Dead on Course

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Who is this?’ It was a much younger voice, tough, abrupt.

  ‘Harry Radcliffe. Are you Jake Smith?’

  ‘You got it. Took your time, didn’t you? I was all set to do business with that doll, Chloe.’

  ‘No need,’ I said quickly. ‘Any business to do, it’s between me and you.’

  He snorted. ‘Don’t you mean it will be me telling you?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Things need sorting. Get yourself to Southwell on Tuesday. Stand by the horses’ walkway, near the entry on to the course. I’ll find you.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Since you’re not riding, don’t matter, does it? I could’ve been real difficult – made it Huntingdon, this Sunday. But since you’re riding in three races, and two of them for Lord Edgware …’ He was openly sneering now.

  A cold feeling filled my stomach. He was keeping tabs on my movements, wanted me to know.

  I knew nothing about him, whilst he obviously knew quite a bit about me. How? Declarations weren’t in yet stating I was down to ride. So, who had told him?

  He laughed, but laugh wasn’t the right word – the sound contained no humour. ‘We’ll make it just before the last race. Soon as they start to peel off from the parade ring. Got it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No cop out. You’re not riding, so be there.’ His voice dropped to a low hiss. ‘And if I don’t get the right answers, you won’t ever be riding again.’

  His voice held all the chilling menace of a king cobra.

  A trickle of icy sweat ran down between my shoulder blades. I’d been denied my race riding for six months, been right down there in the pit, but then, by a miracle, had beaten the bleak forecast and ridden for the first time last Saturday.

  I knew I couldn’t survive if my livelihood and ability to race were snatched away a second time.

  But I had definitely been threatened.

  And Jake was a man who never made idle threats.

  As the previous threatened man, who had ended up in a hospital bed, could certainly testify.

  I scrubbed a fist across my forehead and found it came away damp with sweat.

  ‘Well?’

  I grimaced. ‘Any more coffee going, Mike? I could do with another – a strong one, a very strong one.’

  ‘With a splash of whisky?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He disappeared, leaving me to assimilate Jake Smith’s words. At one level, I was incredibly relieved that he hadn’t dictated our meeting take place in a dark alley in the middle of Nottingham. But on another, his threat had the power to rock me. Having tasted a future as a finished jockey, no way was I going down that alley again.

  What the right answers he was seeking were, I’d no idea. But I had to meet Jake – I had little choice when Chloe’s safety was seriously at risk. Whether Jake would actually harm her physically wasn’t something I could even bring myself to consider. It wasn’t going to come to that. I’d meet him as he’d dictated, at Southwell races on the fourth. After I’d ridden at the jumps meeting on Sunday the second. Three rides – as Jake had pointed out – one for Samuel, plus two for Lord Edgware who had booked my services following last Saturday’s success.

  Mike reappeared with the pungent coffee.

  ‘Have you made the decs yet, Mike, for Huntingdon?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Hmm, thought not.’

  ‘Why?’

  I accepted a mug from him and sipped cautiously. The drink delivered everything I needed, sweetened with honey, very strong and generously laced with whisky.

  ‘Can you explain how Jake Smith has just managed to tell me I’ve got three rides there, two especially for Lord Edgware?’

  He whistled softly. ‘The devil you say … No, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Me, neither. But it must have taken some spadework to dig up that information. How long ago did His Lordship book me to ride his two fillies?’

  Mike pursed his lips. ‘I think it was last Sunday … yes, I remember. I was in the kitchen here, the girls were busy with Sunday lunch preparation and I was hindering more than helping – you know, getting in the way – when I took a call from him on the kitchen extension.’

  ‘And who else knew?’

  ‘We … e … ll,’ he said and shrugged. ‘I don’t know off hand. I told Joe, of course. And I suppose he could have told the other lads. Oh, yes, and Samuel knew, because I was speaking to him later about you riding Online at the same meeting. He probably told Chloe.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. But don’t forget, Harry, His Lordship could very well have told other people we know nothing about.’

  I sighed heavily. ‘Yes, of course. I never considered that possibility. It’s not going to be easy to pin down Jake’s source of information.’

  ‘If I were you, Harry, I’d just let it go. You’ll turn yourself inside out trying. Strikes me from the whiter shade of pale you turned after the phone call, you’ve got enough on your plate already.’

  I took another pull of the delicious coffee. ‘He wants me to meet him at the Southwell flat meeting on the fourth.’

  ‘Does he?’ Mike rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, that’s a bit safer than some other places I could think of.’

  ‘My thoughts, too. Except, just at the end of the phone call, he left me with a threat to finish me for racing if I didn’t produce the answers he wants to his questions.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘As yet, I’ve no idea. But I’ll find out when I get to Southwell.’

  We left it at that and followed our normal non-racing day routine. Mike put stocking-clad feet up on the coffee table, spread the Racing Post over his face and opted out.

  I slid further down in the squashy, seductive comfort of my leather armchair and followed his excellent example. Over in the lads’ quarters, they would all be in the same somnambulistic state – tradition in racing stables – an early start required a toes-up couple of hours in the afternoon before back on duty for evening stables.

  The first thing I became aware of, sometime later, was a light floral scent teasing my nostrils. I came up from the depths and heard a feminine voice close to my ear.

  ‘Mum told me we were getting our afternoon tea made for us, but I told her not to be silly.’

  I opened an eye. Fleur, holding a steaming mug, was hunkered down beside me.

  ‘Decent of you, thanks.’

  I looked across at Mike. He was still hidden beneath the newspaper, gentle snores frilling and rippling the edges of the pages.

  Beyond his head, the clock on the desk read four twenty-eight. I struggled upright.

  ‘Don’t fret. She’s not here yet.’ Amusement danced in Fleur’s eyes. ‘I’m dying to meet her.’

  ‘Never mind Annabel,’ said a voice, ‘did you make me some tea as well?’ The newspaper slowly slid down, revealing Mike’s blue eyes.

  ‘Not that you deserve any, but yes.’

  A grin spread across his sleepy face. ‘I owe you.’

  Right then, we heard the muted sound of a vehicle pulling into the yard and a moment or two later a car door slammed.

  Annabel had arrived.

  Impassively, I stared down into the bottom of my mug of tea, whilst inside two conflicting feelings warred for victory. I felt like running for cover to avoid any further emotional pain and yet, simultaneously, Annabel’s magnetism was a force field that inexorably drew me to her. Caught between the two opposing emotions, I was helplessly immobile.

  Mike heaved himself out of the chair and went to let her in.

  ‘Does she drink tea?’ Fleur asked.

  ‘Hmmm … no sugar.’

  She disappeared after Mike, and a couple of minutes later Annabel came into the room. At the sight of her, self-preservation rolled over and died on the spot.

  I stood up.

  ‘Harry, darling.’ Her face alive with pleasure, Annabel gave me a hug.

&nb
sp; Bittersweet.

  Her body, so familiar to me after years of marriage, for the first time felt strange, different. Pressed close to her, I could feel the swell of her coming baby. But the baby wasn’t mine.

  Bitter, bittersweet.

  I had never in my life been a jealous man. Whatever anyone else had or achieved, I was pleased for them. Now, I was blown away by the destructive, enervating power of a swamping wave of jealousy. I was hideously jealous of Sir Jeffrey and it was a far from pleasant feeling.

  Annabel, feeling the sudden tenseness I was unable to prevent, had immediately understood. She eased herself gently away from me.

  ‘I’m so pleased you thought of calling me for some healing. How is the mare?’

  ‘Better in physical shape than mental. Mind you, she was spooky to begin with this morning before the accident.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see how she responds. I’ll go down to the stable, shall I?’

  ‘Not until you’ve had some tea.’ Fleur appeared.

  ‘Oh, yes. Lovely, thanks.’

  ‘You two haven’t been introduced, have you?’

  I did the honours.

  ‘Harry says the healing really does work.’ Fleur was regarding Annabel with interest. ‘Could I watch you?’

  Annabel smiled. ‘I don’t mind. Your watching won’t affect it in any way.’

  ‘Does it make a difference, your being pregnant?’

  Annabel shook her head. ‘It’s never a one-way street. Other healers all seem to say the same thing. Giving healing also benefits the healer. So, if it benefits me, it will also benefit the baby.’

  ‘How do you feel, you know, when you’re actually doing it?’

  ‘Very calm, centred – filled with awe, actually, because the healing energy always comes down when I ask. Not demand – you never, ever demand.’

  ‘Wow!’ Fleur’s eyes grew wider. ‘You say it comes down – isn’t it inside you, then?’

  Annabel gurgled with laughter. ‘Every living thing in the universe is only alive because they’re filled with energy or the life-force. But to give healing, well, you don’t use your own energy. If you did that, you’d become depleted very quickly.’

  ‘So what energy do you use? Where does it come from?’

  ‘You could say God because that’s correct, but some people feel more comfortable if I use the word source.’

  ‘And it just … comes down?’

  ‘Yes,’ Annabel said gently, ‘and, believe me, it’s incredibly humbling to feel the power.’

  ‘I bet!’

  Mike stuck his head round the door. ‘Just off down the stables. You coming, Harry? I could use another pair of hands. Buzzword’s leg needs hosing for twenty minutes.’

  I nodded. ‘He’s the one the vet called about this morning?’

  ‘Yes. There’s still heat in the near fore.’

  ‘I’m right with you.’

  We all trooped out across the yard and peeled off to our respective jobs, Fleur sticking as close to Annabel as a gun-dog to its master.

  It would be interesting catching up with her later to get her impressions.

  ‘Hey, hang on!’ There was a shout behind us. ‘Wait for me. I don’t want to miss out.’ And Maria came beetling across after us.

  EIGHT

  ‘You can’t be serious, Harry.’ Annabel’s eyes were filled with horrified dismay. ‘With this Jake Smith’s track record, it’s incredibly dangerous.’

  ‘No choice.’

  ‘Surely there’s some other way. Why not tell Samuel? He could arrange some sort of protection for Chloe.’

  We’d gone back to Annabel’s house for supper. She’d invited me. I’d declined. She’d insisted. I’d given in. Mike, well, Mike had disapproved very strongly. Sir Jeffrey was away in London.

  ‘You’re having supper here, Harry, with the three of us.’

  I’d spread my hands. I knew he was serious, wanted me to eat with his family, but I also knew he was concerned. It was a complete switch around from his former attitude of trying to throw us together again.

  I understood his reason, of course – the baby. Since Annabel had conceived, everything had changed. Now he thought it was tempting fate for me to be having supper with Annabel, at her house, alone.

  That thought had occurred to me, too. At the point when I’d been directing the hose down Buzzword’s foreleg, taking the heat out and watching the cold water trickling down and dripping steadily off his hock, I realized I could do with turning the hose on myself. Cool my ardour down a bit. But long ago I’d realized there was no hope of recovery. My feelings for Annabel were intrinsically part of me; they ran through my veins like blood. It was a terminal illness with no cure.

  So, leaving Mike glowering, we had set off from his stables in our two separate vehicles and I’d followed her along the Leicestershire lanes.

  The meal she prepared was a simple smoked salmon salad with a side helping of brown rice. She knew I could indulge myself and not have to worry about weight gain. Annabel was a thoughtful, caring person.

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t tell Samuel. He’s a father, above all else, a devoted father. He’d just go completely nuts, get overprotective. And chew himself to bits because he couldn’t provide wraparound protection.’

  Involuntarily, Annabel’s hand strayed to her swelling belly. The gesture said everything.

  ‘You see?’ I said softly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, I have to see Jake Smith.’

  ‘But the false teeth, on your doorstep – he couldn’t have left them there, could he?’

  Her words pulled me up with a jerk. Since receiving the note, I’d automatically assumed he had.

  ‘Harry, he was still in prison when the teeth were left.’

  ‘You think someone else left them? As in someone not connected with Jake?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Say, another member of Carl’s family, or a girlfriend, even someone Carl was involved with at work.’

  Her words set me thinking. She certainly had a point.

  ‘Could have been Carl’s father. He was the one who answered the phone to begin with.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘Well, when I get to Southwell, I’ll ask Jake before I answer any of his questions.’

  ‘Promise me something, Harry …’

  She reached across the table and put her hand over mine. I noticed it was her left hand. Bizarrely, despite her living with Sir Jeffrey, she was still wearing my wedding ring.

  I stared down at her third finger and wondered just how much longer she would go on wearing it. Until this baby was born? Until she wanted to marry again? Until she asked me for a divorce?

  I lifted my head and looked into her face, swallowed hard. Was this what tonight’s supper was all about? A prelude to asking for a divorce?

  ‘Promise,’ she said urgently.

  ‘What? What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Ring me, as soon as you get back from Southwell. Ring to tell me you’re safe.’

  Relief swamped me. ‘You bet I will,’ I said. ‘Bank on it.’

  I drove away down cold dark lanes to my lonely cottage and empty bed – leaving Annabel to sleep alone in hers. What a bloody waste.

  But there was a slight compensation waiting for me at the cottage. A message had been left on the answerphone.

  ‘Hi there, Harry. Samuel. That trip to North Shore Hotel for a round of golf, well, I’m up for it the Monday after Huntingdon races. I’ve spoken to Mike. All OK with him. Thought we could all go to the coast in my car – save petrol.’ He chuckled. ‘Unless I hear from you that you can’t make it, I’ll pick you up at around six thirty, Monday morning. We can grab a bacon bun and coffee in the hotel before we tee off. Look forward to seeing you.’

  I reached for the desk diary and made a note. As I did so, a thought occurred to me that assuming I didn’t have a bad fall on Sunday, I’d still be alive and kicking on Monday.

  I turned the pag
e over to the following day – Tuesday, fourth of October – and made another note: Southwell racecourse – meet Jake Smith!

  There was a clatter from the cat flap in the kitchen and moments later an enormous ginger tom edged himself round the partially open office door and glared balefully at me. He let out a bellow loud enough to be heard by my nearest neighbour – half a mile away – before launching himself up on to my shoulder and rubbing his head hard against my chin.

  ‘OK, your dinner, right?’ I hoiked myself up and went to the kitchen, undid a tin of smelly cat food, to Leo’s great delight, and made myself some coffee. Taking my drink through to the lounge, I sprawled on the settee and thought about Annabel’s theories.

  Taking it from the closest relation first, that made Jake’s father front runner. To find out where he lived would also give me an advantage next Tuesday. It seemed likely Jake was also living there since his release from prison. But I knew nothing about Jake Smith, hadn’t even known he existed until I’d received that note at the races.

  Carl Smith had worked in racing stables in the village of Dayton, near Newark, but he would most likely have lived in lads’ quarters near the stables. The trainer, Fred Sampson, would have Carl’s home address on file, but with the data protection restrictions, he wouldn’t be able to tell me.

  So who could I ask?

  Carl certainly wasn’t the only stable lad working for Sampson. Maybe his mates would know. The only way to find out was to ask them. And that meant tracking them down at their favourite watering hole – usually the nearest pub to the stables.

  I drained my cooling coffee and grabbed my car keys.

  Twenty minutes later, I was ordering a pint of beer in the Purple Dragon at Dayton. Three lads, one of whom I recognized, were seated at a nearby table.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  There were assenting grunts and I slid my glass on to a spare beer mat.

  ‘Not on your own patch, Harry?’

  Being champion jockey had its uses at times. No way could I disguise who I was. But it also had its drawbacks. I had to keep this light, spontaneous. It was the best chance I had of getting the information I needed. If they thought the address was important, it was possible they wouldn’t let it slip.