Dead Certainty

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘I don’t think so. Carl was set to sell information. He was stopped before he could tell any tales. I’m still no wiser. If he had divulged who he was working for then yes, I’d agree no firm would offer me life insurance.’

  ‘How can you take it so lightly? A man’s been murdered.’

  ‘Believe me, Mike, I’m not dismissing Carl’s death. I feel partly responsible, if you must know.’

  ‘Now you’re just being bloody silly.’

  ‘Am I? It was because of me going to Leicester races and arranging a liaison with Carl that he was killed. Killed using my walking stick, too.’

  ‘Now, wait a minute,’ Mike ran a hand through his thatch of hair in agitation, ‘are you saying you were the patsy?’

  I nodded. ‘Looks like it from where I’m standing.’

  ‘And the police? What’s their take?’

  ‘They grilled me like a rasher of smoked back but in the end someone else was seen handling the walking stick so they said I was free to go. But not to go too far, as in “do not leave town”.’

  ‘Phew …’ Mike blew out his cheeks. ‘If anybody’s to blame, it’s me.’

  I almost laughed but he was serious. ‘How did you come up with that idea?’

  ‘Look, Harry, it was me who sent the racing paper over with Annabel. The one with the article about Elspeth’s retiring and needing a ghost-writer. That’s what started all this.’

  ‘Rub that idea out. If you’re looking for the start it was because I was riding Gold Sovereign and came off. Without that accident, none of what followed would have happened. OK?’

  Grudgingly, he agreed. ‘But you – and Silvie,’ he waved a finger, ‘don’t forget Silvie, are targets.’

  ‘I won’t forget Silvie, Mike,’ I said soberly. ‘And since you’ve brought her into the conversation, you ought to know what I was told yesterday by Uncle George.’

  He listened in silence, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Do you think all these things could be somehow connected?’

  I stared at him. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, she’s going to be eighteen very soon, isn’t she? I mean, this trust fund money, is it a substantial amount? What happens if, God forbid, anything happens to Silvie before her birthday? Who’s likely to benefit, eh? Have you thought about that?’

  ‘No,’ I said slowly, ‘it’s never occurred to me until now that everything might all connect up.’

  ‘I think it’s possible, like events are all playing out to the end, whatever that may be.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ve been linear thinking and it’s time to alter my approach. You know, start at the end and work back.’

  He nodded. ‘I reckon that’s a good idea. And whilst you’re on the trail, keep your head down. I’ve only one dark suit and I don’t get time to go shopping.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, dark suits, funerals.’

  ‘Not mine, Mike. Well, in another forty years maybe but not just yet. I’ve got to keep batting. I’m all Silvie’s got.’ I pursed my lips. ‘Well, until we find out the name of her father.’

  The racehorses, having finished their morning canters, were being circled round at a walking pace. The stable lads were obviously at a loss as to why their trainer hadn’t taken an active and verbal part as usual.

  Mike started the engine, drove to within shouting distance and issued the order to head back to the stables. He set off in a wide arc around the last of the string and then pointed the vehicle downhill. At the last moment before we drove over the brow, the whole of the stable yard and Mike’s house and grounds were laid out like a tapestry.

  To one side at the rear of the stables was a parking area partially filled with cars belonging to his staff. In one corner I spotted a dark blue familiar-shaped car. Maybe it was just coincidence – there were lots of them about – but I pointed through the windscreen.

  ‘See that car, Mike, the one in the corner, dark blue. Do you know who it belongs to?’

  He leaned forward over the wheel and screwed his eyes up. ‘The Peugeot, do you mean?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Reckon it’s Ciggie’s.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tony Lonsbury. Everybody calls him Ciggie because he smokes a lot. To excess, really. And not just the legit sort.’

  ‘Aaah.’

  ‘He’s a user as well. ’Course, I can’t prove it but he’s treading a thin line. If he turns up for work high he’ll be down the road.’

  ‘Right.’ An idea had just come to me and a wriggle of excitement squirmed through my solar plexus. ‘When you get back, Mike, I’d like to take a quick butcher’s at the car, is that OK?’

  ‘Sure, doesn’t matter to me. Any reason why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you over breakfast when I’ve had a look.’

  We drove on down the hill.

  I left Mike in the stable yard and as unobtrusively as possible made my way round behind the stables. I’d left my own vehicle parked alongside the others and I went over, unlocked it and slid behind the wheel. To make it look good I flipped open the dash and pretended to search for something. If anybody was keeping tabs on me, it would appear completely natural. To complete the authenticity, I took out a biro and made a note on my writing pad. And under cover of writing, I scanned the car park, but it was completely empty.

  I gave it five minutes then walked over to the Peugeot. I didn’t touch it, didn’t even go all the way round, didn’t need to. I simply stood in front and looked at it. In the centre of the bonnet was a dent – a dent with a deep, distinctive cleft.

  ‘You’re saying it was Ciggie who tailed you back from Gunthorpe?’ We were sitting in Mike’s kitchen making up for not eating earlier.

  ‘And followed me at a stupid, suicidal speed when I was on my way to visit Silvie. I tried to catch a glimpse of his face but, just like the previous time, he was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. I did see that much.’

  He took a bite of sausage sandwich, chewed thoughtfully.

  ‘But he’s only a kid. He wouldn’t tamper with Silvie’s oxygen supply. I can’t buy that, Harry. Oh, I know the evidence is plain. It’s definitely the same car; what I’m saying is I don’t think he’s capable of attempted murder. Car chasing, yes – young lads, speed and all that, but …’ He left the words hanging.

  ‘I fully agree, Mike.’ I nodded. ‘At the time I thought it strange that he didn’t come after me when I escaped over the cattle grid. I certainly expected him to. But now, with all these additional bits of information falling into place, I’m pretty sure. It explains things.’

  Thoroughly confused now, he shook his head in bewilderment and reached for the bottle of brown sauce. I passed it over without him asking. I’d just added a lovely dollop to my own banger. Last night’s dinner had been sparse and I was now making up for it.

  ‘Just what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying, for my money, he was hired to drive the car – full stop. And it didn’t really matter if I saw the car. In fact, I think I was supposed to. I’m saying I think Ciggie was also set up. There was a second person, a man, wearing a black balaclava, who tried to finish Silvie and who actually did finish Carl. Ciggie was just the stool pigeon. Whilst he was taking my attention, someone else, the real man behind it, was doing the deeds.’

  Mike chewed and thought. ‘You know something, Harry, I reckon you’re right on the button. Ciggie’s … habits, shall we say, must cost him – a lot. More than he could possibly afford on a stable lad’s wage. And if he is an addict, he’ll do anything to get the necessary money to fuel it.’

  ‘Exactly. That crossed my mind when you told me his name earlier.’

  ‘Talking about motivation, did you know Carl wore dentures?’

  ‘No, not until the police found them down the toilet.’

  ‘Hmm, thought not. Well, don’t go on a guilt trip, Harry, but when you landed on top of Carl at Huntingdon races, you, er … well, your elbow connected with Carl’s fro
nt teeth, his own teeth.’

  ‘You’re saying it was my fault Carl wore false teeth?’

  He inclined his head. ‘I’m only telling you because I can see now he probably held it against you. A bit of personal revenge as well as being paid, possibly, I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sorry it happened, Mike, but no, I’m not going on a guilt trip.’

  Mike blew out his cheeks. ‘Thank goodness.’

  ‘It was an accident, not done intentionally. You race ride, you accept the risks.’

  ‘True enough. Anyway, it adds to the jigsaw, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I finished the last of my sandwich and stood up. ‘Sorry, Mike, work calls at my end. Much rather stay and play, but …’ I spread my hands and smiled.

  ‘Huh,’ he grunted, ‘just remember what I said.’ He delivered a parting shot at me as I opened the door: ‘You keep your head down.’

  I threw him a smart salute and left.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Leo had returned from an all-night foraging expedition and, rejecting his basket, had settled down on yesterday’s Racing Post where it lay on the floor in the conservatory. Morning sunshine flooded through the glass and it was jungle hot – with all the perennial pot plants providing an abundance of leafy green, it even looked like a jungle.

  I joined him, after pouring a coffee, and settled back in a wicker recliner to assemble thoughts and facts.

  One downed cup of coffee later I halted the spool of spiralling assessments, partially satisfied where they’d led to, and closed my eyes. It was all speculation, of course, but it might just happen to be true. The warmth in the conservatory coupled with the comfort of the plush padded recliner was seductive.

  Almost an hour later, I was awoken by the shrilling of ‘The Great Escape’ tune. Disoriented, I stumbled through to the office where my mobile lay reproachfully on the desk.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Hello, Elspeth. What can I do you for?’

  ‘Cheeky young sod,’ she said good-humouredly. ‘I’ve just remembered – you know there were two or three people we agreed you could approach for copy for the book?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I thought you should know that my old friend, and Marriot’s old headmaster, Walter Bexon, will be at the party tonight. No sense in running over to his place, you can interview him here. You can bring your tape recorder and whatever, can’t you? It will save messing about any more. I agree with Marriot – you’ve had time enough to produce the book.’ Her good humour melted away.

  Messing about. After all the scores of hours beavering away, very often until early morning, missing sleep, missing social occasions, putting my own life on hold. Marriot had a bloody nerve. He’d obviously been working on his mother. I bit back an acid comment.

  ‘Sounds sensible. And instead of running over to Mr Malton’s stables, I’ll just give him a ring, shall I? Cut it short, just get his personal opinion?’

  ‘Yes, yes. That’ll surely do. I really don’t want it dragging on much longer.’

  Charming.

  ‘Very well, Elspeth. I’ll do that.’

  She hung up.

  I booted up and kicked on – no dragging of heels in sight.

  Around one o’clock I broke off to make a mug of soup and sat sipping minestrone and tapping away at the keyboard. Hitting a block in the writing some time later, I saved the work, rose and stretched. Took my mobile into the conservatory with a builder’s strength mug of tea.

  I drank the scalding, reviving brew and tickled Leo’s ginger tummy, exposed to the last bit of sunshine edging its way round the corner of the cottage wall on the way west. The purring was deep with satisfaction. I sighed and thought about Annabel. If she was truly lost to me it would be best to make the break clean, leave the way open for her to marry Sir Jeffrey.

  It would also allow me to start looking for a new lady in my life. But even the thought of surrendering rankled. How the hell could I fall in love with another woman, even supposing I could find her, when, God help me, I was still hopelessly, helplessly in love with Annabel and wanted no other female? Far from moving on, being parted from her only made me crave her, love her more.

  I took a deep breath, tried to put her out of my mind and dialled Mr Malton’s number. He was out doing evening stables but was generous enough to spend a few minutes fully answering each of my carefully selected questions. If Elspeth wanted a prune down, she would certainly get one. But Thomas Malton was obviously a close buddy, or appeared to be, and insisted I wrote down and quoted back to him what he’d said.

  By the time he’d finished extolling qualities it sounded like a glowing reference for a job application. One given to ensure the person got the other job perhaps? Underneath the rich cream a sour base layer showing? Possibly pleased that the competition was, or would shortly be, out of commission and leaving the field clear?

  Still, I thanked him for his time and looked over my notes. Undoubtedly I could polish them up and use them in the book, but I knew there was precious little bite. Maybe tonight’s sortie with Walter Bexon would produce a little spice.

  Then, quite quickly, the sunny room was shrouded in shade, the temperature already starting to drop. The sun had moved on along its journey and gone behind the corner brickwork.

  ‘That’s your lot today, Tiger,’ I said to Leo, who, knowing perfectly well this would happen, was already stretching his long back legs and preparing to stalk out as he followed the sun. I knew where he was heading for – sunny climes in the spare bedroom, which would now be receiving its share of warm basking time. I shook my head. Next time, I reckoned, what with unlimited food, willing females and building up strength for both by sleeping in the sun all day, I was definitely coming back as a cat.

  Taking the mobile back into the office, I typed up my notes. Time had marched on and I hastened to finish the work before dashing upstairs to shower and change.

  Elspeth was a lady you didn’t argue with, and if she’d said eight o’clock it was cut in stone.

  I was only late by a short margin and was admitted by the lady herself, who looked like she’d been dragged away by the doorbell during an engaging conversation with another dowager. They were still at it as Elspeth opened the door.

  ‘Harry,’ she practically purred. ‘Do come on in. Have you met Daphne before? No? Her husband runs Broadman’s the estate agency. They allow me to train one of their horses, Scarlet Salvia.’

  I nodded. Bloody Sal’s owners.

  She turned to Daphne. ‘Harry is helping me with my biography, you know, the technical details.’ We both nodded to cement relations and I was led away and force-fed with introductions and much bonhomie to other partygoers.

  Finally, drink in hand, I was washed up on the shore and left to make small talk with one David Feltham, another poor sod who Elspeth had deemed the right recipient for my favours of conversation. One who I did know by sight, if not by name, as an owner of one of her racehorses, and a regular in the parade ring at the local racecourses.

  He grinned sheepishly. ‘Strong lady, Elspeth, wouldn’t you agree?’

  I grinned back. ‘Definitely.’

  He emptied his glass and a passing waitress immediately whipped it out of his hand, replacing it with a full one. ‘Do help yourselves to the buffet, gentlemen.’ She smiled, showing lots of whiter than white perfect teeth.

  We took her advice and ambled over to a fully stocked table in danger of collapsing from the weight of all the delectable goodies up for grabs. Heaping our paper plates and catching up napkins, we made ourselves scarce in a corner that boasted a shoulder-high shelf, where we promptly stashed our glasses. Munching away companionably, we chatted all things racing and got on just fine. It crossed my mind that Elspeth wasn’t daft at giving successful parties. She’d obviously earmarked Feltham and myself from the off.

  Music was playing through hidden speakers vying with gusts of laughter and there was a definite air of happy punters. From where we we
re standing, I scanned the large room but saw no sign of Marriot’s presence anywhere. I found myself beginning to relax and enjoy myself. Buried in the dreaded biography and beset by the recent accidents and traumas, I’d just about forgotten what it felt like to go out and have a good time.

  One or two other people that both David and I knew drifted over and added in new topics of conversation. I had to remember to take my cue from how Elspeth had introduced me to the redoubtable Daphne.

  ‘Haven’t seen you riding for a while. Not retired yourself, I take it?’ The question was put by a large, fleshy man who had wandered into our orbit and introduced himself as Eric.

  ‘Grounded, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So, how’re you filling your time? Just writing for the newspaper?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I answered cautiously, ‘and helping Elspeth out with the technical aspects of her biography.’

  ‘Ha, yes, heard she was writing one. Not just a hands-on horsewoman, got a brain, too. I like that in a woman. Can’t be doing with dim bimbos. Amazing woman, isn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ David and I exchanged glances, our lips twitching. I was pretty sure he’d sussed out the true state of Elspeth’s claims to be writing the book herself but we both kept up the pretence.

  A pretty girl came up to me, one I seemed to recognize but for a moment I couldn’t place or name her.

  ‘Harry – it is Harry, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Joanne. I’m a friend of Annabel’s, your estranged wife.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ The jigsaw clicked into place. Joanne Manchester, daughter of the much-respected John Manchester, owner of at least twenty racehorses around the Midlands.

  ‘Sorry you had such bad luck and got grounded. I do hope you’ll be back riding soon.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smiled at her. ‘I certainly hope so, too.’

  There was a speculative look in her big blue eyes, not quite a come-on nor an invitation but certainly an opening for me to pursue should I want to try. David gave a discreet cough, trying to hide his amusement and, chivalrously, I filled the gap.