Dead Weight

by John Francome

  `What about the cord?’ A length of blue nylon cord had been used to tie the sack around Gerry Fowler’s body.

  `It’s like that used on the jockey’s dog. But it’s common stuff. You can buy it everywhere.’

  They exchanged further information: Patsy on Gerry’s condition (improving, but still no helpful recall of his attack) and Charlie on the latest letter (postmarked Bath, on the eastern edge of their area).

  John shot Charlie a curious look as he finished the call and the DCI relayed the information on the sack.

  `So it sounds like we’re looking for some kind of countryman. Earns his living off the land and does a bit of hunting,’ the DS said.

  `Who follows the horses and has access to a computer,’ Charlie added.

  `And doesn’t take kindly to losing money.’

  The traffic slowed as warning signs flashed a reduced speed limit. The roadworks ahead were eight hundred yards off and they were already at a crawl.

  `We’ll be late for dinner,’ said John.

  Charlie shrugged. With Claire off in Bristol, the timing of his evening meal was an irrelevance. He pursued a train of thought.

  `Just how many blokes like that do you reckon there are on our patch, John?’

  ‘God knows - thousands. Tens of thousands. Half the male countryside population, I’d say.’

  `So would I’

  Neither of them spoke for a few minutes.

  `We’re going to catch him, though, aren’t we, guvT said John finally. `You bet we are. I just hope we do it before some other poor sod ends up with his head smashed in.’

  Keith was running on pure adrenaline, getting through the many mechanical tasks of his day on nervous energy alone - exercising and feeding the hounds, cleaning out the pens, collecting dead stock from nearby farms. The attack on Fowler had taken the best part of Saturday night, what with an evening recce before nailing the bastard on Sunday morning. That had been four separate trips of forty miles each - and he’d had a hunt on the Saturday where there were plenty of nosey parkers who’d notice if his mind wasn’t on the job.

  He’d spent a lot of time on Sunday cleaning up. He’d worn his most clapped-out clothes for the trip to Fowler’s yard and put them in the incinerator, just to be on the safe side. He’d even incinerated his old boots, which was a pity because they had a few months left in them. Cleaning the car took time too, but it had been necessary. He’d read about what the police forensic people could find, just from analysing some microscopic piece of dust. Frankly there probably wasn’t any way he could make the car entirely safe, but what the hell - he could hardly put that in the incinerator, could he?

  Then, after the clean-up, there was the letter to write and get in the post. That wasn’t something he could rush, even though he’d been planning what he was going to say for days. And he had to make sure he didn’t get careless and do something stupid, like leave a fingerprint on the letter or the envelope. No chance of that, though; he’d worn surgical gloves and only removed them after he’d driven all the way to Bath to put the letter in the post. That had been in the early hours of Monday and by rights he should have been dead on his feet. No chance. He was loving every minute of it.

  And the best bit - even better than toe-ending that thieving sack of shit Gerry Fowler across his stable yard - was reading the newspapers. The coverage of the Fowler hit had been good - he liked the way the papers were beginning to make the connection with Adrian Moore. `Who’s next for racing’s avenging angel?’ was the headline above one article. `A dark shadow of suspicion lies across the small world of National Hunt racing,’ began another. Keith was pleased.

  Wednesday’s Racing Beacon, however, brought the breakthrough he wanted - a double-page spread headed: is THERE JUSTICE IN RACING? That was more like it.

  Dinner in the restaurant was a sombre affair for Julia and Phil - which shouldn’t have been the case considering it was a celebration for Valentine’s Day.

  The day had got off on the wrong foot when he’d given her a pair of red silk knickers and a silly card - which had seemed like a good idea when he’d bought them, in a rush, on his way back from his appointment with Simone the day before. Her present to him, on the other hand, was a discreetly wrapped box containing a pair of gold cuff links, obviously not a spur-of-the-moment buy.

  Then the postman had arrived with a bundle of cards for him - all from fans. It happened every year - assorted pictures of canoodling teddies and winsome kittens, all adorned with messages of adolescent hero worship.

  She had also received a card in the post, a painting of a horse’s head with a white diamond on his forehead, like Callisto. It was unsigned - he’d looked.

  `My fan club’s bigger than yours,’ he’d said, but he could tell she’d not been amused.

  She toyed with her food and refused the champagne he offered her. Since the Snowdrop dinner shed not drunk any alcohol at all. For once he was tempted to have a glass, but what was the point if she didn’t join him?

  He knew he wasn’t exactly great company himself. It was that bloody Simone’s fault. At their last appointment she’d brought him back to the matter of talking to Julia about his treatment.

  `What do you think would happen if you told her?’ `It’s hard to say.’

  `I’d like you to try, though.’ `She’d think I was weak.’

  Simone digested this and continued in the low, measured tone that he was now accustomed to. `Why do you think she would find your behaviour weak?’

  `You know.’

  She’d looked at him with those gleaming black eyes, like she was judging him. `No, I don’t know, Phil. Tell me.’

  `Because I’m meant to be brave. She married a top jockey, not some wimp who runs off crying to a shrink when he can’t hack it.’

  She smiled at the mention of the word `shrink’, and then continued to probe.

  `After your accident, she didn’t think you were weak because you accepted medical help, did she?’

  `Of course not.’

  `And if you had refused treatment for your injured body, would she have thought more or less of you?’

  `She’d have thought I was a bloody fool.’

  She sat back, savouring his reply. `So where is the evidence, Phil, that she would think differently now? Might she not think all the more of you because you had the sense to seek help for your mind?’

  In the end, he’d agreed. He should tell Julia.

  But in the here and now, looking into his wife’s unhappy face across the table, his resolve deserted him.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  Hugh had been feeling bad about Gerry. Whichever way he rehashed events in his head, he still ended up bearing some responsibility for the attack which had put the trainer in hospital. After all, it was down to him that the real story of Devious’s withdrawal had been made public. And the consequence of that was that the mad letterwriter had gone after poor Gerry.

  And there was another thing - it hadn’t occurred to him that he was putting the trainer physically at risk by writing the story. But maybe it should have done. After what had happened to Adrian, Hugh of all people should have been aware of the danger he was placing racing people in by publicising their errors.

  He’d been among the journalists who’d assembled at the hospital some ten miles from Greenhills Yard. Eventually they’d heard statements from the police and a family spokesman, a solicitor, who’d asked them to respect family privacy at this terrible time, etc. Hugh gave the solicitor a short note of sympathy for Gerry, offering personal support. He didn’t see what else he could do. Then he’d returned to London, leaving some of his competitors to poke their noses round Greenhills. He didn’t have the stomach for that and Frame would have to lump it.

  By the Thursday after the assault, Gerry Fowler was off the news pages of the national papers. Hugh was aware that several Greenhills horses had been entered for the meeting at Taunton and, playing a hunch, he made the pilgrimage to Somerset. He could see that it had paid of
f as soon as he observed the horses in the parade ring for the first race.

  He hadn’t worked out what he was going to say to Louise. Sorry didn’t exactly cover it. On the other hand, it wasn’t his fault she’d told him about the Devious fiasco. He’d had to follow it up and, fortunately, he’d kept her name out of it. Otherwise - and this was the truly frightening thought - it could have been her lying in a hospital bed instead of her father.

  Louise was standing in the centre of the ring talking to a middleaged gent in a camel coat and dark brown brogues - an owner, obviously - and the jockey. She wore trousers and a yellow anorak and her hair hung loose to her shoulders in a deep auburn cloud. She helped the rider into the saddle and muttered a few words to him. She did not look like a girl racked with trauma; she looked like a woman with a job to do.

  As the horses were lead out of the ring, the owner left Louise and strode off into the crowd. Hugh moved into position to intercept her but hung back as the stablegirl who had been leading the horse round came over to join her. Hugh had not seen the other girl before. She was about the same build as Louise but with dark hair. She put her hand on Louise’s arm and squeezed encouragingly. Hugh had decided now was not the moment to interrupt when Louise looked up and saw him.

  He couldn’t read her expression as she approached. Her head was held high and her jaw was firm. In the course of his job Hugh had often been on the receiving end from irate trainers and jockeys - it came with the territory - but it had never bothered him. Right now, however, he knew he would not be able to shrug off a verbal assault from Gerry Fowler’s daughter.

  Her first words, however, disarmed him.

  `I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been looking out for you.’

  `Oh.’ She was smiling at him, which was about the last thing he expected. `I’m terribly sorry about your father,’ he began, but she cut him off.

  `He’s going to be OK. I read him your letter, you know.’

  Hugh nodded, unsure how to react. He’d been prepared to grovel but she didn’t seem interested.

  `I’d like to take you up on your offer to help out. Are you able to put something about me in your paper?’

  Hugh was quickly recovering his footing. `What exactly did you have in mind?’

  Chris had volunteered to return to the yard in the horse-box so Rebecca could travel with Louise.

  `I still don’t see why you spoke to Hugh Pimlott,’ said Rebecca as Louise manoeuvred the Peugeot on to the M5 slip road.

  `Because he can put the message out that we’re still in business.’ `But there’s other reporters. This one stitched you up.’

  It was a discussion they’d been having since they’d climbed into the car.

  `It was my fault really. Anyway, he owes me because of that.’ `Sure it’s not because you fancy him?’

  `Oh, please, Becky - you’ve got sex on the brain.’

  `It’s not me who mentioned sex - you obviously fancy him.’ Louise laughed. It was great to have a giggle with Rebecca, even in these circumstances. It wasn’t healthy to be serious all the time, was it? `So tell me about last night,’ she said.

  Rebecca had accepted the invitation from Leo and Kit to spend Valentine’s eve in Bath. She had made an effort to get Louise to go with her but Louise had turned her down flat. She was due at the hospital.

  That didn’t mean to say that she wasn’t curious about what had happened.

  `It was OK,’ said her friend without enthusiasm. `It would have been better if you’d been there. Carol was a bit of a pain.’

  Carol, Louise gathered, had been Kit’s date - substituting for her. Kit of the sky-blue eyes.

  `So,’ she said, `do you think I’ve blown it with Kit now?’ Rebecca hesitated.

  Louise ploughed on. `I mean, how was he with Carol?’

  ‘Men can forgive a lot if you’ve got a cleavage.’ Rebecca shrugged. `Sorry, Louise.’

  Louise drove on in silence.

  `Chris wants you for first lot tomorrow morning.’ The other girl groaned. `I really need a lie-in.’ `You agreed to stand in for me, Becky.’

  `Yes, boss.’

  Louise put her foot down on the accelerator.

  What were so special about sky-blue eyes anyway?

  Hugh was more than happy with the way Louise’s interview turned out. He’d got a local photographer to capture her leading one of the Greenhills runners at Taunton and Frame had run it in colour on the front page. It was a photo that caught more than her youthful prettiness. The shadows beneath her luminous, wide-set eyes and the determined set of her chin spoke of maturity and inner strength. Here was a young woman who looked the world in the eye, unbowed by fear or ill fortune - which was the tone of the interview carried within.

  Louise spoke simply of finding her wounded father and of his progress in hospital. Despite his horrible injuries, she stated that he would be back at the yard before long. In the meantime it was business as usual - the Greenhills staff were performing as well as ever under the expert eye of Chris Blackmore, and she was acting as go-between, keeping her dad up to speed on events in the yard. She thanked all the owners for their support, in particular Crispin Rose, who had reversed his decision to train his horses elsewhere.

  As for the person who had assaulted her father, she knew nothing of his motivation and cared less. He was obviously sick in the head and she had every confidence the police would soon catch him. In the meantime, she and her family were deeply grateful to all the racing people who had sent messages of support. She believed that bad times brought out the good in people and racing folk were the best of all.

  `Quite the plucky little heroine,’ Frame muttered as he read Hugh’s copy. `Got your leg over yet?’

  As a rule Hugh never responded to the editor’s jibes but this time he was stung. `For God’s sake, Duncan, her father’s been half killed.’

  `So she’ll need a game laddy like you to take her mind off her troubles.’ He looked appreciatively at her photo. `I’ll say this for you, you know how to pick ‘em.’

  This time, Hugh kept his mouth shut.

  Keith also dwelt closely on Louise’s interview in the Beacon, though he was less impressed with her sentiments.

  `Stupid cow,’ he muttered as he read her remarks about her father’s attacker being sick in the head. A bolt of white anger flamed within him. It was a pity the prissy little miss had not turned up earlier on Sunday morning - he’d have given her some of what her father got. A couple of black eyes and she’d not be on anyone’s front page.

  On the whole, though, Keith was satisfied with the way the Beacon had responded to his suggestions. This was the third day of the Justice in Racing articles. They weren’t entirely what he wanted. He’d envisaged mugshots across the page of the leading lights of National Hunt, with captions underneath, spelling out their crimes. To be honest, these pages were a bit soft - light-threated yarns from days gone by, unsubstantiated rumours, done-and-dusted cases.

  At least he’d got their attention. Part one of his plan had been accomplished.

  Beating up jockeys had never been the limit of his ambition. Though there was a lot of satisfaction in dealing out rough justice, it wasn’t enough. Where was the profit in it? And how did it get him out of this hole? He was too smart to spend his life cleaning up dog shit.

  They were dancing to his tune now. Time for them to pay the piper.

  Chapter Six

  After the fiasco at Newbury, Russell had accepted Phil’s explanation that he thought Funland had gone lame in his off hind from overstretching at the water. Phil had been embarrassed. He’d never lied to Russell before and it wasn’t an experience he wished to repeat. He felt dirty deceiving someone who was providing him with his living.

  By way of making amends, he began riding out every morning. Normally he was only at Deanscroft on work days and when there was schooling to be done. Now he was in at 7.30 on the dot with his boots polished.

  The daft thing was that Phil never had an anxious momen
t schooling, no matter how bad a jumper he was sitting on. Of course, they always jumped at home at a much slower pace and, if he did happen to fall, there wouldn’t be any horses thundering up behind to trample him.

  He brought his mount back to where Russell was standing, having watched Phil put him over nine large fences. The trainer looked more than satisfied.

  `Get this fellow jumping like that tomorrow,’ he said, `and you might have half a chance of winning.’

  Army Blue was just the type of horse Phil needed to give him confidence. You could boot him into the fences as hard as you liked, but you’d never get him do anything he wasn’t capable of. In other words, he was safe. The kind of horse you’d put your daughter on for her first point-to-point. Phil made up his mind that tomorrow at Ascot he would give the horse a ride that Russell would be proud of. A ride to settle both their minds.

  So Phil was in good heart as he drove home mid-morning. He hoped to catch Julia before setting off for Sandown that afternoon.

  Now he felt he was getting to grips with his problem, Phil had finally got up the nerve to talk to her about it. He knew he’d been a moody bastard of late, and she deserved to know the reason why. Besides, it was about time he treated her with the respect she deserved as his wife. She wasn’t just some pretty companion to be kept in a separate compartment of his life, where he could pick and choose which emotions to share. That was how he’d treated his past girlfriends, he realised. But he was married now and things had to change. For better or worse - that was it from now on, wasn’t it? Well, this was definitely for worse, but he’d see what she made of it.

  He knew she’d be down on his dad’s farm with Callisto. It was amazing how much of herself she’d poured into that animal - if the old horse was a bloke, Phil thought, he’d be jealous. As it was, he felt a pang of guilt. He’d meant to give her a hand with him but so far had fobbed off all her requests, preferring to devote his time to the horses at Deanscroft. They, after all, were his bread and butter. With the best will in the world, he couldn’t see Julia’s old crock getting round a racecourse in one piece ever again.