“He told me that if I didn’t stay away from his wife, he’d kill me. But I don’t really believe that he meant he would actually kill me. It was just a figure of speech.”
“And when was this?”
I worked it out. “Eight days ago, at Newmarket.”
“And have you stayed away from his wife since then?” asked the policeman in a deadpan voice.
“Yes,” I said. “Well . . . I bumped into her on Tuesday, but it was an accident. We didn’t do anything, if that’s what you mean. We hardly even spoke.”
“And does the lady’s husband know you saw her on Tuesday?”
I thought back to my encounter with Mitchell in the Stratford races parking lot. “Yes. He knows, all right. He was there.”
“I’ll need his name, sir.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t have done it,” I said. But someone had. My throat still had the bruises to prove it.
“His name?” The chief inspector persisted.
“Mitchell Stacey,” I said. “He’s a racehorse trainer. He and his wife live in East Ilsley, near Newbury.”
I gave him the full address and he wrote it down in his notebook.
“And is he the only irate husband who has threatened you recently?”
“There’s no need for irony, Chief Inspector,” I said. “And, yes, he’s the only one.”
“I also need your full name and address. For the record.”
“Mark Joseph Shillingford,” I said, and I gave him the address of my apartment in Edenbridge. He wrote it down.
“Shillingford?” he said. “Unusual name. Not related to that girl that killed herself, are you?”
“She was my sister,” I said. “My twin sister.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Do you follow horse racing at all, Chief Inspector?”
“Not really my thing,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m a football man myself. Hornets fan.”
“Hornets?”
“Watford,” he said.
We were interrupted by a nurse, who came into the cubicle to take my pulse and my blood pressure and also look into my eyes with a flashlight.
“When can I go home?” I croaked at her.
“The doctor will do his round soon,” she said. “You can ask him then.”
The nurse went out again.
“Right,” said the chief inspector, closing his notebook and standing up. “I’m going home to my bed.”
“Is that it?” I asked, surprised.
“You’ll have to give a full witness statement, of course, but that can be done in the morning. Call me round ten to fix it.” He handed me a printed card with his details.
“How about Mitchell Stacey?”
“I’ll interview Mr. Stacey after you’ve done your witness statement and after the forensic boys have examined your car. That will also take place in the morning.”
“But what if he tries again?” I asked.
“Do you think he might?”
“I’m not sure it was even him,” I said. “But don’t I get police protection, or something, just in case?”
“I think you should be safe enough in here,” he said rather dismissively.
“But how about if I go home?”
“Then I’d advise you not to get into a car without first checking the backseat.”
“Oh thanks a lot,” I said sarcastically. “Why do I get the impression you’re not taking me seriously?”
“I am taking you seriously, Mr. Shillingford, very seriously, but I simply don’t have the resources to provide you with a personal bodyguard. Anyway, I believe that the person who tried to kill you is long gone. And I doubt that they’ll try again. I’ve studied a few criminals in my time, and I think it’s highly likely that this was a one-off attack and the perpetrator will have second thoughts before trying anything like it again.”
A policeman who fancied himself as an amateur criminal psychologist was all I needed.
“No,” he said, “I think you’ll be perfectly safe from now on. I reckon if he’d really wanted to kill you, then you’d have been in a morgue, not a hospital.”
I damn near had been.
14
I had just closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep when I was awakened again by the nurse to do her half-hourly check.
“There are two people outside in the waiting room who want to see you,” the nurse said as she listed the latest results on a chart. “That policeman said we weren’t to let anyone in, but they’ve been here for ages, and they say they absolutely won’t go home without seeing you first.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“Two women,” said the nurse. “One of them says she’s your sister.”
Clare, I immediately thought. But of course it couldn’t be Clare. It had to be Angela.
“Would you please ask them to come in,” I said, smiling at her. “I don’t think that policeman meant to keep my family out.”
“If you’re sure,” she said.
“Perfectly sure,” I replied. “And I won’t tell him if you don’t.”
She smiled back at me. “All right, then. I’ll go and get them.”
Indeed, it was Angela, and she had Emily with her, both of them looking worried and tired.
“You should both still be at Tatiana’s party,” I said to them in my croaky voice.
“That finished hours ago,” said Angela. “In fact, it pretty much finished when you hit the gatepost.”
“I’m so sorry,” I croaked.
“Don’t be.” Angela laughed. “At least it stopped everyone drinking.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” I said. And that was now official. I’d been Breathalyzered when I’d first arrived at the hospital and had passed with ease.
“So what happened?” asked Emily. “Nick told us something about you being strangled.” I could tell from the tone of her voice that she clearly thought that Nick had been mistaken.
I wondered how much I should tell them. And how much they would believe. Attempted murders in rural Hertfordshire were hardly common, but I couldn’t really lie to them, especially as I assumed the police would soon be around asking them questions.
“There was someone waiting for me in the car,” I said, “in the backseat. He tried to strangle me.”
The two women looked suitably shocked.
“Was he trying to rob you?” Angela asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “Although it was a funny way to do it if he was. I actually think he was trying to kill me.”
“But why would anyone want to do that?” Emily asked.
I decided against mentioning anything to them about Mitchell Stacey or my affair with his wife. Clare had been the only member of the Shillingford family privy to that information, and I rather hoped to keep it that way.
“I’ve no idea,” I said. “The police are investigating. They told me they’ll search my car for fingerprints.”
“It was all wrapped up in blue plastic,” Angela said, nodding. “And then it was taken away on a truck. It took them ages, and it didn’t please the caterers, I can tell you that.” She smiled. “They couldn’t get their van out of the driveway. There was a flaming row between them and the police.”
“So what happens now?” Emily asked. “How much longer are you going to be stuck here?”
“I don’t really know. I’m waiting for the doctor to do his round.”
“I’ll go and find someone,” Emily said, and she disappeared through the curtains.
“God, you gave us all such a fright,” said Angela, taking my hand. “I couldn’t bear to lose you as well.” She was crying, and she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I sai
d.
Clare’s death was still very raw for all of us. Our emotions were on knife-edge. One minute we could weep or laugh, the next minute fly into a rage.
Emily returned with the doctor. I knew from personal experience that saying no to Emily was difficult, I now fervently wished I’d said yes to her. It might have saved all this bother.
“How are you feeling?” asked the doctor.
“Fine,” I answered. “Apart from a sore neck and a croaky voice.”
“Your vitals are good and stable,” he said, looking at the chart. He came forward and examined my neck. “You were very lucky. Your larynx is only bruised and not fractured. I see no reason why you can’t go home, but you shouldn’t be left alone for the next twelve hours or so. Asphyxia patients can sometimes develop cerebral edemas, and they are very dangerous.”
“What’s a cerebral edema?” Angela asked him.
“A fluid buildup that causes the brain to swell in the skull. It’s very nasty, and often the last person to realize he has one is the patient. But I don’t think you’ll have a problem. I would have expected to see something by now if you did.”
“We’ll look after him,” Emily said, holding my hand.
“Fine,” said the doctor. “I’ll get the discharge papers. But get him back here immediately if he starts to act strangely or slurs his words.”
The doctor went out of the cubicle, and I swung my legs over the side of the table. I looked at my watch. It was a quarter past three.
“Come on,” I said, “let’s get out of here.”
—
“WHERE TO?” Angela asked as we sat in her Volvo in the hospital parking lot. She was in front while Emily and I were sitting together in the back, and, yes, I had checked the car for potential stranglers before we’d opened the doors.
“You can’t come back to our house. We’re full with Brendan and Gillian and their boys. Not unless you want to sleep in the tent with Tatiana and her friends.”
“We’ll go to my place,” Emily said decisively. “I’ll look after him.”
I could see Angela giggling in the rearview mirror. I suspected that this had been a rehearsed exchange.
“Where is your place?” I asked Emily.
“In Royston,” she said. “About a mile from Nick and Angela.”
“I need to be at Newmarket racetrack in under four hours, and Royston’s in totally the wrong direction.”
“But surely you’re not going to do the show now,” said Angela.
“Why not?” I said. “As long as my voice doesn’t get any worse, I’ll be fine.”
“But someone has just tried to kill you.”
“All the more reason for going on.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe I am,” I said. “But I’ll be damned if I am going to sit back and do nothing. Someone tried to kill me tonight and I’m bloody well going to find out who it was.” I yawned, which I discovered was not very pleasant when one had a sore windpipe. “Please take me to Clare’s cottage. I’ll try and get some sleep, and I’ll order a taxi to collect me in the morning. I need to change my clothes anyway. I can hardly go on The Morning Line wearing this.”
I saw Angela look at Emily in the mirror. Their little plan was falling apart, and I could tell that they didn’t particularly like it.
“Look,” I said, “I am not trying to be evasive, I promise. I would more than happily go to Emily’s place under different circumstances, but right now I’d like to go to Clare’s cottage.”
“One of us would have to stay with you,” Angela said. “The doctor was pretty insistent.”
“It had better be me who stays with Mark,” Emily said. “Nick will be wondering where you are already.” She laughed. “He’s probably in the tent trying to keep those drunken, randy boys away from Tatiana.”
“Don’t even joke about it,” Angela said. “All right, Mark, you win. Clare’s cottage it is.”
She started the Volvo and pointed it toward Newmarket.
—
IN THE END, all three of us stayed at Clare’s cottage, Angela having been assured by Nicholas on the telephone that all was well, both at the house and in the tent, where Tatiana was safely cocooned amongst her girlfriends.
Angela and Emily slept together in the guest room while I settled down on the sofa in the sitting room downstairs. I suppose it would have been all right to use Clare’s bed, but I sensed an air of collective relief when I had volunteered to be on the sofa.
Even though it was almost four o’clock by the time I turned out the light, I found it difficult to sleep. My mind was racing with too many unanswered questions, the uppermost being who had tried to kill me and why?
I had told DCI Perry about Mitchell Stacey, but did I really believe he could be responsible? He had certainly shown the ugly side of his nature in the parking lots at Newmarket and at Stratford, but he was a bull in a china shop who would surely confront me man-to-man rather than sneaking up anonymously and trying to strangle me.
But what other suspects did I have?
None.
And what could anyone else gain by killing me?
Surely Iain Ferguson didn’t imagine that his career would advance more quickly if I was quite literally taken out of the picture?
—
I MUST HAVE drifted off to sleep eventually because the next thing I knew I was wide awake and listening hard for the noise that had awakened me.
There had been a metallic clank. Or had I dreamed it?
I lay in the dark, listening. There it was again, and it was outside.
I quietly stood up from the sofa and went over to the window, my heart again pounding hard inside my chest.
I pulled back the heavy curtains to find that it was daylight and people were already up and about. Racing folk start work early, and the metallic clanks had been the sound of Geoffrey Grubb’s stable staff fetching metal buckets of water for the horses.
I laughed at myself. I must be getting paranoid.
I looked at my watch. It was half past six, I’d been asleep for only about two hours. But it was high time I got myself moving if I wasn’t going to be late.
I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of instant coffee, which went some way to waking me up properly. Then I made two more cups and took them up to the guest bedroom.
Angela and Emily were both still fast asleep, and it took me about a minute of gentle prodding to wake Angela.
“Go away,” she said, putting her head under the pillow.
“I need to go in ten minutes,” I said. “Shall I take your car? I could be back by ten past nine.”
“Do what you like,” she murmured.
I collected some clothes and my electric razor from my suitcase and went into the bathroom to shave, shower, and dress. The lumps in my throat that had persisted all the previous night had finally begun to ease, and my voice seemed a little more normal. And the little reds spots in my eyes and on my face had almost faded away to nothing.
I emerged from the bathroom to find Emily standing there wrapped in a sheet, hopping from foot to foot.
“We’re both coming with you,” she said. “Though God knows why. Angela’s said something about dropping you off and then going home.”
“But I need to go right now.”
“So do I. I’m bursting.” She grinned, pushed past me, and closed the bathroom door.
I laughed. I decided I could get to like Emily, maybe to like her a lot. Just as long as someone didn’t succeed in killing me first.
—
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, someone tried to murder you? That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard for someone being late.”
“It’s not an excuse,” I said. “It’s true.”
I could tell t
hat Lisa, The Morning Line’s producer, didn’t believe a word I’d said, and she clearly was not happy. I’d been only five minutes late, but there was another crisis going on with the program’s main guest, who was going to be much later.
“Someone really did try to strangle me last night,” I said, “and I wonder if it has anything to do with the murder of Toby Woodley at Kempton on Wednesday.”
That shut her up, but only briefly.
“And does it?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“So where’s the story in that?” she asked flatly. “You could at least have arrived with a smoking gun or a knife with Toby Woodley’s blood on it.”
“How about a bruised neck?” I asked. “And a croaky voice?”
“Not visual enough. But the voice may be a problem. We’ll have to say you’ve got a cold.”
“Why not tell the truth?”
“Too complicated,” she said. “Now, have you done your homework on the two-year-olds?”
The big race at Newmarket that afternoon was the Millions Trophy, the richest contest for two-year-old horses in Europe.
“Of course I have,” I replied, knowing full well that I hadn’t really done enough. But I knew all the horses well from having seen them run previously.
“Good, because you might have to talk about them for much longer than planned if that bloody Austin Reynolds doesn’t turn up.”
“Austin Reynolds?” I said, surprised. “I thought the guest was Paul James.”
“Paul had a fall last night at Wolverhampton and has cried off. Austin agreed to step in, but now he’s called to say his car won’t start and he’ll be late.”
“But he only lives in the town,” I said. “Can’t someone go and fetch him?”
“Seems he’s coming up from London.” She didn’t sound pleased.
Austin Reynolds, the “nearly man” of British racing, was the trainer of Tortola Beach, one of the runners in that afternoon’s big race.
Tortola Beach had been one of the definites that I’d found in the RacingTV database. Clare had purposely ridden him to lose in a race at Doncaster the previous August.
And Austin Reynolds also trained Bangkok Flyer.
Dick Francis's Bloodline (9781101600931) Page 17
