I filled the kettle and pushed it on to the hot plate of the Aga just as Mike breezed in.
‘All OK?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Was it Marriot?’
‘No. It was a Frank Dunston, from Grantham.’
‘That figures.’
‘You know this guy?’
‘We’re not close friends but I have heard of him. And not in any complimentary way.’
‘Carry on.’
Mike took four slices of wholemeal from the bread bin, stowed them in the toaster and switched it on.
‘Firstly, he’s a drug pusher. Supplies Ciggie – and relieves him of his wages. Secondly, Dunston’s violent … bashes first, thinks after.’
‘Yeah, Ciggie told me he’d done time for GBH.’
‘He’s available muscle, for a price.’
‘That’s what I figured.’
‘So it could still be Marriot pulling the strings.’
‘Indeed it could.’
The toast jumped up and we each buttered a couple of slices and munched companionably.
‘Where does it leave you now, Harry?’
‘Pushing on to finish the book. Then I take the manuscript over to Elspeth. Wait for the results from DNA.’
‘But the DNA won’t match Marriot’s.’
‘That’s true, but if the DNA from the gloves match this Frank Dunston’s … Don’t forget, he’s already served time so they’ll have his on record.’
‘Hmmm …’ Mike chewed and nodded. ‘We can’t do the police’s job for them but my guess is they’ll pull him in for questioning.’
‘And he’s going to sing loud and clear. He won’t go down without incriminating Marriot.’
‘Let’s hope so. I need to get the book over to Elspeth before the shit hits the fan about Marriot. And another thing – Silvie will be eighteen in a few days’ time. That means she’ll have the money from the trust fund. Her financial future will be secure, irrespective of my circumstances and ability to pay her care bills.’
Mike nodded. ‘Talking of your circumstances, when are you expecting the verdict from the hospital?’ He grinned. ‘I’ve horses that need riding. And you’re the one I want riding them.’
I looked at him steadily. ‘However much you want me riding, Mike, believe me, I want it a thousand times more. I’ve maybe a couple of physio sessions left to go. After that …’ I shrugged. ‘After that, it’s a lap-of-the-Gods job.’
I drove home thinking over the whole affair. It made sense that Marriot had hired a hitman in order to keep his own hands clean. What was not so clear was the reason why.
When I got inside the cottage I found a message on the answerphone. Victor Maudsley had rung the landline earlier this morning.
‘Harry, don’t know if it’s of any interest at all but you know we were talking about playing golf? Well, strange thing is, my all-weather golfing gloves have disappeared. I put them back in the cloakroom drawer last Tuesday, no question. Now, they’ve gone.’
My heart lurched with misgiving. An idea that had been simmering at the back of my mind began to take on substance. On their own, the individual pieces of information didn’t add up, but put together in sequence, a picture formed. Not a pleasant one – and distinctly unwelcome from my own point of view. I needed to get hold of Victor straight away. Ask him for all the facts. I rang his number.
‘Hello, Harry, take it you got my message. Funny business.’
‘Certainly is. You sure you’ve not just misplaced them?’
‘One hundred per cent sure. They didn’t walk on their own. Someone’s taken them. Question is, why? They’re not worth anything.’
‘Is there any evidence of a break-in, Victor?’
‘No.’
‘Have you had any visitors, people in the house?’
‘Yes. But they’re all friends. I had a drinks party on Wednesday evening.’
‘Can you tell me their names?’
‘Well, for a start, all the family members were here—’
‘Could you list them for me?’
‘OK. Elspeth, Samuel, Marriot and his wife Chloe, and Samuel’s wife. Several members of the golf club, Dave and Jack, Larry – oh, yes, and Graham, along with their wags.’ He chuckled. ‘The current ones … don’t know some of their names. And then Dan and Gavin, barmen and reception desk staff from North Shore Hotel, good friends of mine. They make me very welcome at the hotel and I always make them welcome here. We all sort of flowed in and out of the downstairs reception rooms, talking, laughing, having drinks. You know the sort of thing.’
‘Anything else disappeared, any object of value?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Right. Thanks for letting me know. But if the gloves turn up, could you ring me?’
‘I certainly will.’
I replaced the receiver and sat thinking about what he’d told me. The answer had to be staring me in the face. Each new fact added to the previous ones and, like a jigsaw, with just one more piece to fit into place, the picture would become clear. However, it was that one elusive piece that I needed. And it was all to do with motive.
Shaking my head, I decided to stop thrashing my brain and get back to work on the book. It was imperative I cracked on, got it finished and handed over to Elspeth.
I logged on, transcribed the rest of the taped interview with Walter Bexon. I couldn’t believe how easy it was. He’d done me a great favour with his recollections, anecdotes and personal reminiscences. I typed away, editing as I went, and the last half chapter all but wrote itself. Stopping only to grab a sandwich and a mug of builders’ tea at lunchtime, I forged on. By nightfall, tired yet exhilarated, I typed the last paragraph, emphasizing that at the very top of her professional career, Elspeth proved she was her own woman, had her priorities firmly in the right order – choosing to be at the bedside of her sick child rather than at York races watching her horse Purplesilk win the Yorkshire Cup.
I finished typing, pressed save and sat back, rubbing my aching eyes. It was finished. There had been times I doubted it ever would be, but now it was in the bag and I had a good feeling about it. A warm glow spread through my insides. I was satisfied with the work.
And as I sat reading over the last pages, the final elusive piece of jigsaw slid effortlessly into place. I knew beyond doubt what the motive was, saw the whole picture in Technicolor. Knew the police were wasting their time, could have told them they were looking at it back to front.
And that was my fault. I’d sent them in totally the wrong direction.
TWENTY-NINE
My mobile rang at three fourteen a.m. Struggling up from the deepest depths of sleep, I reached across to the bedside table.
‘Yes?’
‘Matron speaking, Mr Radcliffe, from the nursing home.’
My heart felt like it had been punched. I knew what was coming. I was instantly awake, felt icy cold … and sick, very sick.
‘Could you come straight away?’
‘On my way, Matron. Thank you for contacting me.’
I lurched into the bathroom, threw up violently, splashed cold water over my face and neck. Back in the bedroom I dragged on trousers, a shirt, snatched up my mobile and ran downstairs.
I drove like a man out of his mind, and maybe I was. I didn’t know if I would be in time or whether Silvie was already dead. Hospitals had a habit of ringing in the early hours and asking you to step on it. The impression they gave was if you raced fast enough you’d make it in time.
What they didn’t say was the truth. That however fast you ran, it was already too late. I knew how the system worked. I’d been here before, firstly with my father and, far more recently, with my mother.
I screamed the tread off the tyres. And prayed. Perhaps this time the system had failed and I could reach her in time. Spun the car off the A52, floored it down back lanes with black running rivers of hedge on either side penning me in. No other cars on the move, only me. And coming along just for the ri
de was the shadow of death. However fast I drove, I couldn’t shake it off. I turned down the last lane, the nursing home a sombre dark shape at the end of the drive.
I screeched to a stop outside, flung myself out of the car and hammered on the front door. A light came on and Matron herself let me in.
‘Am I in time … is Silvie still …?’
She was gently shaking her head. ‘I’m very sorry. She died a short time ago.’
I slumped against the wall. My panic-stricken driving hadn’t been needed. It had already been too late. The system, of course. This was how it worked. And I’d known. Of course I’d known. Had still hoped with every vestige of my being that this time there might be a chance of at least saying goodbye to her. But she hadn’t waited for me. And now she was gone.
‘I want to see her, please.’
Matron nodded. ‘Of course.’ She led the way down the familiar hallway to the suite and drew up a chair beside the bed.
Silvie lay in very much the same position as I’d seen her last. One hand still on the pillow, the white freesias perfuming the room. The monitor was silent. Its job done. Silvie’s face was serene, her spirit gone to where it should be.
I sat down heavily on the chair.
‘I’ll leave you with her. Take all the time you want. If you need me, just press the bleeper.’
I nodded mutely. She left me in peace to my memories and my grief. A picture of Silvie’s birth flashed through my mind. The full horror of her condition was instantly apparent. My immediate reaction then was it would be a blessing if she died. It was a view my mother didn’t share. She had loved Silvie absolutely and unconditionally. And as the days and weeks passed, my feelings towards Silvie reversed. She might never go to school nor have a job, yet she still contributed to life simply by being herself.
She brought light and love into our little family and, since Father’s death, those two things had been sadly lacking. Carrying her cross without complaint, she never knew she was disabled, and was certainly never a burden. Now she was gone, her cross lifted from her. And I couldn’t wish her back to pick it up again.
But I was going to miss her terribly. The gap she’d left in my life felt like a chasm. I leaned over and kissed her dear face – she was still softly warm. My tears were warm too as, unashamedly and unchecked, they ran down my face and dripped on to her cheek. Tenderly, I stroked them away, sat numbly by her bedside and held her hand. Time didn’t matter and I had no idea how long I’d been there.
But something penetrated my cocoon of silent communion. A slight sound and a movement of air behind me had me turning my head. The blow landed on the side of my face and not, as intended, on the back of my skull. It knocked me from the chair, had me sprawling on the floor. The blow was sufficiently hard and heavy enough to draw blood. I was dazed, my head ringing. Had it landed on the intended spot, it would have rendered me unconscious.
In a black balaclava, my attacker was now lunging towards Silvie as she lay on her death bed, his arm upraised, a monkey wrench already arcing downwards aimed at her face. I slammed an elbow against the bleeper and grabbed his knee joint with my right hand. Throwing my weight against his leg, I bent the knee backwards. Heard him scream out with pain and felt the swish of air as the steel wrench came down, missed Silvie and connected with my shoulder.
All I’d had time to put on was a shirt, no jersey, no jacket. The force of the impact ripped open the soft material and the even softer flesh beneath. Blood spurted up as I dropped back to the floor. The pain was agonizing, shooting up through my spinal cord nerves right to the top of my head. The whole of my nervous system screamed in silent protest. I bellowed aloud. As a jockey, I was well used to absorbing the pain of falls, but this pain was centred on a small area. Before I could struggle to my feet he was on me, raining blows indiscriminately. My entire body was on fire, blood flowing from a dozen wounds.
Still on my knees, I jabbed my elbow backwards, felt it connect with something soft, heard him whistle for breath, knew I’d winded him. Pivoted round and followed the blow with a double barrel kick from both feet powered by white-hot rage coupled with grief.
‘You’re too late, you bastard!’ I yelled. ‘She’s already gone home.’
He flew backwards. The wrench left his hand and skittered away across the floor. Before he could rise I landed another blow to his solar plexus that had him doubled up, gasping, retching. Snatching a handful of hair at the back of his head, I forced his neck back just short of the snapping point and whipped off his black balaclava. I didn’t recognize him, but I would never forget his face. At that moment the door of Silvie’s room burst open and two men followed by the matron erupted into the room.
Taking in the scene, the burly security man threw one arm around the man’s throat, bending him backwards. Ignoring the shrieks of pain, he grabbed the intruder’s right wrist, forced it round behind his back and held him in an arm-lock impossible to break. The second man, with lightning reaction, slid his leather belt from around his waist and hobbled the man’s knees together.
‘Get him out of this room! Now!’ Matron’s face was contorted; she was barely able to contain her anger.
They half carried, half dragged him out and down the hallway.
‘Are you all right, Mr Radcliffe?’ The anger in Matron’s eyes died and they filled with concern.
‘I’m OK, I think. Nothing broken.’
‘Let me see the damage.’
You didn’t argue with Matron and I allowed her to gently push me down in the chair and explore my shoulder with experienced fingers.
‘Hmmm, nothing broken, certainly, but you’ll need two or three stitches in the top of your arm. There’s a jagged tear.’ She explored further. ‘And a couple more above your cheekbone. Most of the other injuries are minor. They’ll heal. The doctor’s still here; we called him in for Silvie and he’s treating another patient as well. I’ll ask him to stitch you up when he’s free.’ She looked down at me with a tiny smile, ‘You do attract the heavy mob, don’t you?’
‘He was here to kill Silvie.’
Her face blanched with shock. ‘My God!’
‘He didn’t expect to meet me.’
‘Obviously not. Thank goodness you managed to set off the alarm. It could have been much worse for you.’
‘Hmm … I was quite glad your own heavies came to the rescue.’
‘Do you know who the man is?’
‘He’s the same one who broke in before. I reckon it could be Frank Dunston. He’s got a reputation for paid violence.’
Outside we could hear the wail of a police siren as the car came scorching down the drive.
‘Here come the cavalry,’ Matron said. She leaned over the bed, her face softening, and smoothed the bed sheet that didn’t need smoothing. But I recognized the gesture of love.
I looked across at Silvie, still serene, unaffected in any way by the recent trauma. Lost to me now forever, but gone in her own and God’s right time, not dictated by someone else.
Suddenly, I felt very tired.
A couple of hours later, stitched up like a mailbag, I parked the Mazda and unlocked the cottage door. Whatever painkillers they’d pumped into me were working but they made everything seem very unreal. It felt like my feet were stepping on feathers, not connecting with the ground at all.
I made a slow, weaving assent up the stairs and, pausing only to drop my clothes in a heap, I crawled between blessed cool sheets.
The painkillers must have been good at knocking out too, as when I finally surfaced it was almost dusk. I tottered to the bathroom, feeling like hell, washed down a couple more of the pills to blot everything out, and went back to bed.
THIRTY
Everything is supposed to look better in the morning. But I couldn’t subscribe to that. I’d had very nearly twenty-four hours continuous sleep and whilst I physically felt much better and on the mend, it hadn’t altered the fact that Silvie was dead. My emotions were still red raw. It was going to
take more than sleep to heal them.
However, I took comfort from the knowledge that Frank Dunston was now languishing in a cell. He could be facing the double charges of the attempted murder of Silvie and the actual murder of Carl Smith.
What I needed to do now was to get myself over to Elspeth’s and deliver the biography. But before that, I needed to notify everyone of Silvie’s death.
I checked the time on my mobile. It was just gone seven, barely a respectable time to ring anyone, but I wanted to get the ordeal over because, for me, talking about Silvie’s death was emotionally agonizing – and there were four people who needed to know, five if I counted the solicitor. But since his office didn’t open for another two hours, I relegated him for later. Victor was the obvious choice to begin with; he was officially the next of kin, but before I could dial, the mobile shrilled. It was Aunt Rachel. Bubbling over with good news.
‘I know it’s dreadfully early, Harry, but I felt sure you’d want to know about George. The hospital gave him the all clear last night, totally out of danger. They’ve even moved him out of intensive care. Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘It’s great news, Aunt Rachel. I’m very pleased for you both.’
‘He should be home next week. Then we can re-start our lives. We were thinking of a cruise later in the year.’
‘Sounds like a marvellous idea, getting away from it all, relaxing, yes, a great idea.’
‘Harry …’ She hesitated. ‘Is anything wrong? You sound … oh, I don’t know, strained, somehow.’
‘I was going to ring you later, Aunt Rachel, and tell you what’s happened, ask you to let Uncle George know when he’s strong enough.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’ve some very bad news. I’m afraid it might upset Uncle George and that’s the last thing I’d want right now.’
Dead Certainty Page 21
