“Can’t you zoom in?” I asked.
DS Sharp tried, but the image became very fuzzy and indistinct.
“I think he’s got his collar turned up,” the sergeant said. “And maybe a scarf round his face as well.”
Why would anyone wear a coat with the collar turned up and a scarf when that particular September evening had been so warm? Was he trying to hide his face from the CCTV cameras?
“Try another angle,” I said.
He brought up the image from the camera near the elevators. It showed the man clearly from behind as he walked away. There was no chance of seeing his face from that direction.
DS Sharp went through every camera position in turn, but there was no clear image of the man’s features.
“How about the one outside?” I asked, realizing as I said it that any images from out there would also show Clare’s body on the ground.
“Are you sure?” the sergeant asked. “I’ll have to get the original recording rather than the copy.”
“No,” I said, “don’t. If the man took such efforts inside the hotel not to be seen, he’d hardly let it happen once he was outside. He’d have just gone on walking with his head down.”
“I can get it if you want,” he said. “We only made the copy without the last bit because we didn’t want some unscrupulous idiot uploading it on YouTube. The original is securely locked in my office safe.”
I could feel my heart beating.
“No,” I said, “I’m sure it wouldn’t show anything we can’t already see.”
“Maybe I’ll look at it later,” he said, “just to be sure.”
“Right.” I breathed deeply and was reminded of my broken ribs by a sharp stabbing pain in my left side. But it was in my head that a bell was ringing.
“Could you please show me that shot again of the man walking away from the camera?”
DS Sharp pulled up the images onto the screen.
There was something about the way the man moved—an easy, lolloping long stride, with his head bobbing up and down slightly with each step.
Maybe I didn’t need to see the man’s face in order to recognize him.
22
I arrived back home at five past ten, and it was as lonely and cold as I had feared. And it was starting to rain.
Ever since leaving Newmarket I’d kept a keen eye on the Honda’s rearview mirror to ensure I wasn’t being followed, but nevertheless I was very wary when I parked the car on the street outside my apartment and walked quickly to the front door.
I let myself in and put my Chinese takeout in the oven to keep warm while I collected the rest of the things from the car.
Street lighting in my part of Edenbridge could hardly be described as comprehensive. There was a lamppost about twenty yards away in each direction up and down the road, but their meager glow hardly made it to my door. Consequently I was spooked by every shadow, seeing in my mind a potential murderer behind every bush.
My ribs were too painful to carry much at once, so it took me six separate damp trips to bring in the boxes of Clare’s paperwork, plus other things like the racing trophies and some of the stuff that Angela had sorted in the kitchen.
With the help of one of Geoff Grubb’s stable staff, Clare’s clothes and shoes had been packed into my rented Honda, and I’d driven them to a charity shop in Newmarket High Street. There had been great excitement and giggling amongst the three middle-aged women who ran it when they unpacked the bag overflowing with the black lace undies.
“We normally don’t resell people’s underwear,” one of them said, chuckling and holding up a pair, “but these are beautiful, and I think we’ll make an exception. Once they’ve been washed, of course.” She had giggled again, and I rather wished I’d just thrown them all away.
I was very glad when everything from the car was finally in the apartment and I was able to lock my front door with me safely inside. Not that I considered this particular home to be much of a castle. It had taken Austin Reynolds six mighty blows with a sledgehammer to break into Clare’s cottage. Looking at the simple latch on my own front door, I thought a well-placed kick might be enough to gain entry. I’d never considered it much of an issue as I had precious little that anyone would want to steal. But was it enough to keep out a murderer while I was sleeping?
I propped one of my two kitchen chairs against the door, tucking its back under the doorknob. It probably wouldn’t be enough to keep out an averagely determined child but at least it might give me a few moments’ warning.
I then sat on my other kitchen chair at the table to eat chicken chop suey and egg fried rice that I’d picked up at a local Chinese restaurant in Edenbridge. It was not especially tasty, but I was hungry, as I hadn’t eaten anything since my bland hospital breakfast at seven o’clock that morning.
Had that really been only this morning? So much had happened since then.
I pushed the empty plate away and leaned back in the chair.
Where did I go from here? I wondered. And I didn’t mean only physically.
I cracked open the fortune cookie that Mr. Woo at the Forbidden City restaurant had kindly put in the brown bag with the fried rice and chop suey.
Use your talents wisely. That’s why you have them.
I read and reread the Chinese proverb on the little strip of paper.
What particular talents did I have that I should use wisely?
—
I DIDN’T SLEEP very well. Partly due to the pain in my side, but mostly because of overlapping and disturbing dreams involving both Clare and Emily.
I lay awake in the darkness, trying to think what I should do.
“Can you positively identify that man?” Detective Sergeant Sharp had asked me in the Charing Cross Police’s video room.
“What do you mean by positively identify?” I asked him back.
“Could you stand up in a court of law and swear to his identity?”
“No,” I said. “Of course I couldn’t. I just think he walks a bit like someone I know.”
The policeman shook his head. “I’d need much more than that to interview anyone. Lots of people walk like that. And anyway, there’s no law against walking out of a hotel with your collar up and your head down even if there is someone dead on the sidewalk outside.”
“But he might have been in the room when Clare fell.”
“That doesn’t mean there was a crime,” he said. “I’ll grant you, if there was someone in the room when she fell it would almost certainly be relevant to the coroner and the inquest. The man would be able to testify as to what exactly had happened, but there is no evidence that he was involved in any criminal activity, so I can hardly arrest him. And then there’s the suicide note.”
“I’m not so sure it’s a suicide note,” I said, “it’s not very specific.”
“It’s a good deal more specific than some others I’ve seen.” I waited while he’d fetched a photocopy of the note from his office. He then read the last two sentences to me out loud. “Please don’t think badly of me. I am so sorry.” He put the note down on the desk in front of me. “I’m afraid, Mr. Shillingford, that it looks very much like a suicide note to me.”
Oh, Clare, how could you?
—
I TOSSED AND TURNED some more, albeit gingerly, and got up to go to the bathroom just before seven with the coming of the morning light.
I felt dreadful, and my reflection in the mirror showed me as gray-skinned with dark circles under my eyes. I’d probably overdone the amount of weight that I should have attempted carrying with broken ribs.
My side was very sore, but my breathing seemed fine, so I swallowed a couple of heavy-duty painkillers and went back to lie on my bed until they worked.
The phone vibrated on my bedside table.
“Hello,” I said, noting the Newmarket number on the caller ID.
“This is Austin Reynolds. I’ve received the payment instructions in this morning’s mail.”
“Yes?” I said, encouraging him to continue.
“Just as before,” he said, “I have to leave the money in a brown envelope under my car in a racetrack parking lot.”
“Where?” I asked. “And when?”
“Kempton. Tomorrow night.”
“What does it say exactly?” I asked.
I could hear him nervously rustling the paper. “Put the cash in used fifties in a brown padded envelope and leave it up against the inside of the offside rear wheel of your car when you arrive at Kempton races tomorrow night. Park in the parking lot, then walk away into the racetrack. Don’t look back.”
“Good,” I said. “Do you have anything declared for tomorrow night?”
“One,” he said. “I’ve got a new London owner who wants his horse to run. It’s in the fourth. What should I do?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just go to the races and walk away from your car. And don’t leave the ten thousand.”
“I haven’t got that sort of cash anyway.”
“What car will you be driving?”
“My dark blue BMW.” He gave me the registration.
“Will it start?” I asked, remembering the previous Saturday morning.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve had a new battery fitted.”
“Remember,” I said, “just park it and then walk away.”
“Shouldn’t I bend down as if I were putting something by the back wheel?”
“If you like,” I said. “Yes, perhaps that will be good just in case our man is watching you arrive. In fact, place a padded envelope there. It doesn’t matter if it’s empty.”
“I’ll put a few stones from my driveway in it to prevent it blowing away.”
I hadn’t quite worked out yet how I would keep an eye on Austin’s car at Kempton the following evening, especially as I was due to be commentating there.
“I don’t like it,” Austin said. “I don’t like it one bit. What if he goes to the racing authorities?”
“So would you rather pay him the ten thousand?” I asked.
“No,” he said miserably. “I can’t.”
It wasn’t the only thing he was going to be miserable about.
I changed the subject. “Did you enjoy the Injured Jockeys Fund event at the London Hilton?”
“What?” he asked. “But that was weeks ago.”
“Less than three weeks,” I said. Although it certainly felt like longer. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been up to see Clare after the dinner?”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Well?” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me, or at least tell the police?”
“I was frightened,” Austin said. “People might have thought I had something to do with her death.”
“And did you?” I asked.
“No,” he answered quickly. “She was alive when I left her.”
“I know.”
“How could you know?” he asked.
“The hotel CCTV cameras picked you up leaving half an hour before she fell.”
“Oh,” he said. “Good.”
Even across the telephone line, I could hear the relief in his voice.
“So why did you go up to her room?” I asked, not wanting his relief to be too long-lasting. “And how did you know she was even there?”
“She texted me,” he said. “It was rather embarrassing, actually. It was during the speeches. I’d forgotten to turn my phone off.”
“What exactly did she text?”
“She said she had to talk to me about Bangkok Flyer’s race that afternoon and that it might be a problem.”
“What time was this?”
“Hold on, I’ll get my phone.”
I could hear him moving in the background.
“Half past nine,” he said. “Nine twenty-seven, to be precise.”
About ten to fifteen minutes after she’d left me at Haxted Mill.
“She said she was coming straight to see me in Newmarket, but I texted back to say I wasn’t at home, I was at that dinner at the Hilton. She then said she’d come to the hotel.”
She must have been really worried.
But she wouldn’t have checked into a room just to see Austin. She could have spoken to him in the lobby or in the bar. She must have checked in to stay the night with the other man, her mystery lover.
“How did you know which room she was in?”
“She texted me again later, saying she was there, giving me the room number.”
“So you went up to see her?”
“Yes,” he said, “as soon as the dinner was over. But I stayed in her room only about ten or so minutes, then I left and went home. I caught the eleven-thirty train from King’s Cross. My wife picked me up from Cambridge station. She doesn’t really like going to those big events in London.”
“What did you and Clare talk about?” I asked.
“Not much, really,” he said. “I remember that most of the time I was there she was arguing with one of the hotel security men about unlocking the balcony door. What’s the point, she was saying, of having a balcony room if the balcony is locked? Anyway, the man unlocked it when I was there. I’m not really sure what it was about, but Clare kept calling me ‘darling’ and pretending to the man that she and I were going to spend the night together and therefore the door could be opened.”
The “two in a room” rule, I thought.
“So what did Clare say after the man had gone?”
“She said that someone knew about her riding Bangkok Flyer to lose. She seemed quite worried about it. I asked her who it was, but she wouldn’t tell me.”
“It was me,” I said.
“I know that now,” Austin replied curtly.
“So what was so urgent that she had needed to see you that night?” I asked. “Why couldn’t it wait until morning?”
He didn’t reply.
“Come on,” I said, “why was it so urgent?”
“Because we had planned to do it again the next day, in the last race at Newmarket, and she knew that I would lay the horse on the Internet early on Saturday morning. But she didn’t want to go through with it. In fact, she said she’d never ever do it again. From now on, she was always going to ride to win.”
I sat there, holding the phone, with tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Did she say anything about killing herself?” I asked, trying to keep emotion out of my voice.
“Not at all,” he said. “She seemed happy, almost as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. That’s why I couldn’t believe it when I heard on The Morning Line the next day that she was dead.”
“Did she say anything to you about writing a suicide note?”
“No, of course not,” Austin said. “I told you, I don’t think she was planning to kill herself when I left her.”
What on earth had happened in the subsequent half hour?
—
ALMOST AS SOON as I had put my phone down it rang again, and this time it was my father. What the hell did he want at this time of the morning?
“Hello, Dad,” I said as enthusiastically as I could manage. “How are you?”
“What’s all this bloody nonsense in the newspaper?” he replied, as always ignoring the normal niceties of polite conversation.
“Which newspaper?” I asked.
“UK Today.”
Jim Metcalf, I thought. “What does it say?”
“Something about you being strangled last week.” I could tell from his tone that he didn’t believe it
.
“That’s right,” I said. “That was why I crashed my car into Angela and Nicholas’s gatepost on Friday night.”
“What nonsense,” he said. “You were drunk. I heard one of those policeman say so. He said you must have been blind drunk to hit that post so hard.”
“Dad, I was not drunk. Someone was trying to kill me.”
“Hmph.” He clearly still didn’t believe me.
“And whoever it was tried to murder me again on Sunday night.”
“But why would anyone want to murder you?” He said it in a manner that I felt was rather belittling, as if I wasn’t worthy of being murdered.
But it was still a good question.
I’d been asking myself the same thing for almost thirty-six hours, since the disaster in the Three Horseshoes parking lot.
And I hadn’t yet come up with a credible answer.
“I don’t know, Dad,” I said. “But I intend to find out.”
“And how are you going to do that?” he asked, his voice again full of doubt that I could do anything. Our little moment of mutual understanding that had existed at Clare’s funeral had clearly evaporated.
I decided to ignore him. He had considered my whole life a disaster from the moment I’d told him, aged seventeen, that I wasn’t going to university. In his narrow opinion not getting a degree was tantamount to failure, and the fact that I now earned at least twice what he ever had was completely immaterial.
Use your talents wisely. That’s why you have them.
I did have talents and I suddenly realized how I could use them to unravel this mystery. I just hoped it was wise to do so.
—
I DROVE my rented Honda to Brighton races, checking frequently that I was not being followed.
I arrived early, well before the racing was due to start, as there were people I needed to see.
“No problem,” said Derek, the RacingTV producer, when I asked him about my plans for the following evening at Kempton. “Night racing is always less frenetic than the afternoons because there’s only a single meeting, so we’ll have a full half an hour between races. Masses of time.”
“Dead easy,” said Jack Laver, the technician who ran the racetrack broadcast center.
Dick Francis's Bloodline (9781101600931) Page 27
