Deadly Odds

by Jean Chapman

  ‘High-tailed it to do what “the boss” ordered?’ Babs queried.

  Cannon nodded. ‘The article is headed End of Kentucky Era,’ he said, ‘and the first part is a straight interview with Tom Beale of White Picket Ranch.’

  ‘Oh!’ Babs exclaimed. ‘My grandpa! My grandpa Tom! So is he…?’

  ‘He is quoted as saying that he has bred many four-legged winners, but that his own family has not been so fortunate. He lives with his wheelchair bound granddaughter, Jane, who he understands to be his only living relation. He had for many years cherished the hope of an heir to help run the stud and horse ranch, but as this is not to be, he has determined to put the whole of his property on the market after this racing season is over.’

  ‘Wheelchair,’ Babs whispered, ‘Jane? But …’

  ‘And if he is your grandpa and Jonathan is your son,’ Charlie said, ‘he does have an heir.’

  ‘Does it say what happened to my sister?’ Babs wanted to know. ‘Why is she in a wheelchair?’

  ‘It does say,’ Cannon admitted, glancing at Charlie now, who met his glance and frowned.

  ‘Let’s hear it all,’ the farrier said, ‘get it over.’

  ‘Further down, towards the end of the piece, it says:

  ‘Although spread over a matter of more than thirty years, no one can deny that Tom Beale has seen his share of family misfortunes. He lost his wife, his only son and daughter-in-law in a light plane crash on the ranch. His younger granddaughter, Barbara Tomasina Beale was lost to him after she had travelled to the United Kingdom to work. The employer she travelled with informed Tom his granddaughter had left him to travel onto the Far East, but in spite of world-wide inquiries, there was never any further news. She was later presumed to have perished in an overcrowded ferry tragedy in Thailand when hundreds drowned and many bodies were never recovered for identification.’

  Babs exclaimed in anguish and Charlie swore, but Cannon knew he must go on, read it all now:

  ‘His elder daughter, Jane, was the victim of a most bizarre accident. The day after her sister left for the UK, she was trapped in a small fenced-in area by horses that had inexplicably broken out of their paddocks and stampeded into the small holding pen. Jane was badly trampled, narrowly escaping death.’

  ‘Trampled,’ Charlie repeated as if disbelieving at first, then rose aggressively. ‘Trampled! You know what that means,’ he demanded of Cannon.

  ‘You are linking it with Tilly Anders.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ he exclaimed. ‘Didn’t quite work on the other side of the Atlantic, did it, but they got it right the second time. They murdered my Tilly with the animals she had devoted her life to, and my dad … an old man …’

  His intense aggravation and grief needed an outlet and he began to tear at the tape and bandages on his hands with his teeth.

  Cannon shouted, everyone protested at once.

  ‘Charlie!’

  ‘Please don’t!’

  ‘That’ll do no good!’

  ‘It feels like it will. I need my hands free, I need …’

  ‘Please, please, don’t,’ Babs repeated, putting her hands between his mouth and the bandages, soothing his lips with agitated fingers. ‘There’s too much hurt already … too much …’

  He was suddenly still as he saw tears running unheeded down her cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry, but … I … am … so angry, and I don’t know what I can do!’ It was an intense and intimate moment as the two stood together linked by worry and grief. ‘I must do something, and you should take your son back to America and claim his inheritance before someone else does it for you.’

  Cannon had a sudden premonition that someone might already be doing just that. That the reason Team Jonathan had left so quickly was so that Spracks might present his son as heir, in which case he would certainly not want Babs to turn up, alive when presumed dead. It would be Babs who would be in dire peril if she was seen anywhere near her son, or her old home. Death, murder, was no obstacle to the aims and ambition of Kevin Spracks.

  ‘Let me speak to DI Betterson before any of us does anything,’ Cannon advised.

  The call went on a long time. Betterson was in his London lodgings, and obviously knew nothing about the article in the International Horse Owners’ News. Then he talked to Babs and finally back to Cannon.

  ‘This puts a whole new slant on what is going on in Kentucky. There are two issues …’

  ‘But perhaps both built on the man’s need to win,’ Cannon put in.

  ‘More complicated than that,’ Betterson said shortly, ‘two men – two ruthless men, who hate each other’s guts, and both wanting to be top dog are about to clash. It doesn’t get much nastier than that. Promise you will do nothing until you hear from me again. Nothing!’ he stressed.

  ‘Of course,’ Cannon said.

  It was not an easy night, there were silences and outbursts of passionate impatience. Charlie eventually went back to join Steve and Archie in the lorry’s sleeping quarters, Liz prescribed hot milk laced with brandy to induce at least some late sleep, which brought a late awakening the following morning.

  Cannon went to the lorry while Liz and Babs set the breakfast table. He climbed in to find Charlie on his own, looking decidedly worse for wear, and he also saw that he had removed the bandages and was wearing a pair of thin riding gloves. A tube of commercial burn cream lay on the table. There was an antiseptic smell and a yellowish look to Charlie’s wrists. He had undoubtedly smothered his hands with the cream to allow the gloves to be pulled on.

  ‘That hurt,’ Cannon commented.

  ‘Gives me more movement,’ Charlie said stubbornly as he poured two mugs of tea.

  ‘The hospital won’t be …’ Cannon began.

  ‘I’m wasting no more time at hospitals,’ Charlie said decisively. ‘Sit down,’ he said with the air of a man who was taking no more orders from anyone. He had clearly made some decision. He had, however, hardly drawn breath when there was an authoritative knock on the lorry door.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he said irritably, then raised his voice to call, ‘Come in.’

  The door was pulled open and a tall figure stooped to negotiate the doorway.

  Both rose in surprise as Detective Inspector Betterson pushed back the hood of his anorak.

  There was an immediate launch into a lot of straight talking – none of them had time to waste. If Babs Beale was determined to fly out to America after her son, and apparently she’d said as much, Charlie was determined to go with her.

  ‘No way is she going on her own,’ he declared, and both he and Betterson turned to look at Cannon, who remained quiet.

  ‘We’ve more information from Austin about “The Harvester”,’ Betterson said. ‘Born Zachariah Valdes of a Cuban father, white American mother, he’s a handsome, evil-hearted charmer, I’m told, as is his one brother, Isaiah.’

  ‘An unholy pair by the sound of ’em,’ Cannon commented.

  ‘Mother’s family from the bible belt,’ Betterson added.

  ‘Wrong genes come through then,’ Charlie muttered drily.

  ‘And put that outfit up against Spracks’s gang and you have Armageddon,’ Betterson said, dropping his voice to add, ‘Austin will need all the help he can get.’

  CHAPTER 15

  Their plane had touched down in the evening, half an hour before time.

  ‘A real helpful tailwind,’ their American pilot had explained and wished them well as they continued their journeys.

  It was good to pull down their hand luggage, to have reason to pass everyday remarks to each other. During the flight, Cannon had seen one or two nearby passengers glancing curiously at them. An ill-assorted trio they might well have thought, and anyone with half an eye would surely see that they had much on their minds – but little that could be talked about in public.

  Of the three of them, Cannon thought Charlie was the most self-possessed. He had not wavered for one second in his intentions. The only concession h
e had made from the time Betterson arrived at the horse lorry door, to when they took off from Heathrow for JFK, was to accept the attention of the district nurse Chrissie knew. She had sternly declared him a lucky man to have avoided infection, but agreed the gloves on top of her minimal dressings were ‘not a bad idea’.

  Like one professional to another, he had thanked her for a really good job, then added morosely that it was time for some good luck.

  Time now for some more, Cannon thought as they headed in the direction of their connecting flight to the State of Louisiana. He had known he would travel with the two of them the moment Babs had said, ‘I’m still Kevin Spracks’s victim, and until I find my son, and go back to my family, I always will be.’

  There had been many things Betterson had been willing to tell him that Cannon knew he would never have revealed to anyone else. ‘I’d trust you with my life,’ the DI had said, ‘and I am trusting you with my career and pension, but I’m confident you’ll help Austin, and so help the whole police operation. But it’s like life, it’s a bloody gamble, so be careful,’ he said, ‘for God’s sake be careful.’

  In those same green pastures where he had heard Babs’s story, Cannon heard that “the Harvester” was very well established in Kentucky, under his given name.

  ‘Compliant banks and no-question lawyers have enabled him to build up quite a kingdom, with a face of respectability,’ Betterson said, adding ironically, ‘and he keeps his own men happy in exactly the same way – with money. He’s housed them on his expansive spread. He occupies a fantastic central ranch house, the kind you imagine on Hollywood film sets. Then there are three outlying homesteads for his main henchmen. So on site he has his number two, who is his younger brother and his family. In another complex, an expert in international money-laundering, with his family, and in the third which is more like a glorified bunkhouse, with gaming-rooms, there are quarters for girls and garages for fast cars …’

  ‘And gun racks,’ Cannon guessed.

  Betterson nodded. ‘You have the picture, but then there is Spracks – who is your direct worry. The other outfit don’t want him in Kentucky, and he in turn won’t want his son’s “dead” mother there telling her story. I believe he sees this Beale property, White Picket Ranch, as a first step to creating his own land empire in the US.’

  ‘He’ll have some explaining to do,’ Cannon scoffed.

  ‘If he gets in first I can imagine he’d manage a story of a quick affair, a run-away girlfriend, a child, a great grandson, returned to him. Come on, John, he’s smooth, smarmy,’ Betterson said, ‘and how far is that from the truth?’

  He had gone on to give him one more piece of information, the place where Cannon might go to exchange messages with Austin.

  ‘Make that contact as soon as you are able, and make sure he knows it’s you.’

  Betterson had left him there, the temporary campus of horses and hopefuls waking in the distance, a cool morning wind making him shiver. He had known how much he had to lose if this all went wrong, the man’s complete trust in him was both heartwarming and a heavy responsibility. Then he had agonized over leaving behind another person who trusted him, trusted in him. Liz had said quietly, ‘I know you can never be any less than you are, and I wouldn’t want you to be … just … come back safely.’

  Now, towards the end of their further four hour flight, he was looking down at the great Ohio River, the expansive green land of Louisiana. It could not look more peaceful, more serene, but as they made their descent and the buildings, the traffic, the trees, loomed larger and the ground rushed towards them, Cannon glanced across at Babs. She might have been demonstrating how to tear a paperback in half, she was so tense, her knuckles showing white, as she twisted the novel in her hands. How did a 38-year-old woman, who had been a girl, an innocent girl, when she left this place, really feel? How were they going to announce themselves at White Picket Ranch?

  How quickly could he get things moving, make the contact Betterson had told him of – at ‘the Finish Line gift shop inside the Kentucky Derby Museum’. Here, he must ask for a man who’d been a jockey and volunteered to work at the gift shop inside the track complex when the races were on. He had been given no name, but he had already decided on his own message, and it was not in words.

  The hotel they had booked overlooked the banks of the river and a spectacular bridge spanning its wide waters. The receptionist (Katie, her name badge read), a chatty, middle-aged blonde, beamed at them and told them they had come in time, in just over two weeks’ time, the bridge would be the main site of a fantastic fireworks display.

  ‘We always have that two Saturdays before the Derby. Louisiana lights up! There’s some oohing and aahing that day, I can tell you.’

  The hotel was busy, dinner was under way in all their restaurants. They waited while Katie made several calls. Cannon picked up a selection of leaflets from a stand next to reception.

  ‘If you don’t mind waiting just about twenty minutes, we can fit you in the River Restaurant on the ninth floor. I am afraid there’s nothing later. We have two large functions tonight.

  ‘Why not all have a complimentary drink on the terrace while you wait? I’ll have your luggage taken to your rooms,’ Katie nodded to the leaflets, ‘get your bearings, relax, and eat, before unpacking.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea to me,’ Charlie said.

  They had the terrace to themselves and Cannon took the opportunity to open out one of the pamphlets that contained a detailed map showing the squared street grids of Louisville. He suggested that the best plan would be to hire a car.

  This was agreed and Cannon went immediately back to consult the fast-becoming invaluable Katie.

  ‘No problem,’ she told him, picking up the phone. ‘How long will you want it for?’

  ‘Not sure, perhaps a week, or two, until after the Derby perhaps,’ he said, wondering just how much that was going to cost, though Charlie insisted he would share and be a named second driver.

  ‘Book for a week, then take it from there,’ Katie advised, and after a short conversation with a man she called Buddy, put down the phone and said a newly valeted car would be there by the time they had finished dinner.

  When he returned to the terrace, he felt the other two looked relieved, too relieved perhaps, as if it was the only decision that had to made that evening.

  ‘So tomorrow morning,’ he ploughed on in the same way as he had in many a brainstorming session at the Met, ‘I propose to have an early breakfast and drive to the Kentucky Derby Museum near the race track and leave a message for our contact. After that, we must agree how we approach White Picket Ranch.’

  There was no response. He had certainly banished any sense of relief, any respite, now.

  After long silent seconds, Babs gave a low agonized groan. ‘I can’t … I couldn’t … just phone, or anything. They’d think I was some unhinged, sick person, some horrible trick, some moron trying to claim relationship after that newspaper article.’

  This woman who had coped with so much, over so many years, now looked near the end of her tether.

  It was Charlie who cleared his throat, and said, ‘Look, let me make the first approach. It’ll come better from a stranger. You two can be outside in the car. I shall tell it as I know it, there’ll be no frills and no emotions fogging things up. What d’you think?’

  There was a silence as the other two thought about this. Cannon remembered when he had first met this farrier, the short factual sentences that had told of his situation clearly, succinctly. Somewhat to his own surprise he did feel Charlie might well be the right person. He glanced at Babs, saw her gaze was riveted on this blunt, honest man who had lost so much and yet still found it in himself to help others.

  ‘Would you do that for me?’ she asked humbly.

  ‘Of course,’ he answered without hesitation.

  ‘I’ll never be out of your debt. If only I could have met someone like you, or John, when I was eighteen, instead
of … but to go there, go home, I can’t imagine how I’ll feel – how they will feel.’

  ‘There are a lot of people in the world who would love to know their long-lost loved ones are waiting in a car outside to be called in,’ Charlie said matter-of-factly.

  ‘That’s true, we could all name a few that crop up in the news fairly often,’ Cannon said, his respect for Charlie’s hard common sense going up by the minute.

  The conversation ended as a waiter came to conduct them to their dinner table. He put their drinks on a tray, escorted them to the lift, and up to a restaurant with panoramic views over Louisville, no opportunity for sensitive conversation.

  As they finished coffee, they were told their hire car had been delivered and the driver was waiting at reception.

  ‘We can all go down together then,’ Babs said.

  In the privacy of the lift, Cannon suggested he should go alone to the museum in the morning, be back as soon as possible, then they would all immediately leave for the ranch. Babs gave no sign she had heard, but Charlie nodded.

  *

  Cannon breakfasted at six with a crowd of young and middle-aged business people, many of whom had obviously been at the functions the night before. Like Cannon, many were anxious to make an early start.

  In the car lot he fed the address into the hire car’s sat-nav, and as an extra check, opened the museum guide on the seat beside him. He was pleased nothing was moving too fast, giving him time to keep his eyes on the overhead traffic lights and take his left hand turns cautiously.

  He had been surprised when he had read the museum’s opening time was eight, but leaving the parking lot, he saw people were already making their way around a magnificent statue of a horse in full gallop, jockey up, and into the white wooden building, with the name “Churchill Downs” on its pediment.

  Fifteen dollars, he read. Bit extortionate, he thought, and as an animated group of elderly tourists came walking in behind him, he wondered if older visitors got concessions.

  He walked through exhibits on every aspect of racing and the life of a horse, from the birth of a foal on, until he found the Finish Line Gift Shop. He entered to hear a grey-haired wiry man say, ‘Oh! No, ma’am, we’re all volunteers.’