Silk Chaser

by Peter Klein

  Wells nodded. ‘That trophy probably saved your life. I’ll show it to you after we’ve finished with it at the lab. Got some pretty ugly slash marks on it.’

  I grimaced. I hadn’t escaped entirely unscathed. ‘When I went back to her room, I stood at the doorway for a minute, listening. Then Maxine screamed out. I raced in, he slammed the door on me, then let fly with his knife. I think what helped me was that I’d fallen to the ground and was thrashing around with the trophy held out in front of me, so he couldn’t get a clean go at me. Then he leapt over me and made a bolt for the back door. I got up and chased him as far as the door and I saw him climbing over the neighbour’s back fence. Then Maxine yelled out and I went back to her.’

  ‘Did you get a look at him?’

  ‘I never actually saw his face. It was dark in the bedroom when I went in. But Maxine would have seen him for sure.’

  Wells nodded. ‘She says she did. He made no attempt to cover up. She didn’t recognise him; we’ll get her to go through our photo files and sit down with our facial imaging experts. But you’re sure you couldn’t identify him if you saw him again?’

  I shook my head, trying to remember. It was all a blur. Serpent-like shadows clawing at me in the dark. Then, the outline of a man clambering over a fence. Like a bad black and white movie, really. Except it wasn’t all black and white . . .

  ‘There is another thing I remember. Not his face or anything.’

  ‘No, please go on.’

  ‘When he jumped over me and bolted to the back door, I was lying on the ground and could see the back of him disappearing in the light from the kitchen.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was wearing a funny-coloured stripy top and cap.’

  Wells exchanged glances with Beering. ‘Same as what Maxine described,’ said Beering. ‘When you say funny-coloured top, you mean what, like a pyjama top?’

  I thought about it for a moment, trying to recall exactly what I’d seen. He’d been scrambling, panicking to get out the back door, and I’d been trying to get up off the floor, my head halfway out in the hallway watching him flee.

  ‘No, not pyjamas,’ I said. ‘Silks. He was wearing jockey silks.’

  16

  They kept me at the hospital overnight for observation. I probably could have gone home if I’d pushed it, but it was three in the morning when Beering and Wells left and I was quite happy to snatch some sleep where I was. Normally shared hospital wards aren’t my idea of a peaceful night’s sleep, but Tuesday nights aren’t overly busy apparently, and my room only had one elderly pensioner who’d fallen at a tram stop and broken his hip. Even his snores didn’t keep me awake.

  Early next morning I received an unexpected visitor when Maxine dropped by my bed. That wasn’t a surprise. It was the person she’d brought with her who was: her father. He marched in sullenly behind Maxine and I couldn’t tell from the scowl on his face whether I was going to get the elevator or the shaft. I half expected another outburst like when Maxine had been caught up in that taxi incident; that it was entirely my fault, what had happened last night. Maxine leant over and gave me a kiss on the cheek, then sat on my bed looking over the bandages on my hand and shoulder.

  ‘You’ve been in the wars, sweetie.’

  ‘We both have. You all right?’

  Maxine looked tired and drained and although I’d never tell her to her face, she seemed to have aged ten years since last night. She attempted a smile but it couldn’t hide all the trauma that I knew she’d been through, the shock of someone who knew they’d escaped certain death. She fidgeted for a moment with her hands, then dropped the pretence of the smile for a frown.

  ‘What I got was a fright, the biggest scare in my life. If you hadn’t come back when you did, I wouldn’t be standing here now. Isn’t that right, Dad?’

  Henshaw made a clearing-his-throat noise. It was obvious he’d been dragged along to acknowledge the fact that I may have actually done his daughter a favour for once.

  ‘If you hadn’t fended him off with my trophy,’ said Maxine, ‘he’d have killed us both.’ She put her hand in mine, my good one, thankfully, as there was a bit of a squeeze in it. I could see her reliving the nightmare of that moment. ‘I can’t tell you how frightened I was. You just . . . never think it can happen to you. When you’re woken like that, a stranger holding a knife to your throat, your body just goes numb. I was in total shock. I couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything. And when he made me write that horrible message on my mirror, I knew with absolute certainty I was going to die.’

  I squeezed her hand back gently. ‘When I walked in,’ I said, ‘I saw the back door open and his backpack on the floor, which I thought was yours at the time. Seriously, you might want to look at getting some security grilles put over the outside patio.’

  Maxine shook her head. ‘I’m not going back there. I can’t go back, ever. I’m going to sell the place, aren’t I, Dad?’

  Henshaw nodded. ‘She’s staying with me for the time being until we can sort it all out.’

  Felt a pang of jealousy. Daddy always riding in like a white knight. I would have offered to put her up at my place and thought she may have at least run it by me first, but no sense in discussing it here and now. It was understandable, of course; her not wanting to set foot in a place where she was nearly killed and the perpetrator still at large.

  ‘I don’t think I’d go back there if I was in your shoes either. Let me know if you want a hand to move anything. Did the police speak to you last night?’

  ‘I had to go down to the station and give a description of the guy and a statement after the medics had done with me. It seemed to take half the night. Dad’s taking me down again now to go through some more identikit images with them. We just popped through to see you on the way over.’

  ‘I’m going over myself later in the morning. Beering’s calling by to pick me up.’

  Maxine looked across at her father, standing to the side of my bed. He didn’t seem very comfortable being there. Glanced down at his watch when he caught me looking at him.

  ‘Well, it’s nice of you to drop by. Bit of a role reversal isn’t it, me being in hospital?’

  She smiled and then looked at her father. ‘Dad’s got something he wants to tell you,’ she said.

  Oh, here it comes, another official warning-off, this time in front of his daughter.

  ‘Dad, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Maxine . . . that is, Maxine and I wanted to thank you for saving her life last night.’ He looked down at his shoes, squinted at an imaginary scuff mark.

  ‘And? Come on, Dad, the rest of it.’

  Wait, there’s more. I was starting to enjoy this. Not every day I got to see Henshaw thanking me, especially in front of Maxine.

  He looked up from his shoes and met my eyes properly for the first time.

  ‘As a token of my appreciation, er, our appreciation, I felt I should offer you a thank-you gift.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘No. I’ve made up my mind. I insist.’

  Who was I to disagree?

  ‘Tell him what you’re giving him, Dad.’

  ‘I’m giving you a half share in Princess Upstart.’

  It must have hurt him. Not in the hip pocket. Because he could afford it. The thought of having to share a horse with his daughter’s loser boyfriend. A most unlikely partnership. I smiled, thinking about it.

  ‘Well?’ said Henshaw.

  I don’t know what he expected me to do; grovel at his feet proclaiming his generosity? ‘A half share, eh. No strings attached?’

  ‘You could sound a bit more grateful.’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, I am. It’s a very generous offer. I just like to know where I stand with these things, that’s all.’

  ‘No strings. A half share to do what you want with. I’ll send you around the registration papers for signing.’

  Business transacted, Henshaw started tugging at his cufflinks like i
t was time to leave. ‘Well we’d better get you over to the police station then, if I’m to make my radio show on time,’ he said to Maxine.

  Maxine reached over and kissed me as she stood up. ‘Might see you down there. Call you later, okay?’

  As they walked out, I couldn’t help myself. ‘Bye, Pops. Gonna be fun racing a horse with you.’

  It stopped Henshaw in his stride, but he didn’t turn around. I heard him give a loud cough and another exaggerated clearing of his throat, and then he kept walking.

  Around mid-morning, after the doctor had changed my dressings, Beering picked me up from the hospital and drove me down to the City West police station. Wells, the detective with Beering at the hospital last night, greeted me with a knowing nod at my bandaged hand.

  ‘Bet you’re feeling that this morning,’ he said.

  ‘Feels like someone poked me with a knife.’

  ‘Come through,’ he said, leading us past the front counter to the back of house squad room. He showed us into an interview room and before we went in, he called out to another of his staff to join us.

  ‘Tony, you’d better sit in on this one too.’

  We were joined by a fit-looking guy in his mid-thirties whom Wells introduced as Detective Sergeant Tony Norris.

  ‘We just finished interviewing Maxine half an hour ago,’ said Wells. ‘She’s been able to give us a likeness of the guy’s face and we’re hoping you can shed a bit of light on him as well.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I told you guys last night I didn’t get a look at his face. I only saw the back of him as he bolted out the door.’

  ‘How about as a starting point, we show you the image and see if you recognise him?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Hey, and while you’re at it,’ said Beering, ‘any chance of a decent coffee? And I don’t mean that instant muck you keep in the kitchen, either.’

  ‘Jesus, we shoulda had this interview in Lygon Street. My apologies,’ grinned Norris. ‘How about I order some up from the deli downstairs?’

  Beering thought it a good idea, so did I. Ten minutes later we were sipping our cappuccinos while huddled around a laptop computer that Norris had set up.

  ‘That’s the image we came up with from Maxine,’ said Wells. ‘Recognise him?’

  I studied the picture. The face in front of me had fairly unremarkable eyes. His nose looked a bit thinnish for the dimensions of his face. The lips were pursed and bore a neutral expression. No hint of a smile or aggression. His head was covered by a cap, so I couldn’t see any hair. There was no beard or earring or other distinguishing facial features. In fact, there was nothing about him at all that stood out to me. He could have been any one of a hundred other guys.

  Norris prompted me. ‘Do anything for you?’

  I shook me head. ‘Can’t say whether I’ve ever seen him or not.’

  ‘Or not?’ Wells seized on my indecision.

  I looked at the image again and pointed at it. ‘It’s just that the image looks like it could be anybody. It reminds me of one of those animated characters on a computer game; not really lifelike.’

  ‘It’s the best we could come up with,’ Wells said a little defensively. ‘We’ve had our best artist from the facial identification team work that up using the very latest in computer-imaging techniques.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be critical,’ I shrugged. ‘I guess it’s who Maxine saw. That’s the important thing.’

  ‘Tell us again about what you remember him wearing,’ said Wells.

  ‘That’s easier,’ I said. ‘Silks, he was wearing jockey silks.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Just the silks and a cap and some sneakers. No trousers or anything. What sort of weirdo goes around wearing that sort of get-up?’

  ‘One who’s not intending to ride horses,’ said Beering.

  ‘It means something to this guy,’ Wells said. ‘You and Maxine are the only two who have actually seen him wearing his outfit. She’s given us a description of the silks too, although it’s a little hazy; she seems to have focused on his face more than what he was wearing. So anything you can remember would help.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I can add much to what she’s already told you. I saw them briefly in the light of the patio door. They were a two-tone colour. Red stripes and white sleeves.’

  ‘What kind of red?’ said Norris.

  ‘A bright red. Like a fire engine.’

  ‘And the stripes, were they diagonal, horizontal, vertical? I can get our artist to come in if you like.’

  I shook my head. ‘No need. If you’ve got an internet connection, go straight to the Mitty’s website. They make the racing silks. You can design a set of colours online.’

  He Googled up Mitty’s and in no time we had a blank template of a jockey’s silks ready to fill in. I took over the mouse and clicked on the different shades of colour and styles. Then I checked out the sleeves and the cap variations. I clicked on the options and a set of colours took shape before our eyes. Silks with three thick red horizontal bands on a white vest and sleeves and two red bands on the cap.

  ‘They the colours?’ asked Norris.

  I tapped the table undecidedly with my fingers. ‘They sort of look like them.’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘The colours are right, but the combination . . . I don’t know, it’s still a bit of jumble in my mind. Don’t know if there were more stripes, or skinnier stripes or if they were at a different angle. It all happened so fast.’

  ‘That’s okay. We understand. It may come to you yet. I’m gonna print this out anyway,’ said Norris, getting up. ‘I’m impressed with that software program they got. How long’s that been available?’

  ‘Ever since they got sick of owners trying to describe colours over the phone to them. This way, there’s no mistake. You design them online and if they’re available for registration, you go ahead and pay for the order over the web.’

  ‘This registration of colours,’ said Wells thoughtfully, ‘how does it work? Can we identify who owns those colours from a database somewhere?’

  Beering answered him. ‘All colours, and there’s thousands of ’em, are registered by the governing racing authority. But if they’re registered, we can find out who owns ’em.’

  ‘You said if they’re registered?’ Wells didn’t miss much and I was beginning to admire his ear for detail.

  ‘If the registration’s lapsed, they become available to anyone else who wants them. If the next person who comes along likes the colours, they can claim them. Unless they’re famous silks like Phar Lap had.’

  I could see Wells playing around with this in his head. Trying to grasp what he had. ‘Do either of you recognise these colours?’

  Beering shook his head and looked at me. ‘Punter’s the expert. You seen ’em before?’

  I couldn’t place them belonging to any horse that I knew and I’ve got a pretty good head for remembering which silks are associated with a trainer or horse or owner. There was something vaguely familiar about them which I couldn’t quite put a finger on. The trouble with jockey silks; they all merge into one giant kaleidoscope of colour after a while.

  ‘No. At least, not any horses that I’ve backed lately, that’s for sure. One thing though, the two-colour combination. There’s so many horses and silks registered these days, that all the single and two-colour combinations were taken years ago.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Wells.

  ‘Like, you’d never be able to register a set of all-black or all-blue colours nowadays. They were snapped up, probably at the turn of the century. And the same goes for popular two-tone combinations. Green and gold stripes. Black and red hoops.’

  ‘How about red and white bands?’ chipped in Norris.

  ‘Right,’ I agreed. ‘The killer’s two-coloured silks look old school. Something that might have been first worn in the fifties or sixties.’

  Norris sho
t a satisfied look at Wells.

  ‘Is that good?’ I asked.

  ‘It confirms one thing that forensics knows,’ said Wells. ‘You see, all the victims had traces of the same silk particles that have been picked up by forensics. It had us puzzled at first, not knowing exactly what they were. Now we know for sure they come from the jockey silks he was wearing. And we also know the particles found on the victims are dated around forty years old.’

  That fucking nosy prick, Punter. He bloody well nearly blew it for me, didn’t he? I know Punter. A smart-arse; always has an answer for everything. Never confesses to a losing day – never owns up to it when he wins. Always sticking his nose into other people’s business. The fuck. The more I think about it, the angrier it makes me. He cost me his dirty little trollop girlfriend when I was just minutes, no, seconds away from having her. Punter’s trollop, the spoilt brat daughter of that radio celebrity, Russell Henshaw. She’s just as bad as the others, worse, in fact; a rich bitch playing at being a strapper, leading in Daddy’s horses. That didn’t change what she really was though, did it? Deep down she was like all the others. Just another filthy silk chaser.

  It wasn’t from lack of planning; I’d cased the place patiently and waited out the front until I’d seen Punter drive off. I’d found the weakest link and bypassed the security. Gone in by the flyscreen door at the rear patio. She’d been easy to see from her upstairs window. Stood out like a lighthouse on a cliff. I’d been tempted to take her then, just steal up the stairs and burst in on her. But hadn’t I been careful? Given her time to go to bed. And when she turned the lights off, I even gave her another hour before I made my move. She would have been the best so far . . .

  So close. I woke her with the knife under her chin. Standard operating procedure. They never quite believe what’s happening to them at first. That’s why I have to spell it out for them. Well, not everything. That just sends them into a situation-hopeless scenario which totally freaks them out. What works best is little steps and instructions, with the glimmer of hope that if they do as they are told, they won’t get hurt. It worked on Maxine. That face of sheer terror when she knew she was totally in my control. But she was smart. Didn’t do anything stupid. Just listened and nodded when I told her what I was going to do. Pleaded with me, as they all did, not to harm her. I mean, what did they really think, I was going to tickle them to death?