Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  Charlotte was in the front passenger seat next to her mother. Henry saw that the youngster was looking pretty morose. She got out and sauntered towards the stables, dragging her feet, watched by her mother from the car.

  Henry smiled at Charlotte’s mother as he got out of the car. She gave him an eyes-to-heaven look.

  With a couple of sections of the Sunday Times under his arm which he’d brought from home, Henry went to the indoor riding school. It had become his practice to watch Leanne begin her hour-long session, then mosey out to the portacabin-cum-café near to the main stable block where he would consume copious amounts of cheap coffee and a sausage sandwich and read the paper until Leanne showed up, usually red faced, exhausted and exhilarated after the lesson.

  There was a small seating area down one side of the school with two tiers of benches. He sat himself down, shivering in the chill, blowing out his breath in spurts, trying to make smoke rings.

  Riding was not for him. Horses did nothing for him. Not since the time when, as a young, headstrong police constable, he’d thought that life in the Mounted Branch looked glamorous, controlling football crowds and attracting young ladies who swooned over huge sweaty beasts – and horses too. He had managed to get a place on the coveted sixteen-week equitation course, where he then discovered it was not as pleasant as it seemed from the outside. The course was held in deep mid-winter and stables are harsh, unforgiving places to be when the temperature drops below zero. He found he detested the hard work involved, nor – and more fundamentally – did he particularly like horses either. But he stuck it until the eighth week, when he came a cropper. During a lesson on a particularly stroppy horse, it bucked and threw him. He broke his right wrist and bruised his lower spine. And that was the last he ever saw of the Mounted Branch. He had learned enough about riding to see him through the occasional holiday escapade when the girls wanted an hour’s cross-country, but that was all. No regrets about not becoming a mounted officer.

  Leanne’s class came into the indoor arena and began to work out.

  His daughter was proficient on the back of a horse. She had been riding about six months – longer than any other interest she had ever had – and worked hard to progress her ability. She seemed good at the basics and her balance was near perfect.

  Not that Henry knew much about things like balance and the seat, but she seemed to be a natural.

  He watched the lesson for a while, then decided it was time for food and drink. He edged his way across the bench, past Charlotte’s mother, who was perched at the end. She moved her knees for him. He said thanks and smiled again. He did not ever remember her staying to watch her daughter ride in the past.

  The portacabin café was a haven of heat. He settled down at a Formica-topped table in one corner with a chipped mug of coffee, toasted sausage sandwich and newspaper spread out in front of him.

  There were a few people in the cabin, mostly young girls giggling in huddles, discussing boys, pop stars and horses, in that order.

  Again, Henry was slightly surprised to see Charlotte’s mother buying herself a coffee at the counter. He had never seen her in the cabin before today. He thought nothing of it and began to read the headlines about the police in London discovering deadly poisons in the hands of Middle Eastern terrorists. It was an ongoing story, one he had been following with relish and not a little envy.

  He was, he had to admit, beginning to miss being a cop. He felt like he was in limbo, trapped and unable to do anything. If only he had a crystal ball and could forecast his future – one way or the other – he would be a whole lot happier.

  As he read the story he became aware of someone standing in front of him. When he looked up, for some reason it was not unexpected that it was Charlotte’s mother.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  He shuffled uncomfortably in the plastic chair. ‘Er, not at all,’ he frowned.

  She sat opposite, cradling her mug of steaming coffee in her hands. She placed a plastic lunch box down by her feet. She blew on the hot liquid. ‘I’m Charlotte’s mum,’ she said. Henry nodded. ‘And you are Leanne’s dad.’ He nodded again. He closed his newspaper. He had moved on to a story about Blackpool and its planned regeneration as the Las Vegas and gambling capital of Europe, which he doubted would ever happen. He folded the paper to one side and gave his attention to the lady sitting opposite, who, he noticed for the first time at such close range, was extremely attractive.

  She had well-cared-for, shiny, bobbed blonde hair, wide blue eyes, a slightly flat, elf-like nose and a full mouth which looked very biteable. Her chin was the feature that, if anything, let her down. It was slightly square and jutting, giving her face a hard edge that, as Henry appraised her more, took away the first impression, but only to a few degrees. She was dressed sloppily in loose sweatshirt and jeans.

  It was the first time he had ever been so close to her. He had been aware of her dropping Charlotte off in the past and picking her up again an hour later, but he had only seen glimpses of her in one of several classy motors. He got the impression she was good looking (and knew it) and was obviously loaded, but had thought no more about her. In his newly adopted role in life of being a devoted husband and loving father – as opposed to his former mantle of adulterer and absent parent – he had surgically cut out registering the presence and possibilities of other women. All he wanted now was a simple life without complex entanglements and he never thought about other women any more. At least that had been the case for the last four months and it was his intention for it to be so for the rest of his life.

  He assumed that, for whatever reason, Charlotte’s mum was having to stay on site to wait for her daughter today instead of dumping her and collecting later, and all she wanted was to pass the time by chatting with someone caught in the same situation.

  ‘Your daughter’s riding is coming along well.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Henry. ‘She’s really keen.’

  ‘Charlotte’s been riding for some years now and wasn’t getting any better. That’s why we decided to bring her here so she could see how other girls were getting along, maybe help her get better.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Henry, uncomprehending.

  ‘Since meeting Leanne she has improved.’

  ‘Good,’ said Henry, still puzzled about what was going on here. ‘She was at another riding school, then?’ he probed.

  ‘No, we gave her lessons at home.’

  ‘In the living room?’

  ‘No,’ she laughed. ‘We have stables and a small indoor arena.’

  ‘Oh, right, of course you do.’

  ‘You’re confused . . .’ The woman held out her hand. Henry shook it. It was hot from holding the coffee. ‘My name’s Tara . . . Tara Wickson.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Henry Christie.’

  She had shrugged when she said her name, in a gesture which seemed to suggest Henry should know who she was.

  He did not and knew she would have to reveal more if anything further was likely to dawn on him. ‘Wow . . . you’ve got your own stables,’ he said for something to say, trying to sound impressed.

  ‘Yes, we have a couple of race horses and some jumpers.’

  Henry’s face showed shock and distaste. He could no longer hold back his feelings.

  ‘You don’t like horses,’ Tara said with a lop-sided smile.

  ‘Can’t think of one horse on my Christmas card list. I suppose they’re a necessary evil, especially if you’re learning to ride.’

  Tara Wickson’s nice smile continued unabated. She looked into his eyes. He gulped and glanced quickly down at his hands and coughed uncomfortably. He checked the time. Twenty minutes to go. Then he thought that maybe he was being stupid and arrogant. Just because a woman looked directly at him did not mean she was gagging to go to bed with him. You arrogant bastard, he thought about himself and raised his eyes. She was far too young for him anyway.

  She was sipping her c
offee, her eyes still on him over the rim of her mug. Nice eyes.

  ‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you? Charlotte said Leanne had told her. A detective? Am I right?’

  ‘Sort of.’ He suddenly felt quite awkward. What else had Leanne told Charlotte?

  ‘Are you on special leave, or something?’

  Henry guffawed. ‘Or something,’ he confirmed coldly.

  ‘Oh sorry, I’m treading on thin ice here, aren’t I?’

  Henry opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, shut it and grinned.

  ‘Leanne hasn’t actually said very much, in case you’re worrying and planning to beat her soundly later.’

  ‘Kids talk,’ he said philosophically. ‘I wouldn’t want to gag her.’ Then he made a snap decision and didn’t know why. He said, ‘Yes, I am a policeman. I am a detective, but it’s not special leave. I’m suspended from duty. I’m being investigated, you might say.’

  Tara leaned back and eyed him thoughtfully. ‘For dishonesty?’ she asked bluntly.

  He shook his head. ‘Stupidity . . . lack of judgement . . . disobeying a lawful order.’ Then he quickly clammed up. Why was he telling her this crap?

  ‘To be honest, I already know,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’ He put his mug to his mouth and swigged from what was an empty receptacle. ‘Mm,’ he murmured, glaring into the mug.

  ‘You’re very prickly about it. I can understand that. It can’t be an easy time for you.’

  ‘No, but I’ve had lots of holidays out of it.’

  ‘So Leanne said.’

  ‘I will beat her soundly after all,’ Henry decided.

  ‘Are you bored?’

  ‘What? Here and now? Or with the situation I’m in?’

  ‘Bored by the amount of time you now have to kill.’

  ‘It is getting to me. Good at first, all that time to loll about, then it begins to pall somewhat. A bit like retirement, I would think.’

  ‘How do you fill your time?’

  Henry looked at her square on. His expression told her that enough was enough. Even he wasn’t sure how they had got here, but he felt it was time to call a halt to the conversation. He had said enough to someone who was just a stranger. ‘How do you fill yours?’ he asked.

  She blinked and said openly, ‘Shopping. Dining out. Sex. The usual, you know? When you’re rich, that is. Oh, horses, too.’

  ‘You’re rich then? You wanna tell me?’

  ‘Not really.’ Her voice was suddenly as tight as a closed drawbridge.

  ‘Shall we talk about the kids?’ Henry suggested, picking up on her vibes.

  ‘No,’ she snapped, then relaxed. ‘Look . . . time to come clean, Mr Christie. I’m actually not just here for personal chit-chat, as pleasant as that may be. I’ll tell you my problem and I wonder if you could help me.’

  ‘Tell you what, let’s do it over a new cup of coffee each. I’m old-fashioned like that.’ He picked up the mugs and bought two new brews.

  ‘Thanks.’ She curled her fingers around the mug again like it was a comfort blanket. Henry noticed her nails were beautifully manicured and wondered if caring for her body was in her list of activities. She looked exceptionally well groomed. ‘I’ll be honest, I have asked around a bit about you before coming to see you. You come highly recommended.’

  ‘By who?’

  She tapped her nose. ‘Can’t say . . . but what it is, we have a few problems up at the stables and I wondered if you’d investigate them for me.’

  ‘I’m a cop on suspension. Stripped of all powers. I don’t investigate things any more . . . and if it’s something the police should be looking at, why don’t you call in the local bobbies?’

  ‘They have been in but they’re not interested. Things to do with horses are obviously not on their priority lists, or whatever they call them. The first time I called the police, they took three days to come.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ he said, having heard far worse stories, ‘But I take it it’s a fairly minor matter then? Why not employ a private investigator?’

  ‘Could do, I suppose – but here you are, a cop without portfolio and you’ve got time on your hands. I’d really appreciate it.’

  ‘It would be remiss of me, at this point, if I didn’t ask what the problem is,’ he said, trying to show some interest. Whatever it was, warning bells were ringing in his ears, because it would cause further complications in his already overcomplicated life, particularly if what she was asking him to do conflicted with him being suspended from duty.

  Tara leaned down by her side and reached for the small sandwich box she had earlier put on the floor. She placed it on the table between them and prised the lid off. Inside was something wrapped in tin foil. She opened whatever it was whilst it was still in situ in the box, folding back the corners of the foil to reveal its contents.

  Henry did not know what he was looking at. Even so, his guts churned and a shiver shot through him. It looked like a piece of minute steak, but with hairs on it and was triangular in shape, and deep brown, almost black in colour.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ he recoiled.

  ‘A horse’s ear.’

  It was a long time since Henry had felt queasy at the sight of anything. The job of being a cop had seen to the complete desensitization of his psyche, but a severed horse’s ear had certainly hit the mark.

  The offending item was back in its tin foil, back in the sandwich box and out of sight. He and Tara Wickson were outside in the fresh air, walking back to the stable blocks. The lesson was due to finish shortly and the girls would soon be reappearing.

  ‘Do you carry that with you all the time? It’s certainly an effective calling card.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  They walked on in silence until they reached a corner of a stable block where they paused. Tara leaned against the wall, drawing up one foot.

  ‘It belongs to Charlotte’s favourite horse, Chopin. A big, bay gelding. Soft as the day is long. When she went to see him this morning, first thing, she found him with his ear cut off and knife slashes across his rump and his tail chopped to pieces. There was blood everywhere. Poor animal, he was terrified.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Henry.

  ‘Yeah, he was in a real state – and so was Charlotte.’

  ‘I can imagine . . . yet she came riding?’

  ‘I thought it best. She enjoys it and it stops her dwelling on it for a while.’

  ‘She did look unhappy,’ Henry recalled.

  ‘She was – is – but I know the other girls will drag her out of it.’ Tara pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket and offered one to Henry, who shook his head. Smoking was one of the few bad habits he did not have. She lit one and took a deep drag, exhaling the lungful of smoke with obvious relief. Henry watched her smoke. ‘It’s the third horse we’ve had mutilated.’

  ‘All in the stables overnight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s your security like?’

  ‘Good. At least I thought so.’

  ‘Do you have staff at the stables?’

  ‘Yeah – but not on site.’

  Henry suggested, ‘Have you upset anyone recently?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ She shrugged and smoked some more. ‘I’ll pay you if you come and investigate for us. A grand up front, even if all you do is come along and ask a few pertinent questions of different people. Then, if you stay longer charge me whatever you want to charge. I need to get this sorted and the local cops or our own security people don’t seem interested or capable.’

  ‘Your own security people?’

  ‘Mmm . . . tossers.’

  ‘What do you mean, your own security people?’

  ‘My husband’s businesses need security on the sites he owns. We use them for the stables, too.’

  ‘What does your husband do?’

  ‘Mainly he’s a building contractor. Has other interests, too.’ She looked unimpressed as she spoke. ‘H
aulage, import and export, all sorts of boring crap, building-site clearance. It’s the building sites that need security to stop pilfering.’

  ‘Who is your husband?’

  ‘John Lloyd Wickson.’

  Now things made more sense to Henry. Pieces were slotting into place. He did not know Tara Wickson, but knew of John Lloyd Wickson, certainly by reputation.

  Suddenly, interrupting his thoughts, came a burst of laughter as the three girls, Kelly, Charlotte and Leanne, appeared from the stables. They were red-faced, breathless and happy.

  Quickly, Tara said, ‘If you come along and take a look at things, the payment will be discreet. Nothing official. Cash in hand. A grand, minimum.’

  ‘Dad! Dad!’ Leanne shouted, running towards him. ‘What about McDonald’s . . . please, please, pleeeease!’ The other two girls were right behind her.

  ‘What about it, Mum?’ Charlotte said to Tara.

  ‘I don’t mind, but where’s Kelly’s mum or dad? I’ll take you all, then drop you all back off at home – if you don’t mind, Henry, and if Kelly’s parents don’t have a problem.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Henry. ‘No probs.’

  ‘Here’s my mum,’ Kelly exclaimed and ran off towards her. Charlotte and Leanne drifted away, chattering excitedly. Leaving Henry and Tara.

  ‘So . . . will you do it?’ Her eyes pleaded with him and he went weak. Women did that to him: one look and he was hooked. He was a tart.

  ‘I really don’t think I can promise anything,’ he said with a new-found inner strength, which immediately wilted under Tara’s saddened gaze. ‘OK, OK, I’ll come and have a look round, but as much as I’d like a thousand pounds in my back pocket, I’ll have to forego any payment, thanks very much. It could make things a bit . . . difficult,’ he said, screwing up his face. ‘These things are apt to get out.’

  ‘You are too honest for your own good,’ Tara smiled. She handed him a card with her phone numbers on it. ‘Mobile and home,’ she said, her eyes holding his again. She also described exactly where she lived and how to get to the house. ‘Maybe I could pay you in kind,’ she said mischievously.