The footsteps reached the top of the stairs. Phil heard the creak of a door. Then a thump and a grunt, as of a heavy man lowering himself to his knees. Followed by a banging, like someone trying to dislodge a large piece of wood. What was he doing?
Phil leaned out carefully from his position in the doorway. Ten feet away, a man was on his knees in the bathroom. He had removed the wooden side to the bath and was pushing something into the gap. By his side was a black hold-all.
The kidnapper was hiding the money.
Phil was frozen to the spot. Should he run or should he hide? Or should he attack while he had the advantage of surprise?
He took a pace forward. The floorboard beneath him creaked.
The man turned his head slowly and stared at Phil. If he was surprised he didn’t show it. His face was huge. Monstrous. Covered with blood, dirt and stubble. He wore a patch over one eye and his mouth was twisted. Phil realised he was smiling.
`It’s the champion jockey,’ the man said in that soft, familiar voice. He got to his feet, filling the bathroom doorway. He was huge. `What have you done with my wife?’ Phil shouted.
The kidnapper took a pace towards him down the hall, cutting off his path to the stairs.
`Tell me where Julia is,’ Phil demanded, raising the knife. It did not seem much of a weapon against this giant.
Bernie’s one brown eye regarded him steadily. `I don’t think so.’ His fist came out of nowhere. Phil took the blow on his left shoulder and thrust with his knife at the centre of the man’s chest. But he was off balance and the blade found nothing more solid than the woollen folds of Bernie’s sweater.
Phil crashed against the doorjamb. The man took hold of his wrist and twisted. The knife dropped to the floor.
Phil hit him with his left. It was his weaker hand and his arm was
numb from the other man’s punch - not that it would have made any difference. It was like hitting a wall.
The man picked him up and threw him backward into the room full of women’s things. Phil’s head slammed against the floor. The man stood over him and kicked him like a football. He kicked him again. It was like being hit by a sledgehammer.
Phil rolled away and stumbled to his feet, swaying in the half-light. The man watched him, calculating his next thunderbolt. This was no contest. Phil knew he was going to die.
Bernie smashed him in the ribs. Phil fell backward, tumbling into a pile of shopping bags and spilling their contents across the floor.
He tried to get away across the room, crawling on all fours, his knees crunching on small hard objects - a hairbrush, perfume, a tube of some ointment. A blow on his back brought him to a halt. His gasps were loud and tortured. He rolled on to his side. This was the end.
He watched the man pull a long, thin scarf from the clothes rack and double it round both fists.
The giant bent over him to loop the makeshift garrotte round his neck.
Phil lifted the aerosol can. It was his last chance.
From a distance of six inches, he squirted hairspray into the man’s good eye.
Bernie roared, clapping his hands to his face. Phil dragged himself clear.
The man blundered after him, crashing blindly into one of the racks of clothes. He fell like an oak and the floor shook. He still had a hand pressed to his eye; the other flailed in the air, searching for Phil.
Phil pushed himself away from him, clattering into the exercise bike, bumping his knees on something solid. An exercise weight. A compact, three-pound dumb-bell, just right for a woman.
Phil picked it up and swung. One end smacked into the man’s skull as he clambered to his knees. He said nothing, but the solid clunk of metal on bone reverberated round the room.
The man swayed on his knees.
Phil hit him again, as hard as he could. The weight thumped into the giant’s face and blood fountained over the pair of them. He grunted, as if acknowledging the hit, and groped for Phil.
A big hand fastened on Phil’s shirt and gripped fast. Phil swung the
weight again, and it landed on the man’s temple above the eye patch. The hand lost its grip and Bernie fell again. He moaned and twitched on the floor.
Phil didn’t have the energy to deliver another blow. He sat on his haunches, panting, watching the big figure sprawling in front of him. If he had to beat the bastard’s brains out he’d find the strength from somewhere. But, as the minutes dragged by, he realised he wouldn’t have to.
The man groaned and twitched as Phil bound him with belts and scarves he took from the clothing racks.
To all appearances Charlie Lynch was unflappable. A commander in control of his troops. All his manpower was concentrated on thirty square miles of Somerset either side of the motorway bridge where Phil Nicholas had last been seen. And where a motorcycle policeman had been discovered lying in the road with his throat cut.
Inside, Charlie was dying his own kind of death. A man’s life had been lost on his operation - it was too dreadful to contemplate. But, for the moment, there was no time for reflection. They must find this killer before other lives were lost.
But how? The murder scene might yield good evidence, but it would take time to analyse and he had precious little of that. All he could do was search the area with the maximum force at his disposal. He didn’t even know what kind of vehicle he was looking for, though an alert had gone out for a missing police motorcycle.
`How do you keep so cool, guv?’muttered John Petrie as he poured over the map sections laid out on the incident room table.
Charlie was about to say `Prayer’ when the Traffic sergeant raised his hand. `I’ve got the emergency operator.’
A 999 call had just come in from a man requesting police and ambulance services. He’d asked for DCI Lynch.
`That must be Phil,’ said John.
The caller claimed not to know his location but he’d left the phone line open so it could be traced while he went to search for his wife. He’d left a message for the inspector - ‘Bernie’s shot his bolt.’
`Bloody hell,’ said John. `What do you think of that, guv?’
Charlie didn’t know what to think. `I told him not to be a hero. Might as well have saved my breath.’
Julia was drifting. It wasn’t proper sleep but a kind of hallucination. And it was nice - she could hear Phil. His voice calling her name. He was coming to rescue her from this nightmare. To wrap her in his arms and never let her go.
`Julia!’
Her eyes flicked open in the dark. It did sound like him. ‘Jules, are you in here?’
It was him. `Where are you?’
She couldn’t shout back. She couldn’t move from the bed. She couldn’t make a sound.
There was a rattling at the door of her prison. Then a smashing sound of metal on metal and a beam of light pierced the darkness. The light was falling on her. He had found her.
Thank God.
Chapter Fourteen
`Aren’t you tempted,’ said Yvonne Mitton to Julia, `to wear a hat?’ They were sitting in the panoramic restaurant at the top of Cheltenham’s grandstand which, as can be imagined, gives its lucky patrons a marvellous view of the course below. It was the second day of the best jumping festival in the world but, in between races, many eyes turned inward across the room to focus on Julia.
It had been a fortnight since Keith Jeffries had massacred her hair, and the first thing she’d done when she’d regained her freedom was to shave her head completely. Now the hair had grown just enough to soften the outline of her skull. She’d made no attempt to hide her gaunt and striking looks. Her eyes were huge, the skin stretched tight over the bones of her face, the blue shadows like bruises.
`No,’ she said in response to Yvonne’s enquiry. `No hat, no wig, no make-up. Sorry.’
She couldn’t fully explain it to herself but it was to do with starting all over again. She’d thought she was going to die, and now she had another chance at life. She wanted to begin again from scratch. No arti
fice, no prettifying, no hiding behind other people.
`Don’t apologise, darling. I think you look beautiful,’ said Yvonne, offering her a cigarette.
`No thanks,’ said Julia. The craving was gone. She’d escaped her execution and had no need for tobacco any more.
`Good for you,’ said Jack, lighting up. `I wish I had your willpower.’ There was over an hour to go to Callisto’s race and the Mitton party were already consumed by nerves at the prospect.
Julia glanced at Ted, Phil’s dad, who made up the group. Even he looked apprehensive, but maybe that was because Phil was riding in the next. They’d watch it up here and then fight their way through the throng below in readiness for Callisto’s race.
Phil had high hopes for the Royal & Sunalliance Chase. In a day and a half of racing he’d not even been placed, despite riding some fancied horses for Russell. That was the way of Cheltenham, he knew that, but it worried him. He’d conquered his demons. He’d proved to himself and the whole world that he was no coward, but he wasn’t riding well. It was nothing to do with being scared any more, just something that wasn’t right. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.
And so, when Hollow Crown dumped him in the ditch after the water at the start of the second circuit, he wasn’t looking forward to the post-race inquest with his boss. But it wasn’t Russell who was waiting for him when he arrived back at the weighing-room. It was his dad.
Phil spotted Ted by the double doors as he approached and assumed he was checking to make sure he wasn’t injured.
`I’m OK, thanks,’ he said, forcing a smile.
`You know why you fell, don’t you?’ said Ted without preamble. Phil was surprised rather than offended. He couldn’t remember the last time his father had commented on his riding.
`You’re letting go of the horse’s head as you approach the fence,’ Ted said earnestly, leaning closer so as not to be overheard. `I’ve noticed you doing it for a few weeks.’
Phil was listening intently. His father had taught him just about everything he knew about riding.
`Go on.’
`You probably don’t even realise you’re doing it but, as soon you take even the slightest pressure from the horse’s mouth, the line of communication changes. The horse is relying on you to help him balance and suddenly, just when he needs you most, you desert him. He has to adjust his balance and, worst of all, you lose the feeling through your fingers of how the horse is reacting to the fence in front of him.’
Phil digested this information. He wasn’t aware of doing anything wrong but perhaps his father had a point.
Ted was looking at him keenly. `I don’t like to interfere - you’re ten times the rider I ever was. But no matter how good you are, it’s not always possible to work things out for yourself.’
Phil knew this was true from his attempts to play golf. A pro had once videoed his swing and it had been an eye-opener. Phil had thought he was doing one thing but how he actually swung the club was quite another.
Phil put his hand on his father’s shoulder. `What would I do without you, Dad?’
The weather was unseasonably hot for mid-March and Hugh was down to his shirtsleeves in the press room. The sight raised a few eyebrows among his fellows, who were not used to seeing him in a bow tie and cuff links. The yellow stripe in the shirt was possibly a mistake, but the salesman had been most enthusiastic. This was day two of his new look and he’d had approving glances from some of the many French scribes in attendance, even if the local hacks thought he looked a bit of a ponce.
So far, however, he’d not had the one reaction he really wanted. He’d not caught sight of Louise, though she’d said she’d be at the Festival. Maybe, with her father just out of hospital, she’d not been able to come after all.
Not that it mattered. He could pick up the phone to Louise any time. He’d bump into her soon enough at a smaller meeting, where they wouldn’t have to compete with the crush of thousands.
He dismissed Louise from his mind and went downstairs to mingle with the exuberant crowd. But as he made his way to the bar his eyes searched the throng for a head of copper curls.
Charlie couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at home on a weekday afternoon. But he’d been working flat out for long enough, and this afternoon was special - and not just because it was his birthday. Frankly, a birthday was just like any other day. He’d dutifully opened half a dozen cards and stuck them on the mantelpiece. You’d think your only daughter might remember, even if she was having a whale of a time at university with her fancy new friends.
He took a beer from the fridge and tuned the television to Cheltenham. He’d never heard of the race before, but this afternoon’s running of the Mildmay of Flete Challenge Cup was not one he intended to miss. Not after spending so much time recently in the company of Phil and Julia Nicholas.
He watched Phil come off his horse in the fourth race of the afternoon with some concern, shared by the TV commentator. After the Keith Jeffries affair, the jockey was a national hero. The story of Phil’s battle and of Julia’s rescue was still headline news. Fortunately the prospect of the forthcoming trial had muzzled the media to some extent, but Charlie knew how uncomfortable Phil was with all the sensation.
As a policeman, Charlie had long ago learned not to get too involved with the victims of crime. But sometimes it couldn’t be helped.
He went into the kitchen and opened another beer. Outside in the sunshine the garden was looking a little ragged. Since the silver BMW had become a fixture across the road, it seemed Amy was no longer inclined to keep an eye on it. That suited Charlie just fine.
Phil looked down at Julia from Callisto’s back. `What’re my instructions, then, boss?’
She laughed. It was good to see.
`Just both of you come back in one piece.’ `Don’t you want us to win?’
She shook her head. `You’re carrying too much weight. Anyhow, it’s being here that counts.’
`You’ll never make another Russell Dean, Jules,’ he said as Ted led him off on a circuit of the parade ring.
She had a point, however. The horse was carrying a heck of a lot of weight. Past form, even though it was over two years back, had lumbered Callisto with twelve stone, a good seven pounds more than his nearest rival and a whole two stone more than some of the others.
And yet Phil did want to win. This horse had kept Julia going. Callisto had been the focus of her life while he’d been having his psychological problems and, again, after her kidnap and imprisonment by Keith Jeffries. She’d not had time to brood over her narrow escape while she had the old horse to worry about. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Callisto ought to win here at Cheltenham. For Julia’s sake.
The sound of a key turning in the front door took Charlie by surprise. He heard the door open and the familiar rustle of carrier bags as they were dumped in the hall. For a crazy second, he thought his wife had returned from shopping.
`Dad!’ The voice rang out and he jumped to his feet, heedlessly spilling the dregs of his beer.
`Surprise!’ cried Claire as he dashed into the hall and grabbed his daughter in a bear hug.
Hugh found a monitor in one of the bars. There was no point in fighting his way to the stands outside - not if he wanted to follow the action. Even so, it was pretty much a scrum. It felt like someone was boring a hole in his back.
He turned his head abruptly and bit back a complaint as he nearly got a mouthful of curly red hair.
`Are you hiding from me?’ said Louise. He grinned. It was good to see her.
`And what’s this?’ Her fingers were plucking at his bow tie. `You are hiding. You’re going round in disguise.’
`It’s my new image.’
`What do you need a new image for?’
`Er …’It was a good question. `My sister-in-law thinks I’m a bit of a scruff.’
`Doesn’t she like scruffs?, ‘No.’
`She sounds a bit odd to me.’
`I never knew you
liked horseracing,’ Claire said as she lolled against Charlie on the sofa, sipping beer directly from the bottle.
`You keep telling me to develop my interests. Get a life, I believe you said.’
`I was thinking of something more active. Golf, maybe. Or ballroom dancing.’
`You’re joking.’
`Just as long as you don’t go with the merry widow across the street.’
He turned to her in surprise. `You mean Amy Baylis?’ `Promise me, Dad. Mum couldn’t stand her.’
Really? He’d had no idea. Not that it mattered. He squeezed his daughter’s hand.
`Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m not interested in Amy. Now, will you belt up so I can watch this race?’
Callisto took up the running on the uphill climb on the second circuit. It was a joint decision. The horse wanted to go and Phil agreed. His father’s advice had been spot on. From the first jump he’d concentrated on keeping an even contact with Callisto from one side of the fence to the other - and it had worked. Suddenly it all felt so easy. He was back in control again.
Callisto was loving it, too. He powered up the incline, past a flagging front-runner, as if his years and the extra weight were a trifle.
Every fence saw them gain more ground. As they turned downhill and kicked for home, Phil was buzzing. No matter where they finished, they’d given an unforgettable display of steeplechasing.
Callisto turned into the home straight six lengths in the lead.
`Go on, Phil!’ Hugh roared at the top of his voice, but the sound was drowned out by the shouts of those around and above and below. The whole of Cheltenham racecourse, it seemed, was shouting Callisto home.
Louise was in front of him and his arms were somehow wrapped around her, the pair of them jumping up and down with excitement. When this race was over Hugh was going to tell her about Emma’s dinner party next Saturday. She was coming whether she liked it or not. Just to offer moral support as a good friend should.
The uphill run-in at Cheltenham is a famous destroyer of hopes, dreams and near-certainties. Not this time, though.
Callisto sailed over the last fence and Phil rode him to the finishing post in style. There was no other contender in sight.
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