Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  We were eventually called into a rough line to the starter’s satisfaction and he brought down the yellow flag. This time, I tried to settle the horse near the back of the field. If there was going to be a replay of the regrettable fallers in the previous race, I wanted to give Masterful Knave every chance to avoid coming to grief in their wake.

  Horses will instinctively try to avoid a fallen horse or a rolling jockey. But it isn’t always possible and a lot of the injuries jockeys suffer do not come from the force of the impact with the hard ground but from the hooves of the following horses.

  One of my most serious injuries had come from the hoof of a following horse which had crashed down on to my head while I’d been rolling on the ground. The iron-shod hoof had split my crash cap almost in two, as Mike had shown me when he’d come to visit me later in hospital.

  Given the chance, a horse will twist in the air to avoid a collision, but if they are bunched up going over a fence, it isn’t possible. Knowing of Masterful Knave’s fall in his last race, I was particularly careful that we should approach each fence with an uninterrupted view and space around us to help increase his confidence.

  The strategy worked perfectly over the first two fences and the young horse was going forward eagerly, enjoying his racing. But nearing the third, I felt a slight shift in my position in the saddle. My first thought was that the breastplate, or possibly the girth, had loosened, causing the saddle to shift. If nothing worsened, I could maintain my seat. My boots were in the stirrups and I gripped with my knees and hoped we could get away with whatever was going wrong.

  Stirrups, attached to straps, are cinched up with buckles to hold them at the correct length. Just below the horse’s withers, the top of the saddle pommel houses the necessary padding and webbing. Leather flaps, hanging down on either side, cover the necessary buckles and connecting parts and provide a smooth surface. Jockeys grip the horse on the outside of the flaps to avoid rubbing sores on the inner side of the knees and legs. Right now, my knees were gripping tightly, ensuring my balance in the saddle.

  The horse approached the next brushwood fence and met it perfectly placed. I put my weight down in the stirrup irons as normal as he rose up in the air. It was at that crucial moment of going over the fence the breastplate gave way and the saddle slipped backwards.

  Within the space of a few seconds, from holding a comfortable position in the field with a fair chance of winning, we were now a completely no-chance job.

  The loss of balance threw me forward on to the horse’s neck. He felt my sudden dramatic shift of weight and came down awkwardly on the far side of the jump.

  The impact of landing was the final thing that flung me further forward and sideways. I shot out the side door over Masterful Knave’s left shoulder and hit the ground with a hefty thump.

  Instinctively, I did what all jockeys do: I rolled myself into as small a ball as possible and went with the momentum. I was lucky. The two other horses behind had time to avoid trampling me, and although the earth shook around me with the impact of eight hooves ploughing past inches from my body, not a single hoof struck me. I lay in the wet grass and mud, struggling for breath. Already, I could see the attendants racing in my direction.

  But I could wiggle my toes, shift my elbow and wrists, and I knew I’d escaped any serious injury. What I had done was winded myself. Given a few minutes, that would resolve itself, leaving me with just some sizeable bruises.

  However, along with the relief of knowing I’d got away with it, the unwelcome thought came into my mind that Rawlson’s threat had come about. I’d not only lost the race, but I’d certainly come a cropper.

  And on the heels of that thought was a further skin-crawling one – had someone deliberately tampered with my horse’s tack?

  FIFTEEN

  I got away with it: no red entries – no concussion, no broken bones, no standing down. My left shoulder had taken the brunt of the impact of my fall, but it wasn’t dislocated. I had had a bang on the head – I lied about that – although the medical officer probably didn’t believe me. He was well used to being told tales by jockeys. However, the searching light shone into my eyes had upheld my lie. All was well, it seemed.

  As I dried myself off in the changing rooms and began dressing in my civvies, I mulled over the likelihood of the breastplate coming adrift.

  Everything on this earth – butterflies to human beings included – began wearing out from the moment of creation. It was a natural law. So it could simply have been an accident. Or, then again … it might have been a deliberate act.

  If it had been deliberate, the obvious suspect was Duncan Rawlson. I tugged on my second sock – my feet were still damp. He’d threatened me certainly, but only after I was almost ready to ride in the race. Between his threat and Patrick flipping me up into Masterful Knave’s saddle, there had been no opportunity for him to vandalize the tack.

  It was possible, of course, that he’d sabotaged it earlier. In any case, a deliberate act or an accident, the outcome remained the same: I’d lost the race. I’d still get paid my riding fee, but I’d lost any winnings percentage. More importantly, to me, I’d lost the chance of adding to my season’s score. However, the most positive thing was I’d not sustained any injuries other than a painful shoulder and a headache. Wincing, I shrugged on my jacket, squinted in the murky mirror and ran a comb through my unruly dark hair.

  I’d been summoned to present myself for a drink with Lady Branshawe. No doubt there’d be an inquest on what had happened during the race. If Patrick had been subpoenaed as well, it gave me the opening to ask about the age of the breastplate. If it was a fairly new one, then the accident could not be put down to wear and tear. I had no further rides this afternoon so I could take my time asking questions. Not that I knew what to ask – as so many times before, it was a fly-by-the-pants job.

  There was no sign of Rawlson. Most likely, he’d already gone over to the parade ring. He had a ride in the next. The horse was not one belonging to Lady Branshawe. Whether she’d want to put me up again was debatable. Pete was waiting for the soiled kit I’d just stripped off. I handed the silks over.

  ‘Good to see you’re OK.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Bit odd, that,’ he said, eyes gazing down firmly at the bright mud-splattered clothing in his hand.

  ‘Hmm … you could say so.’

  ‘Especially after what Rawlson said.’

  I knew that conversation hadn’t gone unheard. How many ears had picked it up was an unknown.

  ‘Just sour grapes, that’s all,’ I said, seeking to defuse the situation. The last thing I wanted was an ongoing vendetta.

  ‘Reckon he meant it.’ Pete raised his eyes and looked straight at me. ‘I should watch your back.’

  I met his gaze, held it. ‘Why?’

  ‘He had a run in with John Dunston not long ago. And look what happened.’

  ‘John committed suicide.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that …’ His voice tailed away.

  ‘What was the row about?’

  ‘Not sure,’ he admitted, running a hand back and forth over the kit. ‘Something to do with the horsebox. Patrick had told him to sort it. Well, that’s what John told Keith. That time it broke down at Southwell.’

  ‘Something and nothing, then.’

  ‘Yeah, but Rawlson holds grudges, is what I’m sayin’.’

  I patted Pete reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  He nodded, unconvinced, and walked off.

  I made my way over to the owners’ and trainers’ bar. The ocelot lookalike had been removed and hung up. Lady Branshawe was resplendent in a beautifully cut woollen dress and jacket in a pale coffee colour. Against her upswept blonde hair, it looked good, very good – and so did she. The look of concern on her face melted away as I walked over to her table. I exchanged nods with Patrick.

  ‘Harry.’ She held out her hand and I took it. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes
, thank you, Lady Branshawe.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that. And I know you’ll be pleased to hear Masterful Knave is fine, too.’

  ‘Yes, perfectly sound,’ Patrick added. ‘Sit yourself down; have some champagne, do.’

  This was a different man to the one I’d left glowering in the parade ring. Gone was the mournful bloodhound look, replaced now by a beaming smile.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it. Horses give us their best shot. Pity if we sometimes don’t reciprocate.’ I sat down and received a flute of champagne. I could really have done with a strong whisky. My left shoulder was just getting into gear and the pain was increasing all the time. My last words hung in the air awkwardly.

  ‘Patrick tells me the saddle slipped – well, something helping to hold it in place did, and it let the saddle drop back.’ Lady Branshawe, sensitive to the atmosphere, sought to smooth the conversation.

  ‘Yes’ – I took a sip of the excellent champagne and eyed Patrick over the rim of the glass – ‘it seems so.’

  ‘Most unfortunate,’ he said suavely.

  ‘Was it an old breastplate, then?’ I held his gaze.

  ‘Not especially, no. Not a new one, but perfectly adequate for purpose.’

  ‘I must disagree, Patrick.’ Lady Branshawe’s perfectly arched eyebrows drew together in a frown. ‘The wretched thing came to pieces, it seems. It’s more than fortunate that Harry has come out of this unscathed.’

  If she could have felt the angry drumbeats my shoulder was pounding out, she wouldn’t have said that. However, I nodded and smiled.

  ‘Did you tack up yourself, Patrick?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I did.’ His demeanour slipped into truculence. ‘I made sure it was perfectly all right. I value the safety of my owner’s horses. You must have forced your weight down sharply in the stirrups.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He took a gulp of his drink. ‘Anyway, here you are, walking, so …’ He shrugged and added, ‘No harm done.’

  ‘But I didn’t win, did I?’

  He glared at me. There was no commiseration on my loss – or his. He wasn’t moaning about the loss of his prize money. And I found that very interesting.

  ‘If it was a case of coming back safely, Harry,’ Lady Branshawe said, ‘or winning, then I’m very glad you didn’t win.’ She gave us a well-bred all-embracing smile and poured oil. ‘Shall we change the subject?’

  By the time I reached the horsebox park a fair number had loaded their horses and left for home. But I knew Mousey’s box would still be there. He had a runner in the last race.

  The two horses I’d ridden earlier would have been hosed down by now and put in the racecourse stables to await transportation back to their home stables. There was a short time before Keith, the box driver, would begin loading up.

  I knew the colour of Mousey’s box – a distinctive maroon with cream stripes and lettering – it should be easy to spot. With over half the boxes already gone, I worked my way between the rows and pinpointed it more or less straight away.

  Keith was sitting at an angle in the driver’s seat, feet up on the passenger seat, ratting cap pulled down over his eyes. It was such a shame to wake him. However … I rapped hard on the passenger side window. His hand came up and an index finger slowly raised the peak of his cap. We eyed each other across the width of the vehicle. Reluctantly, he swung his feet down, leaned forward and opened the door.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘Thought you were after cadging a lift.’ He gestured me inside. It was considerably warmer in the cab.

  ‘Want some tea?’ He fished under the dash for a flask and poured a drink.

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’

  He grinned. ‘Been on the champers?’

  ‘Yeah.’ It was my turn to grin.

  ‘Go on, then, Harry, what do you want to ask me?’

  ‘You were good mates with John, weren’t you?’

  His gaze lifted from the mug of tea and he looked intently at me. I held his gaze and knew he was weighing up how much to reveal.

  ‘S’right.’

  ‘He came to lodge with you after Lilly went, yes?’

  ‘S’right.’

  ‘Do you think he killed himself?’

  ‘Nothing like coming straight out with it.’

  ‘Do you?’ I persisted.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He leaned forward. ‘Why?’

  ‘You didn’t make his funeral, did you?’

  ‘No. Had flu.’

  ‘Hmm … I was told that.’

  ‘Some things you’re told can be dangerous.’ He took a deep gulp of tea.

  ‘John left a letter for me with Caxton, his solicitor. He gave it to me after the funeral.’

  ‘I know.’

  I shook my head at how efficient the racing grapevine was. You couldn’t swap your socks without the word going round.

  ‘Ah, but did you know what he wrote?’

  ‘Some of it. Like the bit about Frank being taken out. Sure, he was John’s son, but Frank was a bad lot. You know that.’

  I nodded. ‘Tell me, was John scared – for himself, for his own safety?’

  Keith hesitated, stared down into the dregs of his tea. ‘Yeah,’ he said at last, ‘I reckon he was.’

  ‘Did he say why? Mention any names?’

  ‘Are you working for somebody – like, on a case?’

  ‘If you mean, am I getting paid to investigate, then, no, I’m not. I never have been. But I have been paid a visit – a middle-of-the-night job.’

  He nodded. ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘When people close to me get threatened, though, I’ve got to do something.’

  ‘You saved John’s life once. The whole of racing knows that.’

  I didn’t answer. I was hoping he would carry on talking. Maybe unburden himself, if he did know anything.

  ‘So,’ he sighed, as if he’d come to a decision, ‘I do agree with John that you can be trusted – you’re one of the good guys. And you’ve got a reputation for getting results.’

  ‘Only if I’ve something to work from. I need facts, not smoke and mirrors.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t want fingering for this, OK?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I think John was pushed off that bloody cliff. Can’t prove it, o’course.’

  ‘Why do you think he was?’

  ‘I reckon he found something pretty damaging. He hinted it was left in the horsebox that day at Southwell. There was a rumpus. I also reckon Patrick told Rawlson to put the frighteners on John to make him talk. ’Course, Rawlson won’t admit it. He’s running scared as well, if you ask me.’

  I thought about his twitchiness in the changing room, clenching and unclenching his fists, and privately agreed with Keith.

  ‘But John didn’t talk?’

  ‘No. What happened was our box broke down at the racecourse. Robson told John to have our horse loaded up in the box along with his own.’

  I nodded. Robson was a trainer whose stables weren’t a million miles away from Mousey’s. Box sharing was pretty standard practice in cases of emergency. Indeed, some trainers made arrangements in advance to share boxes if necessary. It cut down costs.

  ‘And the end of the story?’

  ‘I stayed behind with our box and waited for a mechanic. John drove the horses back, dropped off our horse, then took himself to Robson’s yard.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty much.’ He pursed his lips.

  ‘But?’ I prompted.

  ‘OK, yes, there is a bit more. I know somebody’d been in our horsebox. I had to take a slash and it was after I came back, I saw it. There was a smear of blood near the dash.’

  ‘Blood?’ I could feel my eyebrows rise.

  ‘Yeah, I know, damned odd. Don’t know where it came from, wasn
’t much but … there was another thing. I opened the dash to wipe the blood off and the piece of old tea towel that I keep in there to dry off condensation on the windscreen, that was missing.’

  ‘What did this piece of cloth look like?’

  ‘One of those woolly types, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, terry towelling?’

  ‘That’s right. A striped one, blue and white.’

  ‘Just a piece, or the whole tea towel?’

  ‘Dunno, really. Suppose about half – not a full one.’

  ‘And you got the box fixed and drove it back to Mousey’s yard?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And John took Robson’s box back first and then drove his car to your place?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  I took one of my cards from my wallet and passed it to him. ‘If you remember anything else, give me a ring, eh?’

  ‘Sure. If John was murdered, I hope to God you nail the bastard. Anything I can do to help, count on it.’

  ‘Thanks, Keith. I appreciate it. Until I see what happens following my efforts to calm things down at Southwell, I have to say I don’t know which way the cat will jump.’

  He grinned wickedly. ‘His name’s Leo, isn’t it – your cat? I heard a rumour going round about him routing Jake Smith at your place. That true?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I laughed. ‘Jake had me by the throat, and just before I blacked out, Leo took a dislike to his face – ripped it to shreds.’

  ‘Better than a Rottweiler by the sound of it.’

  ‘Believe me, I owe that cat. Anyway, I’ll be in touch if I need you.’

  ‘Good luck, Harry.’

  ‘Thanks. See you, Keith.’

  SIXTEEN

  I made my way to the jockeys’ car park where I’d left the Mazda. I did a quick check to make sure it was safe – nobody lurking with intent and no damage done.

  I slid into the driver’s seat. It was as cold as hell. Shivering, I fired up and put the heater on.