‘Well, it’s not really my scene, Samuel—’ Mike began.
‘Nor mine,’ I backed him.
‘Look, I know it’s short notice, but two of the original guests have had to cry off. One of them has been whipped into hospital to have his appendix removed. The room has already been paid for and will now be empty.’
‘But who’s the bride? Will she even want us there? After all, it’s her day.’
‘She’s a friend of mine,’ Chloe answered. ‘And you’re friends of mine, too, so she’s happy with the arrangement. Oh, do say you’ll both come and join in the fun, please.’ She caught hold of my arm and squeezed it. ‘Pleeeease.’
Mike, ever the sucker for a pretty girl, turned to me. ‘You’ve no racing on that day. We could make it. What do you say, Harry? Shall we?’
Before I could answer, Samuel, seeing Mike as good as won over, steamrollered me.
‘Of course you’re coming. You’ve had a lousy year, got yourself in a rut. You’re due a bit of excitement.’
I raised an eyebrow at Mike who grinned and looked away. Right now, I had all the excitement I needed. But they were all waiting expectantly on my reply. It would be churlish to refuse. And, anyway, Jake Smith had told me to expect a visit from him in the next day or two. He wouldn’t be able to find me if I went to the east coast.
‘Thanks, Samuel. Yes, I’d love to.’
ELEVEN
The water level rose to within a few inches of the top of the bath and I twiddled the hot tap and stopped the steaming water gushing out. Tentatively, I dipped a toe in. It was bloody hot. And it needed to be. Taking the towel from around my waist, I draped it over the radiator.
Screwing my head round, I had a look at my naked right thigh. An ugly hoof shape of purpling flesh marked the spot where Lobalong, living up to his name with aplomb, had planted his near fore racing plate.
Earlier in the day, Samuel and Chloe had stayed to sample roast beef and mustard sandwiches for lunch at Mike’s before we had said our goodbyes. They drove off in Samuel’s car, leaving me to head the Mazda down to the racecourse at Towcester. I had just the one ride there in the last race on Thomasina, an eight-to-one shot.
I’d not ridden her before, but right now I was willing to take any rides offered me as I sought to build up my standing after being out for months. After a good start, joint first and a second, I needed to follow up. Owners needed confidence in a jockey before they instructed their trainers.
But like a lot of other professionals – golfers, writers, etc. – jockeys were only as good as their last success. A track record helped, of course, but you still had to repeatedly produce results. In a way, it was catch twenty-two. Achieving winners restored owners’ confidence, but rides were needed in order to get winners. And, as yet, I was in no position to pick and choose the horses I rode. I was just damn grateful to get any rides – full stop.
Right now, Joe Public was unsure of my fitness to ride. Looking down at my right leg, I could share their uncertainty.
Thomasina had carried me safely over all the fences at Towcester – no mean feat, it was an extremely taxing course – until we approached the third last. Instead of sailing over, she had stumbled into it, ploughed her way through and dropped me on the far side. Lobalong, right behind us, had tried to twist away on landing and almost made it. Except for kicking my leg on his way past.
It had been a jaw-clenching limp all the way back up the course. The walking would have helped the injured leg from stiffening up, but I was relieved when I reached the entrance of the horses’ walkway.
Thomasina, thank God, apart from some superficial scratches, was uninjured. One of the stable lads had managed to catch the mare and was waiting for me. I removed the saddle and struggled into the weighing room.
I was even more relieved to be told that my femur was uninjured. However, there would be no racing for me for the next three days. The leg needed hot baths and resting. Falls were an everyday possibility and an acceptance of this grim fact was firmly hardwired into every jump jockey.
Driving back, with my leg throbbing and on fire, the journey had taken close to three hours, with roadworks and the inevitable daily accident on the A46. The ongoing improvements to the road layout were supposed to ease the traffic flow, make it safer. As far as I was concerned, its claim to fame so far was to increase the price of shares for the cone manufacturing companies, confuse all the drivers and increase the accident statistics.
With great relief, I swung in through the gate and parked by the back door to the cottage. There was no better place to be than home when illness or injury struck. However, the cottage was empty. Leo was absent. No doubt out on a scouting trip for willing queens. I immediately downed a generous whisky, locked up and, after switching off all the downstairs lights, crawled upstairs to the bathroom. I was about to give the leg injury some much needed TLC.
Wincing, I lifted the leg to get into the bath. At that same moment, the light bulb blew. The spare light bulbs were downstairs under the kitchen sink. It would mean negotiating the stairs – down and up. I swore strongly. Not this side of Christmas! In the airing cupboard in a corner of the bathroom, there was a box of tea-lights, candles that Annabel used to light whenever she’d taken a bath when we lived together.
I groped about in the semi-gloom inside the cupboard and found them, together with a sturdy box of Cook’s matches. Lighting several and placing them around the edge of the bath, I had to admit that, without the main light on, they did add a definite air of tranquillity. I climbed into the bath and slid down, letting the hot water cover my thighs completely. I’d probably come out wrinkled and bright red, but right now the feeling was bliss.
I closed my eyes and let go of the day.
For the next hour or so, I dozed, reheated the water, dozed some more. I don’t recall thinking much about anything. Drifting in and out of consciousness whilst the supporting, healing water did its job, I was suddenly jolted into sharp awareness. Someone was banging loudly on the cottage door. A clutch of apprehension gripped my guts.
Outside it was pitch-black, the cottage isolated, and my leg injury rendered me unable to move faster than a hobble. I was not expecting anyone, nobody at all. No one except, possibly, the one person I really didn’t want to meet – Jake Smith.
Struggling out of the bath, I grabbed for the towel, secured it around my waist and hobbled down the landing and into the bedroom overlooking the back door. I angled myself behind the curtains and risked a glance out of the window.
Out in the lane, parked beyond the garden gate, was a large car. As I watched, the moon drifted from behind clouds and illuminated the vehicle: an old green Rover. I recognized it because I’d had an enforced ride in it – down Racecourse Lane. It belonged to Jake Smith. Although, from this angle, I couldn’t see who was banging on the back door, it was odds-on that it was Jake.
I had two options. One, I could struggle downstairs, switch on the electric lights and open the door. Face him undressed, wet, extremely vulnerable. Two, I could remain where I was, completely hidden behind the thick curtain, and wait and watch until he got fed up with nobody surfacing. The fact that none of the downstairs lights were on helped my case that I was not at home.
I stood and listened to the hammering on the door. Jake couldn’t be sure I was inside, unless he’d trailed me back from the races. That didn’t hold water because I’d fixed a drink and then spent more than an hour in the bathroom. He wouldn’t have bothered waiting if he’d been tailing me. No, he couldn’t be sure.
I stayed put behind the curtain.
Now it was my decision where and when we met.
The next day, I treated the injury with respect and went to ground at the cottage, took hot, healing baths and rested the leg.
However, on Friday, I’d reached the ‘sod it’ stage and drove off over to Mike’s stables at six o’clock. It wasn’t easy – nor was it pain-free – but I managed to ride out two lots.
After the second
ride, Fleur, who had been in the string as well, tugged off her crash cap.
‘Don’t you think you should be resting that leg?’
‘I did. Yesterday.’
‘Hmmm. You expect it to be better in one day?’
‘No,’ I said truthfully, ‘but I needed to get back in the saddle again.’
‘I see,’ she said, poker-faced.
‘And it’s not what you’re thinking.’
‘Really? And what would that be?’
I grinned. ‘Unlike my leg, my nerve is quite undamaged.’
For a moment or two, she eyed me up and down, and then her lips quirked up slightly at the corners. ‘I believe you.’
‘Doesn’t make any difference if you do or not; it’s the truth.’
‘It may well be,’ Mike said, coming up behind us, ‘but you’ve ridden two lots. Now, get yourself back home and give it a chance. Don’t forget, the wedding’s at North Shore Hotel tomorrow. No resting there. Think of the toasts. It will be all arm lifting.’ He grinned.
I saw his point. ‘OK.’ I shrugged resignedly. ‘I’m off. I’ll go and join Leo. He’s got his head down. Been out on the tiles for the past two nights giving the queens a thrill.’
‘Lucky Leo,’ Fleur murmured and shot me a sideways glance under her lashes. Mike, never a man to miss a trick, smirked knowingly.
‘Your turn soon, Harry. Off you go; give that leg a chance. I’ll see you in the morning.’
I drove away, obsessively checking my mirrors for cars, but I didn’t need caution: no one was tailing me.
Yesterday, alone at the cottage behind locked and bolted doors and windows, I’d spent most of the time asleep – when I wasn’t taking hot baths. Nothing had disturbed the peace. No snail mail or emails arrived, the phone never rang and, above all, nobody came to the door. Of Jake Smith, there was no sign. All I needed to do now was keep my head down for the rest of today. If he came round tomorrow, he wouldn’t find me. I’d be over on the east coast attending the wedding.
I turned in at the gate of Harlequin Cottage, parked up and stumbled awkwardly over the gravel to the kitchen door. My leg was hurting like hell.
In the kitchen, Leo, curled up in his basket, opened one emerald eye, sighed heavily and closed it again. The ‘do not disturb’ sign was very clearly in place.
‘That’s females for you, fella.’
I brewed a mug of strong tea, struggled upstairs to the bathroom and ran yet another hot bath. Sitting, soaking, sweating, I supped the hot tea and thought about where my next rides were coming from. But the heat was both soothing and soporific. Finishing the tea, I lay back and closed my eyes. I never saw the door open; just heard the voice.
‘If I didn’t know better, Harry boy, I’d think you were avoiding me.’
My eyes snapped open. Jake Smith was leaning against the airing cupboard door, lazily chewing gum. His eyes were cold, expressionless. He glanced down into the bath.
‘Saw your accident. Watched the race in the bookies. Called round later to make sure it wasn’t going to put you out of action.’
I said nothing. My mind ranged round the cottage boundaries. How the hell had he got in?
‘Expect you wonder how I’m standing here.’ He was reading my mind now. ‘You left a transom open in the conservatory.’ He gave a mirthless snort. ‘You should be more careful, Harry, boy, you might get a visitor you don’t want.’
I levered myself up and reached for the towel.
‘Ooooh …’ He sucked in breath sharply and shook his head. ‘Now that looks painful …’
‘You’re not wrong.’ I wrapped the towel round my waist and towelled off my shoulders and chest with another. ‘So, that’s what you’re here for, is it? To see how badly I’d copped it?’
‘Yeah.’ He chewed on a wad of gum, shifting it around his mouth.
‘So?’
‘You’re walking … an’ you’ve ridden out two lots this morning.’
I dropped the towels on to the linen basket. ‘You’ve been tailing me?’
He shrugged. Pushing a hand into his pocket, he drew out an envelope. ‘This is a photo of my sister, Jo-Jo. I’ll leave it with you, but you’d better not lose it. I really wouldn’t like that. I want it back.’
I struggled into underpants and jeans and took the photograph from him. She was a looker: long black hair, tall, slender but with a beautiful pair of breasts. Dressed in a scarlet evening dress with incredibly high heels, she was every male’s must-have.
He watched me keenly, noted my reaction. His mouth twisted up on one side and he chewed harder on the gum.
‘Yeah, stopped traffic, she did.’
I could believe it. With her life cut short, beauty like that was a loss to the world.
‘How did she die?’
‘How was she murdered, you mean?’ He thrust his face aggressively close to mine.
‘OK, take it easy. So far, I don’t know anything at all, right?’
‘Sure.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘She was in a car smash.’
‘Her own car?’
‘No. She was with this bloke. He was loaded, o’course. I mean, she was high class, not one of your street-corner girls.’
‘You’re saying she was a prostitute?’
‘She had this flat, y’see. He paid for it all.’
‘Right.’
‘He’s dead as well.’
‘And what was his name?’
‘Frame, Louis Frame. The car was a Jag. It was totalled.’ As he spoke, Jake took out a single sheet of paper from the envelope. ‘Here, all the dates an’ details an’ people are listed. They were coming back from the races when it happened.’
‘What did they run into?’
‘Horsebox.’
My immediate thought was to hope the horses had escaped injury but, prudently, I didn’t say anything. He was so screwed up about losing his sister there was no room for concern for anybody else, human or equine.
‘What was the police verdict on the accident?’
‘Useless arseholes, said it was careless driving. Raining y’see. Couldn’t stop in time ’cos they were really motoring.’
I nodded. ‘Who was driving?’
‘Frame was. Jo-Jo said he always drove fast. For an old bloke, he was full of energy.’ His mouth twisted.
‘You didn’t like the set-up?’
‘Would you? If it had been your sister?’
‘No.’
In the following silence, it was there again between us, that tenuous link.
I didn’t have a sister but I thought about my half-sister, my horrifically disabled half-sister. Given the choice between Silvie’s disability or her being a prostitute, I’d opt for the latter – by God, I would.
‘What makes you think it was murder, not an accident?’
‘I reckon Jo-Jo was in the wrong place, wrong time. It was Frame that was the target, not her.’
‘Why should he be a target?’
‘He was in two dodgy situations that I know about. Like, he was involved in a crash about a year back. Took out the driver of the other car. His relatives might be wanting some comeback. Two, a mate of mine was sent down on Frame’s evidence in court a while back. His wife, Alice, was spitting tacks in court, swearing she’d get him. She was a big mate of Jo-Jo’s.’
‘Well, she wouldn’t set out to kill Jo-Jo.’
He glowered at me. ‘Like I say, wrong place, wrong time.’
‘Do you know if there was something wrong with the car?’
‘Yeah. The fuzz gave it out there was a brake fluid leak but still classed it as careless driving – got too close, y’see, couldn’t stop in time. Frame had driven it up to Doncaster races, so it was OK then. But the crash happened on their way back home.’
‘So, it could have been tampered with at the races?’
‘Yeah, looks like it.’
‘Whose horsebox did they run into?’
‘Robson’s. Used it to take up a seller and was coming back em
pty.’
I sighed out a deep breath of relief. No horses injured, then.
‘You think Robson was involved?’
He shook his shaved head. ‘No. Apparently, the driver was gutted by the deaths.’
‘Right.’
I took the sheet of paper and photograph from him and replaced them in the envelope.
Jake stopped chewing. He took the gum from his mouth and pitched it into the waste bin underneath the wash basin. ‘You’ll sort it, then?’
‘Do my best to get a result.’
He thrust his face two inches from my own.
‘You’d fucking better, if you want to keep breathing. Somebody’s going to pay the price for Jo-Jo’s death, and if you don’t find who’s responsible … it will be you!’
TWELVE
On Saturday, kick-off for the wedding was twelve thirty, so plenty of time to ride out at Mike’s before we had to leave.
My right leg had now decided to concede and, whilst not fully healed, the pain level was such I could override it.
After seeing off three lots on the gallops and one of Mike’s tasty breakfasts, showered, suited and booted, we motored east in his car.
Traffic was light until we arrived at Skegness, but turning left at The Ship on to Roman Bank, it was nose-to-tail for a couple of slow miles before we swung off round the willow tree corner on to North Shore Road.
Now, not a car in sight; instead, a wide spread of glorious green golf course culminating in the hotel at the top of the rise – an oasis of calm with a unique atmosphere guaranteed to increase the pleasure of being alive.
In front of the hotel, a red carpet royally invited us up the steps and in through the main entrance, where we were greeted by Mark, the manager, and shown into the St Andrew’s Suite. Nearly all the guests had arrived and everybody was now anticipating the bride’s entrance.
I spotted several racing acquaintances. Samuel, already halfway down a glass of Pimms, spotted us and beamed his way over. He noted my acknowledgement of two or three of the guests.
‘Friends of the bride’s late father. Louis was a great one for going to race meetings.’
Dead on Course Page 8
