Dead Weight

by John Francome

  With his free hand he pulled the cord from his pocket.

  `I’m going to take my hand from your mouth. If you make a sound, you’re dead. Understand?’

  She nodded; he could feel the movement through the cloth.

  He took his hand from her face and the gag with it. She gasped for air even as he leaned his whole weight on her. He doubted she was capable of making much noise in this position, but he had to work fast. The strap of her helmet had come loose in the struggle. He pulled the hat from her head and slipped the noose around her throat. She jerked and thrashed feebly as he tightened it, jerking on it cruelly to subdue her. Even so she tried to resist as he captured her wrists, binding them hard and tight. He shifted round to get at her legs, tying the ankles together, still with the same length of cord. When he was finished she was trussed up like a Christmas turkey. He used the cloth to blindfold her.

  The car was a few yards off, the boot already open. He dumped her inside and pulled an old tarpaulin right over her. As he began to close the door of the boot, she stirred, frantically twisting beneath the dirty material.

  He slid his hand into his toolbag and grabbed the jack. He bent down close to the mound of her head.

  `We’re going for a drive. If you shout or try to get out, I shall come back here and beat your brains out with this.’

  He dug the heavy jack hard into the tarpaulin over her thigh.

  He could hear her making little mewing sounds and panting with fear.

  This time, when he began to close the boot, she lay immobile.

  He drove off, slowly at first, aware that his heart was hammering and his hands were shaking.

  By God, this would show the bastards he meant business.

  It wasn’t till he was twenty minutes into the journey that he realised. It hadn’t been obvious while she was wearing her riding hat but the girl in the boot had the wrong colour hair.

  The discussion with Chris had dragged on. First class though he was at his job, he was obviously feeling the strain of shouldering the training burden at this crucial time of the year. Louise found herself, a girl almost half his age, in the bizarre position of trying to boost his spirits.

  `Dad thinks you’re the reason we’re starting to achieve things at last,’ she said.

  It was true - Chris’s arrival at the yard had coincided with signs of real encouragement. Paris White had not been the only eye-catching runner at last year’s Cheltenham; Devious had won three out of six and Easy Does It had been in the lead two fences out in the Grand National before being brought down by a loose horse. Dad had told her having a dependable back-up man like Chris was the missing piece in the jigsaw.

  They’d all been looking forward to this spring, expecting to turn the previous year’s promise into solid achievement. The removal of Gerry from the equation had been a body blow to their ambition.

  Louise, however, was determined not to let things slide without a fight. Her dad was still a physical wreck but his mind was unaffected and the horses were in good shape. If Chris could remain on top of the training programme, if she could be an effective go-between and standin for her dad, and if they could avoid any new disasters, then it could still be a triumphant season. If, if, if.

  Chris looked dead on his feet. His face was pale and drawn, with dark hollows beneath his eyes. Unlike some jockeys who piled on the pounds after they quit the saddle, Chris was probably as light as in his riding days. Louise wondered whether he looked after himself. Since her dad had been gone, Chris appeared to work twenty-four hours a day. He lived in a flat over the lads’ hostel but never seemed to go home. Louise cursed herself for not noticing this before. No wonder his morale was flagging.

  But at least this was one thing she had an idea how to fix. A word to her mum and Chris would never be short of a square meal. Her mother was desperate to make a contribution. Louise would ask her to keep an eye on Chris when she returned from her afternoon stint at the hospital.

  Other things were not so easy to deal with. They could really do with a top-notch stable jockey. So far they’d relied on a canny old hand, Patrick Daly, who was skilled at squeezing the best out of a horse. But Pat had fractured his wrist at Uttoxeter before Christmas and taken himself off to his father’s farm in Ireland. From what Gerry said, Louise doubted he was coming back. Since then they’d hired in freelancers and put up their apprentice when they were really stuck. It was hardly satisfactory, but Chris thought they should wait for her father’s return before finding a regular rider. Louise was happy enough to agree; she was more worried about losing owners in Gerry’s absence.

  Justin Delancy, who owned Easy Does It and the promising hurdler Nobody’s Perfect, was still considering whether to remove his horses. Not that he’d come out and said so, but she knew he’d talked to another West Country trainer about the possibility of moving them to him. The trainer had told Delancy he would be unhappy about taking them in the current circumstances and had then rung Chris to warn him what was afoot. Louise knew not all their competitors were likely to be so scrupulous.

  Perhaps she’d better talk to her dad about it after all. Maybe he could ring Delancy and convince the banker that the yard would be back to normal soon. If only that were true.

  Louise made sure they finished their discussion on an upbeat note. `This time next week, Chris, I bet we’ll have had half a dozen winners and Dad will be back home yelling at us like usual.’

  He raised a smile. `You really think so?’

  `Why not?’ She pushed him out of the office door. `Go home and put your feet up. Catch up on your beauty sleep.’

  He grunted. `I’ll have a quick look round and think about it.’ Louise watched him go with a mixture of relief and concern. Now, where the hell was Becky?

  By the time the kettle had boiled, Louise realised Becky must have got fed up with waiting and gone home. But as she looked out of the small office window, sipping her tea, she noticed Rebecca’s bicycle leaning against the wall.

  She stepped outside, mug in hand, and shivered. It was chilly now, and the afternoon light was thickening. Chris appeared out of the murk, his face drawn and irritated.

  , Skellig’s not in her box,’ he said. `Your friend Rebecca takes some liberties, I must say.’

  Louise frowned. `Do you think she’s all right?’

  `Yeah, she’ll be fine. It’s the horse I’m worried about.’

  Chris was not Rebecca’s greatest fan, but Louise held back the defence of her friend that sprang to mind. She was more concerned about finding her.

  `You go home,’ she said. `I’ll drive up the lane and see if I can spot them.’

  He accompanied her to the car and climbed in on the passenger side. `It’s OK, Chris. I can manage on my own.’

  `Suppose the silly cow has fallen off and broken her neck? How will you manage then?’

  Louise shrugged and started the engine. Chris was definitely one of life’s pessimists.

  They followed the network of small country roads around Greenhills for ten minutes without a sign of horse or rider, Louise trying to keep a lid on her anxiety.

  `We’d better get out and walk,’ she said as she drove back down the lane to the yard. `I’m sure she’d have gone up on the gallops.’

  She parked by the gate that opened on to the bridle-path. They’d looked closely at the hillside as they’d driven by the first time and seen no sign of Rebecca, which was why they’d driven on. But there were dips and folds in the land and scattered stands of trees which could hide a horse and rider - especially in the gathering gloom.

  `Just as well we’re looking for a grey,’ she said, trying to lighten her spirits as much as his. Chris said nothing but took the flashlight he’d found in the glove compartment.

  The gate into the field was not fastened. It swung back on its hinges at Chris’s touch.

  `Becky!’ Louise called. `Where are you?’

  The shout was swallowed up in the emptiness around them. Louise felt a little foolish.
>
  Then they heard something. The reassuring footfall of a horse’s hooves on soft turf. Ahead, through the fading light, appeared the familiar shape of Skellig. Thank the Lord for that.

  But as Chris’s torch beam played over the little horse they could see that she was riderless. There was no sign of Rebecca.

  Charlie had been in the house only five minutes when the front doorbell rang. He’d just had time to kick his shoes off and contemplate another night of beans on toast and a hot bath.

  Amy Baylis had her hair loose this evening. It fell fair and lustrous on to the shoulders of her black silk blouse. She carried a paper carrier bag in one hand and a halfempty bottle of wine in the other.

  `So, have you finally finished fighting the lawless, Charlie?’

  `For today, Amy,’ he replied, and couldn’t resist adding, `We guardians of the public virtue rarely put down our arms.’

  `So I’ve noticed. You’re not at home much, are you?’

  He didn’t reply to that. He was regretting his previous remark. Somehow Amy always lured him into making a fool of himself. `Anyhow, Charlie, I’ve brought you supper. I cooked too much and couldn’t finish it. You can throw it away if you like but I couldn’t bear to.’

  He didn’t know what to say. This was precisely the kind of gesture he was expecting from Amy - a full-frontal assault on his domestic solitude. On the other hand, it was thoughtful and generous and he was damned hungry.

  At that moment the telephone on the hall table rang.

  Amy thrust the bag and the bottle into his hands. `Goodnight, Charlie,’ she said as she retreated down the garden path.

  Saved by the bell, so to speak.

  It was Holly Green, on late at Maybrick Street.

  `Sorry to disturb you, guv, but I’ve had Gerry Fowler’s wife on the phone. She says one of Louise’s friends has gone missing.’

  `Who?’

  `A Rebecca Thornton, aged nineteen. She was helping out at the yard and went off riding mid-afternoon. When she didn’t come back, Louise and a guy from the stables set out to look for her and found the horse wandering on its own. They’re still out there looking.’

  Charlie’s stomach knotted. All thought of food and relaxation had vanished in an instant. He had a bad feeling about this.

  `Have they informed the local police?’

  `They’re sending someone up there but they’ve not showed up yet. Rebecca’s only been gone a few hours. Mrs Fowler wanted you to know, though.’

  `Ring her back. Tell her I’m on my way.’

  As Charlie put his shoes back on, he scrabbled in his inside pocket for his address book and quickly dialled a number. It rang half a dozen times before it was picked up.

  `Yes?’ The voice sounded dull and dispirited. In the background Charlie could hear a squeal of voices and the crash of theme music. `Patsy, it’s Charlie Lynch.’

  `Boss?’ She sounded startled. `What’s up?’

  He explained. Patsy knew at once who the missing girl was. `She’s Louise’s best mate. They’re thick as thieves.’

  `Have you met her?’

  `I just said hello to her up at the yard.’

  `Are you up for a drive or do you want to get back to your movie?’

  `It’s crap. I’ll be ready by the time you get here.’

  They spent most of the drive to Greenhills in silence. Patsy was grateful for the chance to get out and do something. After the cock-up of the night before, Charlie had told her to go home and forget about it. That had not been possible.

  Neither of them had mentioned the obvious but it hung heavily in the air. This had to be connected to their horseracing case. It was too great a coincidence, surely, for a stablegirl at Greenhills to suddenly go missing. Particularly within twenty-four hours of the aborted handover.

  If that was true, Patsy thought, it only made her failure of yesterday more damaging.

  `Have a snooze,’ Charlie suggested. `We’ll be another half-hour at least.’

  Patsy stared out of the window at the motorway traffic with sightless eyes, sleep an impossibility.

  Greenhills was alive with a blaze of light as they parked in the yard. Charlie noted the presence of a squad car amidst a throng of young men and women carrying torches, heading up the lane. Obviously a search party composed of stable personnel. So they hadn’t found the girl.

  `There’s Louise,’ said Patsy, rushing towards the knot of people leaving the yard.

  Louise was next to Chris Blackmore, who was trying to prevent her joining the search party. `You’ve done enough,’ he said. `If Rebecca’s out there, they’ll find her.’

  She seemed to be about to argue the point when she saw Charlie and Patsy.

  `Becky’s missing,’ she blurted at once. `They’ve found her riding helmet but she’s gone.’

  Patsy put an arm round her. Charlie looked at Chris. `Where was the helmet?’

  `On the road near where we found the horse. The police are up there now and all the lads are going to have another look for her. Me and Louise couldn’t see her, though.’

  Charlie didn’t envy the police trying to secure the site. It would be chaos in the dark with all these people. He ought to get up there.

  He turned to Louise. `Why don’t you go back to the house? Patsy will go with you.’

  She nodded. She looked beat. But she stepped close to him and said quietly, `He’s taken her, hasn’t he?’

  ‘It’s far too early to say.’

  `He has. I know he has and I know why too.’ Charlie had a feeling he knew what was coming.

  `Becky was on my horse. He took her because he thought it was me.’ By Louise’s side, Patsy’s eyes registered surprise. Obviously the thought hadn’t occurred to her. But it had to him.

  `Don’t jump to any conclusions, Louise. She could be found at any moment.’

  But, in his heart of hearts, he doubted it.

  Chapter Nine

  Charlie Lynch felt a distinct sense of deja vu as he took his seat for another press conference. Here he was at the same time, on the same dais, facing the same set of journalists as the day before. Only this time he had just the press officer for company - and the disappearance of a young woman to explain.

  Once again he tried to make it short - sweet was not an option - but inevitably there were questions.

  `Do you think Bernie’s got her?’ was the first.

  That morning’s Racing Beacon had run four pages on the whole saga, reproducing almost all the text of the letters. The nature of the writer’s disillusion with racing and his allegations of corruption were now public property, as were new details of his assaults. The crossbow attack on Adrian had captured people’s imaginations and reporters were now referring to the letterwriter as `Bernie’, after Bernie the Bolt on an old TV game show called The Golden Shot. Charlie remembered that contestants had to tell Bernie how to aim an arrow to win a prize. He had no doubt the name would catch on.

  In answer to the question he sounded the same cautious note as he had with Louise - that the girl’s disappearance might be completely unconnected with the Fowlers’ troubles and that all avenues of inquiry must be kept open. He painted a quick word picture of the missing girl - Rebecca Thornton, aged nineteen, a first-year law student and temporary stable-worker - released a photograph they’d unearthed from her flat and appealed for help from the public. That was the point of the press conference, of course - to stir up public interest and get some cooperation. Someone out there had to know something.

  `One last question, Inspector.’ It was Jo Benson, in the front row, swinging her long legs. `If Bernie has taken her, from your reading of his personality - what do you think are her chances?’

  Charlie didn’t rush to reply. He certainly didn’t intend to speculate in front of a room full of journalists.

  `All I’ll say is that, if this man is responsible for Rebecca’s disappearance, I appeal to his better nature and ask him to release her immediately. This young woman bears no responsibility
for any of his grievances.’

  He knew this wasn’t the kind of answer La Benson was looking for but, after her trick on Terry, she wasn’t getting any favours from him. Nevertheless, as he took the stairs two at a time to the CID room, an idea occurred, based on his reply to her question. He’d have a word with Duncan Frame about it.

  Ivan Stone and Terry were waiting for him. They’d been round at Rebecca’s place, talking to her landlady.

  The sergeant was obviously bursting with news. `I don’t think our man took her.’

  Charlie took off his jacket and loosened his tie. At 10.30 in the morning the room was already baking.

  `The girl had a new bloke on the go, boss. Spent all night with him, apparently.’

  Charlie nodded. `Do we know who he is?’

  `We don’t have a name but, according to Mrs Mason the landlady, he took Rebecca out on Wednesday evening in his car, some kind of red convertible with an S and a W in the licence number. They returned about one in the morning and went upstairs to her flat on the top floor. He didn’t leave till five-thirty. And from the noise they were making they weren’t just drinking coffee, if you get my drift.’

  `So she’s got a boyfriend.’

  `Boyfriends plural, boss. There’s a string of them in and out, according to Mrs Mason. She doesn’t miss much.’

  `She’s more like a jailer than a landlady,’ offered Terry. It was his first contribution to the conversation.

  Charlie glared at him - the young detective wasn’t yet back in his good books. `Anything else?’

  `We had a look around. It’s just a couple of rooms. Bit of a mess, like shed left in a hurry. Two dirty mugs in the bedroom and an ashtray with some dog-ends. Mrs Mason says Rebecca doesn’t smoke. There’s

  condom wrappers in the bedroom wastepaper basket and a message on the answerphone timed at one-thirty-five yesterday afternoon. It’s a bit funny.’

  `In what way, funny?’

  Ivan looked at Terry, who reached for his notebook. `It’s in French, guv. I made a note of what it said - “Charie, c’est moi. Hier soir c’etait le meilleur de ma vie. Je t’adore.” ‘