So, whose house had I been inside when I’d seen an ashtray? None of my friends smoked. But it must have been a private house. The smoking ban had been introduced and vigorously enforced in all public houses and restaurants. Realizing that fact was cheering. It eliminated a great number of possibilities.
I couldn’t remember any of my racing colleagues who smoked. When it came to race riding, fitness was everything – we all needed every gasp of breath going when it came to riding a finish. And upon that thought another quickly followed. Smoking was banned, of course, at Silvie’s nursing home. Lung infections were bad news. They could prove fatal.
My own movements at that time had been curtailed. I was getting over a bad fall and, apart from doing loads of physio work, was supposed to be resting. I hadn’t gone to many places or travelled very far. The flower shop, prior to visiting Silvie, and the solicitor’s office was about it. I’d never seen Janine smoking even before the ban when I’d called into the shop to buy freesias – always white ones – for Silvie. And certainly in the solicitor Nigel Broadbent’s office, there had been no sign of an ashtray.
One place I had frequented, however, had been the home of the soon-to-be-retired racehorse trainer, Elspeth Maudsley. Had there been any ashtrays in her lounge when we’d sat down with coffee and discussed my writing her memoirs? The short answer was no, there hadn’t been. Elspeth was a non-smoker.
But … her son was a smoker.
On the evening of the birthday party for Chloe, her daughter-in-law, Elspeth had drawn me aside into the office. There had been a telephone call for me from Aunt Rachel. I knew for sure there had been an ashtray on the desk. And a half-smoked, stubbed-out cigarette adorning it. Oh, yes, I could remember that clearly.
Elspeth had wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m sorry about the smell,’ she’d said, ‘I do apologize.’ She’d left the office, closing the door behind her to give me some privacy. Taking advantage of her absence, I’d picked up that cigarette butt and put it into my pocket – it had been evidence. The scene came into my mind with remarkable clarity, as if I was actually looking down at that ashtray, picking up the stub.
Only one thing wrong – the ashtray wasn’t the same one.
TWENTY-NINE
The Leicester races murder. That had been the title by which people referred to the first case. They still did. Mentally, I drew a red line underneath. No, I hadn’t seen the bloodied ashtray at any time during that horrible affair.
So, the second time I’d been dragged into investigating a murder – this time at North Shore Hotel and golf course where Mike and I had been guests at a wedding – would need checking out. Obviously, since there were no ashtrays in the hotel itself, that venue could be ruled out for a start.
I sat and mulled over various other places, but apart from racecourses, they’d been mainly pubs so the answer was the same. It had to have been a private house or establishment. But whom had I visited?
I thrashed away at the problem for a couple of hours and came up with nothing. What I needed was a second person, someone who knew me well and could look at it in a different way. Only one person fitted that – Mike. He’d always been my main man in a crisis, a lifesaver more than once. Maybe his take on this would help.
I reached for my mobile and sent him a text. A couple of minutes later his reply bleeped back. Yes, come over. Hot grub in 1 hr. I grinned. Good old Mike: just what I needed in this atrocious weather.
Pen opened the door. She was wearing a scarlet apron. The sight of her lifted me from the mud I was wallowing in. Solitary living was fine, up to a point, but there came a moment when friends were a blessing.
‘Something smells good. And you look good enough to eat.’
She laughed, lifting her cheek for a kiss. ‘You’re most welcome, Harry. Go straight through; Mike’s in the kitchen.’
He was sprawled out in a chair, feet up on another, with the Racing Post spread out on top of his thighs.
‘Hi. How did your bash at Lady B’s go off, then? Any little nuggets get dropped?’
‘It was productive, yes.’
‘Never mind all the sleuthing,’ Pen said, following me into the kitchen. ‘Tell me about Georgia. Did she wear a nice dress?’
‘What Pen really means, Harry, is did you two—’
‘Mike! That’s enough.’
He grinned, unabashed, and thrust the Racing Post supplement into my hand. ‘Saved you this from Sunday as you were in Switzerland. In case you didn’t see it, there’s an interesting article on a stable visit up at Mousey’s.’
Obediently, I sank down in a chair and began reading, savouring the delicious smell of roasting pork, the heat from the Aga and the warmth of their friendship. I pushed away all problems and totally relaxed. Sunny, Pen’s old yellow Labrador bitch, pottered over from her basket and slumped down across my feet. I reached down and fondled the soft ears. This was the real world, my world – the only one that mattered. And it felt good.
OK, living it up in St Moritz had been great, but it was unreal and transitory against the pleasures of home and the company of long-standing friends. And there was only so much ice and snow you could take. Here, in England, in a few days, the thaw would have set in and I’d be back in the saddle racing; over there, they would still be trapped in their winter wonderland for weeks.
After lunch – apple sauce to complement the roast pork and three choices of vegetables, plus roast potatoes – most regretfully, I introduced the subject of ashtrays.
‘I need to try to retrace my movements during the time of that second case.’ I gave emphasis to the word.
‘I told you, didn’t I? You’ve started talking like a private eye.’
‘Sorry, Pen. I’m not a private eye. I don’t get paid to chase down killers. But I don’t know how to refer to it really.’
‘How about the golf course murder, eh?’ Mike said. ‘It’s what everybody else calls it.’
I was forced to agree. ‘What I need to remember is where I’ve seen something before …’ I hesitated. ‘Don’t laugh … actually, it’s an ashtray.’
‘Of all the things you might have said …’ Pen shook her head. ‘You could have put money on our never guessing.’
‘I’ll say.’ Mike looked bewildered. ‘How can we help?’
‘Remind me, Mike, of the places we went to – probably private dwellings.’
‘Yes, you wouldn’t have found ashtrays in pubs, would you? Not with the smoking ban.’
‘True enough, Pen.’
Mike laughed. ‘Face it, Harry: it was mostly pubs we frequented.’
I nodded. ‘But I’m sure there were others – must have been.’
‘Well, for a start, Barbara Maguire threw a party at her place. You took Chloe.’
‘So I did. D’y’know, I’d totally forgotten.’ I ran the scenario through my mind before shaking my head. ‘Pity. It could have been the answer, but no.’
‘And don’t forget, you visited Alice’s husband, Darren Goode, in Nottingham Prison.’
We all grimaced together.
‘Nice try, Mike. Not good enough.’
‘I remember something you once said, Harry.’ Pen screwed up her forehead. ‘It was to do with that criminal who’d been released after doing time for GBH. What was his name now? Jake?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Jake Smith.’
‘You visited a relation of his, I think. Would it have been his father?’
‘Dead right. Thanks. I went over to Newark, spoke to his dad, Fred. The house was a tip, smelled to the rafters of booze, fags, urine, and anything else you could imagine.’
‘Sounds revolting.’
‘Hmm, it was.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Mike said. ‘You mentioned fags. Did you happen to notice if there were any ashtrays around?’
I pictured the interior as I’d walked up to the dirty front door and let my mind’s eye travel around as Fred showed me through to the living room. I’d been aware that on top of the sticky ol
d carpet it was crowded with furniture, and every surface was cluttered with accumulated junk, littered with empty beer cans and crumpled newspapers. It had not been a room to linger in.
I forced myself to concentrate on the most likely place to stand an ashtray. The coffee table had been ringed and ruined by numerous mugs and glasses, but on the corner nearest Fred’s battered armchair there had been an ashtray. I closed my eyes and concentrated. What had it looked like? My interest that day had been cursory to say the least. But I had noticed it was overflowing with cigarette butts. On that basis, it must have been a large one.
My subconscious came up trumps and provided me with an image. It had been a deep, heavy ashtray and around the edge of the pottery was a picture of Robin Hood in green and red. I nodded, satisfied.
‘Yes. I did see one, Mike.’
‘But?’
‘It’s not the right one.’
We gave a collective groan.
Pen rallied first. ‘But we’re getting closer. Even if it’s only to eliminate one.’
‘Might be easier to think of who you know that smokes.’
‘That’s another way of looking at it, Mike.’
‘Who might have offered you a cigarette? Like a casual acquaintance who didn’t know you’re a non-smoker?’
‘I’ve just remembered someone,’ Pen said excitedly, ‘and you went to interview him.’
‘Who?’
‘Benson McCavity. You went over to Grantham to check on Benson, at his garage.’
‘Yes, I remember. He made tea for us in Union Jack mugs. But he didn’t offer me a cigarette and I didn’t see any ashtrays.’
‘Right …’ Mike pulled a wry face. ‘So where does that leave us?’
‘I don’t know—’ I began and then, quite suddenly, I remembered another house. I’d gone there because I’d been beaten up, left for dead. And I’d seriously wanted to know the would-be assassin’s name. Only one person would be able to tell me – the prostitute, Alice. If she didn’t know, then no one would. So I’d gone visiting.
Alice had shown me into her living room. Apart from the three-piece suite, there had been a coffee table. And on that table had been an ashtray. Made of heavy clear glass, it was identical to the one wrapped in the terry towelling – or had been, before the crusted blood. When I’d seen Alice’s ashtray the first time, it was simply clear glass, no blood on it. But then Alice had still been alive. Even as the thought went through my mind, my next one gave me a physical jolt. It was more than probable – it was almost a certainty – that the ashtray had been used to kill her. The dried and encrusted blood around the base was Alice’s blood.
Lost in dark thoughts, I gradually became aware that the other two were sitting watching me curiously.
‘What have you remembered, Harry?’
I looked up at Pen. ‘Exactly where I saw the ashtray. But … more importantly,’ I said slowly, ‘the victim’s name.’
‘Which is?’ Mike prompted.
‘I’m pretty sure the ashtray was used to kill Alice Goode.’
‘The prostitute?’ Pen said, her eyes fixed on my face.
I nodded. ‘I saw it on her coffee table, the afternoon I drove over to Newark to ask her if she knew who it was that had beaten me up—’
‘Oh, yes,’ Mike interrupted, ‘and she told you it couldn’t have been Jake Smith. He’d have finished the job.’
‘Too true.’
‘But then you cracked the golf course murder.’
‘Yes, but Alice was murdered very soon afterwards.’
An unwanted image came into my mind of Alice lying on the floor, her skull smashed and bloodied. The attack had been frenzied. But, as far as I knew, the police hadn’t found the murder weapon. It was certainly never reported.
‘I’d only just got out of hospital, if you remember, when I discovered Alice – and finding a body was the last thing on God’s earth I needed. Normality and peace were what I had in mind – you know, time to heal?’
They nodded.
‘You’ve had precious little peace this last year, Harry.’
‘Tell me about it, Pen.’
‘I thought it was all cut and dried about Alice’s death,’ Mike said. ‘Case closed.’
‘So did I,’ I said gloomily. ‘But somehow it’s tied in with this latest murder.’
‘John Dunston being thrown over Flamborough Head?’
‘Yes. Apart from that letter I received at his funeral, there was this other thing – a small package left at the solicitor’s office up in York. I went up to collect it.’
‘The day you took your car so you could drive straight to Leicester races.’
‘Yes. Well, when I finally got to open the package, inside was this bloodied ashtray wrapped up in a bit of terry towelling. John had said in the letter that it was the only bit of evidence regarding his death.’
Mike nodded slowly. ‘So there had to have been someone else involved with Alice’s death, and this person murdered Dunston. He was silenced because – and before – he could point the finger.’
‘That’s how I see it, Mike.’
‘But why didn’t Dunston just tell you who it was?’ Pen put in.
‘Because I suspect he was trying to protect someone else. John was a generous man; he gave me the option of either going ahead and clearing his name – seeing justice done – or backing off.’
‘Harry, faced with doing the right thing, no matter how bloody dangerous, or backing off … come on. You have never backed off.’
‘You wanted me to, though, Mike. You told me to give the blasted letter back and have done with it.’
‘And I knew damned well you wouldn’t.’
‘Hmm,’ Pen shook her head disapprovingly, looking from one to the other. ‘Leopards and spots. You’re as bad as each other.’
Mike smiled and reached for her hand. ‘Would you have us any other way, my sweet?’
THIRTY
As we talked, the afternoon had drifted unnoticed through dusk into early evening, and by the time I arrived home at the cottage it was quite dark. The light outside the kitchen door came on announcing my arrival. The golden gleam hit the ice-white snow and reflected upwards again. It was very still; no breeze disturbed the air of watchful waiting which hung about the cottage.
I locked the vehicle and made my way round to the brick outbuildings. Although wide open and battered by the earlier gale-force winds, the door to the first one was still intact, hinges holding. I checked that Leo wasn’t sheltering inside, then closed it securely. There was no need to replace the package in the bag of cat litter – its secret was a secret no more. I had found the answer to the first of my questions – the victim’s name. But sorting out the backstory had inevitably thrown up the crucial second question: who was the murderer? That it was someone I knew was a given – had to be. But just who was it? If John hadn’t been sure I could find out, he’d never have gone to all the trouble of leading me on in this way. But he’d also been covering his tracks, thus preventing harm to anyone else – except me. Probably why he’d given me an option.
I stamped off the clinging snow at the doorstep and went through into the welcome warmth of the kitchen.
‘Hi, you lazy bugger.’
Leo languidly stretched out a long, ginger back leg over the edge of his basket, opened his eyes and almost swallowed himself in a gigantic yawn. He didn’t appear to have shifted an inch all day. But now, since I’d finally deigned to come home, he launched all eight kilograms of body weight and dug grappling irons firmly into my shoulder. It was a good job I still had my coat on.
‘Food, right? That what you want?’
I carried him into the pantry and took down a tin of pilchards from the shelf. Well, since I’d been fed magnificently at Mike’s stables, it seemed only fair. His purr, when I took off the lid, practically rattled the pantiles on the roof.
Cordial relations established, I took a mug of strong tea into the lounge. Picking up my folder of notes
, I settled on the settee to write up my latest piece of the jigsaw. It wasn’t a picture, but sometimes words were equally good. Sometimes they were better. Words allowed the subconscious to form its own imaginative illustration.
The ashtray still sat where I’d left it on top of the pristine sheet of A4 on my desk. Pity it couldn’t speak, tell me what I needed to know: the man’s name. And, taking into account the strength involved in dispatching John, yes, it had to be a man. But now that I knew this bastard had been the same one who had also murdered Alice, my resolve to track down the killer was absolute.
However, before I began to write today’s input, I decided to reread all my notes from when I attended John Dunston’s funeral. Because I’d now discovered Alice was the first victim, it coloured my perceptions somewhat differently. I had to ask myself a big question: did John know that the man who was gunning for him had been the same one who had killed Alice? It seemed very likely. And if John knew, it wasn’t too far-fetched that Keith Whellan, his friend and ally, might also be aware of it. Keith had promised to help in any way he could.
As Mike had said, as far as the police were concerned, the case was closed. Without any convincing new evidence, they wouldn’t be interested. Far better to let the mud rest at the bottom of the pond than stir it up. Since then, though, John had met his death … The police had written it off as suicide. That wasn’t good enough for me. It left an ongoing dirty smear against John’s character – and let a murderer go free. But the only evidence I had was the encrusted blood that could, possibly, be checked against data on Alice’s file. Likewise, if the police were to check for fingerprints, they might find some – or then again, not. That was their field of expertise.
As for me, there was nothing I could do. Except keep on digging and hope to uncover something useful. It was amazing I’d come this far on only the slenderest of leads. And yet again, it seemed I was the only person who could do anything about the situation, however much I kicked against it.
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