‘No, no, you did right.’ I could hear her sniffing back tears proceeded by a rustle of tissues as she blew her nose very hard. ‘I’m glad you did. Please, promise me, Harry, you’ll always keep me in the picture regarding Silvie. I still look on her as a sister-in-law – she is my sister-in-law. Just because we aren’t together doesn’t alter that.’
‘Thank you,’ I said humbly.
‘Have to go.’ She gave another teary sniff. ‘A client … you know …’
‘Of course. And I’m sorry to have upset you. Annabel …’ I hesitated, ‘You know … I love you.’
She gave a little choking sob and put the phone down.
Feeling almost as big a bastard as balaclava man, I pressed a finger on the phone rest, released it and dialled Uncle George’s number. His shocked reaction was on a par with Annabel’s except he didn’t break down in tears, just swore violently instead. Funny, I’d never heard Uncle George curse before. I thought he was a quiet-tempered man. Until today. Now I was hearing expletives I’d never heard before. I held the phone away from my ear whilst he released all his rage.
‘By God, if I get my hands on him …’ He finished up.
‘Stand in line, Uncle George.’
‘What? Oh, yes, yes. You must be damned upset, too.’
‘Believe it.’
‘Is she being looked after now, you know, kept safe, in case the sod comes back?’
‘The nursing staff are on red alert. I think it doubtful anyone can gain access after this.’
‘Right, yes.’ He calmed down. ‘We still on for Friday, son? I think the sooner I tell you what I know the better.’
‘Yes, I hadn’t forgotten. Right now I need all the information I can get.’
‘Quite. But not now, not down the phone. Friday.’
I found myself nodding. ‘See you then, Uncle George.’
I limped through to the kitchen and made a strong coffee. My injured leg was displaying sympathy with the rest of my shattered nerves. My kneecap was hurting like hell. Best if I took a walking stick with me on Thursday to Leicester races. There’d be a fair bit of walking to do. But not the grotty hospital-issue one. My father had used a fine hickory stick occasionally because of arthritis. I’d dig it out of the dark hole under the stairs and use that. Didn’t want the opposition to think I was still very weak on that leg – which I was. Dad’s stick made a statement, had style. It was the type to be used even if you didn’t need one.
I took a sip of the scalding black coffee and right then the landline rang. I hobbled back to the office. Placing the coffee down on the desk, I picked up the phone. ‘Yes.’
A very soft, silky voice said, ‘Harry Radcliffe?’
‘Yes. Who is it?’
There was a low chuckle, mirthless. ‘We won’t waste time on questions like that. Just listen—’
‘Now wait a minute—’
‘No! You listen.’ It was said in the same low tone that somehow achieved much more effect than a raised voice – the very opposite of Uncle George’s diatribe. It was chilling. It reminded me of a snake slithering. Cold, dangerous.
‘Your sister was lucky, very lucky, this time.’
‘You bloody bastard.’ I felt livid rage scour through me.
‘I’ve been told that before. Now I’m telling you, Harry Radcliffe. Back off. Back off – or get broken.’
There was a click. And I was left holding a dead phone.
TWENTY
My searing-hot rage had gone, replaced now by icy determination. The telephone threat on Tuesday, far from staying my hand, increased my desire to hunt down Silvie’s attacker and expose him for the evil bastard he was. My mind was totally focused. Nothing was going to stop me. I’d told no one about the phone call. No sense in distressing Annabel, nor causing anxiety for Mike. I knew where I stood now and it was up to me to act.
Rising early on Thursday morning I went downstairs, made a cup of tea and checked on Leo’s whereabouts. His litter tray was still pristine, not so much as a paw print on the surface. I concluded he’d gone on one of his hunting jaunts – he’d not been in since Wednesday morning. Nothing to worry about there – a cat had to do what a cat had to do. Leo was his own man and the local pussies had better watch out.
All the same, I washed out and replaced his water bowl and refilled his dinner bowl with dry food. With the cat flap for access when he deigned to return home, his needs were met.
I took my mug of tea back upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed, drinking it and watching sparrows down in the garden taking dust baths in the rose bed. All was peaceful, uncomplicated. Why couldn’t life stay that way? I sighed and made my way to the bathroom where I bathed, shaved and chose my clothes with care, aiming for the dressed-down look. It was important that I didn’t come across as high on the social ladder, nor give off the subtle vibrations of being wealthy. True, I was going to offer Carl Smith a fair hand-out for his dubious allegiance, but my funds were far from being bottomless and he might try pushing for a lot more if he thought I could afford it.
Back downstairs, I dug around under the stairs and found Dad’s hickory stick. Thick, heavy and gnarled, it was a substantial support for my left leg. It would do the job nicely. Stepping outside into the fresh morning air, I opened up the Mazda’s boot and stowed it away.
There were a couple of hours to kill before setting off for Leicester racecourse so I went back indoors and phoned Silvie’s nursing home to check on her welfare as I did twice every day now. There was no change, they said, no further alarms, no attempted entry. I thanked them and switched on my desktop computer. Two hours without interruption would push the biography along nicely.
At ten o’clock I called a halt, made some coffee and read through what I’d written. It was all holding very nicely on the clothesline. Satisfied, I closed down the computer and picked up the car keys. Time to go. What I’d say to Carl when I met him I hadn’t a clue but some things were best not pre-planned. I had a feeling this was one of them.
Bumping over the grass in the car park as a visitor at the racecourse felt very odd. It was already fairly full and I’d been directed to park down the far end. I opened up the boot and took out the hickory stick. I was glad I’d brought it. Walking back over the field, I paid my entrance fee and was admitted through the turnstile. Buying a race card, I took it into the bar, bought a coffee and sat down to digest both.
According to the card, Carl’s horse was in the first race. It was possible that he hadn’t even arrived yet. Dougie the barman came across to collect stray, empty glasses. He stopped at my table.
‘Hiya. Haven’t seen you for a while, Harry.’
‘Hi, Dougie. No, sidelined at the moment.’
‘Reckon you will get back to riding?’
‘I sure hope so. Takes time finding out.’ Not to mention the sweat of effort doing physio three times every week.
He eyed the stick propped up by the table. ‘Yeah, guess so. It was a bad ’un, that fall.’
‘It was.’ I smiled ruefully. ‘Do me a favour, Dougie – if you see Carl Smith in here could you tell him I’m looking to have a word?’
‘’Course. Haven’t seen him yet, mind, but the day’s early.’ It may have been, but the bar seemed to suddenly fill up. Dougie flipped a hand. ‘Take care, mate.’ He walked back behind the bar and began filling glasses.
A tall, angular man coming in behind the throng caught my eye. He slapped on a smile and made a beeline for me.
It took me a couple of seconds to place him. Nathaniel Willoughby, artist, specializing in horseracing and people intimately involved. He was one of the people on my list to have a few words with, hopefully get a few quotes and useable copy for the biography.
‘You’re Harry Radcliffe.’ He thrust out a hand.
‘That’s right.’ I shook it.
‘Elspeth emailed me, said you’d be contacting me regarding her book.’
I had found a mention in her racing diary of Elspeth having had a portra
it painted some fifteen or more years ago when one of her horses had won the Champion Hurdle. I recalled seeing it hung on the wall in her study. The artist had captured the essence of her character. Not only the public image of a good-looking, smart woman, but also one with the glint of steel in the eye, telling of a formidable personality. Not an easy accomplishment, but Willoughby hadn’t reached his present state of top-level professional without years of dedication and graft. I admired his work and wished I could afford to buy one of his racing pictures. It would undoubtedly be a sound investment, but you’d need to take out a mortgage to buy one.
‘What’re you drinking?’ He cocked an eyebrow at my coffee cup.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Oh, come now. Seeing as I’m here to soak up the atmosphere as well as the liquid,’ he chortled, ‘I can’t drink on my own, can I?’
I didn’t think it would influence him at all – he had a reputation as a hard drinker. I’d no intention of having a drink but he steamrollered me into agreeing to have a half.
He pushed up to the bar for the drinks and I covertly watched him. Everything he wore said top quality, top price, even down to his handmade leather shoes. His hair had been cut by a master and fell into place perfectly. Not a man to take second best. I’d have bet he was a man who could hold his own in most circumstances.
I wondered idly how he’d got on with Elspeth. That was one of the questions I intended to ask. As to what he would tell me that would provide interesting copy I’d have to wait and see, try to direct the conversation and hope he would let fall some gems. He bustled back with two foaming pints.
‘Oh … a half, I think …’
He brushed aside my feeble protestation.
‘One swallow and that would be gone.’ He demonstrated by emptying his own glass by two-thirds in one massive gulp. ‘If I’ve caught you at a disadvantage by pre-empting our meeting, I apologize. We can always arrange a further date if you like.’
He drew a small, unlined notepad from his inner pocket. ‘How about I jot down the questions and then I can email my answers back to you tonight, eh?’
I nodded. ‘That would be great, thanks.’ He beamed, clicked a biro into service and proceeded to scribble down my email address.
‘You here to work today?’
‘Yes, make a few thumbnail sketches, catch the mood, the odd expression, facial reactions, the gestures, that sort of thing.’ For a moment he looked almost embarrassed. I understood. For all his fame and professionalism, he still retained inside the childish joy of doing something that gave him personal satisfaction. I, too, felt that keen uprush of pure pleasure every time I swung into the saddle. The thought brought me sharply to the fact that I might never again be able to ride a horse or win a race. Looking at his smiling face, I felt a pang of jealousy. He would never experience a fall from a horse that would result in losing his chosen career. But hard on that thought came another. Maybe he wouldn’t fall from a horse but the world was a hostile place, full of dangers. Who was to say he wouldn’t suffer some accident that would have horrendous consequences? He might develop crippling arthritis in his hands, or worse, he could lose his sight.
I reproached myself for being such a self-pitying loser. Life dealt out the cards and it’s up to each of us to play the hand we’ve been given. I gave my full concentration to asking questions of him that I thought might provoke original, amusing replies that would give colour to Elspeth’s character. We sat for nearly an hour before, surprisingly, I quite reluctantly excused myself. ‘I must find someone before it gets any later.’
‘You carry on, Harry. Business is always priority, eh?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Look forward to seeing your emails later.’
‘A refill before you go?’
I shook my head.
‘Oh well, I’m not so strict with myself. Got to keep up my reputation.’
I left him heading back to the bar and made my way outside towards the pre-parade ring and the saddling boxes.
During the last hour, race-goers had flooded into the racecourse all intent on having a good time, and now it was heaving with excited, happy people. There was a great atmosphere of relaxed goodwill.
I threaded a path through the throng. It felt strange, unsettling simply to be a visitor rather than a working jockey. Down by the pre-parade ring things were hotting up. Trainers were busy in the boxes tacking up, getting their horses ready to be walked round. I pushed through the crowd and leaned on the rail, watching it all with a hollow feeling in my stomach. The pull of racing was a physical thing. The only thing I wanted, hungered for. Coming here when I couldn’t participate wasn’t perhaps the smartest thing to do.
Then I thought of Silvie, helpless, in danger. I had to be here, had to find Carl. And undoubtedly he was here somewhere, working for Sampson, the trainer. The race card had Sampson’s horse, Sandfly, down to run in the first race, which meant I stood a good chance of spotting him at this point.
I scanned the run of boxes. Horses were being led out, walked up ready for the parade ring itself. I knew several of the lads leading them round, got nods off two or three as they acknowledged me. I recognized John from Elspeth’s yard approaching, leading a big bay with a white blaze. I leaned over the rail.
‘Hi, John, seen anything of Carl Smith?’
He slowed and turned the horse in a tight circle. ‘Sure, he’s down there. Want me to send him over?’
‘Be grateful if you could. Tell him it’ll be worth it.’
He grinned slyly. ‘Like that, is it? OK, I’ll tell him.’ Clucking to the horse, he led it forward on long, rangy strides.
I watched and waited. Saw him turn at the corner and walk past one of the doors, then slow and call out before walking on. A head stuck itself round the door jamb – Carl Smith. I raised my hand a couple of inches from where it rested on the rail then let it drop back. Carl gave a slight nod and disappeared back into the box.
Content to wait now I’d tracked him down, I watched the horses. They’d been sadly lacking in my life for the past few weeks; I gratefully drank them in like a man deprived of water.
A few minutes later Carl emerged and made his way over to me. ‘Yeah, so what d’y’want?’ he muttered, almost inaudibly.
I, in turn, deliberately kept my voice low. ‘To offer you a proposition.’
‘Like what?’
‘Money for information.’
A cunning glint came into his eye. ‘Too public here. Meet you in the gents, just before the off for the first race.’ Wheeling away, he retreated.
I stayed where I was. The crowd around me shifted and moved constantly, restlessly, following the progress of the horses as they left the pre-parade and saddling boxes before entering the parade ring, where they could be seen at close quarters by all the hopeful punters.
In a few minutes’ time the jockeys would stream from the changing room and meet up with their respective mounts, trainers and owners. The so familiar spectacle of brightly coloured silks atop chestnut coats, circling round emerald-green grass, was pure chocolate-box England.
Today was a flat meeting and the jockeys would canter their mounts out on to the course and down to the start where they would all, if the horses didn’t disgrace themselves, enter the starting stalls. That would be my signal to slip across to the gents. Hopefully there would be no stray man with a waterworks problem in the toilets. The crowd would be crammed along the rails and in the stands. Presumably Carl thought it a quick bit of business. Ask what question and what amount of cash – bingo.
I knew it would take longer than he’d anticipated but whilst the race was running everybody’s attention would be riveted on the racecourse. It gave us several minutes. I felt my pulse quicken. I was getting closer to knowing who had tried to kill Silvie. I couldn’t wait to find out.
By now I was pretty much on my own looking over to the saddling boxes. Listening intently, I waited for the order to mount. At that point I had maybe six or seven minutes’ grace.
It would only take three minutes to walk to the toilets. The overall noise level was increasing as excitement rose but then, clearly, I heard the summons: ‘Jockeys, please mount.’ I checked my watch, counted down three minutes then pushed away from the rails and walked in the direction of the public conveniences.
I could hear the muted drumming of hooves cantering away down the course towards the start and smiled grimly. At this point there would be a hasty last-minute zipping up of flies before legging it to find a space by the rails to watch the race. Indeed, two older, grey-haired gentlemen came rushing out, puffing their red-faced way towards the scene of the action. Neither of them appeared to notice me. I was the only person heading in the opposite direction.
I entered the toilets, went through the square, tiled entrance lobby and pushed through the door into the main area. Predictably it was empty. I walked over, past the urinals, and came to the first cubicle. Water was oozing out over the tiles. Water tinged red. The door was ajar. Indeed, it couldn’t have been closed.
Carl Smith lay sprawled on the toilet floor, arse in the air, legs grotesquely splayed. His ripped trousers were soaked in blood. From the back of his right leg, the femur bone was sticking out through white flesh. His head wasn’t visible. It had been thrust down forcibly into the toilet bowl.
TWENTY-ONE
I stood transfixed with horror. And in the split second it took me to realize Carl was dead, all hell broke loose behind me in the entrance lobby. Racecourse security came in at the double, together with police, a St John’s ambulance attendant plus the two red-faced, elderly gentlemen I’d seen leaving the toilets. Obvious now, of course, that they hadn’t been going to watch the race. They’d been rushing to report finding the body.
The St John’s first-aid attendant carried out a swift examination. Straightening up, he faced the policeman. ‘Dead, sir, I’m afraid,’ he confirmed. ‘In addition to the broken femur, he’s also sustained a bang to the front of his head. There’s a big gash across his forehead.’
Dead Certainty Page 14
