Dead on Course

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Yeah, but that’s only an alibi for Frame’s daughter being offed.’ I winced at his words.

  ‘I agree. But in my book, these murders are all linked. Dobbs was actually riding at Doncaster the day of the crash.’

  ‘So, he was around, then.’

  I shrugged. ‘So were an awful lot of other people.’

  He stared moodily into his beer. ‘An’ that’s all you’ve got to tell me?’

  ‘Been visiting your hotel today.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Nottingham Prison.’

  ‘And?’ He narrowed his eyes warningly.

  ‘Spoke to Darren Goode. I think he knows more than he’s letting on, but he did confirm one thing …’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Jo-Jo getting killed wasn’t a premeditated murder. The target was definitely Frame. Her death was an accident caused by simply being in his car at the time he crashed.’

  I reached for my glass and took a slow drink to avoid looking at Jake.

  A silence, taut and practically vibrating, seemed to enclose our table.

  When I finally emptied my glass and looked up, he was staring straight through me, eyes blank to the present.

  I waited, unwilling to speak first.

  ‘So … If she hadn’t met him, she’d still be alive.’

  I didn’t answer. He had to pick his own way through the minefield of emotions that were obviously going through him.

  The next morning, I gave Mike’s stables a miss and stayed home to write up copy for my newspaper column and decide what my next move was.

  For once, the writing proved the easier.

  I made a strong coffee and ran through where my investigations had led. A chance remark at Barbara’s party needed checking out. It could lead nowhere, but if my gut feeling was to be trusted, it could prove an alternative way of looking at the whole situation.

  I reached for the telephone directory and checked out a name and address. I was lucky: the number was listed. I dialled and listened to the ring tones trilling out.

  ‘Harry Radcliffe here. If you’re not tied up this afternoon, could I drive over and have a word?’

  Unfortunately not was the answer, but if I didn’t mind driving over to Clive Unwin’s yard, we could definitely have words there.

  I didn’t mind.

  I left it until much later, because it was a racing stable, avoiding the traditionally slack time prior to afternoon stables.

  I drove to Leicestershire and arrived at just after four o’clock. For the last ten miles, I’d been following a truck that sported the name B & R Lutens. It was no surprise when the vehicle turned in at the entrance to Unwin’s stables. With no other stables close by, it was an odds-on bet. No peeling paint here, no wisps of hay lying around, everything pristine, and a big three-sided run of stables.

  Brandon himself emerged from the cab. I swung the car in behind. He hesitated, then recognized me.

  ‘Hello, Mr Radcliffe.’

  ‘How’re things?’

  He screwed up his lips. ‘Oh, you know … best to keep working.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He was shorter, stockier than I remembered. His face had lost the stark whiteness I’d noticed the last time I’d seen him coming out of the leather room after being interviewed by the police.

  He fished in his pocket and drew out a business card.

  ‘Never gave Mr Grantley this. Could you pass it on?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You working here? Doing a write-up for your paper?’

  ‘No, no, just talking teeth with Paul Wentworth.’ Seeing the puzzled look, I laughed. ‘As in dental work.’

  ‘Oh … oh, right. The thing is, do you think you could mention my firm somewhere in your next column? Bit of a cheek, I’ll give you, but, well … we could do with the publicity. A lot of people read your stuff, you know. You’re very popular.’

  ‘Thanks. Good to know. I’d rather be riding in a race, but it does bring in some coffers.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘If I get the chance, I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks, appreciate it.’

  ‘Can’t promise, of course.’

  ‘No, no, I quite understand.’

  Footsteps approached and we looked up as Unwin and Wentworth joined us.

  I nodded to them. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘And you, Harry,’ Unwin said. ‘Was going to give you a ring. One of my owners requested you ride his horse.’

  ‘Thank you very much. Be pleased to.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Unwin rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ll let them know you’re on.’ He turned his attention to Brandon. ‘Delivering the full order?’ Receiving a nod, he continued, ‘Unload it in the feed room, please. You’ll find Pete, the head lad, in there.’

  I remembered Louis Frame had had a business interest in the firm – one of his many. I wondered how much it had affected Lutens to lose the financial backing of so influential and wealthy a silent partner. But in view of his personal loss, I supposed its effect had been diluted. It would be later when the impact would be felt, although it already looked like he was trying to drum up more business.

  I turned to Paul Wentworth. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Fine, just fine. I’ve come to have a look at Lytham.’

  ‘Shall we …?’

  We walked across the yard to Lytham’s stable. I’d found the horse to be very genuine when I’d ridden him at Huntingdon.

  ‘We’ll set a date to go to the yearling sales at Newmarket,’ Paul said. ‘I’ll leave it to your discretion. Just ring and let me know. I’ll make myself available.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Hearing voices outside his stable, Lytham stuck his head over the open half-door and whickered in recognition.

  ‘He knows me; I’m here an awful lot. You’re a great lad, aren’t you?’ Paul rubbed the soft nose and palmed the horse a polo mint. Lytham crunched with pleasure. ‘So, what did you want to see me about?’

  I leaned in and patted the strong muscled neck.

  ‘Just something I heard at Barbara’s party the other night.’

  ‘Barbara Maguire?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently, you passed on the name of a decent dentist because she’s having trouble with her teeth.’

  ‘Well, I’d been to a good bloke a few months ago, a local chap. I gave her his name.’

  ‘Which dentist was it?’

  ‘The firm’s name is White, Hubbard and Brownley. I saw Mr White.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s helped Barbara. She was going to see him last Monday.’

  ‘Why did you want to know that?’ He cocked his head to one side.

  ‘Oh, it’s not classified,’ I laughed.

  But even as I said it, I realized it might not be a good idea to give away information. The killer was not in my sights yet. I needed to maintain the self-preservation principle of not trusting anyone.

  ‘How’s Pen, by the way?’ Not that I wanted to know, but I needed a distraction from the way the conversation was going.

  ‘Going around like a dreamy teenager.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s called love. Seems as though when it strikes in mature years, it has an even more knock-over effect.’ He chuckled. ‘Still, I’m so pleased to see her happy.’

  I looked at him in bewilderment. This was his wife he was talking about. It didn’t add up.

  ‘You’ll have to explain.’

  ‘Should have thought you’d noticed. After all, Mike’s your best mate, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Regular couple of lovebirds, they are.’

  I gaped at him. ‘But I thought you and Pen were husband and wife.’

  ‘Good God, no.’ He cracked up. ‘No, no, Harry. You’ve really got the wrong end of the stick. It’ll have Pen in stitches when I tell her. She’s my sister. We just live in the same house, that’s all. It’s convenient – well, it has been up until now.’


  Relief wasn’t the right word: an enormous weight rolled off.

  ‘I’m a complete fool, Paul. You’ll have to excuse me.’

  No wonder I’d been getting funny, disapproving looks from Mike at the dinner table the other night. And it certainly explained his frosty manner. I’d assumed, wrongly, it was because of Fleur.

  I needed to see him and straighten things out. How could I have been such an idiot?

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘I owe you an apology, Mike.’

  He grunted and pushed a mug of strong coffee towards me across the kitchen table. Six o’clock on a cold morning wasn’t the best time, but this needed to be done immediately.

  ‘You can bawl me out as much as you like. I’ve been an idiot.’

  ‘As regards?’

  ‘You.’

  He scowled. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘I got hold of entirely the wrong idea. I thought you and Pen were, well, getting close.’

  Mike spluttered over his coffee. ‘Not your business.’

  ‘I agree. Except I thought Pen was married to Paul. Seems they are brother and sister.’

  Mike stared at me for a moment and then exploded into great gales of laughter. ‘Harry, you are a bloody idiot. Reaching across the table, he slapped me on the shoulder, still chuckling. ‘Do you really think I’d make a play for a married woman? Come on, Harry, you should know me better than that.’

  ‘Couldn’t believe it, to be truthful. But I can recognize the symptoms.’

  ‘Never thought it would get me again, old Cupid’s arrow. But there you go. Just when you think you’ve got a handle on your life, that’s when it strikes you. Can’t deny it, mate, I think she’s bloody marvellous.’

  We stared at each other, then suddenly we were smiling and shaking our heads.

  ‘Stupid buggers, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘Heading into deep water – and possibly deep pain into the bargain – and we’re still paddling as fast as we can go.’

  ‘Sense doesn’t come into it.’ I agreed.

  ‘It never did.’

  ‘Still, it’s taken a long time, Mike.’

  ‘Since I lost Monica?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Never thought I’d find a woman to measure up to her. It’s odd really – not a matter of measuring up at all. Pen’s her own person, totally different. Did you know she’s a widow? That’s the reason she’s living with Paul at the moment. She’s had a rough ride this last year. Anyway, my feelings for her are different somehow, can’t explain it. Monica’s still my wife – you know, inside my head – but Pen is …’ He floundered.

  ‘Pen is your route to a new life. One that doesn’t need to detract in any way from Monica.’

  ‘Yes.’ He seized on the concept. ‘Yes, you’re right, Harry. There’s room for both of them, plenty of room. Pen’s not crowding Monica out, not at all.’

  ‘Pleased for you, Mike.’

  ‘I know it’s taken me a bloody long time. Don’t make that mistake. It’s high time you found somebody. I’d hoped Fleur might do the trick. But seems not, eh?’

  ‘No, sorry, Mike. Doesn’t work like that. Oh, I did think it might myself, but no’ – I shook my head firmly – ‘it’s not going to happen.’

  There was absolutely no need to go into sordid details. Fleur was family, his niece. He didn’t need to hear anything damaging to her character.

  I finished my coffee and rinsed out the mug. ‘Better get some work done.’

  Out in the yard, Fleur might still be giving me the frosty treatment, and I could understand that, but it was great things were OK again between Mike and me. And, thank goodness, I was riding at Ludlow this afternoon.

  I had two rides, in the last two races on the card. Because the rides followed each other, it meant two stable lads were needed, plus the box driver, so I’d opted to drive down in my own car.

  To say it was a cold day, there was a gratifying crowd of intrepid racegoers. With the roaring cheers that went up as I flashed past to win the second race, after already winning the preceding one, I think most of them had placed bets on me.

  It was great to bring home two successive winners, giving me not only a decent bonus of prize money but also a priceless confidence boost. It was only the second time in months that I’d brought off a double.

  Stripping off the silks in the changing room after weighing in, I was feeling pretty good. Until one of the other jockeys, on his way out, spoke to me.

  ‘Have you heard about Dunston’s wife, Harry?’

  ‘No, what about her?’

  ‘We all know about the aggro between you and Dunston, but go easy on him, mate. Lilly fell downstairs last night. They took her to hospital, but she was dead by the time they got there.’

  His words shook me. There would be no chance of seeing her son, Frank, now. The effect on Dunston must be devastating.

  ‘I’m really sorry. More than I can say.’

  He nodded, picking up his saddle and jacket. ‘Thought it best if you knew about it.’

  ‘Yes, yes, thanks.’

  ‘Well, seeing as how it was you who found out about Frank Dunston and got him banged up …’

  I winced at his words. Why did it sound as though I was the one who should be guilty? Right then, I wished I’d never been involved in the whole mess at Leicester races. It had changed a lot of people’s lives. But I’d had no choice. Not with Silvie being a target.

  I walked out of the changing room and went to find Mike down in the racecourse stables.

  He was still on a high from the two wins for his stable. I filled him in on the unpleasant news. Whether he realized the implications the news heralded was doubtful. But I wasn’t going to spell it out.

  ‘I don’t want to run the risk of bumping into Dunston if he’s in the horsebox park right now. So, I’m driving straight home, OK? See you at the stables in the morning.’

  I changed my mind. Over a light supper of steamed plaice, which had Leo sensuously winding in and out of my legs whilst it cooked, I realized time was fast running out. The events of yesterday had precipitated everything. Tomorrow afternoon, I was riding at Fakenham racecourse and in the evening it was Uncle George’s party.

  I didn’t have time to ride out for Mike; there was someone I needed to see urgently.

  Finishing my meal, I washed the dishes and rang Mike.

  ‘About tomorrow morning: no can do. Forgot, there’s something I must do that can’t wait, OK?’

  ‘Is it dangerous?’

  I had to smile. Mike was far from stupid; he knew I had my nose down on scent.

  ‘Could be.’ We’d been here before. And how thankful I’d been to have his help that time.

  ‘My back-up’s here, you know that.’

  ‘I know, Mike, and thanks. Later when I see the whites of his eyes, possibly, but not tomorrow.’

  I switched off my mobile. I needed no distractions.

  Reaching for a notepad, I made a graph of the murders and locations, principal suspects, times and places they’d been; clues I’d uncovered, only half suspected, some only guessed at. A lot of information had still to be uncovered, so it wasn’t entirely comprehensive, but gaps could be jumped.

  I poured a whisky and sat down on the settee, put my feet up and relaxed. Leo immediately jumped up on to my stomach, curled into a ball and made himself comfortable, purring contentedly. Half closing my eyes, I ran all the available data through my mind.

  The human brain is said to be millions of times more efficient and sophisticated than any computer. The HOLMES police computer is a massive help in analyzing data. But if the brain is so incredibly superior, I was happy to put in all the information and relax whilst, hopefully, it did the hard work of linking up and sorting out for me.

  My method, lying on a settee with a whisky and a purring cat, certainly beat developing square eyes, mouse clicking and typing.

  It was probably on a par with the proven method of using water as a medium for getting the m
ind to provide illumination. When writing her detective fiction, Dame Agatha Christie had lain in the bath to help develop her plots, and the master thriller writer, Dick Francis, had walked down the beach and stood up to his middle in the ocean for inspiration. They hadn’t been disappointed. If the settee version didn’t work, I could try my own bath.

  A trail was slowly becoming apparent, but I needed to force the pace before anyone else was injured.

  It crossed my mind that Lilly Dunston could possibly have been pushed down the stairs. But almost immediately I dismissed the theory. Having Lilly alive was certainly much more beneficial to the man behind the scenes. It kept John Dunston on a short lead and obedient. He was only responding because of Lilly’s needs. Without her dependency, the hold over him was gone.

  I spent a couple of hours letting half-formed theories run through my mind, but with nothing concrete coming to the surface, I gave my brain a rest and went off to bed.

  Perhaps tomorrow morning’s meeting would supply another piece of jigsaw and fill in one of the gaps that would enable me to see a lot more of the picture.

  Next morning, when the clock got round to an acceptable time to make a house visit, I pointed the Mazda north towards Newark. Twenty minutes’ driving saw me parking up in Wellington Street. I locked the car and walked up to number twenty-nine.

  As I lifted a hand to knock, there was a shadowed movement behind the curtains. So, my visit hadn’t been a waste. An older version of Jake opened the door all of six inches and eyed me up and down.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Fred Smith?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name’s Harry Radcliffe.’

  ‘I knows that. Seen you on television, racin’.’

  ‘May I have a word?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The events that led to Carl’s death.’

  It was a toss-up whether he would cooperate or not, and I could only hope. If he denied me access, there was nothing I could do about it, and it was crucial to ask him some questions – and get answers.

  Very slowly, the door eased open.

  ‘Can’t see what good it’ll do. Won’t bring him back … or our Jo-Jo.’ But he jerked his head, indicating I was to step inside.

  Fred Smith himself posed little in the way of a physical threat. I could give him thirty years, and bodily he looked in poor shape – thin as a stick and with a week’s growth he hadn’t bothered to shave off. However, I needed to know if the real danger was somewhere in the house.