Dead Heat

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘The way he plays, I can understand his passion.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know he was that good.’

  ‘So, he left it all to Juliet, did he?’

  ‘Oh, no. The only one of us who was clued up about that sort of thing was Ian. He arranged everything.’

  ‘But it would have cost a lot. Where did a student get that sort of money?’

  ‘Oh, the paying part was easy enough. Ian begged it off his brother – said he earned good money, so I suppose he could afford it.’

  ‘Hmm …’ I agreed, nodding. ‘I expect he could.’

  ‘Anyway, it was all done very discreetly.’

  ‘Well, I promise you I won’t spread it around.’ I very nearly said I wouldn’t tell anyone – but that would certainly have been lying. ‘Now, how about another pot of tea?’

  She cast a glance up at the café clock above the counter. ‘I would love to, Harry, but I’m afraid I have to get back to work.’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll give you a ring, if I may – arrange another time.’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘you may.’

  We walked back the few yards to The Trug Basket and I gave her a kiss. ‘Have a great time this evening. Take care, and let me know how it goes.’

  ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing them. Sad, isn’t it?’ She giggled. ‘I feel like I’m regressing back into a teenager.’

  ‘Temper the feeling with the wisdom of your advanced years and you’ll enjoy it even more.’

  ‘You’re a lovely man, Harry.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed me goodbye.

  Then she stepped into the warmth of the shop, leaving me outside in the snow.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The next morning, early, I drove away from the cottage and headed north. I suppose I could have telephoned, warned him I was on my way, but maybe it was simply better to take full advantage of the element of surprise.

  The further north I drove, the deeper the snow became. Not on the main roads – they’d benefited from a zealous council’s gritting procedure – but the fields beyond the roads swept away like plump white quilts, while the low-lying hedges struggled to maintain their boundaries, and in parts where even lower stonewalling had taken over, they had lost their fight almost entirely. When snow fell in Yorkshire, it certainly fell.

  The leaden sky pressed down and wasn’t promising to yield and let the sun though any time soon. Rather, it seemed likely that more snowflakes could very soon tumble down to join the billions already blurring outlines and obscuring everything they touched.

  The sun wasn’t the only thing not working today; racing was also laid off. Which meant, of course, that there’d be no call for horseboxes and, likewise, no drivers. Keith Whellan would certainly not be working today. It was odds-on he was simply holed up at his cottage. It was a bet I was prepared to take. I needed to ask him some questions.

  Last night, I’d spent some time thinking about what questions I needed Edward to put to Patrick Brown. But the big question, as far as I was concerned, was had John Dunston known who had killed Alice? And following on from that, had he known the bloodied ashtray belonged to her? Was that why he’d sent it to me? He’d written in the letter that it was the only bit of proof he had, but on its own it was useless. I needed to find some answers.

  I motored on while the sky grew more and more lowering, and when I finally reached Whellan’s tiny cottage, the windscreen of the Mazda was covered with flecks of snow, forerunners, no doubt, of the next heavy fall. Locking the car, I walked up to the front door and, since there was no bell, gave it a good knock. A dog barked somewhere – not a yap, a real depth-charge deep bark. Otherwise, nothing stirred. I knocked some more and then again, and was eventually rewarded by a man’s voice yelling at me to stop making such a bloody racket, he was coming … ‘Coming, all right?’

  I leaned against the rough stone wall and waited. Keith Whellan yanked open the door and stuck his head out. His scowl faded.

  ‘Thought it must be the bloody bailiffs.’

  ‘Expecting them, are you?’

  ‘You never know,’ he said darkly. ‘Come on in out of this lot.’ He waved a hand at the dancing white stuff. Pushing up behind him was an enormous black Newfoundland dog.

  I gladly closed the door behind me and followed him into the minuscule kitchen. The big animal followed me.

  ‘Hi, big fella.’ I bent over and rubbed the dog’s thickly furred ears.

  ‘Name’s Tugboat – Tug usually, unless he’s being wicked.’

  ‘You, wicked? Don’t believe it.’ I rubbed away at his ears and the soppy animal slobbered all over my face.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee? Going to have one myself … now I’ve got up.’ Keith grinned a little shamedfacedly. ‘Should never have had that spare telly installed in the bedroom. More seductive than a warm woman.’

  As he was talking, he busied himself making the drinks.

  ‘Sorry I disturbed you.’

  ‘Nah. Glad of a bit of company, actually. I was getting used to having John dossing here. Now he’s gone …’

  ‘It’s about John that I’ve come.’

  ‘Hmm …’ He handed me a mug. ‘I thought it might be. Come on through.’

  He led the way into a twelve-feet-square sitting room and snapped on the coal-effect gas fire. It was a meagre enough source of heat for the conditions outside, but with the low ceiling and small dimensions, it might, eventually, hold its own. Right now, it was Baltic. I could well understand that, with no work on, the attraction of staying tucked up in bed was not indulgence, it was survival. I sipped my drink and kept my coat on. The dog commandeered the first four feet of floor space in front of the fire and immediately began to snore.

  ‘Snowed-up down your end?’

  ‘Pretty much. Not so bad, though.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s going to take some shifting. Not good on the work front.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed.

  ‘Still, it might cool Rawlson off.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘No racing, so you won’t be nicking his rides. And he can’t afford to miss rides. Word is he needs the money, got himself dug in deep with gambling. Cards are a fool’s game.’

  I filed away the gem of information.

  ‘I never nicked the rides to begin with. Lady Branshawe told Patrick she wanted me aboard.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, Rawlson doesn’t see it like that, does he?’

  ‘His problem, not mine.’

  ‘So what is your problem?’

  ‘Did John ever say anything about that woman who was murdered? Alice Goode.’

  ‘A prossie, she was.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘John wasn’t into a bit extra, know what I mean? Not before Lilly’s death, nor afterwards.’

  I shook my head. ‘No. I didn’t mean that. What I’m trying to find out is whether John told you anything that might have linked the man he knew was after him with that woman’s murder?’

  Keith shivered and hutched his chair a bit closer to the fire. The dog never moved.

  ‘I dunno, Harry. I reckon none of this kicked off until that afternoon when the horsebox broke down at Southwell.’

  ‘That was the day Alice died.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Talk me through it, Keith.’

  ‘Well, I drove our box down for Mousey, and John drove Robson’s horsebox.’

  ‘You didn’t share one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. Carry on.’

  ‘Trouble was the horsebox broke down after we got there. Patrick told John to load Robson’s horse into his box and left me waiting for the mechanic to come and fix it. Robson agreed it.’

  ‘So where does Patrick fit in? Did he go back up north in the horsebox?’

  ‘No. Patrick didn’t come down with the box. Dunno why. We’d only the one horse. He drove down himself in his car.’

  ‘And, presumably, drove home in his car?’

  ‘Yes.’

 
; ‘What about the jockey? Who was it?’

  ‘Rawlson.’

  ‘How did he get down and back?’

  ‘Far as I know, he was in Patrick’s car, with him.’

  ‘And you didn’t notice the smear of blood near the dashboard until you came back from the gents?’

  ‘That’s right. It was all a bit of a scramble when we found the horsebox had broken down. Patrick told me to hurry up and take a slash before they drove away because I might not get the chance again. I had to stay behind and wait for the mechanic, and it might take some time. He told Rawlson to go an’ all.’

  ‘What were his exact words, can you remember?’

  ‘Yeah, he just said, “Rawlson, you go with him as well.”’

  ‘Right,’ I said, and hoped I’d kept the note of satisfaction out of my voice. It wasn’t good enough evidence for the police, but it was good enough for me.

  ‘When you went to the gents’, did you lock the horsebox?’

  ‘Nah, wasn’t going anywhere, was it?’

  ‘So anybody wanting to get in could have?’

  ‘Yeah, they could.’

  ‘Apart from you, who else has a key?’

  ‘There’s two keys, mine and … Patrick’s. Hey, wait a minute, do you think Patrick sent me to the bogs on purpose?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘John found something …’ I dropped a hand into my coat pocket and took out a plastic bag containing the piece of blood-stained terry towelling. I passed it to him. ‘Look familiar?’

  Wrinkling his face in distaste, he reached out and held it, dangling, between finger and thumb. ‘It’s my bit of rag for wiping the windscreen.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I’m sure. Except the last time I used it, there wasn’t any blood.’ He handed the bag back. ‘How did you get hold of it?’

  ‘John left it for me, with the solicitor.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Yeah. Me, too.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I got a letter …’ He went out of the room for a minute or two and returned with an envelope. ‘Here.’ He handed it to me.

  I took out the single sheet of headed paper. It was short, just one paragraph. John had left his meagre savings to Keith – plus one other bequest. The letter asked him to collect the cheque and bequest from the solicitor’s offices.

  ‘There weren’t much – ’bout four hundred quid.’ He shook his head. ‘Surprised he had that much left after paying out like he did for Lilly’s carers and her funeral costs, o’course.’

  ‘Hmm, dying doesn’t come cheap.’

  He put a hand in his pocket and drew out a shiny round object. ‘And this. The solicitors called it a “bequest”. Stupid bloody word. It’s just a present, something to keep, to remember him by.’

  He gave it to me. On one side was his name, Keith Whellan, and a phone number. I turned it over. On the other side of the silver-plated disc was just one word: Tugboat.

  ‘Haven’t got round to fixing it to his collar yet.’ He affectionately nudged the ten stone plus of sleeping dog with his foot. Tugboat gave a deeper snore but didn’t stir.

  ‘Hold on, there’s something else you need to see.’ Keith leaned forward and reached for a piece of paper filed under a candlestick on the mantelpiece. ‘John wrote it. It was folded inside the package with the dog’s name disc. I’m sure nobody else has seen it. He’d make bloody sure of that.’

  I read the message.

  If H takes the bait – God bless him if he does – tell him I saw that murdering bastard hiding it when I came back from the gents. He didn’t see me. It’s evidence of some sort, so I nicked it. Maybe H could sniff it out. That’s all you need to know. Keep safe, mate. John.

  ‘Obviously, he saw whatever it was being hidden that day. He was coming back from the gents’ just as Rawlson and me were going over there. I didn’t see him again to speak to because he was in the driving seat about to drive off when I got back.’

  A rise of excitement brought up the hairs on the back of my neck and, struggling to conceal my elation, I put the piece of paper down on the table beside my chair. Keith stared at me.

  ‘Well? Are you going to tell me what it was John nicked?’

  Relief at his question was sweet: he hadn’t noticed. ‘Safer if you don’t know.’

  ‘Whatever it was had blood on it, though, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was Patrick who put this thing in the horsebox, wasn’t it?’

  I dropped my gaze and nodded reluctantly. ‘Yeah. But keep it to yourself. If he finds out I’ve sussed him—’

  ‘As the grave, mate. But why did he do it?’

  ‘I suspect it was simply to get rid of it, so it wouldn’t be found in his car. It would take some explaining. Anyway, now you know it was Patrick, can I ask you a question? Any word going round he might be involved in gambling – probably cards?’

  ‘I’m not the best person to answer that. A good chunk of my brass goes straight to my ex-wife … and daughter. None to spare to play silly buggers with. You can lose a lot – and I do mean a lot – gambling. But, come on, Harry. You know as well as I do, jockeys don’t need encouraging to play cards.’

  ‘OK, Keith, so who would be the right person to ask?’

  He shrugged. ‘Best thing would be to drop in at the stable’s favourite watering hole. The lads generally use the Black Cat pub in Watersby.’

  ‘Right. Are they likely to be there today?’

  ‘A fair bet, I’d say, given the weather.’

  ‘How about you point me in the right direction and I stand you lunch?’

  Keith smiled. ‘An offer I can’t refuse.’ Then his smile faded. ‘But I can’t promise you’ll find anything out.’

  ‘Either way, we need to eat. What do you say?’

  The smile returned. ‘Yes.’

  The forecourt of the Black Cat pub was a slurry of churned-up snow, no longer white but discoloured by exhaust and oil leaks, across which ashes from the pub’s fires had been scattered. Even as we drew up, a barman emerged carrying a wide shovel, stumped out a few yards, and hurled another load of clinker in a black arc. Seeing us watching, he raised a hand in acknowledgement and disappeared back indoors.

  ‘Cheaper than buying salt,’ Keith observed.

  I nodded and crunched the car tyres over the latest offering.

  Inside, it was sweltering. And the bar was packed with bodies. Keith had been right. The Black Cat seemed to be the gathering place for the whole of the county’s stable staff. The noise level was amazing.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ I bawled in his ear.

  ‘You really have to ask?’ He pointed to a sign over the optics that informed everybody that real ale was sold here.

  Clutching our pints, we backed ourselves into the pool room where the noise level was considerably lower and the concentration on the baize absolute.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I gave the room a swift, surreptitious glance, but neither Patrick nor Rawlson was there. A knot of tension slid from my shoulders. Without their inhibiting presence, tongues would be more inclined to loosen.

  Keith brushed my elbow. ‘Jacko’s playing – the bloke in a green jumper. He works for Patrick. He’s winning an’ all.’

  I nodded and mentally wished the man well. Good luck, like liquor, expanded a man’s confidence – and his willingness to chatter. Although he had his nose in front, his opponent was no pushover. To prove it, he won the next frame.

  ‘Come on, Jacko!’ one of the jeans-clad supporters roared. ‘Get your arse in gear, man.’

  I grinned and shot Keith a look and a raised eyebrow.

  He nodded. ‘Oh, yeah, there’ll be money on.’

  Jockeys themselves weren’t allowed bets – not if they wanted to stay jockeys – but gambling among stable staff was rife. Hopes always ran high, but betting was mostly small-beer stakes – their wage packets took care of that. For that very reason, I k
new the majority of these lads would be excluded from the sort of card games I was interested in. A fat income was needed to be able to indulge in the kind of action I suspected Nigel Garton had got entangled in. Although, from what Keith had said, it seemed Rawlson might have dipped a tentative toe in and got himself well wet. I took a long pull at my pint. It was nectar, and made ordinary beer seem vapid and mediocre.

  ‘Good stuff, this.’ I lowered the tideline dramatically.

  ‘Told you, didn’t I?’ Keith had all but finished his pint.

  The cheers and howls around the pool table increased in volume as balls found pockets – or not – and then, finally, Jacko made a superb long pot that clinched it. Two or three of the other lads came wading in with solid shoulder slaps of appreciation. No doubt, they’d be collecting up their winnings – on the way to the bar to sink them.

  Jacko turned round, beaming at his supporters and noticed us. He nodded a greeting at Keith.

  ‘Ay-up, see you’re corrupting the top jock, here.’

  ‘Good game, Jacko,’ I said. ‘Stand you a drink?’

  ‘Yes, ta. Could do with a pint of Theakston’s.’

  We made our way back to the bar and tables. ‘What’s the food like? OK?’

  ‘Good, yeah. Basic, but chef’s a good ‘un, knows what the lads like.’

  ‘Well, we were reckoning on having some lunch. Join us if you like.’

  Jacko grinned. ‘Pint of real first, though …’ he said slyly.

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’

  Keith went off to place a food order and returned with three pints of foaming ale. While the food was being cooked, we all settled down to fully enjoy our drinks and a crack.

  I’d already decided to wait until after we’d eaten, and drunk, before I tried to probe. With a full belly, following on from his successful potting, Jacko was much more likely to be cooperative about giving out information.

  And so it proved. Jacko forked up the last of his hot steak and leek pasty, stabbed the one remaining chip and wolfed them down. He gave a gigantic belch.

  He grinned. ‘Better out than in.’

  ‘Considered to be a sign of appreciation, isn’t it?’