Deadly Odds

by Jean Chapman

  ‘They’ll want to know if you’ve tried phoning again.’

  ‘I’ll lie,’ he said, ‘there’s no way I’m going to try ringing Austin, and cause God knows what grief if it happened to be the wrong moment.’

  ‘No, we can’t risk that,’ Liz agreed sombrely, ‘but then there’s this sponsorship thing, what are you …’ She paused to listen. ‘Alamat’s talking to someone in the bar. It’ll be Hoskins.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Cannon said, ‘get it over with.’ He prepared himself for Hoskins and was a bit nonplussed when he found it was Paul’s wife, Helen Jefferson, in chief inspector’s uniform, who was talking to Alamat.

  ‘Hi, John,’ she said, ‘this is not an official visit, but while I’m here I was just asking if anyone said anything interesting in the bar last night about Morbury Hall. You were at the event, I understand.’

  ‘Hoskins and I were right on the spot,’ he replied.

  ‘The local force has been told there’s already an expert unit on the job,’ Helen was saying as Liz joined them in the bar.

  ‘Hi,’ Helen greeted, ‘I just popped in to tell you that Paul won’t be in this evening. He went over to see the Grangers about a horse logo this afternoon.’ She looked at them questioningly and they both nodded to confirm they knew about this.

  ‘Paul hopes you’ll go along with this sponsorship scheme,’ Helen added, ‘feels it’ll give him a bit more of a footing in the horse world.’ She looked at the clock above the bar. ‘Right, sorry, I must go.’ She lifted a hand, half salute, half goodbye. ‘See you two soon.’

  ‘So much for Paul not getting involved,’ Liz said.

  ‘He’s not going to risk stepping on anyone’s toes,’ Cannon said, ‘not with Helen to think of, and seeing the Grangers is not like going to Morbury Hall.’

  ‘She always says he’s the soul of discretion except when it comes to a painting project, then apparently all else goes out of the window,’ Liz commented as the man they had been expecting walked in, accompanied by a muscular, well-developed man, perhaps in his early fifties.

  ‘You’ve brought a sunny day today, Mr Hoskins,’ Alamat greeted him, reaching for his usual tankard.

  ‘I’ll get these,’ the younger man said quickly, ‘so two pints please.’

  ‘Charlie, this is our landlord, John Cannon, I was telling you about,’ Hoskins said.

  Cannon got the impression Hoskins had told Charlie quite a lot about him and Liz, from the way he appraised them both.

  ‘John, this is Charlie Brown, he and his father have recently come to live at the far end of Sea Lane, bought the large old cottage that stands on its own.’

  ‘I know it well, of course, often pass it on my morning runs,’ Cannon said, ‘nice old place, good outbuildings.’

  ‘Suitable for our purposes,’ Brown stated briefly.

  ‘Charlie and his father are blacksmiths and farriers …’ Hoskins began.

  ‘Oh! That’s where I’ve seen the name,’ Cannon said, ‘at the Morbury Hall event, on the side of a van, Joe and Charlie Brown. Mobile Farriers.’

  ‘Told you he don’t miss much,’ Hoskins said, sounding like a teacher with a bright pupil. Cannon almost took a bow.

  ‘We’re at most of these events, and we go round to local stables, do their shoeing on site. The outbuildings you mentioned I want to convert into a proper forge, do some decorative ironwork, as well as farm repairs.’

  The remarks came quickly, almost reminding Cannon of hammer blows on an anvil. He guessed this man rarely squandered his time.

  Charlie picked up his pint from the counter, held it untouched, and began the conversation again, on quite a different note.

  ‘I believe you found Tilly Anders’s body,’ he said, his voice suddenly husky.

  Cannon nodded, watching as Brown compressed his lips before he went on. ‘Brought matters to a head for me,’ Brown said. ‘Alan said you’d be a good man to tell me what we should do.’

  The sound of cars pulling up on the front gravel was followed by the sound of children laughing and shouting.

  ‘Look,’ Cannon said, ‘Liz and Alamat will deal with customers. Do you want to come upstairs, we won’t be interrupted there.’

  Cannon put their pints on to a tray and led the way up to their private quarters. The large lounge had spectacular views over the surrounding countryside, marshland beyond, and, with the evening still clear and sunny, the bright line of the sea was just visible on the horizon.

  Like most of their visitors, the two men were drawn to the windows, standing either side of the large brass telescope Cannon had centrally mounted there.

  ‘Pity it wasn’t like this yesterday,’ Hoskins muttered, ‘wouldn’t have been so easy for Tilly to have been put in that ditch without anyone seeing.’

  ‘Some view,’ Charlie managed, then turned away shaking his head, obviously upset again by Hoskins’s comment.

  ‘Sit down, both of you,’ Cannon said. ‘I’ll just make myself a coffee.’

  He went to where they had a coffee-making machine in one corner, giving his visitors time to settle and Charlie time to compose himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the farrier squeeze his nose and dash his fingers across his eyes. This man’s distress had a personal edge?

  ‘You’ve been a high up policeman,’ Charlie stated.

  ‘I was in the Met, yes,’ Cannon confirmed.

  ‘Experienced …’

  Cannon sat down, sure this man would get to the point as soon as he could.

  ‘Tilly and I were at school together,’ Brown launched in, ‘well, primary school. Then I used to meet her off the grammar school bus, carry her satchel. I wanted to go to the grammar, but just at that time my father had an accident at the forge – an arm that never did set straight. Some jobs he could no longer do. I left school as soon as I able – became his apprentice. I’d always loved being in the forge. It was no hardship.’

  ‘So you knew Tilly for a long time,’ Cannon said.

  ‘All my life,’ he answered, then added, ‘there’s another thing you should know about Tilly. When she left school, she didn’t know whether to train as a vet, or go in for forensic science. She became a top class vet. But she used forensics to find out some of the tricks that went on in the horse world.’

  Charlie had all of Cannon’s attention now. ‘She told you of some of these things?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘recently we’ve seen – we had seen quite a bit of each other again. I think she liked trying to shock me with some of the details.’ He gave a laugh full of sorrow and regret.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Last time she was telling me about a drug she called “frog juice”.’

  ‘I’ve ’eard about that,’ Hoskins put in, ‘they squeeze South American tree frogs for the slime off their skins.’

  Cannon too had heard of this kind of drug, it had become the curse of many a race course, particularly in the Americas. Prized for their dermorphins and administered before a race, the drugs acted as a pain barrier while at the same time hyping up the animal – used regardless of the after effects on the horse. How they got past the event’s vet was quite another matter, and the sad thing was the better the horse, the more likely it was to be exploited when real big money was involved.

  ‘Tilly believed doping, and doctoring, was rapidly spreading over here, even to dressage, cross-country, show jumping,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Is there such big money in that?’ Cannon asked.

  ‘There is if you’re trying to sell a horse, it can double its value,’ Charlie said, ‘thirty thousand can become sixty thousand in an afternoon.’

  ‘And somebody’s shut her up,’ Hoskins concluded and turning to Cannon, asked, ‘so what do we do?’

  ‘We do nothing,’ Cannon said heavily.

  ‘You do nothing! That’ll be the day!’ Hoskins exclaimed.

  ‘Seriously …’ Cannon began.

  ‘Seriously?’ Hoskins repeated in disbelief and
disappointment. ‘Were you warned off when you made that phone call?’

  Cannon kept his face expressionless.

  Charlie Brown looked from one to the other, trying to understand exactly what was going on.

  ‘Uninformed interference could cause more fatalities,’ Cannon said, feeling he quoted from some police textbook.

  ‘Fatalities?’ the farrier questioned in a low harsh voice. ‘You mean murders.’

  ‘I do,’ Cannon said briefly.

  ‘And we’ve already been warned off,’ Charlie said, his hand going to his pocket. ‘I didn’t really think people did this kind of thing,’ he added, ‘except on telly. I found this in the back of our farrier’s van this morning. It could have been put there any time we were at Morbury.’ He handed Cannon a folded piece of paper.

  Cannon took the edge and opened it carefully. On it were letters cut from printed material, spelling out the message: Joe & Charlie Brown a dead end 4 U 2. Keep noses out.

  ‘They get these ideas from TV,’ Cannon confirmed, but what interested him was that the names Joe & Charlie Brown were all in one piece. ‘Was this cut from some advertising material you have?’ he asked.

  Brown nodded. ‘We have leaflets we hand out at events, or leave in some of the official tents.’

  ‘You don’t send any out?’ Cannon asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, picked up at an event,’ Cannon said.

  ‘Alan said it was best to let you have it,’ Brown said. ‘My dad’s an old man, worn out by this move. He’s not seen …’ he nodded towards the paper, ‘but after Tilly … I had to do something.’

  ‘I can pass it on to the right man, Regional Detective Inspector Betterson,’ Cannon said, ‘but he’ll no doubt want to see you, particularly when he knows how close you were to Tilly Anders.’

  ‘That’s OK. Thanks,’ Brown said; clearly it was all the man expected and he seemed keen now to leave. He nodded in Hoskins’s direction. ‘My father’s laid in some beer at the cottage, I said I’d take you back to see him, he’s looking forward to a catch up,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ Hoskins drained his pint, nodded at Cannon, ‘see you tomorrow.’

  Cannon saw his visitors away, put the threat message carefully away in a desk drawer, made a call through to the private number DI Derek Betterson had given him, but he was not available. Cannon left a message to say he’d like to see him, then went thoughtfully back to the bar.

  Apart from being at the scene of the murder, he was now involved with a man who had obviously loved Tilly Anders, and to help him was hardly keeping out of things.

  ‘Hoskins gone as well?’ Liz asked. ‘Before closing time!’

  ‘Brown’s taken him over to see his father, think they’re old buddies, then he’ll drive him home,’ Cannon told her.

  By ten the bar had quietened, the holiday-makers lingering after the Easter break had gone back to their hotels, chalets and caravans. Alamat had cleared the tables and Bozena had the kitchen under control, the end of another busy day in sight. Then the mobile kept under the counter burbled into life.

  ‘Bit late,’ Liz said as she picked it up.

  ‘The Trap,’ she said, then her voice changed to surprise. ‘Oh Helen, hello, is everything all right? No, he’s not here. No, let me ask John. Have you seen or heard anything of Paul?’

  Cannon shook his head, then held out his hand for the phone. ‘Helen?’

  ‘John, I thought Paul might have called in to see you after all. He promised to be home by nine to relieve our babysitter … and he’s not answering his mobile.’

  ‘Do you want me to go over and relieve your babysitter?’

  ‘No, no, I am home now and her boyfriend has picked her up,’ she said, ‘but now I know he’s not with you I shall give the Grangers a ring, see what time he left there.’

  ‘And we’ll be wondering,’ Cannon stressed.

  ‘I’ll let you know. Farmers probably go to bed fairly early so I’ll ring them now, and then you straight back, don’t want to keep anyone from their sleep.’

  It was ten minutes later when the phone rang again.

  ‘He left the Grangers at teatime,’ Helen said, ‘about five-ish, but was talking about going over to Morbury Hall to see some particular jump they’ve got there at the moment. Apparently it’s one of the special jumps made for the last Olympics – a kind of ring like a sunburst the horses had to go through.’

  ‘Surely the police will still have a presence there,’ Cannon said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought it would be a good time to be nosing around.’

  ‘No,’ Helen agreed, ‘but Granger had told him that these “famous” fences are hired out all around the country and are quickly carted off to the next venue. Paul wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity to make a sketch of it, and when Granger told him if it was still in situ, that fence could be seen from the public highway, he left straight away. He told Granger he wants to portray Archie’s horse going through it for this logo.’

  ‘Well, he won’t be sketching now,’ Cannon said, ‘but it is quite a drive, if he stayed late …’

  ‘Yes, I’m just …’

  ‘Worried because he’s not phoned,’ Cannon finished for her, knowing from experience the chasm between the official world of policing, and personal involvement. It was the reason he and Liz were partners at The Trap public house instead of police officers in the Met. Liz had been attacked and then thrown into the path of a speeding 4X4 in a down-at-heel multi-storey car park. Cannon had spent fifteen months bringing the crooks to justice, then devoted himself to Liz’s recovery.

  ‘So,’ he brought himself swiftly back to the present, ‘plan of action?’

  ‘If I don’t hear anything soon, I’ll pocket my pride and go down a few official channels … then give him hell when he does arrive!’ The laugh she managed was somewhat falsetto.

  ‘If you haven’t got any answers in say, another hour, please also let me know.’

  There was a thinking silence.

  ‘Please,’ he said.

  ‘OK, thanks, John, that’s comforting, someone else caring.’

  ‘That will make it well past midnight,’ Liz was saying when the phone burbled again and she added, ‘bet he’s just arrived.’.

  ‘Hopefully,’ Cannon said as he pressed the green button to take the call.

  There was a racket at the other end, angry voices, noises like furniture being knocked over, then Austin’s voice.

  ‘Miflat,’ he said in one low growled sound, then raised his voice to shout, ‘get my car round here and get rid of the painter’s. Don’t waste any time.’ Then the phone went dead.

  ‘I could hear, that was Austin!’ Liz exclaimed, and quoted, ‘“Get my car round, and get rid of the painter’s”. Paul’s?’ Her voice rose with anxiety. ‘Paul’s car? What did he mean?’

  ‘More to the point, what did he mean by “miflat” at the beginning?’ He repeated the word, more slowly. ‘You obviously didn’t hear, and he probably didn’t intend those with him to hear, either.’

  They stood and looked at each other, thinking. ‘Try it with a French accent,’ Liz suggested.

  ‘Moiflat. Moi flat,’ Cannon said, then, ‘moi – my – my flat.’

  Neither of them liked the conclusions they were coming to.

  ‘Get rid of his car,’ Liz repeated. ‘Paul’s? Paul’s car?’

  ‘It was Austin giving instructions,’ Cannon said, ‘we’re both sure of that much.’ He looked at her thoughtfully, summing up, ‘When I saw him at Morbury, he certainly did not want me to acknowledge that I knew him, then when he rang the first time he warns to keep “out of this one, well out – and keep everyone else out.” This time, under the hullabaloo that was going on, he says “my flat.” He’s only got one flat that I know of.’

  ‘His London flat, but surely …’ She broke off and looked at him in alarm. ‘What are you going to do?’

  CHAPTER 5

  Cannon forced his attention back to the road
. It was not good to find he had reached the junction where he must leave the motorway, without being aware of either the sat-nav Liz had programmed for him in her sports car, or the passing road signs.

  His mind had yo-yoed between many things: Liz making her way to Helen in his old classic Jeep; whether he had misheard and misinterpreted Austin’s muttered word; whether Helen would put Paul’s disappearance on an official footing, and what effects that might have. Most of all he wondered what might, or might not, await him at Austin’s London flat.

  Situated off Kingsway, when Austin had been Cannon’s sergeant, this flat had been very much a source of teasing, for while it was not too grand for Austin, the son of an eminent London barrister, it was opulent for a Metropolitan sergeant. Now Austin had risen through the ranks, it was certainly more in keeping, Cannon thought as he parked in the nearest available spot. He approached the entrance and pressed a button to speak to the hall porter, and could well imagine these places would now fetch seven figure sums.

  ‘I have come to visit Mr Robert Auguste Austin,’ he said into the voice grating.

  ‘Name, please, sir,’ a deep male voice answered.

  ‘John Cannon.’

  ‘One moment, sir.’

  Cannon had expected the door to click open but instead a uniformed man in his late fifties, looking more guardsman than hall porter, approached from inside. He pressed a release button and nodded Cannon in.

  ‘Mr Austin left a message for you to go straight up,’ he said, ‘and …’ he paused, gave Cannon a searching look, not altogether of approval, ‘left keys for you to let yourself in.’

  The porter proffered the keys, then led the way to the lift.

  ‘Thank you.’ Cannon took the keys. ‘So has Mr Austin gone out again?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the porter said, ushering him into the lift, pressing the fourth floor button, and stepping deftly out again before the doors closed, ‘no one has left.’

  The lift went smoothly and swiftly upwards, rushing him into what? “No one has left.” Did that imply more than one had arrived?

  The outstanding benefit of these luxurious London apartment buildings was the silence, no sound from the traffic, once the whirring of the lift had stopped, there was nothing, a sound wipe-out. It felt as if not just floors were carpeted, but the walls and ceilings, cushioned and insulated. It must be nearly a decade since he last came to Austin’s flat. He had not seen or heard anyone then, and did not now.