Dead on Course

by Glenis Wilson

  I shrugged, spread my hands. ‘I did try to defuse him … before I knew the bigger picture. Trouble is, Mike, the more I look into this whole mess, the more complicated it becomes. And the more people are getting hurt, emotionally as well as physically.’

  ‘It’s all down to motive, Harry. And where family safety is concerned, motive doesn’t come much higher.’

  The door opened and Fleur walked in. With unspoken agreement, we dropped the subject.

  ‘Morning, Fleur.’

  ‘Morning, Uncle Mike, Harry.’ She poured herself a coffee. ‘Got a second on Lytham, then, yesterday.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Are you aiming for a crack at the title again?’

  ‘Well, it’s what you aim for. Getting it’s another thing.’

  ‘You could do with more rides.’

  I chuckled. ‘Dead right, I could. But they don’t come that easily. You have to chase them.’

  She took a swig of coffee and studied me. ‘I did plenty of chasing for rides in Italy – flat, though.’

  ‘Your Uncle’s a dark horse himself. He never told me about your racing.’

  She leaned across and ruffled Mike’s hair. ‘He thought you’d enough on, and you had.’

  ‘So, what’re your plans? Will you be going back to Italy? Or staying in England?’ I found myself waiting expectantly for her answer. If she was staying, I’d definitely ask her out. The signals she was giving seemed to indicate she was interested in me. And I was pretty sure she would say yes. On the other hand, if she didn’t intend to stay, why start something that would be going nowhere?

  ‘Depends, doesn’t it?’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Much the same as you. I need work – rides. There’s a job still, over in Italy. Well, not indefinitely, of course, but I could go back in a month or so and carry on where I left off.’

  ‘But there’s your mother …’ Mike frowned.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Fleur’s brow furrowed charmingly.

  ‘Mum’s the reason I came to England. She’s had a rough time, losing Dad. I wanted to help her settle in, you know, find somewhere to live.’

  ‘Plenty of room here,’ Mike murmured.

  Fleur dropped a kiss on the top of his head. ‘I know, and it’s very sweet of you, but I think Mum wants to get her own place.’

  Mike smiled and stood up. ‘I’m sure she does. Anyway, work to do …’

  I took my empty mug over to the sink and rinsed it out.

  ‘By the way, Harry, you doing anything this evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Feel like joining us for dinner?’

  ‘Oh, yes, good idea.’ Fleur nodded enthusiastically. ‘Do come, Harry.’

  ‘You were supposed to have a bite with the three of us last Friday.’

  ‘Well, Annabel was on her own that night, so …’

  ‘Yes, but you’re free tonight, aren’t you?’

  ‘OK, then, Mike, thanks. Yes, I’ll be here.’

  ‘Great.’ Fleur grinned and led the way out to the stables.

  Third lot, back from the gallops, had just clattered their way into the stable yard when an Audi drew up. I recognized it. Far from covered in bright blood, the vehicle was a pristine white.

  I dismounted, tossed the reins over the colt’s head and led him across behind me as I went to greet the Wentworths.

  ‘Harry. Not imposing, are we?’ Paul Wentworth enquired.

  ‘Not at all.’ I shook his outstretched hand. ‘Mike will be pleased you’ve taken up his offer to visit.’

  ‘Actually, we popped round on Saturday afternoon, but you and Mike were attending a wedding, I believe.’

  Pep stepped forward and ran a hand down the horse’s neck. ‘Did the bride look ravishing?’ She smiled up at me.

  ‘Er … I’m afraid it ended in tragedy.’

  Her smile faded. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You may have read about it in the newspapers … Lucinda Frame?’

  She stopped stroking the bay neck and her hand flew to her face. ‘Murdered, the bride who was murdered, on her wedding day?’

  I nodded. ‘The same one.’

  ‘Good God.’ Paul shook his head in disbelief. ‘And you and Mike … you were there, when it happened.’

  ‘How utterly dreadful,’ Pep said in a shaken voice.

  ‘Did you see anything?’ Paul asked.

  ‘You mean, whoever did it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘No,’ Mike’s voice behind us said. ‘No. Harry was unlucky enough to be the person who found the body.’

  ‘Oh, you poor man!’ Pep’s eyes were wide with distress.

  ‘Look, how about we all go in, have a coffee?’

  ‘Damn good idea, Harry,’ Mike said briskly. ‘I’ll take Pep indoors, get the kettle on. You stable up and join us. We can do the grand tour afterwards.’ He threaded his arm through Pep’s and gently drew her across to the house.

  Paul watched them go. ‘Something like this brings back unpleasant memories for her.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She was attacked a few years ago. Plus a member of the family was killed suddenly in an accident last year.’

  It was my turn to stare in disbelief at him.

  ‘She’s put it behind her really well. But just now and again … you know?’

  We watched Mike and Pep disappear inside the house.

  ‘Look, come into the stable whilst I see to the colt. Then we’ll go over and get our drink.’

  ‘Yes, OK.’

  I led the big animal down the yard to his stable, attached a head collar and untacked him. Giving him a swift brush down, I rugged up and left him with a full haynet.

  Walking back to the house, Paul said, ‘They don’t ask much of us, do they? And yet they give such a lot.’

  ‘Have you had your horse very long?’

  ‘No, Lytham’s a recent investment – well, I’m not sure that’s the right word. Probably “recent interest” would be correct. My cousin’s experiencing some cash-flow problems with his business. Not his own fault – a main road’s been rerouted and it’s cut a lot of his trade. Far too proud to accept a loan, but when he suggested selling Lytham, I could see the sense from his point of view. It wasn’t something he did lightly; he was very fond of the horse. Helene, his wife, called it Lytham after the place where they first met. I thought if Pep and I bought the horse, it would keep him in the family, plus help financially. And, as you know, Pep’s devoted to all things horse …’

  ‘So now you’re racehorse owners.’

  He grinned broadly, ‘That’s the size of it.’

  ‘Once the racing bug bites, I’m afraid it’s usually terminal.’

  He gave a bellow of laughter.

  ‘What made you decide to use Clive Unwin as a trainer?’

  ‘What you’re actually asking, Harry, is why didn’t I use Mike?’

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘Very simple. Unwin was already in charge of the horse’s training. He was Benson’s choice, really.’

  ‘Benson … that’s your cousin’s name?’

  ‘Yeah, Benson McCavity. Why?’

  ‘I wondered if I knew him – you know, might have ridden for him.’

  ‘Oh, I see. And have you?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  But as I said no, a voice inside my head was saying yes, yes, yes. I knew I’d never ridden for the man, never met him, but I was shortly going to. I had spoken to him on my mobile last night – and I was due to meet him at four o’clock this afternoon. It had to be the same man. There couldn’t be two men with that unusual name. It would be too much of a coincidence.

  Benson McCavity was the fourth name on Jake Smith’s list.

  At ten minutes to four, I pulled up in the forecourt of McCavity’s place of work. He ran a garage and tyre-fitting company on an industrial estate on the southern outskirts of Grantham. The sign painted in orange over the door read McCavity and Son. It was a devil they’d rerout
ed the road. I could see the man would have a battle on now to maintain his level of business.

  Walking into the big hangar-like interior of the garage, I saw a lanky guy in greasy orange overalls straighten up from underneath the bonnet of a Vauxhall.

  ‘Help you?’

  ‘We’ve an appointment at four o’clock. Bit early, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, right, you’re Mr Radcliffe.’ He frowned. ‘Wait a bit, you’re Harry Radcliffe, the jump jockey.’

  ‘I admit it.’

  He rubbed the worst of the grease from his hands with a rag and held out his right hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘So, what is it you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Might be better if we go into your office.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  He retrieved a spanner from inside the Vauxhall, let the bonnet thump back into place and led the way through an internal door. Closing it behind us cut out a little of the fug of rubber tyres and oil fumes.

  ‘Take a pew.’

  He flipped a switch on an electric kettle housed amidst piles of invoices and work sheets.

  ‘I think I should say straight away, this isn’t about possible business.’

  ‘Is it not?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘Oh, well, life running true to form still.’

  Brewing up two chunky Union Jack mugs still bearing the tea stains not only from yesterday, nor indeed the day before, but more likely three months before that, he pushed one towards me.

  ‘You do know I don’t own a racehorse any more? My cousin, Paul Wentworth, was good enough to buy Lytham off me. So, if it’s not about racing, what is it about?’

  ‘Tricky,’ I said. And it was. How do you begin a conversation starting with I understand your wife was killed in a car crash a while ago? I realized I was hesitating too long, pondering how to ask the real question I needed an answer to. Like, did you kill Louis Frame in retaliation for killing your wife?

  ‘Haven’t got all day, mate.’

  ‘I really don’t know how to begin …’

  ‘Start with one word. What’s it about – me, my son, garage, elf and safety, not declaring my taxable income …’ He took a long pull at the tea.

  I jumped in. ‘Your late wife.’

  His hand jerked, tea shot over the rim of the mug like a brown tidal wave. More continued to drip over as his hand developed a shake.

  ‘What … what about Helene?’

  The man’s grief was still visibly open, raw. It would be easy to empathize. I had to remind myself, yes, he’d lost his wife, but he could actually be Frame’s killer.’

  ‘In the car smash that killed your wife, the driver was Louis Frame. Did you know he’s dead?’

  ‘Yes, ’course I bloody know. If I’d had the balls, I’d have sunk a knife in and gutted him myself.’

  ‘He was killed in a collision with a horsebox.’

  ‘I know. Read it in the papers, didn’t I? Killed instantaneously, it said. Too bloody good for the bastard. Should have suffered … like Helene did.’ He raised tear-filled eyes to mine. ‘Took her four days it did … to die. Hospital said she had multiple injuries, crushed organs.’ His shoulders shook and he wiped the back of a greasy hand across his face. ‘She was on morphine, because of the pain. I didn’t want her to die. But the state she was in … God help me, part of me wanted it to be over, to end her suffering. There was no hope of her getting better, d’y’see? All that suffering, all for nothing. Would have been better if she’d gone straight away – like he did!’

  ‘I’m truly very sorry. If it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t be here, asking you questions.’

  Giving himself time whilst he fought for control of his emotions, he shakily tipped the mug and drained what remained of the tea.

  ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Because, like yourself, I’m in a situation I can’t control. It’s controlling me. Do you know a man called John Dunston?’

  ‘Can’t recall that name, no.’

  ‘Can you tell me where you were on the afternoon Frame died?’

  ‘Where the hell do you think I was? Here, of course. Grafting. Trying to make a living for me and Daniel.’

  ‘Is that your son?’

  ‘Yes. He’s only seven, poor little bugger. Lost his mum. And if I’m not careful, we’ll lose the business. Gone right downhill since they rerouted the main road. It’s taken a lot, and I mean a lot, of passing trade away.’

  ‘I can see it would.’

  He flicked a quick glance at me. ‘What you’re really asking me is did I do the bastard in? Well, the answer’s no. Sure, I’d like to have done. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I certainly can – been at that point myself.’

  He nodded, took a ragged breath, ‘Well, then … But I didn’t.’

  And although he certainly had the motive and all the anger and need for revenge, I didn’t see him killing Frame. Not unless he was a brilliant actor.

  I stood up and walked to the door. ‘Thanks for your time. I’m sorry I’ve had to run you through the mill again.’

  He shrugged his shoulders and stared out through the office window. ‘I hope you can see your way out of things. Damned if I can.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Back home in my office at Harlequin Cottage, I took out the list of names given me by Jake Smith. There was a line drawn through the first three. I reached for a pen and drew a line through Benson McCavity’s name, too.

  The options were going down. The elimination should be making it easier to see where the trail led, but, in truth, I hadn’t got a clue. I seemed to have simply shortened the odds. Without a definite lead to follow, though, it was not looking good. I could carry on down the rest of the names, and if I still had no idea when I came to the end, Jake Smith couldn’t accuse me of not trying. But he was a man who expected results. I was going to have to dig harder.

  Sliding the list back into the envelope with Jo-Jo’s photograph, I put it in the drawer beside the pair of false teeth. They seemed to grin derisively at me. I closed the drawer.

  My mobile burst into life. I’d had it turned off all afternoon. Any interruption would have been unwelcome during my visit to McCavity.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Harry, boy, what progress?’ It was Jake Smith.

  ‘Not a lot.’ Before he had time to blow up, I continued, ‘I’m working my way down your hit list – number four and counting.’

  ‘Have you found anything out?’

  ‘Well, I know who left the false teeth on my doorstep.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘John Dunston.’ There was a stretching silence. I could practically see the cogs turning. I waited.

  ‘Yeah, it figures.’ He sighed heavily. ‘After Carl’s funeral, me dad had the wake at our house. I bet he was there.’

  ‘But you were in prison.’

  ‘You any better ideas, Radcliffe?’ he said belligerently.

  ‘No.’ I admitted, noting it wasn’t Harry boy now.

  ‘So, what next?’

  ‘I plug on. All I can do.’

  ‘I’m expecting results …’

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘I’ve another name for you.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘There was a man, fancied our Jo-Jo, really had the hots for her. She couldn’t stand him. One day he came on strong, got violent, and she told him to fuck off. Bastard didn’t take no for an answer. Hurt her …’ He gave a snort of mirthless laughter. ‘I sorted him. It was two weeks before he got out of hospital.’

  ‘Had he anything against Frame?’

  ‘It was before she was with him. Still, the bastard could have been jealous of Frame, after she met him. I mean, the bloke was loaded, and Jo-Jo was living in a flat he was paying for. You get my meaning?’

  ‘Oh, yes. What’s his name?’

  ‘Aiden Dobbs.’

  ‘The jockey?’


  ‘Yeah. You know him?’

  ‘I know him.’ A ruthless, mercenary chancer, but a brilliant rider – who happened to be Barbara Maguire’s retained jockey.

  ‘Follow up on him, OK? Report back. Got it?’

  Without waiting for a reply, he disconnected.

  I opened the desk drawer again, took out the piece of paper and added Aiden Dobbs’ name to the list.

  Not that I was likely to forget it. I’d be meeting him on Saturday night. Saturday was the day Barbara was giving her party. It was odds-on Dobbs would be there. I didn’t need to try to set up a meeting with him – I already had an invite to the party.

  All I needed to do was show up.

  But before that, I had to show up at Mike’s tonight. It would make a change, having a meal cooked for me. On my own, I normally cobbled together anything that had the two factors I needed: high nutritional value and low calories. Eggs were usually on the menu. With Fleur being a flat race jockey, Maria was used to cooking for weight watching. It would be interesting to see what her choice of meal was for tonight.

  Also interesting to speculate on was what Fleur’s choice of outfit would be. I’d not seen her wearing anything other than work jodhpurs since the night she and Maria had turned up at the pub looking for Mike. Even then she’d been wearing slacks. I hoped she would wear a dress tonight. I found myself really looking forward to finding out what she looked like.

  I went upstairs, had a meticulous shave and ran a hot, deep bath. It suddenly seemed important to smarten myself up. I’d not used aftershave in quite a while, but there was half a bottle in the bathroom cabinet. It was one I’d always used when Annabel lived with me. Maybe I’d slap some on tonight.

  Stripping off, I climbed into the bath, slid right down until my chin was level with the water and closed my eyes. Right then, the landline phone rang. Too bad. Whoever it was could talk to the answer phone. I’d listen to the message later.

  I dressed in a black shirt and cream slacks, smart enough yet still casual. Running a comb through my hair, I noted it was more than time I went to the barber’s. Any longer and I’d start looking like a pirate.

  Mike had said any time around seven thirty. Checking my watch, it was barely seven. I’d time to check the message that had come through.