Dead Certainty

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘How many have you left?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, probably five, maybe six, and some of them may not contain anything relevant. They deal with the years just before and following my divorce from Victor. Oh, yes, and one has an awful lot of photos, cuttings from magazines, that sort of thing, from when Marriot got married. You’ll just have to sift out what’s not required.’

  ‘OK.’ No way would I tell her that it was probing this box that held my closest attention. But had I not spoken to Uncle George, she may have been quite right and I’d have skipped the wedding stuff. Now, knowing a bit of the background, I was eager to plough through the contents of this box, see what it threw up.

  ‘Anything else, then?’ She flashed a glance at her watch.

  ‘Hmmm, there are two or three people who figure in your circle of friends that I’d like to speak to now that I’m mobile again.’

  I fished a short list from my pocket. ‘Is it possible you could give them a ring or drop an email confirming my credentials in asking questions?’

  ‘Yes, with the proviso your questions are tactful, discreet ones and not loaded.’

  ‘Do my best.’

  She sighed. ‘A good job the publisher’s paying. However, he does expect a bit of …’ she eyed me speculatively, ‘spice?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But I don’t want other people getting hurt through any of my, shall we say, possible indiscretions?’

  ‘Point taken, Elspeth. I shall be discretion itself. Neither of us wants a libel suit chucking at us.’

  She chuckled. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  Down the hall, I heard the front door bang. My heart rate stepped up its pace a little. Heavy, solid footsteps made their way towards the office door. Now, my heart rate went into overdrive. I knew who would be coming through the door at any second.

  And I wasn’t wrong.

  The door swung open and Marriot came in. He saw me, checked his stride and glowered.

  ‘Marriot, darling.’ Elspeth held out her hand and moved towards him. ‘What a nice surprise.’ She inclined her face to receive a kiss. Totally wrong-footed, he turned the glower off and dutifully kissed his mother’s cheek.

  ‘I’ll be off then, Elspeth. May I take the box files?’

  ‘Certainly.’ She pulled out a deep drawer in the desk and extracted five boxes.

  I packed three into my backpack and stuck the other two under my arm.

  ‘What’s in those?’ Marriot asked truculently.

  ‘They cover the last twenty-five years up until now.’ I covertly watched him assessing what they might contain about himself and saw the wry quirk of his mouth. Knew he’d realized they would include his early manhood, and all that implied – plus his marriage.

  ‘Well, you don’t need this one.’ He snatched one of the boxes from under my arm. Predictably, it was marked with the years 2007 to 2011.

  ‘Now, now,’ Elspeth held out a hand, ‘of course Harry will want it. Don’t worry, darling, he’s not interested in your wedding coverage. But he does need to go through it for the necessary information leading up to my retirement.’ Very reluctantly, Marriot gave it back to her.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ he snarled at me, ‘I’m going to read it before it goes to the publisher, so watch your back.’

  ‘I will,’ I assured him truthfully. ‘You can bet on that.’

  He smiled nastily. ‘How’s your sister? Keeping well, is she?’

  I caught my breath, feeling a sudden constriction in my chest.

  ‘Yes, how is she, Harry?’ In contrast, Elspeth’s smile was sweet. ‘She must be nearly eighteen, isn’t she?’

  I nodded, my throat so tight I could barely swallow.

  ‘Your payment for the writing must be welcome now you’re not able to ride. I don’t suppose the nursing home comes cheap, does it?’

  Mutely I shook my head, wanting only to get out of the room, the house, and escape back to the sanctuary of my cottage.

  ‘I’ve asked John to run you back,’ she went on, almost as though she could read my thoughts. ‘And don’t worry about those interviews you mentioned, I’ll let them know.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I croaked, scooped up the errant box file and, resisting the urge to run, walked out.

  SEVENTEEN

  A furry tornado hurtled across the kitchen, landing with a solid thump on my shoulder. Instinctively I reached up for Leo’s tail and steadied him.

  His action prompted a thought. Had the cat jumped on Carl as, intent on arson, he’d entered the cottage that night? If so, and it was more than likely, that would explain the dislocated tail. Odds on, Carl would have grabbed him. Not to steady, but to try to pull the cat off. The nearest bare flesh would have been his face. And it would certainly have resulted in a nasty mauling, I could guarantee it. The squalls and yells of pain I’d heard were consistent with that scenario.

  If I’d found out earlier that Carl was to blame, I could have had a good look at his face. But I hadn’t known and I hadn’t noticed.

  I went through into the lounge, poured a small whisky and sat sipping it whilst doing some serious thinking. Halfway down the glass, I placed it on the coffee table and reached for my mobile.

  ‘Mike, Harry. You eaten yet? Fancy a bite at the Unicorn? No, no way, I’m not a charity case yet. This is my shout – besides, I need to run stuff by you … OK? Great, meet you in half an hour.’ I rang off and put the mobile back in my trouser pocket.

  Reaching for my jacket and the last couple of issues of the Racing Post, I locked the cottage and pointed the Mazda towards Gunthorpe.

  The Unicorn was a well-known watering hole. Standing right beside the River Trent at Gunthorpe, it was a favourite haunt for anglers, boating enthusiasts, walkers and the ubiquitous motorbikers. A rambling country pub-cum-restaurant, it boasted a very long conservatory running along the south-facing wall. The views from there over the river to the rise of woods on the far side were magnificent. Farther down from the pub, the narrow tarmac road petered out at the stile and start of a footpath over the fields beside Gunthorpe’s impressive lock and weir.

  I glanced at my watch as I entered through the back entrance, directly accessed from the generously accommodating car park. Barely seven o’clock, early yet so every chance of getting a table for two overlooking the Trent. I went to the bar, picked up a still mineral water and wandered through into the conservatory. Definitely a place to unwind and appreciate the wide spread of sky and water. Although half-full, mostly with couples, there was a good choice of tables. I chose one at the end nearest the lock and weir.

  Mike would be along in his own good time; he had much to do at the stables, unlike myself. I felt an unwelcome flood of longing to be back riding horses. I doubted I’d ever come to terms with just being a writer, it didn’t seem like a proper job at all. I shrugged my shoulders irritably. The jury was still out – it wasn’t a sentence yet.

  I spread out Saturday’s issue of the Racing Post on to the table and flipped through to the declarations on page eighty-two. Runners for Sunday, Monday, Wednesday and Thursday were all listed, though strangely not Tuesday’s. These had been written up today in Monday’s copy. I placed this to one side for now. It was a bit short notice to do anything about it if I discovered tomorrow to be the day for action. I liked to think out a plan in advance rather than charge into a situation that could backfire.

  As in every other walk of life, in racing there was an exclusive hotline with gossip, insider knowledge, call it what you like, that rivalled the Met’s famous HOLMES for up-to-date data. Right now, I was on the outer fringe, unpleasant but true. I needed Mike’s help on this.

  Minutes later a hand came across the table setting down a half pint of bitter and he slid into the chair opposite me. I’d not noticed his approach being buried in the newspaper.

  ‘Oh, hi, Mike, glad you could make it.’

  ‘What? Miss a free dinner? Give over.’ He took a big appreciative slurp of beer. ‘So, how goes
it?’

  ‘Better than I’d hoped as regards the writing.’

  ‘And otherwise?’

  ‘I’ve just discovered who was driving the horsebox.’

  ‘You have? Who was it?’

  ‘Remember when I came off at Huntingdon on that April bank holiday Monday? Well, it was the jockey I landed on, Carl Smith.’

  ‘Good grief! But he can’t be the main man – he’s just a bit player, surely. Who do you think’s pulling his strings, then?’

  ‘My money is still on Marriot. I’ve no proof, of course.’

  ‘Hmmm … where do you go from here?’

  ‘Funny you should ask …’ I tapped the Racing Post. ‘Just checking the declarations for later this week. Any ideas which racecourse Carl Smith might be at?’

  Mike pulled the paper closer. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  I sat back and sipped my mineral water, allowing him time to study the runners. Mike was silent for a few minutes before stabbing a forefinger decisively at a particular race. ‘Sandfly’s down to race Thursday. John Constable’s his usual jockey but he had a bad fall last Saturday. John’s cousin’s one of my own stable lads and he was telling the others over breakfast yesterday. Fred Sampson will probably need Carl to help out.’

  I grinned. ‘Knew I could rely on you, Mike. Leicester it is then. Thursday.’

  ‘Having sung for my supper, shall we order?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I folded up the newspaper. The subject was dropped whilst we enjoyed a sizzling steak and chips. But nearing the end of our meal it was Mike who brought up the subject again.

  ‘OK, Harry.’ He speared the last chip and replaced knife and fork on the plate. ‘So what’s your next step? Are you going to Leicester to face him down?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Could turn a bit hairy, y’know.’

  ‘I’m sure it will. However, there’s going to be further moves against me – bound to be. I need to get in first. There has to be a reason behind these attacks. I want to know why.’

  ‘How are you going to … er … persuade him to tell you?’

  ‘Appeal to his basest nature.’

  ‘You mean, offer him cash?’

  ‘You must admit it usually works.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘I’m not going to disagree.’

  ‘The biggest question is what do I do when I find out who the enemy is? Can you tell me? Can’t just steam in and finish him off, nor even tell the police. They’re not going to babysit me. So where do I go from here?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘No idea, mate, absolutely no bloody idea.’

  I drained the last of my drink. ‘Just have to let it roll and return the volleys, only thing I can do.’

  ‘Well, if you want some help just shout.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll take a rain check on your offer, Mike. Bad enough somebody’s on my case – no sense in pointing them in your direction.’

  ‘OK, just remember, when you get to the last fence, you’re not on your own.’

  I looked at him steadily. ‘I’ll remember.’ It felt good to know I had a staunch friend and it was precisely because he was such a good friend that I didn’t want to involve him. It was one thing to pick his brains, quite another to stand him in front of the firing squad.

  We wandered out through the car park and drove off in convoy, Mike leading. As we parted at the Saxondale roundabout – Mike driving straight on, myself swinging right – the dark blue Peugeot that had been behind us from Gunthorpe also turned right. I flicked a glance in my rear-view mirror. A similar car had been a couple of cars behind me as I’d driven to Gunthorpe. Was it following me? Was somebody actually stalking me? Or was I simply getting neurotic? Only one way to find out.

  Approaching the brow of Saxondale hill before it swooped down into Radcliffe-on-Trent, there was a staggered junction. To the left was Henson Lane, which had originally led through to the old Saxondale hospital but was now blocked off fifty yards in. Only local people would be aware of this rat-run. If I swung off the A52 into the cul-de-sac and the other car followed, it must be following me, because the lane led nowhere. Also, I didn’t want to give away the location of my cottage.

  Leading off the junction on the right-hand side of the road was Oatfield Lane, snaking narrowly away over a hump-backed railway bridge and running between fields for about three-quarters of a mile. It ended in a crossroads above Shelford. The road running west led straight down into Radcliffe village. I could cut across country and get back to the cottage unseen.

  At the very last moment I swung the car to the left and into Henson Lane. I drove straight up to the barricade, braked and dropped into reverse gear ready for a speedy get away. Behind me I could see the A52 clearly through my rear-view mirror. A couple of cars, caught out by the stiff camber, swished past the end of the lane. I held my breath, heart beat getting faster. Any second now I’d see the blue Peugeot.

  And there it was. Sailing past just like all the rest. Complete with a deep dent in the bonnet.

  I let out a gusty sigh. That was another year I’d just knocked off my life. Get a grip, I told myself, did a rapid seven-point turn within the narrow lane, shot across the staggered junction and went home the scenic route.

  I was congratulating myself on losing the possible tail when, a quarter of a mile from home, waiting for the traffic lights to change, the same blue car flew past heading back the way it had come.

  The lights changed, I turned right and floored it back to the cottage.

  This time, after double-locking the door, I poured a double whisky and took it upstairs to bed.

  EIGHTEEN

  I arose very early the next morning and by seven was hard at work.

  Leo, having been on the prowl all night, was now gracing my desk, languorously stretched out on top of today’s newspaper. I found his presence relaxing. I’d set a target of 2,000 words and was completely absorbed in the writing, the words flowing. A shaft of sunshine slanted through the window, falling across Leo’s orange fur. Feeling the warmth, he stretched out a careless back leg and began to purr softly.

  From this delightful fugue, the strident notes of my mobile jarred us both back harshly to the present.

  ‘Yes?’ Even to my own ears, my voice sounded abrupt, abrasive. Every day I was becoming more like a writer, hating to be interrupted when the words were going well. As for Leo, his ears flattened and he jumped from the desk in a huff.

  ‘Mr Radcliffe, could you come over to the nursing home, please? Silvie has contracted an RTI. She’s not very well, I’m afraid.’

  I immediately felt guilty for my ill-humour. ‘Thank you, Matron. Yes, of course, I’ll come over straight away.’ I saved the precious script and closed down the computer.

  I was concerned about Silvie but we’d been here before, plenty of times. She was particularly vulnerable to infection. However, I knew that one day one of the infections was very likely to ravage her delicate body and she would lose the battle. Pray God, it wasn’t going to be this time. I didn’t want to lose her.

  I headed the car east and ate up the intervening miles. Having turned off the Fosse, I was driving down a lane between fields when I glanced in my rear-view mirror – then did a double take. A dark blue Peugeot was following me, belting along at an alarming speed, dead centre of the lane and closing rapidly.

  Automatically, I pulled to my left and floored the accelerator. I looked behind. He accelerated. The gap closed. If he intended running me off the road, it was more than a possibility he’d succeed. Holding that course, a smash was inevitable. He must be raving. At the speed we were doing, it would probably take him out, too.

  No way could I pull any further to my left. The impenetrable hedge ran unendingly along the narrow grass verge. Not a gateway in sight. But up ahead there was a bend and immediately after I knew, from countless trips this way, there was a cattle grid fronting a dirt track off to the left. No gates flanked this grid and it was just possible I could swing
off the lane and the momentum would carry my car over on to the track. Bloody dangerous, though – the car could flip over.

  I risked a glance behind. He was closing very fast, bearing down on me like a maniac. Sweat ran down my face. If he hit me before we rounded the bend it was going to be a hell of a smash. I felt a sickening clutch of my guts knowing I didn’t have a choice. Trying to outrun the Peugeot was not an option. It had to be the cattle grid. At least I stood a fifty-fifty chance of survival.

  Desperately I increased my speed, knowing I could easily lose control going into the bend. But I had to be in front at that point. Gripping the wheel, hands aching with the effort, I expected the screech of metal on metal any moment. Then the bend was upon me.

  I swung the steering wheel round, burning rubber, the tyres screaming. Then immediately wrenched it savagely to the left, felt the wheels spin and clatter deafeningly as the car bucked and plunged over and across the cattle grid, scattering a fog of flying dried mud particles all around as the tyres sought a grip. The car tipped at a crazy angle, bounced back and slewed from side to side. I braked hard, trying to keep it upright on the dirt track. Fighting for control, I finally ran it into the choking, tall grass at the side. As it came to a long, juddering halt, I slumped over the wheel, dripping with sweat.

  My relief was short-lived as I remembered the maniac driving the other car. Was he still pursuing me? I jerked around, still held by the seat belt. The dirt track was empty, no vehicle in sight. I let out a shuddering breath. Putting the car into reverse, I extricated it from the clogging herbage, dropped into first and turned back, nosing it gently over the cattle grid and out on to the lane. I scanned both directions. Nothing. Not a car in sight.

  Gingerly, heading for the nursing home, I drove at a steady pace, keeping a close eye on the road in front and also constantly checking my rear-view mirror. A driving examiner would have been proud of my rubber necking. But I didn’t intend to be caught out again. Whoever had been driving that Peugeot had had only one thought in mind: to put me out of action, possibly temporarily, but more likely permanently. And I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. It was my turn to take the reins.