – a chandelier by the look of it – and without blinds down, I could see the two men.

  ‘Right, I’ll try to get on board without them hearing me. What happens then, don’t ask me. I just need to find some answers. Wait here; I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Watch yourself, Harry.’

  With extreme caution, I made my way from the road down the slope to the towpath. Crossing the slippery gangway – a pretty hairy manoeuvre, clutching the rails to prevent losing my footing – I made it on board as far as the cabin door. Flattening myself against it, I opened it just a slit. There was no accusing shout. With the noise of the waves and rain beating against the boat, I hadn’t expected them to hear anything, but my heart was thumping at top speed.

  I took a look through the two-inch gap into the cabin. ‘Palatial’ wasn’t too strong a word. Wood panelling cloaked the sides and it was carpeted with cherry-red, ankle-deep Axminster. The black, leather-covered seating was scattered about, with white cushions. The interior of the boat was colour coordinated all the way down the line to match the exterior – and the racing silks.

  I barely had time to register the impression because Patrick began to bluster.

  ‘OK, the bloody wimps have all cried off, so no poker. But we’re here, so tell me, where’s the goods? If they’re not in your office, not at your home, where the fucking hell have you put them?’

  ‘Somewhere safe.’

  ‘Look, I only need them for twenty-four hours – maybe less.’ Patrick waved both arms wide. ‘Come on, man! Be reasonable. You have my word I’ll hand them back.’

  ‘But I’m holding them in my hands right now.’

  ‘What the fucking hell am I going to tell the old man? He’s worked up a head of steam already because he can’t find the deeds. He only wants to check the bloody boundary line before we put in an application to the council to build more stables. I mean, how the hell did I know he’d ask to see them?’

  The other man simply smiled.

  I was riveted by their conversation. It was answering some of my questions without my asking them.

  ‘Stall him. Go ahead, put in the application. Councils take for ever, and I should know; by the time they get round to considering it, circumstances may have changed.’

  ‘How do you mean, changed?’

  ‘Patrick, you’re not that naïve. Mousey’s an old man, an alcoholic – you’re the one in charge of the stables. You’re the one who, shall we say, helps my horses to win. And while I have the deeds, you will continue to do so. While your mother was alive, I was quite content to wait. There was no need to put pressure on you. You knew that, didn’t you? As long as she was alive, I was prepared to be charitable. But she died, Patrick, along with Mike Grantley’s wife. You�
��re probably the only one who knows what happened over in Switzerland, whether or not it was an accident.’

  ‘Of course it was an accident.’

  I clenched my fists. So I had been right. The ring of truth in Patrick’s words was all I needed to hear.

  ‘However,’ the man continued, ‘now your mother’s gone, circumstances have already changed. You probably think you’re off the hook with me, don’t you? But John Dunston didn’t go to his death without talking. You see, I know you killed Alice Goode, the prostitute.’ He held up a hand as Patrick was about to jump in. ‘Yes, yes, I know, the police are perfectly satisfied they know who the killer was but you – and now I – know that’s not quite the truth, is it?’

  ‘You’ve no proof, no proof at all,’ Patrick shouted. ‘And he didn’t say anything to sodding Radcliffe either. There was nothing in that letter I got back for you – nothing incriminating on either of us.’

  The man shook his head sadly. ‘It was a case of like father, like son, wasn’t it? Both of you keeping it secret from your poor mother.’ He laughed nastily. ‘But you didn’t know Alice was accommodating your father, did you? Not until that last time. And when you found out, it did your head in, didn’t it? Knowing you were fucking the same woman. She had to go.’

  ‘Some bloke had already battered and burned her. She was lying on the kitchen floor when I got there. The stink was foul.’

  ‘But she wasn’t dead. You finished her off, made sure of the job.’

  ‘I just gave her one bash.’

  ‘You killed her.’

  ‘You can’t accuse me of that. The other bloke had made a job of her first; she’d have died anyway. Because I turned up and gave her another good bash, it was probably a dead heat.’

  I realized my nails were digging into the palms of my hands as I listened at the door. The callous, dismissive way Patrick was talking about poor Alice made me want to shoulder my way into the cabin and tear him in half. I drew in a massive deep breath and tried to calm down. I needed to hear whatever came next.

  ‘Proving it might be difficult, I grant you, but I still know what you did, Patrick. Knowledge is power, don’t they say?’

  ‘And I know something you don’t,’ Patrick shouted, jutting his face forward to within inches of the other man. ‘Your son – no, let’s be accurate, your stepson, your precious piano-playing protégé – he knows you’ve got the deeds. Knows you’re not squeaky-clean like the image you’re so keen to show the world. He hates your guts – but he needs your money. But I know about Jackson – what he did.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You don’t know Jackson.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Jackson was over in Switzerland when I was. He was pissing himself because we both saw the woman take a photograph. I told him not to be a prat. Nobody would recognize us – we were wearing shades.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘And my brother was at university at the same time as Jackson. That’s how I know all about it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Ha, you’d like to know, wouldn’t you?’

  The civilized veneer slipped from the man’s face and he grabbed Patrick’s shoulders. ‘Tell me.’

  My heart lurched. Georgia’s hope of keeping the abortion a secret was about to go out the window.

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell you right enough. It’ll be a pleasure.’

  The man drew in a hiss of breath. ‘What are you talking about … what are you saying? What has Jackson done?’

  ‘He got a girl pregnant and borrowed money for her to have an abortion.’

  ‘What a load of tosh. You don’t know Jackson. It’s all lies.’

  ‘Lies, is it, Mr Squeaky-clean pious Catholic? No way. It’s not lies; it’s the truth. Jackson borrowed the money for the abortion from me.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ The man sank down on one of the black leather seats. ‘It can’t be true.’

  ‘It bloody well is. Ask my brother, Ian – go on. He’ll tell you. The girl’s name was Juliet. And I never got my money back. Now tell me where those deeds are. I asked Jackson to get them for me but he fobbed me off, so I broke his fingers for a bit of encouragement.’

  ‘You broke his fingers … My God, it was you … you … who stopped him playing the piano,’ the man said with horror. ‘If they hadn’t healed right … he might never have played again. You bastard!’ He launched himself up from the seat, reaching for Patrick’s throat.

  Patrick stepped to one side, snatched up a heavy brass table lamp from the side table and swung it with tremendous force at the man’s head. The blow connected with a sickening crunch.

  It happened too quickly for me to intervene. An arc of blood and matter spurted out, hit the wood panelling and trickled down the wall. There was no question it was a fatal blow.

  Philip Caxton, the solicitor, lay where he’d fallen, his blood seeping into the red Axminster, and stared sightlessly up at the swinging chandelier.

  THIRTY-NINE

  I didn’t wait to see what happened next. I quietly pushed the door closed and took a few steps away. Then I tapped in three nines on my mobile phone. And waited for it to be answered.

  ‘Harry Radcliffe,’ I whispered. ‘Police, fast, there’s been a murder. On board a boat, The Winning Post, on the Ouse, about three-quarters of a mile north of Watersby. The victim’s name is Philip Caxton. Make it fast. I’m in immediate danger myself.’ I cut the connection and put my phone to silent. No way did I want a return call alerting Patrick that his crime had been called in. I gave it a few minutes, then walked back to the cabin door – and knocked. I didn’t wait to be admitted – I walked straight in.

  ‘Am I right for the poker game?’

  ‘You!’ Patrick crossed the cabin in a couple of massive strides. ‘Who told you I was here?’

  ‘Keith Whellan decided against coming tonight, so I thought I’d give it a whirl.’

  He’d been quick while I was making the emergency phone call. Caxton’s body was now a hump lying along the edge of one side of the cabin, covered by a bed quilt. The arc of blood on the wood panelling was no longer trickling down the wall but had been reduced to a smear. He had started to remove the evidence and I’d disrupted the clean-up. I was under no illusions. Caxton’s body would have been offloaded into the flood waters, and when it was discovered – if it was discovered – no doubt his injuries would be consistent with having hit his head and fallen into the river.

  ‘Well, as you can see,’ Patrick said, waving a dismissive hand, ‘there’s no one here.’

  ‘So, no card game.’

  ‘You got it. But I’m expecting Philip, the owner. He should have been here by now. Hope he’s not met with an accident.’

  Although my appearance had given him a shock, he was recovering fast, concocting stories to cover his back.

  ‘Any chance of a game when – if – he turns up?’

  Patrick shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh, no. Wasted journey for you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  I needed to keep him talking, distract him. It was at least ten minutes since my emergency call. The police would be motoring up very soon now. If I could keep him here until they arrived, I might also walk away in one piece and still breathing.

  ‘Anyway, it wasn’t a long journey tonight – not like going over to Switzerland. Caxton was over in St Moritz for the snow racing this year. His first time, apparently. I’d hoped to see Jackson there – he never missed it, I was told. But he wasn’t there this year. Odd, really – the only time Jackson didn’t go was the year his father did. Don’t you find that odd? Almost as though he didn’t want his father to see him.’

  ‘He’s not his real father. His mother remarried after his natural father died. Jackson is Philip’s stepson.’

  ‘Right.’ I nodded encouragingly. ‘Caxton funds Jackson, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘You know he does. Of course, Jack
son needs every one of his fingers in good working order to pursue his dream.’

  ‘What are you saying, Radcliffe?’ Patrick’s shoulders had drawn up with tension. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘You broke two of his fingers trying to coerce him into getting Mousey’s deeds back for you before Mousey realized you’d gambled them away.’

  ‘Don’t talk such fucking rubbish.’

  ‘Not rubbish, Patrick: the truth. But now Caxton’s dead, you’re sweating because you don’t know where the deeds are. I shouldn’t worry, though, I’m sure the Land Registry will have a record.’

  ‘You know nothing.’ Patrick snarled the words at me. ‘You’re just guessing.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I agreed, and moved closer to the mound on the floor, touched it with the tip of my shoe. ‘And there isn’t a dead body under this quilt, is there?’

  He let out a bellow of rage and threw a wild punch at my chin. It was easy to sway to one side, let the force of his blow fetch him off balance. I moved in, planted a solid right fist into his solar plexus, waited for his body to fold, followed it with a stiff fist to his jaw and then kneed him viciously in the groin. He rolled on the carpet, gasping and gagging.

  ‘That’s for Alice,’ I gritted.

  I headed for the cabin door, opened it and went up on deck. The rain was still siling down. Patrick’s car was still parked in the same place. Keith, however, had moved to within a few yards of the boat. However, there was no sign of any police vehicles. I peered desperately down the road to Watersby, but it was totally empty of traffic.

  It was then I felt an arm encircle my neck, dragging me backwards across the pitching deck. I jabbed a savage elbow behind me, felt it connect, heard his grunt of pain and back-kicked, wrapping my left leg around his, dropping us both on to the slippery wet deck. I grabbed for his ears, raised his head, twisted and brought it down with a crack. He let out a high scream of pain and I felt a warm wet flow gush over my hands. Teeth and nose gone, at the very least I knew. But the blood plastered my hands and I couldn’t maintain my grip.

  Patrick eeled around beneath me and was on his feet before I could reach for him again. He booted me in the head and I must have blacked out briefly. Muzzily, I felt his arms dragging me to the side of the boat, my ribs grated on the metal rail briefly and then I went overboard.