Dead on Course

by Glenis Wilson

  An hour or so later the strident tones of my mobile jerked me awake.

  ‘Hello, Harry. How’re things?’

  ‘Annabel, er, yes, thanks for calling me back.’

  ‘You OK? You sound half asleep.’

  ‘Matter of fact, I was. Didn’t mean to drop off but I guess I must have done.’

  ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

  ‘No, not ill exactly.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘But I’m in need of some spiritual healing. To be honest, I’ve been on the receiving end of a punch-up.’ I heard her intake of breath.

  ‘Oh, Harry, darling. How bad are you?’

  ‘Don’t panic, I’m not too bad, considering. What is giving me a rough time is my left knee.’

  ‘I could send you some absent healing. That’s the one that’s dicey, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like some healing?’

  ‘I would, very much so. But I have to say it’s for selfish reasons. I’m supposed to be riding tomorrow at Huntingdon.’

  There was silence for a moment. Annabel was the most unselfish of people. However, the reason we weren’t still together was not because our feelings had died, but because she couldn’t stand seeing me suffer the injuries a jockey inevitably incurs as part of his working life. Asking her for help and healing so that I could go ahead and risk my neck yet again on a racecourse was below the belt on my part.

  ‘Harry, if you’re suffering, that’s all the reason I need.’

  ‘Bless you. Have I told you, you’re one in a million?’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ she gurgled with laughter, ‘you have, several times. I’ll have to watch it doesn’t go to my head. In the meantime, take it steady. Sounds like you should put your feet up and rest.’

  ‘I was doing.’

  ‘Good man. You relax and I’ll do the necessary. ’Bye, Harry.’

  She was gone and I was left staring at the phone, cursing myself for letting her go out of my life. Life, when she was with me, had been bliss. But it was no good living with regrets. They got you nowhere … Life was constantly moving on, bringing you new opportunities, new people. I needed to forget the past bliss and look forward to finding bliss with another woman.

  A picture of Fleur came into my mind. I’d taken a rain check on having dinner with Mike, his sister and Fleur. High time I reminded Mike to set another date. I’d definitely go and give fate, or destiny, whatever, a chance to work some magic.

  I followed Leo’s example and Annabel’s instructions and fell asleep.

  Something, later, brought me up from the lower depths to just below the surface. It felt a bit like a soft punch in the stomach. I knew what it was. Leo had used my stomach as a springboard.

  I’d been dreaming. Dreaming of food, something delicious. I could practically taste it, certainly smell it. I took a last lingering sniff and, reluctant to wake up, opened my eyes.

  The first thing I saw was a steaming mug passing slowly back and forth underneath my nostrils. The chicken soup smelled even better than it had in my dream. I raised my gaze to the person who was holding the offering.

  Annabel smiled down at me. I was instantly awake, filled with a burst of pleasure.

  ‘You’re not safe to be let out,’ she said and placed the mug of soup in my hand.

  NINETEEN

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘No, but Leo did. He was doing his guard-cat routine.’ She scooped up the ginger Tom who stuck his head in her neck. Lucky sod! He was purring for England. In his position, I’d be purring, too.

  ‘I didn’t intend dragging you away from Jeffrey.’

  ‘He’s away, as usual. Spends half his life zipping up and down the M1.’

  ‘Even so, you shouldn’t have come over.’

  ‘Drink your soup.’ She nuzzled Leo. ‘How’s White Lace?’

  ‘Doing fine.’

  ‘Good. I like to get feedback.’

  I grinned. ‘It’s nice getting fed.’ The chicken soup was home-made, a million miles away from the tinned variety.

  ‘When you’ve finished, I’ll give that knee a bit of attention.’

  As far as I was concerned, she could give the whole of me a going over. But, prudently, I didn’t say so. Instead, I asked her how she was feeling.

  ‘I’ve passed the first three months. Most women seem to have morning sickness during that period, but, honestly, I’ve never felt better.’

  ‘You’re blooming; being pregnant suits you.’

  ‘I’m like a kid looking forward to Christmas,’ she laughed and patted a tummy that hardly looked any different. ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘What names have you thought of?’

  ‘None, yet. I think when I see him, I’ll know.’

  ‘Is it a boy?’

  ‘Well, I say him but I refused the chance to know for sure. It’s more fun not knowing.’

  ‘Do you want a boy?’

  ‘I just want a healthy baby.’ She took the empty mug from me. ‘Now, let’s see about giving your knee some healing. You’re racing tomorrow.’

  She ended up giving me a full healing – every energy centre, every joint – and also spent time on my battered face. The healing was more effective than the painkillers. I could feel the heat pouring out from the palms of her hands and it relaxed me totally. All the discomfort melted away. I knew from previous experience the value of accepting a healing.

  Annabel had once flown over from Malta to be at my hospital bedside when I’d had a bad racing fall. She’d not only had to obtain the permission of the ward manager but had also had to check if the bone had been set in the correct position before she gave me any treatment. The healing energy was powerful, could even start a broken bone fusing.

  Afterwards, the relief was wonderful and we sat in companionable harmony and drank tea before Annabel declared it time to be going home. Back to Jeffrey. I could have kept her at the cottage for ever. But I saw her out. And now I wasn’t even hobbling. I held her car door open.

  ‘I owe you, Annabel. I really didn’t expect you to drive over to do the healing. I’d have been damn grateful for some absent. The pain’s gone completely.’

  ‘I’m very glad, Harry.’ She leaned forward, gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. ‘Good job I’ve still got my key. But next time I’ll send you some absent healing. Do rest your leg, though, as much as you can. Don’t take liberties. That kneecap’s vulnerable.’

  ‘Yes, I know. And the man who gave out the kicking knows as well. That’s why he targeted that spot.’

  ‘If you will go in for playing detectives …’ She shook her head, reprovingly. ‘Even race riding’s not as dangerous.’ I hadn’t told her the whole story, just an abridged version.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m watching my back.’

  ‘I do hope so.’ She turned the key. ‘If you need me again, just ring.’

  I watched the car turn into the lane and drive away. Need her again? I needed her all the time.

  The next morning, hearing Annabel’s words repeating in my ears, I forfeited riding out at Mike’s stables. I stayed at home and worked on my weekly column for the newspaper. Not a job I enjoyed very much, although the editor told me I made a pretty good fist of it. At least it kept me sitting down in a chair as opposed to sitting down in a saddle.

  But the time crept round towards lunchtime and I needed to be making tracks for Huntingdon. I took a yoghurt, fruit and a bottle of mineral water with me, together with the box of painkillers, just in case. If I managed to ride in the race before it flared up again, I still needed to be able to drive home.

  I pointed the Mazda eastwards.

  My one ride for Clive Unwin was scheduled for three thirty, but I needed to be there at least an hour or so beforehand.

  However, there was something else I was planning to do before walking into the parade ring.

  Arriving at Huntingdon, I went into the weighing room.

  ‘Back, then?’
said one of the jockeys, about to go and ride in the two o’clock. ‘Too bad about your leg, but I got the ride on Unicorn last Friday.’

  ‘Right.’ I’d been offered the ride on the horse at Carlisle but had to decline because of the fall at Towcester. ‘Saw you rode a winner.’

  ‘Dead right,’ he grinned and walked to the door. ‘Piece of cake.’

  I grinned back. Next week, the situation could well be reversed and I’d be taking over one of his rides. Race riding was a dangerous sport. The valet in charge of my gear bustled up.

  ‘How’d your wedding go, then?’

  Nothing was secret in the weighing room. I’d mentioned last week that I wouldn’t be riding on Saturday.

  ‘The wedding went off beautifully …’

  ‘I hear a “but” …’

  ‘Afraid so. Surprised you didn’t read about it in the papers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bride was murdered.’

  ‘No! Get away!’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He gave me a look that summed up how we’d all been feeling on Saturday night.

  As gossip fodder, I suppose it did take some beating.

  ‘The poor lass.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at me sideways. ‘You on the case, then?’

  ‘Now, why should I be?’

  ‘No reason,’ he said and did a stable-lad sniff, ‘except it was you that cracked the Leicester races murder.’

  I groaned inside. I was not going to live it down.

  ‘Doesn’t make me a candidate for sussing the next one, does it?’

  ‘D’y’know,’ he said, unfolding a pair of white racing breeches, ‘I reckon it does.’

  I left him to his bustling and took myself off. Whilst I was on the computer this morning, I’d done a bit of spadework. Robson, the trainer I’d rung from the turret room at North Shore, had several runners here this afternoon. It was very likely his box driver might just be John Dunston. I was about to find out for sure. I’d parked in the normal jockeys’ car park, but now I made my way over to the box park.

  Every available space, it seemed, had a horsebox parked up. I was looking for a maroon-and-grey one. From a safety angle, I was pleased to see there were plenty of people about. The trouble was, I couldn’t ask any of them where Robson’s driver had parked.

  Walking in and out of the lines of vehicles, I tried to look as unobtrusive as possible. But legwork ate up time and I was riding in the three thirty. Time was pushing on when I came round the rear corner of a large six-horse box and found myself looking right at Robson’s box – and John Dunston.

  We both stopped short. I recognized him immediately as the man who had given me a good rib kicking. What he saw, I don’t know. His face dropped a foot with surprise.

  Quickly, I walked the few yards between us.

  ‘Thought you’d finished me, didn’t you? Well, sorry, I’m not a ghost.’

  His fists bunched themselves and I could see the knuckles were skinned and grazed from where he’d hammered them into my face.

  ‘I wouldn’t advise you have another go.’ I waved a casual hand towards the other people. ‘Look at it this way, Dunston, I’ve got you off a murder rap.’

  ‘You’ve sent my lad down,’ he croaked.

  ‘Get this: your Frank sent himself down.’

  ‘If you hadn’t worked out who it was, he’d still be free.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man … He’s a criminal.’

  ‘He’s behind bars, an’ it’s all your fault.’

  I let my arms drop to my sides. No point in trying to bring any sort of reasoning into the conversation. He was totally blinkered.

  ‘Behind bars,’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘It’ll be for a long time … be too late.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Dunston simply carried on shaking his head and said nothing.

  The alarm tone on my mobile gave out a sharp reminder. I’d set it when I’d left the weighing room. Time I was heading back to change into my racing silks. I felt baffled. Tracking down Dunston had been meant to clarify things – maybe come to some sort of truce. It hadn’t. And there was no time to try further.

  ‘I have to go.’

  I turned and jogged away between the big boxes. There was no way of knowing if seeing me had brought him up sharp and I could draw a line under the possibility of any further assaults.

  I felt it was just as likely he’d have another go, really make sure of finishing me. But a race is a race; it doesn’t wait. I increase my speed and headed back towards the weighing room.

  Mike had set up this ride for me. I’d just accepted the offer from Clive Unwin and had no idea who the owner was. Walking over to the parade ring with the other jockeys, I saw the man standing with Unwin and couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Paul Wentworth, the man who had been driving the Audi on the day White Lace bolted.

  ‘Harry, I’d like to introduce Mr Wentworth—’ Unwin began.

  ‘We’ve met, haven’t we?’ Wentworth’s eyes twinkled. ‘I have to say, not under the best of circumstances.’

  ‘Oh?’ The trainer was frowning.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, Mr Unwin.’ I hastened to reassure. ‘It was at an accident, when my horse bolted.’ The last thing I wanted was to get on the wrong side of a new trainer before my first ride for him.

  ‘I’m pleased you’re riding for us, Harry. Pen and I have not long had the horse. It’ll put the cherry on the top when I tell her.’

  ‘Do my best; can’t guarantee the end result.’ I’d be very surprised if I won because Dishwasher was running. He was the outright favourite.

  ‘Whatever, I’m enjoying myself immensely just being here as an owner.’

  I could do with more of his sort as owners.

  The announcement ‘Jockeys, please mount’ cut short any further conversation and Unwin flipped me up into the saddle.

  There were seven others in the race and I came a respectable second, the race going, as expected, to the odds-on favourite. But Unwin and Wentworth were still pleased with the result.

  Back in the winners’ enclosure, Wentworth pumped my hand.

  ‘You must ride for us again, Harry.’

  ‘Thanks, I’d like to.’

  I slung the saddle over my arm and went to weigh in.

  I stripped off my racing silks amidst the usual crush and smell of sweating men and spotted the valet coming over. Having ridden the one ride, I was free to go now. He stopped beside me, arms full of clobber.

  ‘I did wonder, y’know, about the state of your face. Greenhill told me you was done over.’

  The grapevine was working with its usual efficiency. I heaved off my racing boots and reached for my own shoes.

  ‘He reckons it was old Dunston.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Could have been.’ I shrugged.

  ‘Ha …’ He bent to pick up some gear. ‘You’ve got to cut him some slack, y’know.’

  I looked up at him in surprise. ‘I have?’

  ‘Hmmm … Well, Frank’s banged up now – ’course we don’t know yet how long for, but it’ll be a good stretch, even if he gets remission.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She’ll likely be gone, time he gets out.’

  ‘Who will be gone where?’ I finished dressing and stood up.

  ‘Dunston’s missus, Lilly. Frank’s mother. Confined to bed now. She’s got terminal cancer.’

  The words slammed into me like Dunston’s fists. That explained why he’d attacked me with such frantic viciousness. I knew it wasn’t a simple warning or working over. The attack had felt personal, held a desperate, frustrated fury. And now I could understand why.

  If his wife was bedridden, there was no possibility of her seeing her son in prison, nor him getting out to visit her. And it was a terminal case. By the time Frank got out of prison, Lilly Dunston would be dead. Yes, in John
Dunston’s shoes, I’d probably have felt much the same hatred against the one man who had brought about Frank’s incarceration.

  ‘An’ he’s struggling, money-wise.’

  I waited. There was no need to prompt him – he wanted me to know.

  ‘Has to pay for carers to look after Lilly, sit with her. Can’t drive boxes all over the country and look after her.’

  ‘No.’

  And a bit more of the jigsaw fell into place.

  ‘So, is this common knowledge, then? I didn’t know.’

  ‘Reckon so. Well, you know how it is …’

  Yes, I did know. Racing was a tight-knit community all of its own. Sooner or later, most things came out, knowledge was passed on. However, secrets that remained ‘secrets’ were the sort it was much safer not to admit knowing.

  I had a long and thoughtful drive back home to Nottinghamshire.

  TWENTY

  Next morning, six o’clock, inside Mike’s kitchen, supping hot, honey-laced coffee, I updated him on events.

  ‘Somebody’s pulling his strings, that’s for sure.’

  ‘So, who is it, Harry?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I said and shook my head slowly. ‘But it’s costing them pretty well. They’ve greased Dunston sufficiently well enough not only to take the risk of engineering the car crash, but also so he can afford to pay for round-the-clock care for his wife. That’s not a cheap option, and it’s ongoing until she dies.

  ‘But it’s not just the payment, Mike; they’ve traded on the man’s grief. Double grief, actually. First for his son, and although we know he’s a waste of space, Frank’s still his son. And second, for his wife.

  ‘OK, it’s crazy to think I should have any sympathy for him because the man gave me a good working over. But right now, I feel bloody sorry for John Dunston.’

  ‘Me, too. Talk about hitting a man when he’s already down … This situation gives a whole new meaning to it.’

  ‘And I thought I was over a barrel.’

  ‘But you are, Harry. You can’t escape. Jake Smith’s doing emotional blackmail on you, too, don’t forget. You can’t just walk away, however much you want to. Jake Smith’s got you by the balls. You know it, I know it. And it’s not only Jake Smith; John Dunston’s going to try again.’