Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Hmm …’ She stared at me. ‘You know what, Harry?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re beginning to talk like a private eye.’

  It was my turn to stare at her.

  ‘You’ve just called it a case.’

  ‘Slip of the tongue,’ I said hastily. ‘I was just trying to describe how I see it.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  I ploughed on. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave these photos with you, but I’d like to keep this one if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ She reached for a tea towel, dried her hands and collected up the rest of the snaps. ‘It’s a bit of your jigsaw. And you certainly need all your bits.’ She was grinning, taking the Mick.

  ‘Give over.’

  She relented. ‘Tell me how your trip went. Was it all good, or like the curate’s egg?’

  ‘On a general level, yes, it was extremely good. On the strictly personal, I’d have to say more of the vestment and yolk.’

  ‘Oh dear. Do you want to tell me?’

  ‘I promise, if I need to, yours will be the first shoulder to get wet, Pen. But right now’ – I slid the single photograph into my pocket and opened the kitchen door – ‘I’ve got a date with Victor in Skegness. Not a hot date, because I believe right now there’s a good layer of snow on the beach.’

  ‘Lovely crisp salt air. What could be nicer?’ She smiled. ‘Take care of yourself, Harry. Bye.’

  There was minimal traffic on the A52 from Grantham leading to the Skegness roundabout. Not surprising really; kids would have to scrape off the snow before they could make sandcastles. Come summer, it would be a different matter.

  I made good time before turning sharp right on to the A158 Burgh-le-Marsh Road and drove the seven miles down the wide, straight road into Skegness. I passed the local landmark, the Ship pub, and began weaving my way through the side roads leading to St Andrew’s Drive.

  The gate leading to Saddler’s Rest was wide open. Victor’s white Range Rover was parked halfway up the long drive. I swung in and parked behind it. Pen had called it crisp salt air. She should have said freezing salt air. The cold scoured my face the second I climbed out of the car. Switzerland had been cold, extremely cold, but somehow the cold in England had a bone-chilling, raw quality about it. I hastened up the slope of the drive and was about to reach for the knocker when Victor opened the door.

  ‘Harry, good to see you, lad. Come on in.’

  ‘Glad to, Victor. Brrr … it’s brass-monkey weather out there.’

  ‘I’ve got coffee on. Will you have one before we brave the beach approach to the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  An open fire was burning in the inglenook in the lounge, and I took fullest advantage of it while Victor was fixing the drinks. Around the walls hung oil paintings of some of the famous horses he had trained. It was clear a gifted artist had painted them. Some were on the flat at prestigious courses – Goodwood, Newmarket, Ascot – with jockey silks bright above summer green grass, while others were caught in action going over fences in winter, mud up to the hocks. The horses were totally alive, joyous in their racing.

  I looked closely in the bottom corner of several. It confirmed what I’d thought – they were the work of Nathaniel Willoughby. I had expected it, yet, given the history between Nathaniel and Victor’s wife, Elspeth Maudsley, it was surprising. Victor must be viewing the paintings as an investment.

  At the far end of the lounge, through French doors, there was a magnificent view right out to sea. Even indoors, I could hear the endless boom of the breakers.

  At the end of the long garden was a tall, wrought-iron gate with deterrent spikes along the top. It gave access on to the narrow stone-topped pathway running along the edge of the beach all the way from Skegness to Winthorpe, about a couple of miles north. We’d shortly be walking along it, taking in the sea air, on the way up to North Shore Hotel, without struggling in the deep sand along the beach. However, above the high-tide mark, the sand was not only deep where the savage winter gales had blown it into drifts, but also topped with a thick crust of snow. We’d be well ready for a hot meal in the hotel.

  ‘Here you are. Wrap yourself around this.’

  Victor crossed the room and handed me a steaming mug of coffee that smelled delicious.

  ‘Cheers, Victor.’

  We sat in deep, maroon leather armchairs before the blazing fire and sipped the scalding coffee. It tasted even better than it smelled. I reminded myself that before his retirement as a racehorse trainer, Victor had ‘held the reins’ of a stable that accommodated upwards of 120 horses. His income must have been sizeable. The whole house, setting and internal furnishings – plus top-quality coffee – said wealth. Maybe not in the same bracket as Lady Branshawe but doing very nicely all the same.

  ‘Lovely coffee, thanks.’ I drained my mug and put it down on a convenient coaster. ‘So, did you want to have a chat before we go up to North Shore?’

  ‘No, oh no, not just yet, Harry. Let’s enjoy our walk, which will no doubt be stimulating’ – he laughed – ‘and then have a good tuck-in before we talk business.’

  At the word ‘business’, my shoulders involuntarily tensed and drew up. He’d said he wanted my take on a situation. Now I was here, on his patch, I realized he was going to capitalize on that and overrule any objections.

  ‘Now, just a second—’

  ‘No, Harry. I asked you over and I insist we enjoy ourselves first before we dig into the muck heap.’

  Now my shoulders were no longer drawing up; they had dropped – along with my spirits. I should have known this wasn’t going to turn into a fun day out.

  Victor had said the walk would be stimulating. It was the right word. We arrived at the junction of the stone path and the gravel car park to North Shore Hotel fully stimulated, freezing cold and with the overriding desire to escape inside, away from the bitter salty wind. As we stepped into the welcome warmth, the heavy glass door sighed closed behind us. We echoed it.

  ‘If that hasn’t sharpened your appetite, lad, nothing will.’ Victor led the way down the long-carpeted reception hall into the bar and restaurant. The air was redolent with the tantalizing smell of food cooking. Placing our order at the bar, Victor insisted on paying. ‘I’ve dragged you here and it’s my treat.’ We carried our beers down the four centre steps into the long conservatory that acted as a daytime restaurant, giving panoramic views over the eighteen-hole golf course and down to the sea.

  I took a long pull of my beer. ‘Best place ever to eat.’

  If the weather hadn’t been so inclement, the course would have been studded with brightly clad golfers, blue golf buggies buzzing around and, with the first and eighteenth greens in full view, an active ongoing floorshow.

  ‘I do so agree, and having company adds to the pleasure.’

  Our table was next to a hot radiator and, thawing out now, our battle up the beach path through the snow to get here was a minor achievement to relish.

  ‘However,’ Victor continued, ‘I reckon the civilized way along St Andrew’s Drive is favourite to get us back to Saddler’s Rest.’

  I nodded. It would certainly be quicker, and it would speed up the moment Victor enlightened me about his problem.

  But even as I agreed with him, I was also wondering about another little problem. Just why, a few seconds after we had stepped round the corner off the beach path into full view of the hotel, had two men in a black Beamer swiftly exited the car park? Even as the motor screamed away down the road towards the junction with Roman Bank, the main road into Skegness, I’d mentally noted the number of the registration plate. Since I’d been caught up in this bloody silly game of catching killers, noting data – like car numbers – had become a habit. I hadn’t recognized the vehicle, but I knew the driver. More importantly, I would very much like to know just who his passenger was.

  The man was wearing black glasses – and had a vaguely familiar, distinctive jut to his chin.<
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  Our food arrived: roast pork for Victor, turkey for me, plus a generous selection of vegetables. We did justice to it all.

  Victor sat back, obviously replete, and dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘That was excellent – as usual. Yours, Harry?’

  ‘Oh, yes, a great meal. Thank you.’

  He flipped a dismissive hand. ‘You’re most welcome.’ Then shot a look at me. ‘I’d like you to promise me something, Harry.’

  I put the last forkful of turkey into my mouth – and shook my head. He waited until I’d finished masticating the food.

  ‘It’s not for me—’

  ‘I’m not promising anything, Victor. Sorry. Especially’ – I tried a weak joke to soften my refusal – ‘when you’ve forked out for the food, but the answer’s no.’

  He dabbed his mouth again, screwed up the paper napkin and dropped it on to his empty plate.

  ‘It involves the grandchildren.’

  I swallowed. As a lead-in to a spot of emotional blackmail, it probably couldn’t be bettered.

  ‘Victor, I’ve got a situation right now that could get nasty. I don’t want another one.’

  ‘If you don’t help me, Harry, I’ve no idea where else to turn.’

  ‘Why me?’ Those words had echoed down the ages – and still no reply.

  ‘You don’t need to ask, do you?’

  ‘Look, is someone’s life at stake – any of the grandchildren?’

  ‘No.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Then I’ll help you sort out whatever the problem is, but it’s still your problem. OK?’

  He pushed back from the table, then leaned over and said in a low voice, ‘Even if it’s going to bankrupt me? You’d sit back, let that happen, would you?’

  I didn’t know how to answer him. My thoughts skittered, ironically, to the many paintings hanging on the walls inside his house – and all the money invested in them. Original Willoughbys, they were appreciating year on year. Victor led a quiet, parsimonious life. Bankruptcy surely wasn’t possible.

  His face set firm, lips a thin line, he led the way back up the steps, through the bar and out of the hotel. We didn’t speak again on the walk back to Saddler’s Rest.

  He showed me into the lounge, motioned me to one of the two armchairs by the fire. Poured us both a whisky. He took a gulp from the chunky glass and stared at me.

  ‘The problem is Nigel,’ he said abruptly. ‘My bloody son-in-law.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I stared back at him.

  Victor’s son-in-law was Nigel Garton, MP. He was Paula’s husband, father of her three children, Victor’s grandsons. The man, full of charm and bonhomie, who’d bought me a drink in the marquee in St Moritz.

  I followed Victor’s example and took a sip of my whisky. ‘OK. I’m listening. Let’s hear it.’

  ‘I’ve had Paula here, sobbing away. Poor lass, I couldn’t pacify her. She’s worried to death about him.’

  ‘What’s he been up to?’

  ‘Now that’s the point. Oh, he’s definitely playing an away game, but just what, Paula doesn’t know.’

  ‘You talking about another woman? Is he having an affair?’

  ‘No. I asked her that straight away. It’s something dicey to do with money. A lot of money. She says it’s flowing out of the bank account. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s gambling.’

  ‘Is it going out at the same rate, same time frame?’

  ‘No. Well, not the same rate. As to the time frame – well, yes, I suppose it is. Seems to be weekly from what she tells me. Any ideas, Harry?’

  ‘If it’s not the same amount each time, it’s unlikely he’s being blackmailed.’

  ‘Good God! I’d not even considered that.’

  ‘And I don’t think it is. But you could be right about gambling. Does he go online, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, no, no. Nothing like that.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Because of what Paula told me. That’s how she’s found out, see.’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m struggling here. What has she found out?’

  ‘Apparently, he comes home every weekend, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he takes Paula and the boys out on Saturdays – during the day, of course. Then in the evening, they generally go out together for a meal. They have a babysitter in to look after the kids. Well, when our Paula’s had them on her own all week while he’s down in London, she needs a break from them.’

  I could well believe it. They were little hellions. I felt sorry for the babysitter.

  ‘Anyway, he seems to think he’s done his duty by Sunday teatime and takes himself off. Says he’s going to visit his mum and dad. They live near Doncaster. Paula’s quite happy about that. She doesn’t get on with his mother, so if Nigel wants to go on his own, that’s fine by her.’

  ‘Seems innocent enough.’

  ‘Hmm … except since Paula’s found out about the bank balance going down, she’s got suspicious. I think she did reckon he’d got another woman – was spending out on her, you know.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Since she couldn’t ask him straight out, she thought up this plan to try to find out.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She made a note of the mileage on the car before he left on a Sunday and then again when he’d got back in the evening.’

  ‘What did she discover?’

  ‘It was the same mileage every time. But it wasn’t the right mileage for simply visiting his parents. He did call to see them – that’s true enough because sometimes he came back with a present for the kids from their grandparents. But the mileage didn’t add up. It was a hell of a lot more.’

  ‘Hmm … well, short of tailing him next Sunday, there’s not a lot to go on.’

  ‘That was my reasoning as well.’

  ‘And you’re going to?’

  ‘I’d rather hoped you’d take it on, Harry, and I would pay you.’

  ‘Talking of pay, why on earth did you say you could go bankrupt?’

  ‘If Nigel’s not stopped, whatever it is he’s doing, I know where it will end. I’ll have to bail him out.’

  ‘I think that’s a bit extreme.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s not.’ Tension heightened the tone of his voice. ‘We’re not talking pennies here, Harry. Paula came to ask me for a loan. Tch, I ask you, a loan – silly girl. Seems she had been on a spending spree – some fresh furnishings for the house or some such. Found there wasn’t sufficient to cover it. She had no idea things were that bad.’

  ‘Well, she’s not going on a spree every week, is she?’

  ‘Maybe not, but there’s a hell of a mortgage payment to be met every month.’

  ‘Has she talked to him about it?’

  ‘Seems so. But you know what Nigel’s like … I mean, he’s a politician, for God’s sake. Lying seems to be a requisite on the CV.’ Victor shook his head worriedly. ‘And that’s not all. Paula was sending a couple of his suits to the dry cleaners a few days ago. She went through all the pockets, didn’t she – found an IOU for ten grand. It had the one word written through it – “Thanks”.’

  ‘Which explains the sudden drop at the bank, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Well, if he’s that deeply into gambling, he’s not going to stop. It’s like being an alcoholic – he can’t stop.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, Harry.’

  ‘He was over there in St Moritz. Seems he’s part of a syndicate. And that’s not a cheap pastime. There will be steep racing bills payable.’

  ‘I know. He’s with Clive Unwin.’

  He downed the remains of his drink and poured another, gesturing with the whisky bottle towards my own glass. I waved it away.

  ‘Uh-huh, I’ve got to drive home.’

  He nodded morosely. ‘What am I going to do? I feel I have to support Paula, naturally. And I will. She’s my daughter, for God’s sake. But
I don’t want Nigel’s gambling debts hanging round my neck. Oh, I know, I’m not short of a bob or two, but even so, money’s harder to bring in than to send out. Interest rates have been flat to the boards for a long time now.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘And who knows where this situation will lead.’

  I could see his point. Paying out for your own excesses was one thing, but finding yourself responsible for meeting an unknown amount of debt – one that was ongoing – for somebody else was definitely not on. I wouldn’t want to find myself in this situation. It was far from pleasant.

  OK, I’d been over a barrel paying nursing-home fees for my severely disabled half-sister for years. It was a straitjacket that exerted a hot-rod prod forcing you to work hard to bring in the necessary monies. The need to bring in the money had been a ceaseless nag of worry. In my own case, I was relatively young, fit and capable of working hard. But Victor was an elderly retired man. I empathized with him. It was an ugly position in which to find yourself.

  ‘Look, how about I do a tailing job next Sunday, find out where Nigel’s going? Will that help?’

  ‘It certainly will.’ His eyes lit up with hope.

  ‘One condition – you don’t pay me, OK?’

  ‘I can’t expect you to do it for nothing. No, no, I must pay you.’

  I held up an index finger. ‘Expenses, diesel costs only; otherwise it’s no go.’

  Hearing the finality in my voice, he nodded reluctantly. ‘OK, whatever you say, Harry. I’m in no position to call the shots in all this mess.’

  ‘One thing: did Paula keep the IOU?’

  ‘She gave it to me. It’s in the top drawer of my desk. I’ll get it.’

  I finished the last of my whisky, leaned my head back against the plump soft headrest of the armchair, closed my eyes. Asking for expenses was merely a sop to Victor’s self-respect. I certainly didn’t want paying to help the man – if, indeed, tailing Nigel was going to help. Even if I found out where his destination lay, it still wasn’t going to stop his gambling. But as I mulled it over, something else came to mind.

  He wouldn’t be gambling by himself. For that amount of money, there was bound to be three or four men involved – could well be more. That old adage ‘knowledge is power’ might prove to be true. If I could give Victor the names of Nigel’s cronies, he might find a way to put pressure on Nigel.