The policeman nodded, took out his radio and phoned for back-up and the police pathologist. ‘I want all this area cordoned off. Nobody is to be allowed in.’ He scanned the tiled room, assessing the possible effects on the general public of withdrawing essential services. ‘Even in the direst circumstances, OK?’ The security chaps nodded.
‘You two gentlemen,’ the policeman continued, nodding at each of the elderly men waiting by the door, ‘will need to make a statement.’ Swinging round, he eyed me with grim suspicion. ‘And who might you be, sir?’
‘Someone who came in at the wrong moment,’ I replied.
His lips snapped shut. ‘I shall need your full particulars – and a statement. I don’t want anybody leaving the racecourse, all right?’
We all acquiesced meekly.
Things happened very quickly after that. The clerk of the course’s office was taken over as an immediate incident room and the Leicestershire police arrived in strength, together with the pathologist. Myself, along with the other two men, were interviewed and made statements. In my case, I didn’t deny I knew the man and identified him as being Carl Smith, jockey, working for Fred Sampson, who subsequently confirmed the identification. What I didn’t enlighten the police about was the assignation I’d made with the deceased.
Instructions were broadcast from the commentator’s box informing the bewildered race-goers that an incident had taken place and no one was to leave. There was no immediate danger – nobody was at risk. The public were asked to be patient whilst the police carried out inquiries.
It was a magnificent display of crowd control, defusing the potentially panicked situation. An ambulance had been driven over to the gents and Carl’s body, after being photographed from every angle, leaving nothing to dignity, was driven away.
I was sitting things out, nursing a mug of tea, when I heard my name called; my presence was required. I took a long pull of tea and, very carefully, set down the mug. For the first time I felt a shiver of apprehension run through me.
I hadn’t told the police I’d asked Carl to meet me; I’d just said I’d gone in for a leak. But it seemed one of their bright sparks had come across a hickory walking stick stowed down inside a waste bin. The stick was covered with blood and particles of body tissue.
Dougie, the bar man, had apparently confidently identified it as belonging to one Harry Radcliffe.
I was taken by police car to the main headquarters in Leicester. I spent a very taxing afternoon being questioned by stern-jawed detectives, changing my economical statement for the truth – the whole nothing-left-out-this-time truth, if you don’t mind, sir – before being released under caution and ordered not to leave town. Or in other words, don’t do a runner – or else. Which, of course, I had no intention of doing.
It had been Dougie, despite having been the one to put me on the spot in the first place, who passed on the vital information that led to my release. Apparently, after I’d left the bar, he had taken it upon himself to lean my stick up behind the bar for safekeeping. Later, a colleague had reported to Dougie that he’d seen a man lean over and retrieve the stick a short time after. He’d thought it funny that the man had got gloves on – golfing gloves. And that man, he said emphatically, hadn’t been yours truly.
I, minus Dad’s hickory stick, which had gone to forensics, tottered back into Harlequin Cottage later that evening feeling I’d been trampled into the ground by a herd of wild horses. Most definitely it hadn’t been the most enjoyable day I’d spent on a racecourse.
Pouring myself a large whisky, I slumped down on to the settee. Despite having had nothing to eat since breakfast, I’d no stomach for food. The vision of Carl Smith repeated itself in my mind’s eye and was not conducive to providing an appetite. I took a gulp of whisky, felt the burn going down and was humbly grateful to be here, safely at home and not occupying a cell in Leicester nick.
For the first time I thought about the consequences of Carl’s death in relation to Silvie’s safety. Carl had been my only lead and, without doubt, he’d been silenced to stop him talking. But whoever had murdered him had obviously been watching me. Had seen my stick, stupidly forgotten, left behind leaned up against the table I’d occupied with Willoughby. It had been used specifically to tie me in with his murder. I didn’t hold any hopes of fingerprints being found on it.
And that same someone had been close enough to overhear my conversation with Carl – must have been – and had then taken one almighty risk by following Carl into the gents.
The official view was that Carl had been facing the wall actually taking a leak when he’d been savagely hit across his lower thighs with the hickory stick. It was thick and heavy, and would have acted like a baseball bat – unbending. The stick had broken his right femur and pitched him forward and downwards. His forehead had connected with the urinal and it seemed likely he had been knocked unconscious. His assailant had then dragged him to the nearest cubicle and forced his head down the toilet. Because he wasn’t conscious, there wouldn’t have been a struggle. Death would have occurred very quickly. The murder hadn’t been planned; the murderer had simply taken full advantage of the circumstances. A case of silencing Carl and putting me in the frame in one go.
Fruitlessly I bent my brain to think who had been close enough to hear us make the assignation. But it was useless. The crowd around me could have concealed an elephant. Virtually anybody could have listened in to our brief conversation. The police had already grilled me on this point. Then an idea struck me. Who knew I was intending to visit the racecourse today? And the answer to that followed straight after. I hadn’t known myself until Monday night when I’d sat in the Unicorn at Gunthorpe with Mike and we’d gone through the Racing Post. That was where someone had learned of my proposed Thursday attendance at Leicester races. It didn’t take any further working out. It was blindingly obvious: blue Peugeot man. Where he hadn’t succeeded in killing Silvie, he had finished Carl. I took a deep, ragged breath and swallowed the rest of the whisky. I felt dirty, tainted by the whole sordid mess.
I put the glass down, went upstairs and stood under a very hot shower.
Emerging twenty minutes later, red, scoured and feeling considerably cleaner, I padded barefooted downstairs wearing just a towelling dressing gown. I raided the fridge, found half a pork pie and, munching it, went through into the office and switched on the computer. By now I hoped to find an email from Willoughby waiting for me.
I wasn’t disappointed. There was a short message referring to our meeting earlier that day together with an attachment. I opened it up. Methodically, he had listed down chronologically all the questions I’d asked together with the corresponding answers. And they weren’t monosyllabic ones either, but full, open ones running, in some cases, to several sentences. He must have put a lot of time and work into the email and I was very appreciative. A good deal of the content I could certainly use in the biography. It took me several minutes to read through them all. When I’d finished I reached for the telephone and dialled his number listed at the start of the email. It rang for a few moments then he picked up.
‘Willoughby here.’
‘Hello, it’s Harry. Harry Radcliffe.’
‘Oh, yes, dear chap. Did you get my email?’
‘Certainly did. I must thank you; the answers will be a great help. It must have taken you some time and I really appreciate it.’
‘No need to thank me, Harry. My pleasure.’
‘Elspeth’s a lucky lady to have had you paint her portrait. I thought it showed real insight to her character.’
‘Elspeth’s a very good subject, multi-faceted, as they say. It was a pleasure to paint her. And answering your questions is a way of saying thank you to her.’
‘Oh? Surely it’s the other way round? Shouldn’t she be thanking you for doing such a good job?’
‘My dear Harry,’ Willoughby chuckled softly, ‘indeed not. I consider myself a gentleman, my lips completely sealed … et cetera. But you do follow me?’
> I was beginning to.
‘Elspeth, the lovely Elspeth, didn’t pay for her painting.’
‘Oh, I see …’
‘Thought you would. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that you, too, are a gentleman.’
‘Point taken, Nathanial. I shan’t mention anything out of place in the biography.’
He chuckled happily. ‘Knew I could rely on you. We must meet up for a drink sometime. Celebrate, perhaps, when the book comes out.’
‘Fine by me. And thanks again.’
I put the receiver down and sat thinking about what he’d said, or rather, hadn’t said. So, fifteen years ago or more, Willoughby and Elspeth had had an affair. How long it had been going on – or still was, perhaps – was an unknown. But I’d bet Victor Maudsley hadn’t known anything about it. For a brief moment or two I wondered if this little nugget of information was what Marriot didn’t want me to find out. Then I dismissed it. It was no sort of motive for the ghastly things that had been done to Silvie and to Carl Smith. No, there was something much larger at stake.
I spent a restless, mostly sleepless night. Bad dreams weren’t the words to describe what happened on the occasions I did drop off. The sight of Carl Smith’s bloodied body must have been indelibly inscribed on my subconscious to release the horrors I came up with whilst asleep. Finally, at around five o’clock, awaking with sweat-soaked sheets, I rolled out of bed and went in search of some strong tea. Whilst in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, there was a bump and clatter behind me and, nerves rubbed red raw, I jumped and spun round ready to defend myself.
A big, ginger tom paced across the quarries and took a measured leap at me. Leo landed with a heavy thump on my shoulder. He began rubbing his head against my jaw, purring like a buzz saw.
‘Hi to you, too. Had a good result?’ He purred louder. Our neighbourhood was littered, no pun intended, with his distinctive ginger offspring. At least one of us had spent a good night. But it wasn’t just yesterday’s murder causing me to lose sleep. Today, Friday, I was due to meet Uncle George at the Royal Oak. What form his disclosures would take I couldn’t begin to guess. But since they would obviously affect Silvie as well as myself, conjecture on the outcome, without the murder, was enough to cause insomnia.
Leo had already polished off a dish of chicken chunks in jelly and put up the ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice above his basket, while I was only partway through a bowl of cereal when my mobile rang. For a second, cravenly, I hoped it was Uncle George ringing to cancel today’s meeting. Instead it was Elspeth enquiring on progress being made with the biography.
‘Going well, and thanks for paving the way with Nathanial Willoughby.’
‘You’ve seen him already?’
‘Yes, well, he happened to be at Leicester racecourse yesterday, as I was, and he found me.’
‘Er … did he give you some useable copy?’
I tried not to smile as I answered her. I didn’t want the amusement travelling down the line.
‘Yes, yes, he did.’
‘You won’t forget what I said, Harry? Not too revealing?’
‘Trust me, Elspeth. Your reputation will be … almost …’
‘OK!’ She was smiling, I could tell. ‘Try to keep your exposé tantalizing, not explicit.’
‘Right. The merest hint you do have a private life.’
‘Exactly.’ She was openly laughing now. ‘And talking of having a life other than work, I’d like you to come to a family bash on Saturday night. You are free, aren’t you?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Will, er, Marriot be there?’
‘Silly boy – of course he will.’
Talk about going into the lion’s den. But it wasn’t so much an invitation as a command.
‘Now don’t start thinking up an excuse, Harry.’ The tiniest edge of cold steel could just be discerned. And I didn’t want to antagonize her. Not before I’d found out what Uncle George needed to tell me. Silvie’s future was insecure enough right now. I needed to keep Elspeth sweet because I needed the money from her biography to help pay for Silvie’s ongoing care.
‘I’ll be there, Elspeth.’
‘Good.’ The word was said with satisfaction. ‘See you at eight o’clock on Saturday. Oh, and press on with the book. I want it finished now, asap.’ She disconnected before I had a chance to comment.
Gratefully, I went back to chewing my soggy cereal.
At a quarter to eleven, I started the car and drove down to the village. Parking at the side of the Royal Oak’s impressive car park, I sat and waited for Uncle George’s car to turn up. I was a bit early but I needed to know what the bombshell would be. A few minutes later he drove in. I locked the Mazda and walked across.
‘Hello, Uncle George. You all right?’
‘Hello, Harry, not bad.’ Grunting, he extricated himself from the vehicle, put two hands in the small of his back and stretched. ‘Getting old, son, a bit bent.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Come to think of it, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? So I can unbend and take a weight off my shoulders.’
‘Since I’m totally in the dark …’ I began.
‘Come on,’ he patted my arm, ‘let’s go inside and have a drink.’
I followed him.
‘Now,’ he said as we sat down with our beers, ‘are we here for lunch as well?’
‘Up to you. I’m free.’
‘Shall we say yes, then? But if you want to walk out at anytime, do so.’
‘Will I want to?’
‘Yes.’
My stomach knotted. If it was going to be that bad, maybe lunch was not such a good idea. Following on from my non-eating day yesterday, I thought irrelevantly, it would do wonders for my riding weight. Until cold reality poured over me. I wasn’t riding – not now, perhaps not ever.
‘Uncle George, I just want the facts, OK?’
He nodded and polished off his pint. ‘You shall have them, without garnish.’
‘Would you rather go back to my cottage and, you know, talk in private?’
‘No. I’d never have the bottle. Better it’s here. That way either of us can run for the hills. Just remember, Harry, I don’t want to upset you …’ He stopped, flicked a twenty-pound note across the table at me. ‘Look, be a good chap and order me the sausage and mash.’
I didn’t argue, just took the money and ordered double bangers and mash with onion gravy.
When the food arrived it smelled wonderful and tasted even better. The phrase ‘the condemned man ate a hearty breakfast’ came to mind but as the aroma titillated my olfactory nerves my body decided enough of starvation, it wanted nourishment. Uncle George was of a similar mind and we dug in. Mentally I was poised on a cliff edge to hear what he wanted to say. However, I could see it wasn’t going to be easy for him. I had to let him take all the time he needed.
About halfway through the meal he turned to me. ‘I know you think I’m hard-hearted because I refused to go and visit Silvie. But I’m not.’
To cover my confusion, I cut into my second juicy sausage.
‘I never thought that. Even I find it difficult to visit her at times. It’s not easy for an outsider, I can see that.’ As soon as I’d said the words, I regretted them. ‘Sorry, really, I’m sorry …’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t be, Harry. You’re quite right. I am an outsider.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘But I do.’
‘What do you mean?’
He laid down his knife and fork. ‘Best I tell you straight out. I loved your mother. I’d loved her since my late teens. But she didn’t want me, see, she fell for John, my brother. They got married. I stood aside, it was the only thing to do, and made a life for myself, went out with other girls, but none of them meant anything to me. Then I met Rachel. We seemed to get on, so,’ he spread out his hands helplessly, ‘we got married. Probably the wrong thing to do … I don’t know.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Even though Elizabeth was married to your
father, I was still in love with her.’ He sighed. ‘Always will be.’
He glanced swiftly at me then down at his plate, picked up his cutlery and tackled the last of his meal. He waved his fork at me, indicating I should continue. To save him embarrassment, I resumed eating.
‘I’ve tried to be a good husband to Rachel. Treated her as well and as fairly as I possibly could.’ It was taking an effort for him to unburden himself.
‘I’m quite sure you have,’ I put in gently.
‘Yes, well, if John hadn’t had the accident and died, nothing would have happened. I respected Elizabeth’s choice just as I respected John.’ He finished his meal, then dabbed his lips with the paper napkin. ‘But he did get shot and he did die. And, as you know well enough, Elizabeth turned to me for comfort and help. I couldn’t deny her my support, Harry. It isn’t in my nature to be a hard, uncaring man.’
‘Uncle George, I know you’re not. And I know she needed more help at that time than I could give her. I’m not blaming you at all for what happened.’
‘But that’s it, son. Nothing happened.’
‘What?’ I said incredulously. ‘Now, come on, Uncle George …’
He hung his head and I had to bend over the table to catch his whispered words. ‘Yes, OK. Elizabeth and I, we … comforted each other … And yes, we made love … but that’s all.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I’m telling you the honest truth, Harry.’ He looked at me despairingly. ‘I’m not Silvie’s father.’
TWENTY-TWO
I felt my jaw drop. I gaped at him, couldn’t take it in. Then the shockwave hit my body and knocked me for six.
‘Not … not … Silvie’s father?’
‘No.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry, Harry. Should have told you a long time ago, when Elizabeth died.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘But I didn’t.’
‘Why?’ I forced the word out.
‘Why is easy to explain. I’d never have said anything whilst Elizabeth was alive, never. But even after she died, I still found myself wanting to protect her reputation.’
We stared at each other, my awareness of what he meant becoming clear. My hands clenched into fists on top of the table.
Dead Certainty Page 15