Dead on Course

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘So, why tell me?’

  ‘Because you’re the detective.’

  ‘Give over. I’m a jump jockey, OK? One who just happens to have got caught up in this foul mess.’

  ‘I’m caught up in it, too. God, I’d give anything not to be.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re in it up to your neck. But if you don’t hurry up—’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Sweat stood out on his forehead. ‘I was in here, on the night of the murder. I’d come in the toilet to have a slash and a quick fag. Yeah, I know, it’s against the rules, but I was worried sick about my wife.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, I could see you were. Go on.’

  ‘So, I’m in the cubicle, like, having a drag, and I hear this scrabbling noise, see. Well, I couldn’t risk being found, so I stood on the toilet seat.’

  ‘No feet showing under the door.’

  ‘That’s right. But then I could just see over the top, and I saw this man coming through the window, feet first – bare feet. He’d got a hell of a bunion on one foot. Dressed all in black, he was, an’ all.’

  A picture came into my mind. Expensive, black patent shoes – the left one misshapen on the medial side. It shook me. I had painstakingly assembled the pieces of jigsaw, made a clear picture of the killer – now they simply didn’t fit.

  ‘Which foot was the bunion on?’

  He considered. ‘Reckon it was the left … yes, it was.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was tall, reckon he needed to be – that window’s a good six feet or more above the floor.’

  ‘And he dropped in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘He rushed over to the washbasin, ran the water and washed his hands. They’d got blood on them.’

  Tom was starting to shake, his face paper-white as he relived the experience. ‘But don’t you see? Right then, I didn’t know’ – he pushed his face close to mine – ‘I didn’t know there’d been a murder.’

  ‘I do see. I was out on the course chasing a shadow, whilst the bastard had made it back here to the hotel. That’s why the police couldn’t find anyone outside.’

  ‘What am I going to do, Harry? If I go to the police I’ll cop a charge of withholding information, won’t I? I’ll get banged up.’

  ‘Not sure. As you said, at the time, you didn’t know a murder had been committed.’

  ‘But afterwards – I did afterwards.’

  ‘So what stopped you coming clean when you knew they’d found a body?’

  ‘I couldn’t afford to lose my job. If management knew I’d skived in here for a fag, I’d be out. And they’d be within their rights. They’ve got to obey the law like the rest of us. Emma had given up her job to have the baby. We were relying on my wages to get by.’

  ‘I can see that, but what’s changed? Why have you decided to tell me now?’

  ‘Like I say, you’re the detective. I can’t tell the police and I’ve got to tell somebody. I’m going mad keeping it to myself.’

  ‘You’ll still lose your job if it comes out.’

  ‘Don’t much matter now, though.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I’ve been offered the management of a pub up in Newcastle. It’s near the wife’s mother. I’ve accepted. Emma will be able to help me run the place whilst her mother looks after our Alice.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s my big chance to make a go of things. But …’

  ‘But you need to confess.’

  ‘I need you to tell the police for me.’

  ‘Sorry, Tom.’ I shook my head. ‘Right now, they’ve got their beady eye on me. What we need is proof of the killer’s identity. Do you know who this man is?’

  ‘I’m not sure – too busy trying to stay hidden myself. I only caught sight of his face from the side. I know who I think it is … but I couldn’t swear in a court of law it definitely was him. And I’m not going to perjure myself. No way.’

  I asked him if it could have been the person I’d seen wearing the black patents. He was quiet for a minute, thinking about the possibility – like me, not wanting to believe what he already knew. Then, finally, he nodded.

  ‘Yes – yes, I think it was him. Bloody hell …’

  ‘Was he still wearing a balaclava?’

  ‘A what?’ He looked blank.

  ‘I take it he wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean, over his head and face … with just eye slits. No, he wasn’t.’

  ‘So,’ I persisted, ‘that means he must have taken it off just before he dropped through the sky-light window.’

  ‘Could have taken it off after he’d murdered the woman.’

  ‘No, he couldn’t, Tom. Because he needed to keep his face covered. Bare faces show up in the dark. With a balaclava on, you’re practically invisible. He’d keep it on all right until he felt safe. That means to the very last minute. Did you see if he had a knife with him?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘No, I’m sure he hadn’t. I didn’t even know about the murder. Didn’t know why he’d got blood all over his hands.’

  ‘So that means he ditched both items before he scrambled through the window.’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  We suddenly looked upwards. There was the noise of faint voices coming along the hall above. We made for the door and ran up the stairs.

  ‘Go out the front door, meet me outside, in the car park,’ I hissed and, turning left at the top of the stairs, I headed for the back door.

  It would take Tom at least a couple of minutes more to leave by the main entrance, come round past the side kitchen and the Pro’s shop before he reached the entrance to the car park.

  It gave me time to get to my car and lift the boot. I took out a large screwdriver and the heavy rubber flashlight I kept for emergencies. I had a damn good idea where I should start looking. As I dropped the boot, Tom came running up.

  ‘What’re we doing?’

  ‘Looking for a balaclava and the murder weapon.’

  He gaped at me. ‘Could be anywhere.’

  I shook my head. ‘Uh-huh. Unless I’m well out on my reckoning, we should find them just a few yards away.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Deadly.’

  I led the way over the gravel, past the golf buggies drawn up into line and securely chained for the night to the east side of the hotel. We followed the wall round to the left and came level with a tiny window only a foot above ground level.

  ‘That’s the one.’ Tom pointed. ‘It leads to the men’s toilet.’

  ‘Yes, I know, and look here …’ I showed him the deep gully running around like a dry mini moat beneath the conservatory where the wedding was held. It was gravel-based and had a three or four feet high wall surrounding it.

  ‘I’m sure the killer came off the links, down the steps at the other end of the moat, then climbed up and out at this end.’

  ‘There’s no steps to get out here.’

  ‘No, but it’s doable if you hang on to the top of the wall and scramble over.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, beginning to get excited, ‘and it brings you straight to the toilet window.’

  ‘Exactly. Now, at this point, I reckon our man snatched off his balaclava and ditched it before going back inside the hotel. A balaclava’s something that would stand out immediately if anybody spotted him. Don’t forget, he couldn’t take it off before because that would drastically reduce his chances of escaping. But once he got to this point, he could stay down in the gully and get rid of it before coming in through the window.’

  ‘You think it’s down there now, in the gully?’

  ‘Yes. If anybody had already found it, the police would be investigating who it belonged to, and they aren’t.’

  ‘Wow! It’s concrete evidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m hoping it’s the proof I need to get the killer sent to trial and convicted for the murder.’ As I spoke, I lowered myself over the suppor
ting wall and stepped down on to the deep gravel.

  I shone the torch around. There was no sign of anything lying on the ground. Holding the torch out to Tom, I asked him to play the beam where I needed it. Then, taking the screwdriver and working methodically every six inches, I gently prodded through the layers of pale yellow gravel. It took several minutes before the tip of the screwdriver met a spongy resistance.

  ‘Here, Tom, shine the torch directly on to this spot.’

  I moved the gravel away as carefully as I could without touching anything with my fingers. In the bright glare of the light, the gravel appeared even paler, but buried below the surface a piece of black woollen fabric could clearly be seen. I let the gravel roll back to cover all traces. And then, telling Tom to wait, I made my way along to the far side of the gully where a short flight of ten steps rose up to join the path on the west side of the hotel. Walking quickly round along the path, I rejoined Tom.

  ‘Didn’t want to scramble up the wall to get out.’ I explained. ‘There may still be traces of the killer’s DNA clinging to the rough brickwork because it’s protected from the elements by the building above it.’

  ‘Right,’ he nodded. ‘We’ve found that balaclava, haven’t we? You’ve literally dug up the evidence.’

  ‘I think so. Now, we have to bite the bullet and call in the police.’

  He looked apprehensive.

  ‘It’s got to be done, Tom,’ I said gently. ‘You know that; so do I. And we’re staying here on guard until the police get here. This is incontrovertible proof of the killer’s identity. There’ll be saliva no doubt, plus skin sloughs, maybe even hairs, inside that balaclava. Should be enough to nail him. And if I’m not mistaken, I saw a glint of steel. I think he wrapped up the murder weapon inside.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Exactly.’ I grinned at him. ‘Brace yourself.’ I reached into my pocket, took out my mobile and dialled the Skegness police. ‘Bloody hell’s about to break out.’

  THIRTY

  They didn’t hang about. Descending on North Shore Hotel, the police sealed off the area, rigged up lighting and then the SOCOs went to work.

  Tom and I found ourselves down at the police station. We were interviewed separately. It didn’t take long for them to find the black woollen balaclava. It was wrapped around a five-inch kitchen knife. The hotel chef had reported his five-inch knife missing from the magnetic rail in the kitchen on Saturday evening. Both balaclava and knife had been buried beneath layers of gravel. And not only those: the SOCOs also uncovered a pair of trainers – black, size nine and spattered with blood. The left one badly misshapen around the area of the hallux base.

  I’d wanted proof – now I’d handed it to the police.

  Despite being questioned at length and in depth, having statements taken and signed, there was undoubtedly barely suppressed elation in the air.

  Tom, under close questioning, told them the man’s name: Richard Lutens.

  The proof was incontrovertible, or would be after the necessary DNA had been established, and the identity of the killer would be confirmed.

  I thought back to the night of the wedding. As best man, he’d stood up to give a speech. He’d been wearing black patent shoes. And his left shoe had been contorted out of shape in exactly the same place as the left trainer.

  Richard Lutens had been traced and picked up straight away – he’d been at home, watching television – and arrested on suspicion of murder. Right now, the police were busy grilling him in yet another interview room.

  My car was still where I’d left it many hours ago in the far corner near the gateway to the garden in North Shore Hotel car park. I unlocked it and slid in behind the wheel. There was an hour and a half’s journey in front of me before I reached home. And home right now was the one place I wanted to be. I had to be alone to think. A reassessment was desperately needed.

  OK, the evidence I’d found tonight would prove, beyond doubt, the killer was Richard Lutens. His DNA would be all over it and place him securely in the frame.

  But except for John Dunston – and he might already be dead – I was the only person who knew that the real killer was someone else. Without a shred of proof, it would have been pointless to tell the police. They would have laughed in my face. I’d just presented them with all the evidence they needed to put Richard Lutens away. Their case was as good as closed.

  Unless I could work a miracle, the real killer – the brains behind it – was going to get away with murder.

  I switched on the engine, engaged first gear, and then my mobile bleeped. I dropped the gear back to neutral, checked what had come through on the phone. There was a horrific, graphic picture and some text. It took me a minute or two to tear my gaze away from the picture and read what the message said. Icy fear froze me to the seat.

  If you want to see her alive again, get yourself to the hospital and finish Dunston off. Got it? It’s Dunston’s life or hers. Your choice. You’ve got three hours.

  No signature. None needed.

  It was from the real killer.

  The picture showed Annabel – trussed and gagged. Her hands were tied to an empty hayrack and the bonds securing her wound around her body. One under her breasts, another cutting in viciously just above her pubic bone, emphasizing the bump of her unborn baby.

  I felt the punch of shock like a physical blow in my stomach.

  The picture danced and retreated before my eyes. Bile rose in my mouth. I flung open the car door, dropped forward and hung out. Taking huge gulps of cold sea air helped. The nausea backed off. I took a last shuddering gasp and sat back in the driver’s seat, trembling violently.

  If I drove off now, I would probably crash. I desperately needed to get a grip on my shot nerves. But in which direction did I need to drive? To Norfolk and Dunston? Or to try to find Annabel? But where was she?

  Forcing myself to look at the ghastly picture objectively, I analyzed what I saw.

  The stable was not a working one – there was no bedding, no horse. It was obviously being used as a store. The floor space was taken up by numerous bulky paper sacks. The manger, a heavy cast-iron job, was a very old type, battered and misshapen. Securely fixed to the brick wall, it was going nowhere. Which also meant neither was Annabel.

  However, that type had been manufactured before I was born, at least forty years ago. By the state of it, the manger had seen a lot of use – and abuse – by a lot of horses.

  Higher up on the wall, cemented in between courses of brick, was a massive butcher’s hook. A strange thing to be found in a stable. What had it been used for originally?

  Even as I questioned, a memory opened up in my mind. As a small boy, I had often accompanied my father on his various jobs. His trade was bricklaying – not on building sites, but on small individual jobs, contracts for farmers and householders. Mostly, he specialized in repair work and that had encompassed a wide range of differing jobs. If it was what he deemed a suitable job, he took me along. I liked to go with him, hand him tools, help hold the measuring tape and spirit level.

  In particular, I loved it when he had work to do on stables. The horses, even at an early age, exerted a tremendous attraction for me. He knew this and would ask permission to bring me along.

  A strangely familiar yet horrified excitement stirred inside me as I stared at the iron hook high up on the wall. I’d seen it before! And I knew what it had been used for.

  As that young child, I’d asked my father the reason for the hook and, without thinking of the effect his words might have, he told me.

  Nearly a century earlier, before the building was converted to use as a stable, it had housed pigs. The hook had been used to support the weight of a pig after it was slaughtered.

  Now, at thirty-four years old, I felt again that disturbing horror created by the image my young mind had conjured up. But I was no longer a child. The feeling of horror dissolved and turned into potent anger. I knew where the hook and the manger were.

&
nbsp; Switching on the Mazda’s engine, I spun the wheel and flung up gravel in a wide arc as I floored the accelerator out of the car park and down on to Roman Bank Road. I wasn’t going to see Dunston in the Norfolk and Norwich hospital; instead, I was headed seventy-five miles west to Harby in Leicestershire, to Barbara Maguire’s stables.

  At the time I’d first seen that frightening hook, the stables had been run by Barbara’s grandparents. They had two daughters. The elder one was called Barbara and the younger one was Jane. Jane had married very young, whilst her elder sister had remained a spinster. Tragedy had occurred when Barbara died from cancer. It must have been a very bittersweet time for the family because, on the very day she died, Jane gave birth to a baby daughter. Jane and her husband had called their new baby Barbara in remembrance.

  Many years later, following the death of her grandparents, Barbara had returned with her husband, Sean, and made a fantastic job of running the racing stables.

  The killer had given me three hours. It would take me an hour and a half or more to get to Barbara’s stables. I thought wildly of ringing her, sending her off the half-mile down the back lane to where the old stable block stood, isolated from the main stable complex. Then I realized if Barbara was on her own, she’d simply be running into acute danger. The killer was almost certainly waiting in the stable. When the three hours were up, without news of Dunston’s death, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d kill Annabel.

  This was my fight. I couldn’t place anyone else in the line of fire. And it was pointless to ring the police. Even I couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure that I was right in assuming it was Barbara’s stable where Annabel was being held hostage. There was always the possibility that, somewhere in the thousands of old buildings dotted around the country, another one would house a battered manger with a hook high above it.

  The police had got their man. To try to convince them otherwise would take time, too much precious time.

  So I simply drove – fast.

  The bastard hadn’t even let Annabel have a chair to sit on. Apart from the terror she must be feeling, she would also be in extreme discomfort with the rope biting into her belly and distended womb. Pray God the baby was being protected from damage by the ambiotic fluid surrounding him. As I thought about the innocent life at great risk, fury raged through me, increasingly pressing my right foot down hard.