The high banks on either side of the quiet lane were tree-lined and the foliage extended way above and out meeting the trees’ branches on the opposite side. The effect was a dim green tunnel of peace, quintessentially English. I drank in this fugue of respite, grateful to have the initial meeting over with and looking forward to getting home, stretching out my plastered leg and downing a mug of tea.
Darren, by my side, was delightedly giving the blue Nissan full throttle, hugging the gentle bends with the aplomb of Lewis Hamilton. I returned to my perusal of the contents of the shoebox and let him enjoy his power trip.
At the bottom of the hill the road curved sharply to the left. He gave lip service to a tiny touch on the brake then spun the wheel following the grass verge right round.
Subconsciously, I suppose, I was waiting for him to pick up speed again and when he didn’t, I raised my gaze from the photograph – a split second before he let out a loud curse. Flooring clutch and brake, he yanked the wheel to the right. The car slewed sideways. The photographs flew from my lap and sprayed all over the interior. I grabbed for the door handle, missed, was flung forward against the dashboard and clouted my forehead with a mighty crack.
In front of us, positioned across the narrow lane, was a massive horsebox, effectively blocking any movement in either direction.
The Nissan’s near-side front wing hit the horsebox broadside on with a horrible rending of screaming metal.
We were bounced away, the car fully out of control. With two wheels off the ground we did a juddering twist and seemed to hang sideways in mid-air. It happened fast. No time to think, no time to act. Just a gut-jerking knowledge we were about to get hurt – or worse.
The car flipped over, slammed back down on to the unforgiving tarmac and rolled. We were strapped inside and we rolled with it. For the first time, I appreciated my plaster cast. It acted like a prop and prevented a lot of movement, anchoring me on the passenger side. Despite both air-bags inflating, Darren, with no cast, wasn’t so lucky. His legs were jerked upward and sideways and I heard a bone snap. He gave a thin high scream.
The Nissan rolled once more and stopped. Groggily, automatically, I checked my own arms, legs and collarbone and gave a tentative wriggle of my spine and pelvis. No stabbing pain, no numbness. I licked a run of blood from a cut lip, grimacing at the metallic iron taste. Gingerly, I explored the side of my temple and found an egg shaped lump already forming. There’d be bruising and muscular strain making themselves felt later but I’d been lucky, damned lucky.
Turning as far as I could, I reached out to Darren. My hand met a warm, sticky mess. I felt the blood trickling wetly down my wrist. Struggling to inch myself round, I could see he had hit his head. The impact had knocked him unconscious – a mercy in the circumstances. However, the worst of the blood was pouring from a ripped ear lobe. It looked much worse than it was, thank God.
I looked down to where his leg had been forced sideways and groaned. It was at a crazy angle. There was little I could do, pinned by the inflated air-bags and my plaster cast. We both needed help.
I wriggled in the limited space feeling for my trouser pocket and eventually managed to get my index finger and the second one round the leather case containing my mobile phone. If I didn’t look sharp some other vehicle would be coming down the hill and round the corner.
Looking up, I saw with something approaching panic that the car’s perambulations had thrown us so far back down the lane towards the junction that we would stand no chance of being avoided. We were invisible to any oncoming vehicle. The first thing they would know of our plight would be when they crashed into the Nissan. My hands were slippery, covered in sweat, as I struggled to get the phone free of my pocket. Without stopping to think, I dialled Mike’s number. Please, God, he wouldn’t still be out on the gallops. He wasn’t.
‘Where exactly are you?’ His tone was brisk. ‘Right, I’m there. I’ll contact the police. Hang on.’
My hand holding the mobile dropped in my lap. With a strange detached interest I looked down. Shock, I thought, observing it from what seemed like a long way off. My hand was trembling violently.
Muzzily, I looked to my left. I frowned, trying to make sense of it. The lane ran away between the hedges unimpeded. There was no sign of the massive horsebox that had caused our accident. It had simply disappeared. There wasn’t a vehicle in sight.
The lane was completely empty.
SEVEN
‘This is getting to be a habit.’ Mike shook his head a little without taking his eyes off the dual carriageway where he was doing the maximum seventy miles an hour. ‘And it’s not one I want to cultivate.’
‘What habit would this be?’
‘Bringing you back from hospital.’
I tentatively touched the bandage encircling my forehead and hastily dropped my hand. ‘For once, I’d have to agree.’
‘I mean, it’s not as though they serve decent grub and it’s such a waste of diesel.’
‘At least I’m heading in the right direction – home – not still stuck up in a ward on the third floor like Darren.’
Mike stopped bantering, changed down and took a left off the A52. He slid a quick sideways glance at me, his manner serious now, unlike his normal light-hearted self. ‘Was it deliberate?’
‘Without proof, you can’t say, but yes, I reckon it was.’
His lips tightened. ‘A bitch of a thing to happen.’
‘I’m damn sorry Darren got caught in the crossfire. One thing having a go at me, unforgivable someone else getting hurt.’
‘So, who’s in the frame?’
‘One for sure – Marriot Maudsley.’
‘Elspeth’s son? Oh, come on, Harry, what gave you that idea?’
‘He was hellishly angry up at Unicorn Stables. But to take it to those extremes …’ I shook my head slowly. ‘We could both have been killed. If it was him, there must be something very damaging in the family archives he doesn’t want me to uncover and make public.’
‘Financially, y’mean?’
‘Could be,’ I nodded, ‘or possibly something very dark.’
‘Only one way to find out.’
‘Honour my handshake with Elspeth … and dig deep.’
‘You got it.’
‘Rather be riding racehorses.’
‘With that on?’ He inclined his head towards the plaster cast around my left leg.
I sighed. ‘Point taken.’
He jabbed his left forefinger hard into my right biceps. ‘Harry, you will ride again.’
‘Hmmm … the jury’s still out on that.’
‘In the meantime, where do you go from here?’
‘Home!’ I said it explosively, with great gut feeling. ‘I’ve seen enough of the inside of hospitals.’
‘I meant workwise.’
‘Sure,’ I took a deep breath and calmed down, ‘sure, I know you did. The first job will be to scrutinize the contents of that cardboard box Elspeth entrusted to me. And talking of which, what the devil happened to all the stuff, photos, papers, et cetera? I seem to remember I had the box on my knee but when Darren hit the brakes the whole bloody lot sprayed everywhere.’
‘I can answer you that. Obviously they won’t be in the same right order but they’re all back in there. And the box is sitting on your desk at the cottage.’
As a mate, Mike was the best. ‘That’s a pint I owe you down at The Horseshoes.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ll call that in.’
And when he’d dropped me at the cottage door, declined coffee or tea saying he’d got evening stables to supervise, I let myself in and found Elspeth’s precious box exactly where he’d said it would be. There was no chance of missing it. My desk has a tooled green leather top and the box was sitting on it – bang in the centre.
I struggled through to the kitchen, brewed up and took my mug and my plastered leg back into the study.
I sat down in the comfy battered armchair and prepared to put the box on my kn
ee, but at the last moment, it was usurped by a most indignant ginger cat demanding my attention. Leo thrust the top of his furry head firmly under my chin and began purring loudly. His claws sheathed and unsheathed themselves in their pads as they kneaded into my right thigh – one thigh. His back legs skittered about on the impervious hard plaster on my left one. I slid an arm under his bum and gave him a bit of purchase.
I’m a cat and a dog lover but I’d dispute the dog lover brigade who claim you only receive love and loyalty from the canines. Leo was unwavering in his wholehearted loving welcomes and you could have put money on them.
He never does anything by halves, throwing himself fully into the moment. Right now he was saying very clearly how much he loved me and was glad to have me back at Harlequin Cottage. I reached around him with my free hand and retrieved my tea from the oak side table. The box and its contents could go hang for a few minutes whilst our mutual admiration society was re-established.
In the end it was my mobile phone ringing which called a halt to our indulgence. Leo, having worn out his pads, was preparing to doss down but found himself dispossessed of my knee whilst I fumbled in a trouser pocket for the insistent phone.
‘Ah, that you, Harry? You back home yet from that goddamn hospital?’ It was Elspeth Maudsley.
‘Hello, Elspeth, yes, just back.’
‘Doing all right?’
‘Mending.’
‘Good. I’m just a little concerned, Harry …’
I pre-empted her next words. ‘No need to be. Your property’s here, safe and sound. Apparently, Mike Grantley searched the interior of the Nissan after the crash and picked up all the papers.’
‘What about the photographs? Are they still intact?’ There was an edge of tension in her voice.
‘Er, yes, yes, I understand they are. ’Course, I haven’t had chance yet to go through the box. But it’s on the desk. I’m hoping to do so later.’
‘Oh, good, I’m sure they will be. You understand that photographs are precious, especially if they are the only ones from way back.’ Relief had softened her voice.
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to settle in. Are you coming over as arranged Thursday? Or shall we say the following Thursday?’
‘Oh, the following one. I really need time to go through your papers. I’ve lost almost a couple of days because of the accident.’
‘Yes, sure you have. OK, then. See you a week on Thursday.’
A second later there was a double click and she rang off. I sat for a moment before checking out the number. She had rung me from the landline at Unicorn Stables. However, someone had been listening in on an extension. They had tried to time their replacing of the receiver in tandem but hadn’t quite managed it.
I’d have put my shirt on it being Marriot Maudsley. And if I was right, that meant he knew I was back in circulation and resident again at the cottage. It could be I was way off beam casting him in the role of villain but somehow I didn’t think so. It added up to an unwanted feeling of vulnerability, something I’m not familiar with. I’d always been in charge of my body – and its many emotions – until now. But with only one leg working, swift defensive action – if needed – was a no-no. Not a happy thought.
‘There are times, Leo, my lad,’ I said, scooping him back up into my lap, ‘when I really wish you were a dog. A bloody big breed of dog, something rather like a Rottweiler.’ Leo’s tail lashed twice – he clearly wasn’t amused – but he allowed himself to be stroked and placated, and moments later was curled up on my knee, purring throatily.
My fridge was full of fresh vegetables and salad plus the freezer was concealing delicious delights but my appetite would have registered nil on the Richter scale this evening. Instead, I went through everything in the cardboard box, reading all the newspaper clippings, but in this first of Elspeth’s boxes, there weren’t that many.
Childhood and teenage triumphs were recorded: at a gymkhana, astride a fat chestnut pony, wearing a red rosette, aged eleven, being picked to play the lead in a school production when only thirteen, a brilliant school report at fifteen. Miseries, too, were laid bare: failing the eleven-plus exam and being turned down for a place at RADA were two of the major disappointments.
We are supposed to be formed by our childhood experiences and digging into someone’s early life was certainly giving me insights into Elspeth’s character as a grown woman. It was at this point that I changed my mind about the business of writing the biography. It had changed from hideous, unavoidable graft into something else. Something not exactly riveting but certainly intriguing and interesting enough to stir my imagination and make me think perhaps, after all, I could make a fair job of it.
Although the clippings and papers were a manageable amount, the photographs outdid them by about three to one. I began to understand that edge of tension in Elspeth’s voice after I’d laid all of them out on the carpet in date order starting with a totally nude baby laying tummy down on a fluffy blanket – Elspeth herself at two months old. What must her parents have conjectured would be the future of their precious little girl? I doubted it would have been as a hugely successful racehorse trainer. Were they actually still alive? It was possible, just. I didn’t know, just as I didn’t know anything else about the family history. Not yet.
I placed this first photograph face down in the box and the date on the back stood out boldly in red ink: 1936. I had to give it to her. She had certainly made it relatively easy for me to go through all her stuff. Each photograph had the appropriate date clearly written in red on the reverse. Undoubtedly, she would have filed them in the correct order when she handed over the cardboard box to me. However, since the accident had spewed them to the four corners of the Nissan, they were completely, hopelessly jumbled up. No matter. I painstakingly set about going through the pile, carefully considering the photograph in relation to the family tree before laying it face down on top of the preceding ones inside the box.
Another surprise help was the details of each picture had also been written alongside the date. A tiny potted family archive in itself. I needed a viable starting point and I intended going through each of the photographs tonight filing them chronologically. Tomorrow I’d log on to my computer and come up with a family tree. I’d print off a hard copy and take it with me to Elspeth’s next Thursday, get her say so and approval of the accuracy.
As I laid each photograph back in the box, I made a note of it on the ruled pad I normally kept for drafting out copy of the newspaper column. By the time I’d worked through the dozens and dozens of photos, I’d listed out all those that I considered family members with a separate list of friends and acquaintances. It was neither tedious nor boring; instead it had absorbed me completely. So much so that only after placing the last one in the box was I aware of a whiskery, ginger face inches from my own where I was sprawled out on the carpet. Two deep green eyes were gazing intently into my own. Leo supplemented the telepathic message he was transmitting with a loud, bass miaow.
I screwed my head round and took a look at my watch. ‘Bloody hell!’ No wonder Leo was giving me the evil eye, well, eyes. It was close on midnight. Outside, through the window, the sky appeared black, pretty well devoid of stars. He bellowed again, louder. The volume was astounding considering he was only a cat, albeit a very large one. ‘You’re quite right,’ I agreed with him, ‘it is way past your suppertime.’
I slid the lid on to the box and, reaching up, put it on the chair cushion being the nearest flat surface. Then I set about peeling myself up off the carpet using my crutch as a lever. It took some doing and I was cursing the idea of getting down there in the first place but Leo wasn’t bothered. He wove in and out around my ankles, tail banner high giving encouraging little mews, happy now his objective was in sight. I eventually staggered through to the kitchen and poured out a generous ration of cat food.
‘Only the dry stuff tonight, lad. It’s too late to indulge you with anything more tempting.�
�� But Leo didn’t appear too troubled. Food was food and he was hungry. Whilst he ate I brewed tea and when he’d finished I did my duty as doorman and opened the back door of the cottage. Leo has a cat flap but now and again he likes the VIP treatment – tonight was one of those occasions. I suppose he thought being kept waiting four hours for his meal warranted a gesture on my part.
I left him to his nocturnal sojourn and took my tea up to bed.
I think I locked the kitchen door, but with hindsight, maybe I didn’t.
EIGHT
It had reached a maximum of twenty-two degrees during the day, and even now was well above the comfort zone for sleeping. My bedroom was stifling. I threw open the window and left the door wide. It was a night for stripping off completely and lying on top of the sheet, not under it. I did just that. Relishing the relief of stretching out my legs, I sat propped up against pillows and supped tea.
I still had little idea about the complexities of Elspeth’s family tree but, come morning, I’d log on to the computer, Branston – so called for the obvious pickle I frequently found myself in when using it – and get to technical grips with all the visual information I’d sorted out.
Being in hospital certainly shielded you from outside concerns and slowed down the pace, but life came whacking back at you, seemingly with double the momentum, the moment you were home. Darren, of course, would still be in that shielded cocoon.
A wave of unwarranted guilt swept me. Undoubtedly it was because of me he was stuck in a hospital bed. The guilt swirled and subsided. Stupid to think I could have pre-empted or altered the situation. All the same, I’d ask Mike if there were any chance of a ride for the young lad, even if it was only in a bumper. The kid needed some encouragement. A stable lad’s life is a bloody tough one, I know. I’d been one – the perks were few.
Dead Certainty Page 5
