Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  The ashtray had been found in the horsebox. Why? Obviously, to conceal it. I thought around the question. There was also another possibility. Perhaps the killer had meant it to be found. It could then direct suspicion towards John. If the bastard was trying to implicate John in Alice’s death, then it was only a short jump for anyone to assume his suicide was also prompted by a case of guilt, as well as grief over his son’s death. The more I thought about the scenario, the more it stacked up: with John dead, it was the end of the trail.

  Which left me where? Trying to find a loose end so I could unravel the truth. I supped tea and read on, finished the notes, then mentally added all the information I’d discovered today.

  Having fed all the facts into the most complex and superior computer ever devised, the brain, I leant back against the settee cushions, closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift. Leo picked up on my relaxed mood and stretched out on my chest, kneading with half-sheathed claws and purring gently, hypnotically. He was, without doubt, triple A at stress busting. I let my hand glide over his warm silky fur, let go completely and gave my subconscious mind every chance to come up with answers. Nature gleefully took charge and we both fell into a deep, restorative sleep. Must have done. Two hours had past when I next opened my eyes.

  Regretfully, there was no lightning flash of illumination, but I did end up with two possible leads – two men I definitely needed to check out. One advantage to being snowed off from the racecourses was that it gave me the necessary time to follow through with this investigation.

  So in the morning, I decided, I’d go and interview the man driving the black Beamer. He’d driven away from the car park at North Shore Hotel just as Victor and I arrived. And I would ask him straight out the name of the man who had been sitting beside him, the one with the jutting chin. I already had an idea who it was. For the sake of the man’s family, I hoped I was wrong.

  The second man I had to see, of course, was Keith Whellan. He’d been the only person privy to John’s private thoughts. But it was also odds-on he wouldn’t know who the man was. A dead end in that case.

  I fished out my mobile, checked and tapped in the number for the first of my leads. ‘Hi, Edward. Harry Radcliffe. Any chance you’re free tomorrow morning? I really need to speak to you.’ Edward Frame, who lived in a massive barn conversion over near Wilsford, was free. ‘All morning. Come for coffee.’

  ‘Will do,’ I replied. I remembered he served the world’s best coffee.

  The snow was banked up thickly along the hedgerows alongside lanes just passable at little more than a crawl. I’d found the journey from Nottinghamshire comparatively easy – the council gritters had done a great job overnight – but rural Lincolnshire was definitely out-in-the-sticks country.

  Edward, no doubt, had had plenty of time to see my car approaching down his long drive, and before I’d even turned off the engine, he’d opened the iron-studded oak front door.

  ‘Come in, Harry. This weather’s best appreciated looking at it through the triple glazing.’

  ‘Morning, Edward.’

  Heat wrapped itself around me as he showed me through into the magnificent lounge, complete with blazing log-burner. Edward was a man who liked his comforts – in all departments. The last time I’d visited, he’d been upset about Alice’s death. He’d told me that he sometimes booked Alice for the whole weekend. She had been mightily impressed by this palatial place and called it Buckingham Palace. Edward said she’d loved coming here. Not for a moment did I think he’d had any part in her murder, but I hoped he’d come clean about the identity of the man he’d been chauffeuring away from North Shore Hotel.

  ‘Coffee is perking. Just go and pour out. Make yourself comfortable.’

  ‘Same coffee as last time?’

  ‘Of course. Only the best.’

  ‘Great.’

  He chuckled and left me to find a seat. Two dark-green leather armchairs had been drawn up before the fire. In front was an oak coffee table strewn with some papers and envelopes. Within a couple of minutes, Edward reappeared with a tray and I was instantly reminded of that previous visit I’d made. The smell of the coffee was the same – and it was wonderful.

  ‘Just push those letters aside, Harry, so I can put the tray down.’

  I bent over and slid the papers to one side. The top one had been handwritten, something that was getting to be a rarity nowadays. From my present position, now only inches away, just one word caught my eye: Thanks.

  ‘You take honey in coffee, don’t you, Harry?’

  Edward’s query stopped me from making a prat of myself. While inside, nonverbally, I was yelling ‘Yes!’ with delight, wishing I could punch air, I just managed to tone down the volume into a verbal ‘Yes’ of agreement. A near thing. I was sure Edward hadn’t noticed. He was busy unscrewing the lid off the jar of honey. Taking advantage, I skimmed a glance over the signature on the letter before lifting my gaze in time to receive the mug he was holding out.

  ‘Well worth the journey to get here, Edward. Thanks.’

  For a split second there, I’d thought the journey had been worth it just to read those words and I’d been trying to conceal my delight; now I was trying to conceal disappointment.

  ‘So, what brings you to snowy Lincolnshire?’

  ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘OK. Ask away. Oh, by the way, did my bit of information last time prove useful? You know – Jim Matthews, the saddler at Bingham.’

  ‘It surely did. I went over to see him.’

  ‘And he helped?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I laughed. ‘Well, eventually. He told me everything he knew and it helped me to piece together other bits of information. Thanks again for helping me out on that.’

  He flipped a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t need thanking. Just glad to help.’

  ‘Can I ask you what could be a tricky question right now?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I saw you driving away from North Shore Hotel in a black BMW a few days ago. Around lunchtime, actually. There was another man sitting in the passenger seat. Who was he?’

  He lifted his coffee and took a sip. ‘Can I ask why you want to know?’

  ‘It’s just one question in among a whole heap of questions I need to find answers to.’

  ‘Hmm … in other words, you aren’t going to tell me why.’

  I studied my coffee and waited.

  At John Dunston’s funeral there had been upwards of forty people. Theoretically, it could have been any one of them – had to have been. But there was one name going around in my brain, and I so sincerely hoped I was wrong.

  He sighed heavily. ‘It’s no big deal. We’d been for a meal, talked a bit of business, as you do.’

  ‘His name, Edward?’

  ‘I’ve a feeling you already know.’

  ‘Humour me.’

  He smiled wryly. ‘All three of us will probably end up doing business together.’

  ‘Unlikely, I would say.’ I took a gulp of coffee. My heart began to race and it wasn’t due to the caffeine. He was right: I did know who he was talking about. But I still needed him to tell me.

  ‘He came here one Saturday. It was one of the weekends when I’d asked Alice to stay, actually. She was quite taken with him. As I recall, they ended up talking racing. Alice said something along the lines of “like father, like son” …’ He stopped and narrowed his eyes, staring hard at me. ‘I don’t know what he’s done, and I don’t really want to know. The very fact you’re here, asking about him, says everything – without words. Don’t forget, Harry – as if you could! – I’ve seen you on a man’s trail before.’

  Edward Frame was in my debt forever, as he saw it. Fate – whatever – had drawn us together in the most terrible circumstances that linked us for ever. He’d lost family and I’d brought him justice.

  So I waited. I knew he would tell me.

  ‘I’d not heard anything detrimental,’ he continued. ‘Anyway, I took him for a meal
and a celebratory drink at North Shore Hotel; we were finalizing details. I’ve already gone ahead, committed myself. The man who was in the passenger seat is going to train a horse for me. His name’s Patrick Brown.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Patrick Brown – Mousey’s elder son.

  My immediate feeling was sadness for Mousey. He’d given up training himself – been forced to – and had handed over the business and stables to Patrick, trusting him to run the show. OK, if he couldn’t do the job himself, at least he could still live the racing life, albeit vicariously. But if Patrick was convicted and sent down, it would be the end of Mousey’s world, the stables, maybe even his home – indeed, his whole way of life. And, of course, there was Jackie, Patrick’s wife. A lovely girl like her didn’t deserve such a devastating blow.

  I thought back to when I’d gone to visit Mousey. One phrase he’d used was somewhat telling. It was, according to Edward, the same as used by Alice – ‘Like father, like son …’ I’ve no doubt he thought Alice was referring to both men as racing trainers. But I saw a connection that Edward wasn’t in a position to see.

  At the time, I hadn’t really registered what Mousey meant. I doubt if he would have explained if I’d asked him. It had been more a case of his thinking aloud, rather than wanting to tell me. But, with hindsight, those words took on a deeper, darker meaning. Mousey had definitely been referring to his own association with Alice – his confession later proved it – but those words seemed to indicate that he suspected his son was also using Alice as a prostitute.

  And all the time, Clara, Mousey’s wife and Patrick’s mother, was lying in bed, slowly dying. The thought made me feel sick to my stomach.

  ‘Is that the man you thought it was?’ Edward’s query jerked me back from my unpleasant memories.

  ‘I’m very much afraid so.’

  ‘Is he a wrong-un? Am I a fool to be doing business with him? Where does it leave us, Harry?’

  ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure he is, to your first question. As to the second, that’s entirely up to you. I can’t advise you what to do. And where it leaves either of us …’ I spread my hands. ‘You play the cards as they fall.’

  ‘What exactly has this man done?’

  ‘Now, that’s the question. I’ve no proof.’

  ‘OK, what do you suspect he’s done?’

  ‘Killed two people.’

  ‘My God!’ Edward’s jaw dropped.

  ‘I can’t prove it. Not yet. I’m asking you to keep quiet about all this. If he suspects I’m after him, he’ll be covering his tracks.’

  ‘But you’re in a damn dangerous position, Harry. Hey’ – he grabbed my arm – ‘now you’ve told me, does that mean I’m in danger, too?’

  ‘Not if you keep quiet. Who’s to know what we’ve been talking about this morning? Nobody.’

  He nodded slowly, recovering his composure. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll keep schtum, all right.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Those two people who died – who were they?’

  ‘You don’t want to know, Edward, believe me.’

  ‘Does that mean I knew them?’

  ‘Not sure about the second one, but, yes, you knew the first person.’

  ‘Will you tell me, if you get proof and he’s convicted, put away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not going to insult you by asking what happens if you can’t find the proof—’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  He nodded. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Carry on as normal.’

  ‘That’s a tough one, in the face of telling me your suspicions.’

  ‘When are you meeting him again?’

  ‘I’m being shown round his stables up north tomorrow.’

  ‘Right. Now, if I draft a few questions, do you think you could have a try at dropping them into your conversation? Make it natural. If it would seem obvious, don’t ask them, OK?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Harry.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll ring you later today when I’ve thought them out.’

  Edward got to his feet. ‘I think we both need another cup of coffee – with a stiffener in it.’

  ‘I’m up for that. Sounds just what we need.’

  When I left him a short while afterwards, he was in a very chastened mood. His immediate reaction, I knew, was to sever his involvement and business connection with Patrick, but I needed a mole on the inside. It was a fortuitous set of circumstances, and although it could completely collapse without any further leads or information forthcoming, I had a gut feeling that Edward was astute enough to go for the gap if he saw any chance of learning something useful for me.

  Carefully negotiating the country lanes back to Wilsford, I’d just passed The Crown pub halfway down the main street when ‘The Great Escape’ sounded from my mobile.

  Drawing up at the kerbside, I answered it.

  ‘Hi, Harry. Is it OK to speak right now?’

  ‘Yes, sure, Georgia. How are you? Blooming, I hope.’

  ‘Fine.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve got some news for you Harry. Whereabouts are you? Any chance of a quick half-hour lunch in the Singing Kettle?’

  ‘Every chance. I’m just about to leave Wilsford. Half an hour do you?’

  ‘Great. Yes, I’ll lock up and go round to the café now. Shall I order the same as last time?’

  ‘Do for me. See you, bye.’

  There was a fresh pot of tea waiting – as well as Georgia – when I walked into the café. She smiled, wiggled her fingers, when she saw me. ‘Smelled the tea, obviously.’

  ‘Dead right.’

  I slid into the chair opposite her. She looked good, make-up carefully applied, perfume recently sprayed. I covered her hand with my own as she reached for the teapot handle. ‘It’s really great to see you.’

  ‘Likewise. But may I pour out? I do like tea hot and I know you do.’

  I grinned and let go of her.

  The café filled up around us as we drank tea, nibbled toasties with salad and chatted.

  ‘So,’ I said, draining my second cup, ‘you haven’t told me yet this news you promised.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she nodded, swallowing her last mouthful, ‘I had a telephone call. It was from Elaine Brown … you remember, at Lady Branshawe’s party? Her mother, Daphne, was telling us about her daughter. Elaine is Lady Branshawe’s cousin. Well, Daphne told Elaine, who rang me to suggest a girls’ night out … you know, catch-up job and all that.’

  ‘You were at university with her, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you going to this bunfight?’

  ‘Tonight, yes. Apparently, Juliet, who was also at university with us, had contacted Elaine a few days before that party and they’d arranged to meet this evening. When Daphne told Elaine she’d seen me at Lady B’s party, both girls wanted to meet me again.’

  ‘Always good to meet up with people.’

  ‘Yes, but wait, Harry. That’s not all. The pianist, Jackson Fellows, was Juliet’s boyfriend. I’d forgotten about that. Elaine said she and Ian made up a foursome with them sometimes at university.’

  ‘Ian?’

  ‘Ian Brown, her boyfriend at the time.’

  A familiar little prickle ran down the back of my neck.

  ‘And did you take your boyfriend to those orgies?’

  Georgia giggled. ‘No. I was a bit of a swot – a lot of a swot. Driven by the need to achieve. Do you know what I mean, Harry?’

  ‘Oh, yes – do I!’

  She laughed. ‘It did leave me out on a limb at times, but the fear of failing my exams – not to mention losing the chance to run my own florists – well, that plus a very strict Christian upbringing proved a very efficient chastity belt. Although, talking about religion as a bit of a stopper, I’ve just remembered that Juliet and Jackson are both Roman Catholics. So that theory doesn’t hold water.’

  ‘Unlike the font,’ I quipped. ‘Still, the late teens are a very intense emotional s
tage.’

  ‘I suppose I was lucky really to keep Elaine as a friend. Looking back, I must have been a drag. But we got on so well, liked the same things – horses for a start. One of the reasons she fancied Ian was because he was into horses. In fact, he only did about eighteen months and then chucked it in. He’s a jockey, too – flat racing, I think.’

  I didn’t just think: I knew. But I didn’t interrupt her. This conversation was proving far too interesting.

  Georgia mused on. ‘Can’t think why I haven’t been in touch with her for so long, except, of course, I’ve ploughed most of my energies into The Trug Basket. Well, ever since Peter’s death.’ A shadow of loss flickered across her face.

  ‘Anyway, you’ll get to see her and this Juliet tonight. You can catch up on all the gossip.’

  ‘Ah, yes … now that does remind me.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Don’t know whether I should snitch and tell you, Harry.’ She looked sideways under her long lashes at me, weighing up whether or not she should.

  ‘Go on: rival a canary.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sing out the secret. Policemen love canaries.’

  ‘You’re not a policeman.’

  ‘Well, no, I suppose not.’

  She made up her mind. ‘These days it wouldn’t matter much – nobody bothers, do they?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Abortion.’

  I stared at her. ‘I wouldn’t say people don’t care. After all, it’s still taking a life, isn’t it? Just who are you talking about, Georgia?’

  ‘Juliet. But please don’t ever mention it, Harry. At the time, we all closed ranks. Jackson was absolutely terrified it would come out.’

  ‘Do I take it Jackson was the father of this aborted baby?’

  ‘Yes.’ She bit her lip. ‘I don’t think I should have told you.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ I soothed her, while at the same time, the jigsaw pieces were clicking into place in my brain.

  ‘’Course, poor Jackson didn’t have a clue what to do. He’s not very worldly. All he really cared about was playing the piano.’