Dead on Course

by Glenis Wilson

  Jake Smith was expecting a report back about Dobbs, but although my gut instinct knew something wasn’t right, all I could do was put forward the bald facts. He’d been in A&E, all right.

  So that left any number of unknown business associates who might bear grudges – and one prison inmate.

  Reaching the cottage, I swung in over the gravel and parked by the kitchen door. I was fairly sure there were no intruders tonight; I hadn’t seen a car for miles. Leo, in his basket by the Rayburn, took a dim view of being woken up at four in the morning. He was attempting to make up the lost catnaps from the previous few nights spent queen hunting.

  I secured the back door, waved him back to sleep and switched off all the lights. My own bed was waiting and very welcome.

  What seemed seconds later, I was awakened by bright sunlight assaulting my eyeballs and the strident tones of, ironically, ‘The Great Escape’ assaulting my ears. Squinting and cursing, I checked the time, almost exactly noon – I couldn’t believe it, noon? – and put a stop to Steve McQueen’s blast.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that Harry Radcliffe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry if I’ve disturbed your Sunday lunch …’

  ‘You haven’t.’

  ‘Oh, oh, good …’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘We have met – well, just briefly, at the wedding.’

  I scrubbed a hand through my hair, swung my legs out and sat on the side of the bed.

  ‘You mean Lucinda Frame’s wedding?’

  ‘I’m Tom Jackson. I work at North Shore Hotel, as a waiter.’

  ‘Right, I remember you now.’ And I did. The whey-faced young man waiting anxiously for his first child to be born.

  ‘I need to see you, speak to you.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That night.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’

  ‘No way!’ His voice had risen, shrill … barely in control.

  ‘Hold it … just calm down. I take it this is important, right?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ His voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘Oh my God, yes.’

  ‘How about you drive over to see me?’

  ‘I don’t have a car, I can’t drive. And I’m really stuck doing back-to-back shifts down here.’

  ‘Can’t you send me an email, a text?’

  ‘I’m not putting anything in writing.’

  ‘OK, look, we’ll set a date. I can’t come immediately. I’ve stuff to do, commitments at this end. Probably be the end of the week. That OK?’

  ‘Have to be. It’s just … now I’ve come to a decision, well, I need to hand over to you.’

  ‘Shall we say Friday evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll be at North Shore Hotel around eight. In the bar. See you then.’

  I stood under the shower and ran it hot and long. Whatever it was Tom wanted to speak to me about, it was another piece of the jigsaw at least – maybe a vital piece that joined up the rest. But, then again, maybe it wasn’t important – not to me. Obviously, to him it was a hot coal he wanted to drop into my hand.

  But there were other things I had to do first, things I’d already set in motion that had to be completed and couldn’t wait. Maybe they’d only serve to eliminate people, but I still needed to complete them.

  His phone call had come out of nowhere, unexpected. I didn’t know what had prompted him to ring. And I didn’t know where it would lead, if anywhere. I wasn’t banking on it being the Holy Grail. For now, he would have to wait.

  In this game, I trusted one person only: myself.

  Despite the frost, I was distinctly glad to be back in Mike’s stable yard at six o’clock the following morning. I’d spent the whole of the previous afternoon turning my eyes square, peering at a computer screen. But by the time I’d logged off there was a treasure chest of information I’d discovered about Louis Frame’s involvement in different business enterprises.

  His brother, Edward, had commented that Louis had a ‘finger in lots of pies’. He undoubtedly had, but the flavour was always the same. The man had catholic tastes but they all had a central, connecting theme: horses and horse racing. The various pies included suppliers of horse rugs and coolers, shavings and straw bales for bedding, hay, horse nuts, farrier equipment, saddlery and horseboxes.

  Louis must have had a wide range of business contacts. It would certainly account for a good proportion of the guests at the wedding being drawn from horse racing circles.

  What the information pointed out was that Louis Frame had been an extremely wealthy man. By spreading his wealth around, he’d insulated himself against being brought down should any of the companies descend into bankruptcy. I wondered about the possible knock-on effect to racing engendered by his sudden demise. But as I saw the wide scope of his business activities, my hopes of discovering his killer – never high – had dropped down the pan. It was like looking at the results of a stone chucked into a lake – ongoing circles, ever widening, that endlessly repeated themselves and pointed nowhere.

  Still, this afternoon’s sortie might turn up something interesting. At least where I was headed, it would be warm. Here at the stables, it was not only the weather that was decidedly frosty. I was getting a double dose from Fleur and Mike. I could understand well enough why Fleur had sent me to Coventry, but I wasn’t sure why Mike had. It had to have been something she’d said to him about me. And somehow I didn’t think it would be the truth. Couldn’t be, because that would show her up in a very distasteful fashion.

  I shrugged it off. When placed against having to speak to Jake Smith later today, it wasn’t important.

  Inside White Lace’s stable it was considerably warmer. Horses were big animals and their sheer size gave off a lot of body heat. I picked up a Dandy brush and worked up a sweat grooming her coat and brushing with long sweeping strokes down the fall of her tail. She had fully recovered from the accident and was in fine shape. Turning her head, she blew gustily. It was like a hot air dryer being switched on.

  It looked as though she had a pretty good chance of making the frame in the two races Mike had picked for her. I was pleased for Chloe that the mare was turning out so well. There was plenty of unpleasantness in store for Chloe regarding the result of the court case and her impending divorce. At least going racing and watching her horse come home with the winners would balance out some of the big negatives.

  I tacked up White Lace and led her outside to join the rest of the lads on first lot. Fleur, I noticed, was keeping her distance and would be riding back marker. Her behaviour had been a sad eye-opener, and now that she was cold-shouldering me it was casting a shadow that wasn’t lost on the stable lads. The last thing I wanted was to be the cause of disharmony in the yard.

  ‘Harry, would you take the lead,’ called Mike, ‘and the rest of you fall in behind.’

  We set off in a string into the bright early morning, the horses snorting white plumes of breath that hung in the cold air, iron shoes ringing on the frosty concrete and striking sparks.

  I put everything on the back burner and concentrated on my riding.

  Normally, at the end of morning stables, I would have stayed on at Mike’s if I wasn’t booked for a ride. But today, for the first time ever, I finished morning stables with relief and drove back home.

  I was expecting a letter, but it was with conflicting emotions that I went to inspect the mail box. It would be a massive relief if the letter hadn’t arrived. But at best that would simply be a rain-check job. I’d still have to face dealing with it tomorrow.

  I pulled out two pieces of junk mail – and a franked letter. Taking them into the office, I chucked the junk into the wastepaper basket and opened the letter. The Visiting Order that would allow access to see and speak to Darren Goode, currently being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Nottingham Prison, slid out on to the desk.

  I read it carefully, reached for my mobile and rang the prison. The
visit – a rain-check job after all, because they required twenty-four hours’ notice after receipt of the Order – was arranged for tomorrow. It had taken more than a week to get to this point, having set wheels turning immediately after seeing Alice. However much I might like to defer the visit, it was still irritating not to be able to press on.

  I’d already begun to feel the same sense of increasing pace that I’d experienced with the murder at Leicester races. Nothing concrete, just a gut instinct that events were beginning to take over.

  I drove down the A611 Hucknall Road in Nottingham and turned off down Perry Road. The prison was well signposted.

  If I’d thought the procedure for a visit protracted, it was nothing compared with the security system in place when I actually arrived. Strictly routine – it was classed as a Category B prison – but by the time I’d filled forms, had an X-ray, a body search, a photograph and fingerprints taken, plus been sniffed for drugs by an enthusiastic spaniel, I felt like a criminal myself.

  From the visitors’ centre, we climbed the steep rise to the prison in groups of ten and were admitted into the blue-painted visiting room. Inside, it contained about thirty tables with attached chairs – all bolted securely to the floor – and made of clear Perspex. Practical, but bloody weird.

  If ever I entertained ideas of breaking the law, all I needed to keep this side of the line was to remember coming here.

  Across the table, Darren Goode glowered at me.

  ‘So, what does the top jock want?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Goode. Thanks for agreeing to see me.’

  ‘You’re the bod who sorted the Leicester races murder, right?’

  ‘Yep. Guess I’ll never live it down.’

  ‘Word is, you’re being fingered to sort out something else.’

  He shot a sideways glance at the nearest prison officer as he patrolled past. There were prison officers stationed by each of the doors as well. I took the hint and couched my reply carefully.

  ‘I’ve been to see Alice.’ The effect on him was electric. He reared forward in his seat, eyes glaring hatred.

  ‘You fucking keep away from my wife.’

  I spread both hands, ‘Calm it. We just talked, OK? She’s on your side.’ He eased back in his seat. ‘Look, can you tell me anything about that car crash?’

  ‘Like what?’ he muttered.

  ‘Alice wants to help if she can, but she doesn’t know anything. Do you?’

  ‘I know that bastard Frame opened his big mouth, dropped me in it.’

  ‘But you were knocking off goods and falsifying the delivery notes for the horse supplies, weren’t you?’

  ‘Screw you,’ he hissed.

  ‘OK, Louis Frame found out and it increased your sentence, but you didn’t organize his death, did you?’

  ‘Don’t expect any sob sympathy from me. Served the bastard right.’

  ‘And Jo-Jo? She died too.’

  He looked down at his bitten nails. ‘Jake Smith’s sister …’ He shook his head. ‘You don’t go after anything of Jake’s if you want to keep breathing.’ He looked up sharply at me. ‘Jake’s got a bloody long reach; you should remember that.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’

  ‘Being banged up don’t mean you can’t contact mates on the outside. Works the other way an’ all …’

  ‘I’ll remember.’

  He leaned forward. ‘Is Alice all right? She won’t let on. Wonder if she’s managing. I need to know.’

  ‘Yeah, upset because of Jo-Jo’s death, but otherwise OK.’

  He nodded. I got the impression the only reason he’d agreed to see me was to find out. Well, OK, life’s rules outside operated even under these circumstances – it was still a trade-off of information.

  ‘Ah, she would be. Jo-Jo was her best mate, y’know.’

  ‘So, it wasn’t Jo-Jo who was the target?’

  ‘’Course it bloody wasn’t. You thick or what?’

  I didn’t rise to the insult. He’d been speaking the truth. I’d never seriously considered Jo-Jo was anything other than an innocent victim, and now Darren had confirmed it.

  ‘So, who do you reckon organized the murders?’

  ‘If you think I’d tell you, even if I knew …’ He snorted derisively.

  ‘Do you know?’

  ‘All I know is loose ends get finished off.’

  I stared at him. ‘Are you telling me there will be another murder?’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re the detective. You work it out.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I reached home and poured a stiff whisky. God, what an experience. Not one I was going to repeat again if I could possibly avoid it.

  Picking Leo up – he was in an affectionate mood, no doubt having caught up on lost sleep – I carried whisky and cat through to the conservatory. The late-afternoon sun, albeit a feeble offering compared with the high-season version, still provided a pool of warmth on the settee and I sat down with Leo on my knee. Sipping the restorative golden fluid and stroking the soft, sun-warmed fur, my nerve ends gradually ceased doing the zither dance.

  How much information the prison visit had offered me was questionable. Certainly, it pinpointed Louis Frame as target. Jake Smith had been right about that. Jo-Jo, unfortunately, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Darren Goode wasn’t giving much away. I was certain he knew more than he’d let on, but just how much? The main disquieting thing was his oblique reference to another murder still to be carried out.

  I took a gulp of whisky. I needed to press on, try to dig up some concrete evidence from somewhere before anyone else got injured.

  It was a shame that having succeeded in calming my nerves, I was about to fire them up again.

  Jake Smith answered my call on the second ring. ‘You wanted an update on Aiden Dobbs—’

  ‘Hold it. Not now … Meet me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Make it down by the river. You can tell me when you see me, not over a phone.’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t think “down by the river” is the right place. I might end up getting chucked in.’

  ‘You might.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘Don’t you trust me, Harry boy?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Make it a pub, eh, neutral ground?’

  ‘OK. The Royal Oak, here, at eight.’

  He was still chuckling softly when I switched off my phone.

  It was gone five o’clock. I pushed the cat gently from my lap and went in search of food. The fridge was three-quarters empty but there were eggs. Two scrambled on a slice of Hovis did the job nicely.

  I took my supper tray back into the conservatory to eat. Not quite the condemned man’s breakfast, but something along those lines. It didn’t stop me enjoying the meal; I’d had nothing since breakfast. The trick to keeping weight down was to eat smaller portions and chew a whole lot more. After twenty minutes, the brain signalled full.

  I’d got by using the method since my first winning ride way back when I was eighteen. In life, it paid to know who was on your side – your friend – and who was the enemy. Just where Jake Smith fitted in, I wasn’t sure right now. It depended on the final outcome. It might have been safe meeting him by the river, but I wasn’t about to take the chance. Inside a pub was a whole lot safer.

  At ten to eight, I left the cottage and took the car down into the village to The Royal Oak. It was the pub where earlier in the year I’d met Uncle George. The meeting had led to a mind-blowing revelation. Tonight’s meeting was unlikely to even come close in terms of emotional clout, but at least I could tell Jake his sister’s death was not a premeditated murder. It was an accident. Not a lot of comfort – he’d still lost her – but it was some sort of closure. Especially if I wasn’t able to come up with the answers to who Frame’s murderer was.

  What I needed was a solid lead I could chase up – and I didn’t have one.

  ‘Evening, Mr Radcliffe.’ The barman raised a querying eyebrow.

  �
��I’ll have a fruit juice, thanks – grapefruit.’ My supper needed a dose of vitamin C to help the absorption of iron. I needed all the strength I could get right now.

  I took the drink over by the bay window beneath the old ceiling beams and looked out over the pavement. People were walking by, heading for the pub, to visit friends – doing normal things. Here I was, about to link up with an ex-con, a man who had done time for inflicting grievous bodily harm on a fellow human being. It was bizarre.

  I suddenly felt very alone, isolated and strangely hollow inside. I had no wife beside me, no children. There was nobody I could call. I couldn’t tell Chloe of the potential danger she was in, couldn’t tell Annabel in her delicate condition, couldn’t speak to Mike. He wasn’t speaking to me, for whatever reason.

  The one person I didn’t want to speak to was coming through the doors right now – Jake Smith.

  He stood, one pace inside, and swept the pub with an assessing gaze. I lifted my glass two inches from the table. With the merest nod, he ordered a drink and came across. As I watched him coming towards me, I realized with blinding clarity that I was back in the zone of not being able to trust anyone. It was an unpleasant, lonely place. I’d recognized it because I’d been here before.

  Being suspicious of everybody had been essential whilst I was embroiled in what the rest of the world seemed to insist on calling the Leicester races murder.

  Trusting only myself had been essential for my survival.

  The situation I was now trapped in was following a similar path.

  ‘Fill me in, then, Harry boy.’ Jake Smith dropped heavily into the opposite seat at the table.

  ‘You asked me to check out Aiden Dobbs. Well, on the Saturday night when Lucinda was murdered, he was in the hospital accident and emergency unit. Suspected fractured wrist.’

  ‘On his say-so?’

  ‘His and his fluffy girlfriend. She stayed with him, she says, until they were discharged in the early hours of Sunday morning.’