Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Glenis Wilson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Recent Titles by Glenis Wilson
BLOOD ON THE TURF
PHOTO FINISH
WEB OF EVASION
LOVE IN LAGANAS
THE HONEY TREE
ANGEL HARVEST
VENDETTA
The Harry Radcliffe series
DEAD CERTAINTY *
* available from Severn House
DEAD CERTAINTY
Glenis Wilson
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2015
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great
Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 by Glenis Wilson.
The right of Glenis Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Wilson, Glenis author.
Dead certainty. – (Harry Radcliffe series)
1. Horse racing–Fiction. 2. Family secrets–Fiction.
3. Biography–Authorship–Fiction. 4. Suspense fiction.
I. Title II. Series
823.9’2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8486-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-590-2 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-640-3 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To the one where the honour lies
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Mr Nick Sayers at Hodder & Stoughton. His belief in me and the manuscripts kept me going.
Kate Lyall-Grant and all at Severn House Publishers.
Mr David Grossman, my literary agent.
David Meykell, clerk of the course, Leicester Racecourse, for allowing me to ‘do’ a murder on his racecourse.
Roderick Duncan, clerk of the course, Southwell Racecourse.
Jean Hedley, clerk of the course, Nottingham Racecourse.
Mark McGrath, former manager, Best Western North Shore Hotel and Golf Course, Skegness.
Bill Hutchinson, present manager, and all the lovely staff at the above hotel with special thanks to Gavin Disney, Dan, Nikki and Katie for all their help.
Sarah at Sarah’s Flowershop.
All the library staff at Bingham, Radcliffe-on-Trent and Nottingham Central, with special thanks to Steve and to Rosie for her expertise on computers.
David and Anne Brown, printers and friends for bailing me out – twice – and finding just where chapters twelve and thirteen had disappeared to!
Lois from Crime Readers Group, a savvy lady who gave me confidence at the start.
The police at Skegness and the staff at Nottingham Prison for checking facts.
Management at The Dirty Duck at Woolsthorpe.
Kirsty at The Unicorn Hotel at Gunthorpe.
Vickie Litchfield at The Royal Oak, Radcliffe-on-Trent.
And for all the people who have helped me in whatever way during the course of writing the ‘Harry’ novels, may I say a very big thank you and have a great read.
‘The legacy of heroes is the memory of a great name and the inheritance of a great example.’
Benjamin Disraeli
To the one who has gone before, the great master of horseracing novels, Dick Francis, thank you for all those wonderful reads. I offer my sincere gratitude and humbly follow in your footsteps.
Glenis Wilson
ONE
I can remember the brushwood jump rising, wickedly high, in front of us.
I can remember my uprush of exhilaration as Gold Sovereign soared sweetly up and over.
I can remember seeing, briefly, a horse lying on the grass on the far side of the jump, legs thrashing wildly as he sought to regain his feet.
I can remember Gold Sovereign twisting in mid-air as she tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid landing on top of him.
I can’t remember any more.
There must be more because now here I am in this hard, high bed facing a blank wall. No long sweep of green turf bathed in golden sunshine stretching away out in front, just a cold, insipid, white wall.
‘And that’s all you remember?’ The white-coated doctor by the side of the bed peered at me over his rimless glasses and scribbled something indecipherable on to his clipboard.
I nodded. And regretted it. Any movement sent out screams of protest around my body. I breathed shallowly and waited for the pain to subside. Deep breaths were out. On its own, that told me I’d got cracked ribs at the very least. But looking down the length of bedcovers, there was a highly suspicious hump of unpleasantness which no doubt concealed a cage. It would be taking the weight off my left leg. A break, possibly, but a tentative wriggle of my toes produced no effect. What then?
I began to sweat.
TWO
Three days later I had a visitor. He was one of thousands who would have actually witnessed my accident.
‘Harry, how’re you doing?’ It was my best friend from childhood, and, incredibly, still my best friend in adult life. He was also my boss. His concern for my welfare was truly genuine and would also, I know, be tempered by concern for my career prospects and ultimately for his own business. Mike Grantley was a much respected and successful racehorse trainer. As his retained jockey, our partnership had prospered and together we had picked some of racing’s beautiful plums. Like the Cheltenham Gold Cup.
‘You were totally out of it when I came before – twice, actually.’
‘Eh?’ I didn’t recall any visits.
/> He grinned, more of a grimace really. ‘Morphined-up, you were. In a totally better place.’
‘Yeah, guess I should have stayed there.’
‘What’s this then, Harry? Iron man succumbing to self-pity?’
‘Three days ago, Mike, I didn’t know the verdict.’
His expression turned grave. ‘And now you do.’ A flat statement.
‘Now I do.’
‘Too soon, Harry, far too soon. Oh, I don’t doubt the doc’s a top man but he’s used to patching up your average Joe Soap. And that’s something you’re not.’ He wagged a finger at me. Abruptly he changed the subject. ‘Anything I can do in the outside world?’
‘Pay my telephone bill. That came before I set off for Huntingdon. Can’t risk being cut off.’
He nodded. Neither of us needed to mention the reason why.
‘Mobile?’
‘May not be allowed in here.’
‘Ah.’
‘Could you just check any telephone messages that might have come through?’
‘Consider it done. If there’s anything urgent … I’ll act as proxy, shall I?’
Our eyes met. The message bypassed words but was very clearly transmitted.
‘Thanks.’ My voice sounded husky but with a suddenly choked-up throat it was the best I could do. A man needed a good friend at times, and never more so than when he was on the canvas. ‘And could you check Leo’s OK? His cat flap’s permanently open and he’s frequently away … on hunting forages for days …’
‘Food or females?’
I grinned faintly. ‘Both.’
‘That cat’s got ninety-nine, he’ll survive.’
‘Yeah, I know, but …’
‘Stop sweating, of course I’ll see him right, might even let him lie on my lap. Supposed to be excellent for stress reduction, aren’t they, cats?’
‘You, stressed? Give over.’
Mike was the most flow-with-it-all man I’d ever met. I let my gaze travel upwards from my just-above-mattress eye level. Dressed in casual brown slacks, his shirt loosely tucked in at the waist, open-necked, no tie. His face honest, tanned and kind. He had a thick thatch of light sandy hair cut short and blue eyes that twinkled ninety per cent of his waking life. A man you would instinctively trust. He ran a mixed racing yard on the Nottinghamshire/Leicestershire border. Right now, it was in-form and doing very nicely. Up to now I’d been an active part of it and happy to be so.
Mike was a good man to have on your side. The only irritating thing about him was the fact he was almost always right. Throw him a challenge and he enjoyed overcoming it immensely. It was one of his main strengths as a trainer. No amount of setbacks riled him. And in horseracing, setbacks were par for the course. He was renowned for saying, ‘Whatever the problem, there’s always a solution. For a really difficult problem you just have to dig down a lot harder for a lot longer – or go sideways.’
And how I wished he could be right.
Normally, any crisis, his or mine, was bulldozed with vigour.
Like the time his mother sank financially – she was too proud to tell him – and the bailiffs turned up. On Mike’s part, a massive overdraft, result instant relief for Mamma.
In my case when Annabel decided she’d had enough of being my wife and gofer (I didn’t blame her one bit), and took off with another chap, one with a title to boot, Mike was immediately in there, arm around my shoulders. ‘All part of life, Harry. Go hide in your den till the blood stops flowing then come on out to play again.’ He’d been dead right then, and I’d endorsed it absolutely.
Now, once again, when I got out of this hospital I’d be taking his advice and heading straight for my own home, or as he described it, my den.
The cottage was a crumbling pile in Nottinghamshire, south of the River Trent. It was truly a peaceful place of safety, my sanctuary in a crazy world. And now Annabel had departed – at least she’d left the cat – one of solitude.
I’d been born there thirty-four years ago, the son of a bricklayer and a cook. I was an only child. My father was killed in a freak gunshot accident whilst out acting as a beater for Sir Percy Minehold, the local landowner. My mother had been distraught. As a couple, theirs had been a wonderfully loving relationship, the kind most people want out of life and don’t get.
In her distress, she’d turned to my Uncle George, Dad’s only brother. It was a natural reaction. Uncle George and Aunt Rachel only lived a few miles away. George offered solace and sympathy – he was suffering too – and they’d propped each other up.
At sixteen, my head and eyes full of a vision of being the next Willie Carson, my emotional input had been the best I could give, but the state Mother was in, it wasn’t nearly enough. I buried my own misery away deep inside. And got on with life. Life at that point was, otherwise, full of hope.
My mother needed someone close at hand, a mature male shoulder upon which to weep it all out. Uncle George comforted himself and her very well, a little too well. My half-sister, Silvie, was born less than a year later.
I dragged my thoughts back to the present and concentrated on what Mike was saying.
‘I’m not allowed to be stressed then?’ His eyes twinkled kindly at me.
‘No, I reckon not. You don’t stress, you just bulldoze yourself out of trouble.’
‘They’ve just hiked up the price of fuel. Costs a fortune to fill a bulldozer now. Cheaper if I stress like the rest of humanity.’
I smiled, not widely, but it was expected. He was doing his best to raise my spirits although it would take a forklift right now. I wasn’t going to ride again – a gut-wrenching prognosis. But I didn’t tell him. Not yet. No sense in both of us lying on the canvas together.
Mike’s bulldozer wasn’t going to alter anything for me this time.
I hadn’t bounced when I hit the turf three days ago and it was for damn sure I wasn’t going to bounce back up into the saddle. The doctor’s unsentimental, brutally frank diagnosis had been straight facts: cracked clavicle and cracked ribs – I could have told him that myself – severe external bruising, almost certain nerve damage and a shattered patella. I wasn’t going to be riding again.
As I’d watched the doctor walk away, it flitted briefly across my mind that my timing in life was seriously out of synchronicity. Had this accident happened two years ago, Annabel would still be with me. But it hadn’t and she wasn’t. Right now she was a long way away across the ocean on holiday with my lucky successor enjoying the sun and the sights of Malta.
Predictably, outside my ward window, it was stair-rodding down.
Today, what a surprise, it was still pouring with rain.
Mike reached down beyond the dreaded humped bedcovers and retrieved some newspapers from where he’d dropped them on arrival. ‘Thought you’d like to keep up with the competition.’ They were copies of the Racing Post. ‘I mean,’ he glanced down at my right hand, ‘nothing wrong with your fingers and thumb, right? No excuse for not working then.’ And he slid a reporter’s notepad and a couple of biros alongside the newspapers.
I wrote, with hair-tugging, lip-biting agony, a weekly column about the vagaries of horseracing for one of the big newspapers. Not my favourite pastime, but one which brought in useful additional coffers to add to my tax returns. At the rate my financial commitments flowed out, a corresponding incoming flow was vital.
‘I know I’m not your boss when it comes to your wordsmith activities, but since I’m acting as proxy for everything else at the minute, I thought I’d do my job and keep you doing yours. Well, the one you can do with your feet up as opposed to your boots down in the stirrup irons.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Aren’t I just.’ He grinned. ‘So don’t get too ecstatic and decide you’ll write for a living instead of riding. I’ve a string of horses back at the stable that need exercise, you know.’
‘I know.’ Maybe I wouldn’t tell him there’d be no more riding. Kinder, perhaps, to let the horrible realizati
on creep up on him gently.
‘And,’ I hardly dared form the question, ‘how’s Gold Sovereign?’
‘Eating up,’ Mike said gently, ‘… and going out on the gallops.’
I nodded, relief flooding me that she’d got away without serious injury.
‘So,’ he slid back his chair, ‘stop tying up a bed. Somebody really ill needs it.’ He stood up. ‘I’d better go – let you get back to ogling the pretty nurses. If you remember anything else that needs doing on the outside, just email or text me.’
I grimaced.
‘Eh? Oh, sorry, out of line …’ He looked chastened. ‘Surprising how you get to rely on this modern world’s technology.’
‘If I need anything important, I’ll ring on a prehistoric landline.’
His face lightened. ‘That’s it. When you’ve decided, let me know what colour grapes you fancy – red, black … green …’
I grabbed for one of the pens and aimed a throw at him.
He made it to the door, went through, closed it. Then opened it again and stuck his head round. He had an odd, uncertain look of concern on his face. He stared at me for a long moment. ‘Don’t drop your hands.’
I grabbed for the pen and he disappeared quickly. I could hear his footsteps going smartly away down the corridor.
Don’t drop your hands – a trainer’s instructions to a jockey about to ride a race. Basically, translated, it meant don’t stop trying before you reach the finishing post – ride it out, give it all you’ve got.
I certainly intended to.
THREE
I’d had a hard morning. As a jockey, I was well used to early starts – they were hard-wired in a way of life. But at least I’d usually had a previous night of total crash-out, deep restorative sleep. This engendered by a day spent in the open air filled with unremitting, relentless physical activity. I did nothing physical in here.
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