Dead Weight

by John Francome

  At 7.30 p.m. a female detective posing as the daughter of trainer Gerry Fowler answered a prearranged phone call at a public phone close to the Tesco car park. The caller was demanding ?100,000 to cease a campaign of violence against racing people. It is believed the conversation was cut short when he realised he was talking to a policewoman.

  Last night the police issued a short statement confirming that an operation had been carried out at Scratchwood in connection with an on-going investigation. Unofficial sources claim that the attempt to hoodwink the extortionist was doomed to failure because the detective who took the call did not know enough about horseracing. `It was a farce. He asked her a question about last year’s Gold Cup and she didn’t know the answer.’

  Regular shopper Mrs Mavis Ford, 61, said, `I wondered why Tesco’s was so busy. You couldn’t move for all these young men cluttering up the place. I suppose they were all on overtime.’

  Questions about the cost of such a fruitless deployment of manpower are sure to be raised at today’s press conference. So too are concerns about the direction of an investigation that appears to be no closer to apprehending the man responsible for the recent attacks on trainer Gerry Fowler and jockey Adrian Moore.

  As the Western Echo had anticipated, the questions flew thick and fast at the press conference convened at Maybrick Street police station. Charlie Lynch, in a suit that could have benefited from an iron, kicked off proceedings while, on his right, Chief Superintendent Howard Tomkins lent moral support. On Charlie’s other side, to the initial surprise of the assembled company of journalists, sat Duncan Frame. A nervous-looking press officer hovered near the dais on which the principals sat.

  Charlie’s opening statement provided a frank precis of the events which had led up to the operation of the previous evening. Both he and Tomkins had agreed there was no point in holding back - not now some rat on the team had spilled the beans to the Western Echo. Predictably, the letters received by the Racing Beacon soon became the dominant issue for the members of the press.

  `How do you know the letterwriter attacked Adrian Moore and Gerry Fowler?’

  `How many letters have been received from him?’ `When will you be issuing the full texts?’

  Charlie answered briefly and then referred them to Duncan Frame. He was keen to see what a journalist made of being on the other end of press curiosity.

  Frame began in pompous mode. `Since it became clear that this individual had singled out the Racing Beacon as a conduit of communication, my colleagues and I have put the interests of the racing community above all other considerations.’

  `Why haven’t you published the letters, Duncan?’

  `Because of legitimate concerns about the sensitivity of some of the content.’

  `You mean the police didn’t want you to?’

  `Our priority has always been to assist the police in their attempt to catch this highly dangerous individual.’

  `But you just said you wanted to look after the racing community first. Shouldn’t you have told them there was a psycho on the loose with a vendetta against racing?’

  Frame was beginning to look a little flustered.

  `All of us in the press have a duty not to panic our readership.’ Charlie kept a straight face. In his opinion, most papers dealt in panic - pandering to people’s anxieties was a good way to sell more copies.

  Frame’s questioners returned to the main topic. `When can we see these letters, Duncan?’

  Frame grinned. `I’m not making any promises, but if you buy the Beacon tomorrow there’s a strong possibility you might get a glimpse.’ That sparked off a row. The question-and-answer format became submerged in noisy protests from journalists who were not employed by the media group who owned the Racing Beacon. They demanded that the police hand over the letters, even if Frame wouldn’t. Charlie pointed out that they weren’t his to release and, even if they were, he was not sure he would publish them at this stage of the investigation. A tabloid reporter asked when the constabulary had decided to get into bed with Sir Gavin Hoylake, and the press officer began to shuffle his feet and look at his watch. As the Western Echo reporter began to ask pointed questions about the cost of the Scratchwood operation, it occurred to Charlie that he wasn’t going to get any favours from this bunch from now on. But then, when had he ever?

  Thankfully the Chief Super stepped in to cover the finance angle. He managed to sound fully supportive of Charlie and also combative on the rigorous process of deploying precious police resources.

  The issue of the ransom money was raised and Charlie confirmed the quoted figure of ?100,000. At which point Frame butted in. `Please don’t give our friends in the police a hard time about raiding the public purse. The ransom money was supplied by the Beacon at the express wish of the proprietor.’

  Some of the journalists groaned, and Frame beamed in triumph. Charlie imagined that this snippet of information was not destined to feature prominently in many reports.

  Which left the matter of Patsy’s role in the affair.

  `Inspector Lynch, can you confirm that the extortionist specified that Louise Fowler should carry the money?’

  `He did.’

  `So why did you use a policewoman?’

  `Because it would have been unfair to expect Miss Fowler to place herself in a potentially dangerous position. Especially considering that this man badly injured her father.’

  `Did you even ask her?’ `No, I did not.’

  `But the operation failed because he recognised the policewoman wasn’t Louise - isn’t that right?’

  `I wouldn’t call our initiative a failure. We have opened communication with this individual and that’s a significant step forward.’

  There was a contemptuous snigger from someone in the front row and a fusillade of queries followed.

  `Is it true he asked her who won the Gold Cup?’ `Couldn’t you find anyone who knew about horses?’ `Do you think he’s going to carry on beating up jockeys?’ `Is the money still on the table if he gets in touch?’

  Charlie had had enough. He brought matters abruptly to a close with an appeal to the public for information, though he knew it would be buried in a bog of sensational reporting. Yesterday he’d had a shot at catching his quarry; today he’d not only lost him but the whole business was out in the open, subject to the scrutiny of this lot. Just wait till he caught up with whoever had been telling tales out of school.

  Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered if the extortionist hadn’t twigged Patsy last night. Not that he could blame Patsy. She was his choice and maybe he should have chosen differently.

  There was no getting away from it, the buck stopped with him. Rebecca had no opportunity to talk to Louise about Kit when she arrived at Greenhills. For one thing, the article in the Western Echo and the details Louise was able to supply in addition, drove the matter from her mind. They’d read it together in the office the moment Rebecca arrived. Then one of the lads burst in to warn them that a group of cars were held up on the lane behind the horses returning from third lot. From conversations with the drivers it was apparent they were newspaper people who wanted to talk to Louise.

  `You’ve got to help me, Becky,’ she said. So, while Louise tried to get hold of Charlie Lynch for advice, Rebecca marched out to forestall the gathering of hacks.

  After a couple of minutes Louise appeared, walking into a wall of questions. Without thinking about it, Rebecca thrust herself in front of Louise and demanded silence. She told the reporters Louise would make a short statement and then answer one or two questions. To her surprise, they backed off and allowed Louise to speak.

  After that things passed off without drama. Louise said she fully supported the police operation and the use of a standin. She paid tribute to the officer who had taken her place and said that she had been unlucky to be caught out.

  `Becky, you were brilliant,’ said Louise after they’d gone, and Rebecca

  was on the brink of seizing the moment and confessing about
Kit when Chris suddenly appeared.

  `She’s not that brilliant at getting her fanny down here on time, though, is she? I’ve got horses that could do with some of her brilliant mucking out.’

  Rebecca got the message. Her confession would have to wait. Charlie was worried. Not so much by the irritations of the morning or the exposure of his investigation to the press - that was spilt milk. His real concern was how to catch this character who had successfully hospitalised two men without being seen and had backtracked smartly out of the trap Charlie had set. How would he react to the events of last night?

  Unfortunately there was no record of the man’s voice - he’d avoided the phone tap by calling on the adjacent line. However, Charlie had a record of Patsy’s responses and her impression of his voice. She’d described it as `ordinary - not posh, maybe a touch of Bristol in the accent’. She said he’d started off softly but had got louder and shouted at her by the end. She’d not been able to get an impression of his age - ‘Not young and not old, guv. I wish I could say more.’

  But that was OK. It fitted with the impression Charlie was building up. He pulled a notepad from his desk drawer and began to make some notes.

  How old would the target be?

  A man in his middle years - thirty-five to fifty-five, say. So far he’d planned every step of his campaign with care, so he was unlikely to be a hot-headed youth. Maybe he’d learned from experience how to take his time.

  He was above average intelligence, certainly, though he didn’t seem particularly well educated - the spelling mistakes in the letters were a giveaway. Unless, of course, they’d been put in deliberately, which was always possible. It seemed the kind of trick he would be capable of. He obviously liked playing games.

  Charlie hoped his man wasn’t as smart as he obviously thought he was.

  His train of thought was interrupted by a knock on the office door. Damn.

  `What is it?’ he shouted irritably.

  DC Jenkins stepped hesitantly into the room. Charlie regretted his irritation. The lad was diffident enough already.

  `Yes, Terry?’

  The young detective’s mouth was open but he seemed to have difficulty getting any sound out. There were freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his cheeks were so smooth Charlie wondered how often he had to use a razor. Not every day, that was for sure. All those cracks about policemen getting younger certainly applied to this lad, yet he’d already done a stint in uniform before transferring to CID. Charlie noticed that he held an envelope in his hand.

  Finally Terry spoke. `It was me, boss. I’m sorry.’ He placed the envelope on Charlie’s desk. `That’s my resignation, if you want it.’ Charlie was perplexed. He looked suspiciously at the rectangle of white paper. It was addressed to DCI Charles Lynch and bore the sweaty imprint of a finger in one corner.

  He pointed to the chair opposite him and said, `Why would I want your resignation?’

  More hesitation. `Because I told the Western Echo about the Scratchwood op. All that stuff in the paper’s because of me.’

  For a moment, Charlie didn’t know what to say. He’d rather assumed the leak had come from one of the outsiders they’d roped in. Someone who’d probably resented being pulled off another job for the fun of kicking his heels in Tesco’s car park. Charlie had not seriously thought it would have come from one of his own team. To be frank, the name of Terry Jenkins would have been about the last on his list of suspects. `Tell me,’ was all he said.

  It all came out in a rush. After the aborted Scratchwood episode, Terry had met a girl called Jo in a pub. She’d been impressed to hear he was a detective and, over a pint, he’d coughed the story of the stake-out. The next morning he’d read the Western Echo with a horrible sinking feeling. There’d been more to Jo than met the eye, and her full name, he gathered from the byline, was Josephine Benson.

  So here he was, offering himself up for sacrifice.

  Charlie couldn’t find it in his heart to be that judgemental, though he did his best to read the Riot Act. Jo Benson’s innocent blue eyes had sapped the strength of more experienced men than Terry Jenkins. And her sharp-edged questions from the front row at that morning’s press conference had caused him as much discomfort as any.

  Charlie tore the envelope in two and tossed it into the wastepaper basket.

  `Get out of here,’ he growled, cutting off Terry’s stuttering expressions of gratitude.

  Rebecca felt like a hypocrite. After she’d mucked out, she’d busied herself tidying the tack-room. Rugs, saddles, bridles - everything was put in its proper place. Then she’d looked for Louise to get the Kit matter off her chest. But Louise was deep in conference with Chris about plans for the weekend.

  `I really need a word, Louise,’ she’d said, but Louise had looked at Chris and he’d glared at her. Obviously she wasn’t back in his good books yet.

  `It can wait,’ shed said. Then Louise had suggested she take Skellig, her grey filly, out for some exercise, and they could talk later.

  `It would be doing me a big favour, Becky. I don’t know when I’m going to get out on her today, and she’d love it.’

  So here she was, hacking comfortably over the gallops on Louise’s little horse. The sun shone low in the sky, picking out the first glimpses of blossom in the lanes down in the valley. A thrush was singing fit to burst in a hedgerow. Despite the continuing chill of winter there were signs that the season might soon be changing. There was not a soul in sight.

  `Don’t know what they’re missing, do they?’ she said to the horse. She imagined being up here with Kit, the pair of them racing side by side. Not that she could imagine Kit in a riding hat and breeches. It was funny how much she didn’t know about him - she didn’t even know whether he could ride. When they’d first met - the four of them in the pub that night - they’d talked horses a bit. But Leo had made most of the noise. All she could recall about Kit’s contribution was that he studied form. So he liked a bet. Well, she could live with that. She couldn’t imagine having a serious relationship with a man who didn’t have some kind of interest in horses.

  So now, after one lusty night, she was having a serious relationship? `Get real, woman,’ she said out loud. `Not you,’ she added as Skellig pricked up her ears.

  She turned the horse upwind and urged the filly into a canter. Time to blow the cobwebs out of her brain.

  Keith knew he was taking a risk being over here, near the Fowler yard. Revisiting the scene of his assault on the trainer hadn’t been part of the plan. But if the plan had gone right, today he’d be a hundred grand better off.

  He’d been cheated again and someone had to pay. He’d made his instructions clear and they’d disobeyed him. But he’d anticipated that. He knew they’d try to double-cross him somehow, and he’d caught that police bitch out.

  But that wasn’t enough. He had to show them he couldn’t be mucked around. Action was called for - something swift and terrible.

  He’d brought the crossbow again. From up on a small ridge behind a hedge he could get a clear sight into Greenhills Yard and the first row of horse-boxes. Suppose he shot a horse? That would have the so-called racing fraternity running scared.

  He hesitated. Putting a couple of blokes in hospital was one thing - they’d deserved it.

  But now an alternative target had presented itself.

  Up there, in the field beyond the copse where he was now parked, was a horse he recognised. He’d seen that little grey with the dappled quarters and white knee patches before, when he was watching the Fowler yard the night before he did Gerry. And the girl riding it had been the daughter, Louise.

  He watched the horse and rider through the screen of trees. He was certain that was the horse. And the female on its back - young, athletic, leggy - would be the Fowler girl.

  He could get a good shot at them from here. He couldn’t miss. On the other hand … He still had some of the cord in the car. Forget the crossbow. He had a better idea.

  Skellig had
had enough, Rebecca decided, and she couldn’t put off her showdown with Louise any longer. She turned her mount towards the corner of the field, where a path led past the trees down to the road.

  Maybe Louise wouldn’t care that much about Kit. After all, she’d had her chance to go out with him and she’d said no. Also, Louise had not had a proper boyfriend for six months. It took a special guy to even raise her interest these days. All that occupied her attention was horses, the yard, her father Damn, Rebecca thought, I hate having to justify myself.

  She knew how much Louise had wanted to go and knew the reasons why she hadn’t. They were fine, praiseworthy reasons.

  She reached the gate by the road and dismounted.

  `Just take your time,’ she said to Skellig, who was keen to get home and hindering her attempt to pull back the five-barred gate. Suddenly the little horse raised her head, startled.

  Something slammed into Rebecca’s face, blocking out the light and stuffing up her mouth. At the same time, she was grabbed around the waist and lifted off the ground.

  She shouted and fought but her cries were lost in the coarse, foul cloth over her mouth, and the unyielding bulk of her attacker was implacable.

  Whoever it was who gripped her wasn’t going to let her go.

  Keith had caught and subdued many wild creatures in his life. He was used to the primal panic that gripped a flapping fish on the riverbank or a squealing rabbit in a snare. All the same, the frantic strength in the girl as she flailed and kicked in his arms took him by surprise.

  He lifted her and slammed her down on the tarmac of the road, crashing on top of her to pin her down. But still she fought and squirmed. He yanked her head back hard, gripping her face through the cloth. Her riding helmet jerked back into his jaw and he tasted blood in his mouth.

  At any moment a car could appear or a walker or a kid on a bike - anything - and then he’d be in deep shit.

  He put his knee in the small of her back and pinned her down with all his strength.

  `Lie still,’ he muttered, `or I’ll break your fucking neck.’ Suddenly she went limp.