Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  I watched her disappear into the bathroom and close the door. She was a brave woman – much braver than I was. She was absolutely right. To her, it wasn’t something she could dismiss lightly. As she’d said, she needed comforting. Of course she did: she was still grieving for that incredibly brave soldier who had gone to Afghanistan to fight for his country. He had stepped on a concealed IED, been blown to pieces, and never came home.

  I moodily drank my own tea. Was it for her sake, or my own, that I’d not confessed? The reason I’d known what she was sobbing for was because in those fierce flames of passion, deep inside me, I’d been crying out for Annabel. And I should have come clean, admitted it – but didn’t.

  God, I was a spineless bastard.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Some fifty-odd hours ago, we’d started out from Nottinghamshire. Now, we were high above the tableau of white peaks in Switzerland and climbing in the vast blue sky.

  I cast a brief glance at Georgia sitting beside me, but her attention was focused on the view far below. Leaving St Moritz for Samedan Airport the conventional way this time, by limousine, had given us a drive of around five miles and afforded a totally different up-close view of the countryside. It confirmed all our earlier impressions – Switzerland was spectacular. The pride the Swiss people had in presenting their country in all its perfection to visitors was as crystal clear as the air we were flying through.

  I leaned closer to Georgia. ‘Not a visit to have missed.’

  Without taking her gaze away from the scene through the window, she nodded. ‘I’m so very glad I came.’

  ‘Truly?’ I felt the need to ask. Although she had been perfectly pleasant and sociable since we’d awoken this morning, there was a reticence about her. I sensed she’d stepped away emotionally and put space between us.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve enjoyed it hugely.’

  Across from us, Lady Branshawe, without obviously listening in to our conversation, had heard Georgia’s comment. She beamed at us.

  I sat back in my seat. There was so much I wanted to ask Georgia, but in the restricted space of the aircraft, it wasn’t possible to have a private conversation.

  And what I wanted to ask was most definitely private.

  ‘Such a pity we couldn’t all have stayed for a little longer,’ Lady Branshawe said. ‘However, I’m expected at a dinner in London tonight, so I regret it isn’t possible.’

  ‘Not just as a guest, but guest of honour, yes?’ Tally said.

  Lady Branshawe cast her eyes down modestly. ‘Well, yes … but there are other guests, too. I believe Mr Harper, our speaker, is a barrister – a man of wide experience and standing. And afterwards there will also be a piano recital by a Mr Jackson Fellows.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be an excellent evening.’ Tally nodded.

  ‘Could I ask what charity it is?’

  ‘Of course, my dear. It’s a charity devoted to the welfare of adopted babies and children. I’ve been patron for many years.’

  ‘A commendable cause.’ I forced myself to contribute to the conversation.

  However, inside, I was reeling at Lady Branshawe’s words. Small wonder I’d not managed to catch a glimpse of Jackson Fellows at the racecourse. No doubt he was busy in London practising for this evening’s performance.

  ‘I find people are so generous towards the charity. It seems to resonate on a deep level.’

  ‘Possibly because babies are completely helpless and need to be looked after. Maybe it brings out the protective instinct.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Georgia. Anyway, since both Mr Harper and Mr Fellows are giving their services free, I’ve invited them to a party I shall be giving at home tomorrow night.’

  Home was Hempton Hall. According to Tally, it was a non-crumbling pile, renovated and restored to the highest standard by Lady Branshawe’s late husband, Lord Rudolph Branshawe.

  She hesitated, then added, ‘Are either of you doing anything tomorrow?’

  Georgia shook her head.

  ‘Not that I know about,’ I said.

  ‘Then, what about joining us? Tally’s coming as well.’

  ‘I certainly am.’

  It was base of me, but the chance to meet Fellows was a gem, not to be turned down. ‘I’d like to very much.’

  ‘What about you, Georgia?’ Tally asked. ‘Do come.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, I’d love to. It’s not just other people who are generous, Lady Branshawe; thank you.’

  ‘You will all be doing me a favour. I simply love company. The hall’s a big place, meant for lots of people.’

  And she’d done me a favour without knowing it. Her offer would neatly tie up one of my loose ends, if I could find an opening at the party to chat with Fellows. But it would also depend on how much he was prepared to reveal. That just left me with the tricky problem of sorting out where I stood – or didn’t – with Georgia.

  Conversation turned to horseracing and moved on.

  England was still snow-bound. Racing, obviously, was still off.

  Harlequin Cottage was sitting regally on an unbroken white carpet. It must have snowed quite recently – no cat prints violated the pristine surface.

  ‘Sure you won’t come in for a drink, Georgia?’

  ‘Better get back, if you don’t mind.’

  We were standing in the snow outside the kitchen door. We’d just waved an enthusiastic goodbye and many thanks to Tally and Lady Branshawe as their Range Rover turned out of the gate, headed for Leicestershire, and now it left just the two of us. However, it seemed that it wasn’t simply the snow that was cold.

  I loaded her case into my car boot and she climbed into the passenger seat. Sliding in behind the wheel, I switched on the Mazda and, turning the car heater to max, followed Tally’s example and drove out of the gate into the snowy lane. The main A52 was mercifully well gritted and progress was fast until we had to leave it at the Granby turn-off. Then it was back to skiddy, narrow lanes with snow banked up high at the sides of the hedges.

  I broke the silence that had lasted since we set out. ‘Are you opening the flower shop tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve lots of orders to fill.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You? What will you be doing? Not racing, obviously.’

  ‘No, but I’ll probably be working at Mike’s stables, among other things.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  And that was the sum of our conversation – surface stuff, polite. We could have been strangers. Amazing to think we had spent the previous night sharing a bed, sharing love.

  Reaching her parents’ house, I swung in at the open gate and she hurried to open the front door.

  ‘I’ll call you, then, tomorrow evening, when I get back to the cottage,’ I said, hefting her suitcase from the boot and carrying it up the steps.

  ‘Text me, Harry.’

  It was an arm’s-length job. How many degrees of frost unknown, but I certainly wasn’t going to push it.

  ‘OK.’

  She took the case from my hand without inviting me in. ‘Thanks for everything, Harry.’

  I stepped back and only just escaped the door as she shut it swiftly behind her.

  It was a dismal anticlimax to a fabulous trip.

  When I got back to Harlequin Cottage, the first thing I noticed was a line of pawprints marring the surface of the snow. An enormous ginger cat was sitting on the doorstep. He could have gained access through the cat-flap but had chosen to wait out in the snow for my arrival. His radar, as usual, was in full working order. He knew I was coming home.

  As I drew up and cut the engine, Leo stood up and gave an exaggerated stretch and a yawn. I walked to within four feet and he leaped up, hooking claws in my jacket and hoisting himself on to my shoulder. His purrs reverberated so deeply that it was a wonder he didn’t shake himself loose.

  ‘At least someone’s pleased to see me.’

  He bashed his head against my cheek in agreement.

  I opened up a
nd sighed with pleasure at getting home: a warm cosy kitchen, a kettle soon to boil for some tea, plus a purring cat – perfect. Well, nearly. If Annabel had been here to welcome me home, it would have been. And at that point, I knew Georgia was probably right in keeping her distance. We seemed great as friends, someone to go out with, share a meal – but share our lives? As she’d said, we had taken some comfort in the snowy night and simply shored each other up. It was best to leave the situation as it was. Things might develop – or not. I shook my head to clear the thoughts.

  I took a mug of tea to the lounge and dialled Annabel’s telephone number.

  ‘Hello, I’m back, cat-sitting again.’

  ‘Harry, did you have a good time?’

  ‘Marvellous. It was definitely a once-in-a-lifetime job.’

  ‘What was the snow racing like?’

  ‘Pretty much indescribable.’

  ‘That good?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you tempted?’

  I laughed. ‘No, very happy to remain a spectator.’

  ‘And Georgia? Did she enjoy herself?’

  I hesitated. I didn’t feel guilty for sharing a bed with her, but I did feel uncomfortable about Annabel knowing. It felt as if I was being unfaithful, which was rubbish since we lived apart. And, in any case, Annabel slept each night with Jeffrey. But the cold truth was they wouldn’t make love, couldn’t, not with the severity of his injuries. Might never make love again.

  What a sad mess life was.

  ‘I think she did.’

  ‘Only think? Come on, Harry …’

  ‘She was certainly thrilled going over by private jet. So was I, come to that. And the actual racing was an experience I doubt she’ll ever forget.’

  ‘What about the hotel – was it very plush?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, yes. The word for it was palatial. And the food was truly excellent.’

  ‘But? I do sense a but, Harry.’

  ‘Let’s just say, I think Georgia was disappointed in me.’

  ‘Tch, then she’s a silly girl.’ Her annoyance was coming down the phone line in a big wave.

  ‘Like everybody’s life, Annabel, her situation’s complicated.’

  ‘Hmm …’

  I could tell she was not placated. ‘She’s been through a tough time. I think, emotionally, she needs time to work through it. Maybe I was expecting too much of her.’

  ‘And I think you are making excuses for her.’

  ‘Can we drop the subject, please?’

  ‘Are you seeing each other again?’

  ‘Well, yes, but just not as a couple. We’ve both been invited to a party at Lady Branshawe’s tomorrow night. It’s a thank-you spinoff from a bunfight that’s happening in London right now – a charity do. She’s patron of Childhood, a children’s adoption charity.’

  ‘Really? That’s interesting.’

  ‘Worthwhile, certainly. Anyway, I’m driving Georgia over to Hempton Hall.’

  ‘Well, maybe she will have had time to realize how lucky she was to go to Switzerland. And appreciate the enjoyable times. Anyway, I hope the evening goes well for you both.’

  ‘You’re a lovely woman, Annabel. Thank you. Yes, I hope it goes off all right, too. It’s not Georgia’s fault everything didn’t run smoothly. I know she’s had a lot of hurt recently.’

  ‘She’s not by herself – we’ve all experienced a lot of hurt.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that. But life continually keeps throwing stuff at us. We can try ducking, of course, but it doesn’t do any good.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so, Harry. I think you did a super job of ducking when you sorted out the threat to Jeffrey.’

  ‘Everything still OK, then?’

  ‘Not heard another squeak, thank goodness.’

  ‘Seems we’ve deflected the boss-man, then, whoever he is.’

  ‘Yes. I guess you can rest easy now. Relax a little; enjoy yourself, until the snow lets up.’

  ‘Sounds pretty good.’

  ‘All right, then, darling. Speak to you again soon.’

  ‘Bye, Annabel.’

  I replaced the receiver. It was good advice, but then she didn’t know the details about John Dunston being murdered.

  I sighed, opened the desk drawer and took out the folder of photographs Pen had found in Mike’s loft. I didn’t bother with the majority, but took out the one photo that showed two men standing under a snow-laden tree. I didn’t recognize either of them. I flicked open my mobile and scrolled down to the photo Nathaniel Willoughby, the horse artist, had sent me, spread my thumb and forefinger wide and enlarged the image. Then placed the mobile next to the original photo.

  In the top drawer of the desk was a magnifying glass. I took it out and positioned it over Nathaniel’s photo. The picture sprang into fierce focus. It showed a man, late twenties, dark hair, medium build. Not a forceful character, I guessed. There was a slackness about his face, the weak line of his jaw – a follower rather than a leader.

  I contrasted it with the second photograph. With the help of the magnifying glass, I could see it was definitely the same man, although he was now wearing dark glasses.

  So that just left the man talking to him. A man who was also wearing dark glasses that disguised his face. But this man was of a different cut. There was an aggressiveness in the way he was standing … jaw lifted, shoulders squared. He looked about ten years older, maybe more. I held the glass steady and studied what I could see of his face. He was somehow familiar, although I couldn’t place him.

  I knew I had seen this man before. It would have been in a different setting, of course, but take people out of their normal environment and very often you didn’t recognize them.

  The feeling of surety in my gut caused an itch of frustration at my brain’s tardy computing in not coming up with the name. But past experience had shown me many times before that pushing yielded nil results. The better way was simply to imprint the facts or images in my mind – and let go. It wasn’t magic, but it was crucial to have complete faith that the answer would come. At some point, that eureka moment would fire in my brain, usually when I was least prepared for it. And when it did occur, it vindicated the trust I’d placed in my subconscious and was very sweet.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The ringing of the landline telephone broke into my introspection.

  ‘Harry. Wasn’t sure if you’d be back yet from St Moritz.’

  It was Victor Maudsley, the former racehorse trainer. I’d ridden for him years ago before he retired to the east coast near Skegness. I’d visited him several times. The house was beautiful, with gardens that reached right down to the beach and within walking distance of the golf course. We also shared an unorthodox history, a past that linked us emotionally on more than one level. Links that could never be severed, that I’d known nothing about until this last year. And I was now thirty-five.

  ‘Hello, Victor. Yes, came back in style – and with speed.’

  ‘Courtesy of Lady Branshawe?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Hmm, Mike told me when I rang him.’

  ‘So, what can I do for you, Victor?’

  He hesitated. ‘Can’t really discuss this over the phone.’

  ‘Oh, that sort of problem.’

  ‘You got it. But I do want to see you, Harry. Get your take on the situation. With this atrocious weather and racing being off …’

  ‘You thought I’d have some free time?’

  ‘Exactly. What I suggest is, if you’re agreeable, how about driving over to North Shore tomorrow? Obviously, like racing, the golf’s off, but I could stand you a decent meal at the hotel. And I can ask you … what I need to ask.’

  ‘As you say, there’s no racing so, yes, I’m OK to meet you for lunch.’

  ‘Around twelve?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘Tell you what, Harry. Park up on my drive. We can walk up the beach to North Shore Hotel. Then after lunch, we can have a drink at mine.’<
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  ‘Will do, Victor. A blast of sea air would be nice. See you at twelve, tomorrow.’

  ‘Blast is definitely the right word in this weather.’

  I replaced the receiver, sat back in the chair and thought about the conversation. Once before, I’d been asked to do a similar thing – also by a retired trainer, Mousey Brown. His revelation over lunch in a Yorkshire pub had completely blown me away.

  I was sure Victor’s forthcoming chat wasn’t going to reveal anything quite so personal. That it would be a sensitive subject was for sure. But if it was simply, as he put it, for ‘my take’, that was fair enough. I’d certainly help him if I could.

  However, I hoped like hell it wasn’t something Victor wanted me to do that would cause me to have to don my second hat – the deerstalker I’d acquired through necessity, not desire – and investigate somebody.

  The timing worked a treat. Just after ten the next morning, I drove into Mike’s stable yard. His monster of a four-by-four was missing. The second lot would be up on the gallops and he would be noting the horses’ individual performances. Pen would most likely be by herself.

  I locked the Mazda and knocked on the kitchen door.

  ‘Come in,’ Pen called out.

  I found her, gloved hands covered in soapy bubbles, squaring up the breakfast dishes.

  ‘You’ve just missed Mike.’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness.’

  Her eyebrows raised.

  ‘I’ve brought you those photographs I had developed before I went to Switzerland.’

  ‘Ah’ – she nodded – ‘and did they prove interesting?’

  I laid them down on the kitchen table. ‘Not really. There was just one that might be.’ I picked it up and held it out in front of her.

  ‘Two men – in the snow.’ She carried on washing up and shook her head. ‘I don’t think that’s interesting.’

  ‘It’s a piece of the jigsaw, Pen. This case is exactly that – a jigsaw. I look on the bits of information I gather up as pieces of the picture. Get enough pieces and that’s it: case solved.’