Dead Certainty

by Glenis Wilson

  She leaned through the open window. ‘Let me know how he gets on. Don’t forget, if you need me, ring on my mobile.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Fully fed with a delicious ham omelette under my belt, I went through to my office. I kept reminding myself nobody was holding a loaded gun to her head forcing her to go to Melton Mowbray and Jeffrey. She was going because she wanted to. And that was the end of it. I was very grateful to still have her caring loyalty. I had to respect her choice and let her go. I tried to aim a kick at an inoffensive chair leg but hadn’t allowed for wearing a plaster cast.

  Time to get down to some serious work. Work for which I would get paid. Work that would float my boat, until …? Until!

  I picked up Elspeth’s shoebox of cuttings and photographs and buried myself in the data starting from Elspeth’s birth and followed her through babyhood and infancy. I needed to get an emotional feel for the environment she had been born into and lived in during her early years – a pretty privileged one, materially. Not only that, she seemed to have been a very welcome and dearly loved infant. The foundations for her future, notwithstanding whatever was to come later in her life, were deep and solidly laid. Her basic self-esteem and confidence would have been firmly established, a launch pad for leading the kind of life she would enjoy and thrive in, and again, the more I learned about the Maudsley family and Elspeth herself, the more absorbed I became.

  My notebook seemed to fill almost by itself as my pencil raced across the pages noting the early situations and circumstances forming the young child’s character and personality. And interwoven within were all the people adding to the mix. I began to really understand why there was a national obsession with finding out about your family tree – all the ancestors coming back to life – to entertain, to shock. But the really enthralling bits, I knew, were yet to be revealed in her adult life. I was just building the skeletal shape. All the juicy fleshy bits would come later and, judging from Marriot’s reaction to his mother’s decision to bare all, some pieces of the jigsaw could prove to be very enlightening – even dangerous.

  I stopped writing. The horsebox blocking the road had been dangerous, the petrol swilling about on the kitchen floor had been dangerous – what next? Just what was waiting to be discovered in Elspeth’s biography? Undoubtedly it would be something explosive. It had produced an explosive reaction already. And I was the man who was soon to discover and take the lid off this particular gunpowder keg.

  My mobile sprang to life and belted out the theme from The Great Escape. It was Mike.

  ‘Fancy a pub lunch?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Pick you up in twenty minutes, OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  I switched off the phone and went through to the kitchen, poured a glass of mineral water and downed it. The clock read twelve-thirty. I’d been immersed in the biography for nearly four hours.

  Checking on Leo, I found him still sleepy and comfortable. He stretched out a front leg and flexed the grappling hooks he used for claws. A pink cave, edged by sharp, ivory spikes, opened up as he yawned widely. Then he withdrew his leg, and tucking it neatly underneath his body, closed his eyes and went back to sleep. His ‘do not disturb’ sign was firmly in place. Thank God for Annabel and her healing touch. I assumed the vet’s painkiller injection must have worn off by now but it was obvious he wasn’t in pain. Sleep would be the best thing for him right now. He didn’t need me and my going out would ensure total quiet, allowing him uninterrupted quality slumber.

  ‘What d’you fancy?’ Mike flipped the menu over the table. ‘And it’s my shout.’

  ‘Give over. I’m not a pauper yet.’

  We were ensconced in the bar at the Dirty Duck. It’s one of our habitual watering holes – the food and drink are excellent and it’s a hard to beat location. Belvoir Castle is a stone’s throw down the lane and running along by the side of the pub was the Grantham Canal.

  Mike had monopolized the conversation from the moment he’d swung out of the cottage drive headed for Woolsthorpe. One of the yearlings he’d bought the previous year, a bay colt, Harlequin Boy, had outstripped his hopes and, having won a maiden race, was entered for a listed.

  He was filled with positive enthusiasm, convinced it would certainly come in the frame. ‘You never know, could even win, get some black type,’ he’d said, grinning wickedly. The high spirits were infectious and we were both relaxed and looking forward to a good meal. His positive outlook was one of the things I most liked about Mike – a refusal to be brought down by life’s knocks.

  We’d ordered pork and sat sipping gratifyingly chilled beer surrounded by the most staggering collection of brasses – all so highly polished and gleaming they dazzled the eye. Someone must experience a lot of job satisfaction, after expending a load of elbow grease, to produce such a magnificent display day after day. I’d never been in the Dirty Duck when they’d needed a buff up.

  Mike took a gulp of cold beer. ‘So, how are things going with the biography? You and Elspeth coming to blows, yet?’

  ‘Not with Elspeth, but very nearly, remember, with the son and heir.’

  ‘Ha, Marriot.’

  ‘That’s the one. ’Course, that was before the horsebox incident. I haven’t seen him since. However, things have gone on from there …’

  ‘They have? Like, how?’

  ‘Like some oik trying to set fire to the cottage in the early hours this morning.’ His jaw dropped. ‘He didn’t get to strike the match though; Leo was acting guard cat.’ I laughed at his expression and filled him in.

  ‘Good grief! Poor old Leo.’

  ‘I note your sympathy doesn’t extend to asking about the state of my lungs after breathing in petrol fumes.’

  ‘You’re as tough as a pair of miner’s pit boots.’

  ‘I didn’t get any sympathy from Annabel, either. She came dashing over to give him a hands-on healing.’

  ‘A delectable female, Annabel.’

  ‘Am I arguing?’

  ‘No, but it’s Leo I feel sorry for.’

  ‘Yes, so do I.’ I’d stopped laughing. ‘And I intend to find out who did it. Because I’m damn sure they aren’t going to stop. Too many coincidences, Mike.’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘if you can call them coincidences. But they’re not, though. Have you reported it?’

  ‘To the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What can they do? They aren’t being paid to babysit me, or Leo, are they? No, I’m just going to have to be a bit more careful. A lot more careful.’

  ‘If you need any sort of help, back-up …’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll hold you to that. One day I might have to. Against my better judgement, of course,’

  ‘Oh, of course, fully understood.’ He downed the last of his beer just as two beautifully presented steaming plates of loin of pork were placed before us. We unwrapped shiny cutlery from inside napkins and didn’t allow outside events to dull our appetites.

  ‘By, that went down well.’ Mike leaned back against the padded bench seat and reached for a glass of iced water. I was a forkful or two behind him but nodded agreement. It was good food; the Dirty Duck had its reputation to uphold.

  The outer glass door of the pub opened and a ragged line of men drifted in on a stream of laughter and chat. They were obviously a party of fishermen judging by their conversation. If they were looking for a cooked meal as opposed to simply a liquid lunch they were going to have a bit of a wait. All the tables were taken. The pub was filled to its customary capacity.

  I finished my meal and set down the knife and fork. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t linger.’

  Mike agreed. ‘We’ll have a few minutes sat outside by the canal, shall we?’

  ‘Why not? Watch the water, eh.’

  We stood up, preparing to leave. Our movement must have caught the eye of one of the men who had just come in. He hesitated, his manner diffident, then straightening his shoulders he walked down between the tables tow
ards us.

  I looked up at his approach. I couldn’t place the man immediately but I definitely knew him.

  ‘Well then, Harry.’ He held out a hand. ‘How’re you going on?’

  TEN

  It took me a few moments to place him, eighteen years is a long time – people change, grow older or, in his case, old. He’d changed a lot. Much thinner and his hair was no longer black but completely grey. Probably caused by all the nagging I’d no doubt he’d received on a daily basis from Rachel. Deep creases lined his face competing with a network of wrinkles that covered his cheeks and forehead. He’d not had an easy ride since we’d last met.

  ‘Uncle George.’ I held out my right hand and grasped his. ‘Good to see you.’

  He stared hard at me, nodding slowly. ‘And it’s good to see you, son. I’m sorry about your loss. Elizabeth was a lovely woman.’

  My mother had died from pancreatic cancer three years ago. I’d wondered if Uncle George might make the funeral but he hadn’t.

  Mike would have attended had he not been abroad racing. So, it had just been Annabel and me, plus the vicar. I’d decided it wasn’t right to subject Silvie to the ordeal. The slightest stress had a devastating effect upon her health. Mother’s death had been a merciful release and I wouldn’t wish her back to suffer.

  ‘Let me buy you a drink … and one for Mr Grantley.’

  I flashed a quick glance at Mike. If he wanted a quick exit, I’d have to fall in with his decision. I hoped not. I really wanted to talk to Uncle George, fill in a few of the blanks from the past.

  ‘Thanks, make mine a lime juice, though.’ Mike smiled. ‘I’m designated driver.’

  ‘A beer would be fine for me,’ I said. ‘But how about we take the drinks outside? We can’t really talk in here.’

  ‘Right. Got it. You two find a seat and I’ll bring the drinks out.’ He headed for the bar.

  We wandered outside into the sunshine and sat by the canal bank.

  ‘Bit of a turn-up after all this time, eh, Harry?’

  ‘Tell you the truth, I nearly didn’t recognize him. By God, he’s aged.’

  ‘He recognized me – and we’ve never met.’

  ‘Well, if you will keep having your photo splattered all over the papers … Leicester’s front runner in the successful trainer’s stakes …’

  Mike hooted with laughter. ‘Only when the papers are short of copy. A photo fills in a lot of column inches.’

  The pub door opened and we watched Uncle George pick his way across to us balancing a tray of drinks.

  ‘Let me know when you want to get off, Mike. You’ve got afternoon stables – I haven’t.’ He must have picked up the self-pity in my voice.

  ‘No, but then,’ he grinned slyly, ‘I haven’t got Elspeth’s biography sitting on my desk waiting to be written.’

  ‘Ouch! That’s it, stick the knife in a bit more.’

  ‘Any time, mate.’

  ‘Here we are, lads.’ Uncle George puffed his way up the bank. ‘Help yourselves.’

  ‘Cheers, George.’ Mike took the lime juice.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Uncle George.’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  ‘What’s brought you to the Dirty Duck, then? Never seen you here before.’

  ‘No, don’t get out much really, well, only with the fishing club. That’s who I’ve come with today. We’ve been to a venue up north, quite a bit farther away than our normal fishing spots. We had lunch at a pub just this side of York. Coming down the A1, the other chaps fancied a beer break before we headed for home. So …’ He took a pull from his pint tankard. ‘By gum, this is good stuff an’ all.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Any road, I wasn’t going to put a spoke in the wheel and disagree. Not when it delays getting home.’ He looked sideways at me as he said it. I picked up the lead.

  ‘Still difficult?’

  ‘She never lets up.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I’m not being disloyal, son, y’understand. Rachel’s the first to tell anybody daft enough to listen. Keeps dredgin’ it up. Well, it’s been nigh on eighteen years.’ He shook his head again. ‘At least she lets me out to go fishing. Reckons only men are stupid enough to sit on a riverbank watchin’ water. Thinks it’s safe, y’see, no women to chat up. As if I’d want to …’ He slurped some more of the excellent beer.

  Mike and I were silent. Mike was probably thinking the same thing as I was as we looked at the wrinkled, grey-haired man: any woman would surely run a mile.

  A flotilla of Mallard ducks paddled slickly down the canal. Preened to perfection, their colours were bright and glistening in the sunlight.

  ‘No cares. Have they?’ Uncle George waved his tankard towards them. His voice held a sour note.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Mike pursed his lips. ‘A lot of the ducklings get pulled under and eaten by pike. Then there’re foxes, poachers, and of course, got to admit it, I don’t say no to a nice bit of roast duck myself.’

  Uncle George smiled briefly. ‘Aye, son, you’re quite right. We’ve all got to take our chances an’ all.’

  Mike’s little sally had lifted Uncle George’s mood and I was grateful. I was feeling sorry for the old man. He didn’t seem to have much happiness in his life.

  ‘Well, now we’ve met up again, we’ll keep in touch. P’raps you and Aunt Rachel might like to come over to my cottage for supper sometime.’

  His eyes widened apprehensively. ‘Oh, no. She’d never agree. It’d only fan the flames a bit more. It’s a nice thought and thanks but,’ he sucked in his lips, ‘I’ll not tell her I’ve met you. It’d do more harm than good.’

  ‘OK. I’m sure you know best.’

  Neither of us mentioned Silvie, the reason behind his marital hell.

  For a while the three of us sat and supped the chilled drinks, feeling the sunshine warm on our faces, watching the sunlight glinting on the water. It was peaceful and relaxing, the perfect antidote to my hassled and sleepless night.

  Until Uncle George said, ‘So, how is the poor lass? She’ll be eighteen soon, won’t she?’

  I’d just taken a long pull of beer. Swallowing it too quickly, I choked a little. Silvie was a subject I never usually discussed. Except, perhaps, on rare occasions with Annabel, but that was all. It was the way I dealt with the horror and sadness of it. Horror, yes, because every time I visited her it was like seeing her when she’d been born. A ghastly shock compounded with the grim knowledge that she would never get better, would always be in the same totally dependent state for the rest of her life. And it was odds on it would be a short one.

  Now, facing the man who was her father, I felt backed into a corner by his questions.

  ‘Look, I really think this is sacrosanct family stuff.’ Mike rose to his feet. ‘I’ll go for a bit of a walk. Eh?’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  ‘Yes, Harry, I do.’

  He was trying to make it easier for me to open up in front of Uncle George. I appreciated it. And being on our own would help; I could see the sense in it. But from wanting to talk to Uncle George, I was now seriously getting cold feet.

  Mike flipped a hand and walked off down the towpath beside the canal. There was plenty of it. It extended about as far as Grantham.

  ‘Now, Harry. What have you to tell me?’ Uncle George fixed his gaze on my face.

  ‘Really, I can’t condense eighteen years, all the ups and downs, mostly downs, into a few minutes chat …’

  ‘All I’m asking, son, is how is Silvie?’

  ‘Well, the answer to that is she’s in exactly the same state medically as she was when she was born.’

  ‘There’s no hope, then? Of any possible improvement, I mean.’

  ‘None at all, I’m afraid. Her overall health is very fragile most of the time.’

  ‘Poor, poor lass.’ Uncle George shook his head sadly. I saw the glint of tears. I patted his shoulder.

  ‘I think it’s worse for us. Silvie isn’t aware of how she is, her condition, so it isn’t the same
. She’s never known anything different. She’s surrounded by loving care, that’s the main thing. And I do think her days are relatively happy – well, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘Do you go to see her sometimes?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I go fairly frequently. Well, I did before I got a smashed up kneecap a few weeks back.’

  ‘Kneecap, eh? Didn’t like to ask. Not the best injury a jockey can have, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not. They, the hospital, had to wire it round. They’ll pull the wire out when the bones have knitted together.’

  ‘I expect you’ve a lot of supporting tissue, muscles, ligaments, that sort of thing that’s going to take time healing.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’

  ‘And the verdict at the end of all your physio and stuff, have they said?’

  ‘Can’t commit themselves, can they? But they’ve warned me, my racing days are probably over.’ I tipped my glass and drank the last of the beer.

  ‘Does he know?’ Uncle George jerked his head towards the figure of Mike returning.

  ‘Best he doesn’t just now. Not until he has to.’

  ‘I see.’

  He probably did. Spelling it out that Mike was my employer wasn’t needed. Nor the fact that most likely, in a short while, he wouldn’t be.

  Mike was nearly back.

  ‘Uncle George,’ I said urgently, ‘I’d like to talk some more about … you know, the past. And about Silvie’s future. Could I meet you somewhere without Aunt Rachel knowing?’

  ‘Give me your number, Harry. I’ll call you when there’s a chance of making it, OK?’

  ‘Sure.’ I dug into my wallet and pulled out a card. ‘Anytime. If I’m not in, there’s an answerphone at the cottage. Or leave a message on my mobile.’

  ‘Right.’ He pocketed it just as Mike rejoined us.

  ‘All OK?’ He checked his wristwatch. ‘Afraid I’ll have to make tracks.’

  Uncle George stood up and shook hands. ‘Very nice to have met you, Mr Grantley.’

  ‘Now, the name’s Mike, yes?’

  Uncle George smiled. ‘Yes. And I hope to meet you again.’