I could always rely on copy about Barbara’s stable for the racing column I wrote for one of the papers. I always wrote in a positive, complimentary way, and she had thanked me previously for what she saw as the help I was giving her. In fact, anything I wrote was always the straight-down-the-middle truth and she didn’t need to feel beholden in any way. But any parties she threw usually found me receiving an invitation. They were always damn good parties, too.
I found it reassuring to know there were friendly faces around I could call on if the tight spot facing me became too constricting.
I’d spent an abortive three hours doing a recce in Wellington Street in Newark. I’d drawn a total blank. I’d seen nothing and nobody entering or leaving number twenty-nine. I had absolutely no idea what Jake Smith looked like. He, along with a good percentage of the general population, knew my face well. Now all my senses were on top-level alert. To feel so vulnerable wasn’t pleasant.
The bell rang and jockeys were thrown up into tiny saddles and led away up the horses’ walkway and out on to the course. I ambled along beside the winners’ enclosure and weighing room, taking my time.
‘Far enough, Mr Radcliffe.’
Although the voice was hardly above a whisper, the menace in the tone was clear.
I froze. Felt my jacket move slightly at the back and something cold slide up inside against my ribs. Felt the sudden pain as the point of a knife pierced my skin. I drew in breath sharply. Tension bunched my muscles.
‘Don’t move – just talk.’
‘No.’
‘You what?’ The point of the knife pressed harder. I felt a hot trickle running down inside my shirt. Blood.
‘Take the knife away – now.’
‘I’m the one giving orders.’
‘And I’m not taking them.’
He was the one now taking in a sharp breath. A silent, quivering tension stretched between us.
I was banking on him wanting me in one piece to supply the information he needed. If Jake slid the knife between my ribs now, he’d never get any answers. But if I was wrong and he was mad – or bad – enough, he could finish the job right where we stood. I’d taken a massive gamble. The next second or two would decide if I’d won – or lost.
‘Start walking. Head for the car park.’
I felt the knife slide away, felt the sudden weakness of relief. Obediently, I began walking. He was at the side of me now, matching me pace for pace.
‘Don’t try anything. Don’t look at anybody.’
I started to turn my head to get a look at his face.
‘Walk!’
I wasn’t pushing my luck. At least the knife was gone – for the moment. But with despair, I heard the tannoy conveying the happy news for Barbara that her horse, Silvercloud, had just won the last race. All I had to do was wait. Help would be here within moments when she arrived in the winners’ enclosure.
I walked on.
TEN
We walked to the car park. I followed his prompts and we fetched up beside a battered green Rover. He unlocked and motioned me into the passenger seat. For a brief moment, I considered refusing. Once I was inside, that was it. No telling where he was intending to take me. Right now, it was just us – one to one. But it was possible he would drive me to where two or three of his mates were waiting. Life could get more tricky. I hesitated.
‘In.’
He was obviously a man not given to long sentences. Did I even have a choice? I climbed in. So did he.
‘Belt up …’
I fixed my seat belt. His concern for my welfare was at odds with putting a knife to my ribs.
‘Coppers on the gate.’
I nodded. Just out of prison, he was in no hurry to attract attention for a minor breech. He nosed the car out of line and bumped over the grass towards the exit.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Not far.’
I cast a sideways glance across the massed cars; my own Mazda – my escape route – was in there somewhere. It might as well have been the other side of the moon.
He drove for about a mile along Racecourse Lane towards Southwell. Then, to my surprise, he pulled in on to the grass verge beside a farm gateway.
He cut the engine and silence settled around us. Staring morosely across the fields, he said, ‘How did you do it?’
I cast around. What was he referring to?
‘Next clue.’
‘Eh?’ He swung round in his seat, eyebrows drawn tightly together across the bridge of his nose. Oddly, his eyebrows were heavy, black, whilst his head was shaved, totally devoid of hair.
‘Do what?’
‘Find out who did it.’
‘I didn’t kill Carl. I’m sorry he’s dead.’
He flipped a hand sideways impatiently. ‘I know that. But it was you, not the police, sussed it out – yes?’
I was forced to agree that, yes, I’d worked out the sordid mess.
‘Carl’s killer’s being taken care of. So,’ he sighed heavily, adding, ‘that’s him done.’
‘You mean he’s in prison?’
He stared at me aggressively. ‘Did I say that? No, I don’t mean taken care of … I mean sorted … I might be out of the slammer, but a lot of my mates are still inside.’ He gave a gruff, snorting laugh. ‘Mates that owe me, plus they were Carl’s mates an’ all.’
I felt a coldness hit my stomach.
‘Understand?’
‘Yes.’
We sat in silence. I had no idea what he wanted from me. If he didn’t blame me, he wasn’t after revenge. So what? His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
‘My sister’s dead.’
I heard the naked grief in his words. Recognized it immediately. They say it takes one to know one. By God, how true that is.
‘I’m really sorry.’
He nodded, still clenching his hands. ‘Thanks.’ He flicked a quick glance at me. ‘Likewise.’
‘Hmm …’
We sat in silence again. All my apprehension had gone. Any violence that might have taken place now seemed unlikely. If I waited long enough, he was going to get around to telling me what he wanted.
‘She was murdered.’
His first words shook me. But what he said next shook me even more.
‘I want you to find her killer.’
‘Whoa!’ I held up the palm of my hand. ‘I’m a jump jockey, OK? I’m not in the detective business.’
‘Oh, no? You were the one who sussed out the last. You admitted it.’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘So, you’ve done it once, you can do it again.’ There was an edge to his voice now. ‘I’m not asking if you want to – I’m telling you.’
‘Now, look here—’
‘Because if you don’t, I’m going to come close to Chloe. Understand?’
The coldness was back in my stomach. ‘Nothing to do with her.’
‘Whatever it takes.’ He shrugged. ‘An’ I reckon you’re the right bloke for the job.’
‘So, you’re putting me over a barrel, eh?’
‘You’ve been there before – and got results.’
‘Let me ask you something. Did you, or someone you instructed, leave a set of false teeth on my doorstep?’
‘What the hell you on about?’ The eyebrows beetled their way tightly together.
His answer was good enough for me. Whatever else, the man was certainly no actor. Annabel had been right. It hadn’t been Jake. So who, then?
I stared out of the windscreen. A wood pigeon flapped its way lazily across the field. Freedom. I’d hoped for some myself once my life was under my control and I was, literally, back in the saddle. What a hope. I became aware Jake was scowling at me.
‘Well?’
‘The day I got your note, someone left a pair of false teeth on my doorstep.’
His eyebrows raised themselves to his hairline, or what would have been his hairline if he’d had any.
‘They were replica
s of Carl’s.’
‘Fucking hell!’
‘Exactly.’
‘Wasn’t me.’ He shook his head vigorously.
‘Any ideas?’
‘Nope.’
‘Nor me.’ I watched the wood pigeon head for the horizon and disappear out of sight. Lucky sod. ‘Look, why not employ a professional detective agency?’
‘I want you.’
‘Is it the money?’
I was still unable to shake off the guilt about Carl’s death. Irrational, ill-founded, but still guilt. Helping Jake to find his sister’s killer, hand them over to the police, might go a long way to assuaging it.
‘Nice try, Harry boy.’ He shook his head. ‘Won’t wash. They’d play it by the book.’
‘And I wouldn’t?’
‘You’re a jockey, a jump jockey. You’d just get a result.’
He was right. A professional firm would do the work in the authentic manner, hide-bound by all the regulations and rules. Jake was watching me closely. He smiled.
‘You see?’
‘Yes.’ I reluctantly inclined my head. ‘Yes, I do.’
Wednesday morning, five thirty a.m., I stripped off the one item of clothing I was wearing – my boxer shorts – and, totally naked, stood sideways on in front of the bathroom mirror. Last night’s hastily applied plaster had certainly stuck well. I hooked my thumbnail over the top edge and piggled the corner loose. Then, gripping the plaster tightly, I ripped it off. I could see the deep scratch had begun to heal cleanly.
Turning the shower on hot, I stepped in and let the water flow over me. The wound stung as the hot needles played against it, but I was simply relieved the injury was no worse. The whole meeting with Jake seemed surreal. I had gone to Southwell expecting the worst. At the point the knife punctured my skin and drew blood, my expectation of coming out of the confrontation unscathed had plummeted.
To find myself, half an hour later, sitting at the side of Jake talking about a relative’s death and finding common ground was almost beyond credibility. But it had happened. From fear and dislike, my feelings for the man had swung round until I felt a certain fragile sympathy for him. Not a liking, but an understanding of his feelings of grief, loss, the need for retribution. All those things. They mirrored my own from a few short weeks ago.
However, the very fact that I couldn’t shake off the guilt about Carl’s death, despite it not being my hand that finished him, told me all I needed to know about getting revenge. It did nothing to help cope with the pain of losing someone close. Indeed, it seemed to increase the sense of futility of pursuing revenge as a lasting satisfaction and instead only increased the hollow emptiness.
But despite the empathy, I knew Jake was quite prepared to use whatever form of persuasion or violence necessary to achieve his own aim – tracking down his sister’s killer. That he had decided I was the man he would use was my tough luck. If I didn’t dance to his demands, innocent people might get crushed as he bulldozed his own way forward. However much I felt repulsed by the thought of handing over my own reins into his hands, he knew – I knew – I was going to do it.
I towelled off. Wiped the steam from the mirror. There was a streak of red along my ribs. I rooted in the first-aid box in the bathroom cabinet, found a plaster and secured it over the wound. I had no way of knowing if the knife had been clean or contaminated, but at least my tetanus jab was up to date.
Half an hour later, I drove into Mike’s stable yard. He’d heard my car engine and a mug of tea was steaming on the kitchen table when I walked in.
‘Still with us, then, Harry?’ His flippancy didn’t fool me. Genuine relief shone in his eyes. It felt good to know there was someone who did actually give a damn whether I lived or died.
I lifted the mug and took a gulp. ‘Cheers. And before you ask, I am still all in one piece – well, practically one piece.’
‘Eh?’
‘The initial skirmish drew blood, but not much.’
‘Are you going to give me the full SP about yesterday’s meeting or not?’
I grinned and took pity on him. ‘Sure.’ I filled him in on the whole bizarre situation.
‘Could only happen to you, Harry. An ex-con has his sister murdered and employs you to find her killer. Good God, man, how’re you going to get out of it?’ For once, his smiling countenance was clouded over with concern.
‘Simple answer, Mike: I can’t.’
‘But surely you’re not serious?’
‘What choice have I got? You said it yourself, I can’t let Chloe be put at risk. And you’re right.’
‘Tell the police. It’s the only way.’
‘And what will they do? Presumably, they’ve conducted an investigation into Jake’s sister’s death.’
‘And presumably they’ve drawn a blank. So if, with all their resources, the police can’t come up with the answer and the killer’s name, what the hell chance do you stand? Be sensible, Harry. Look at this head-on. You’ve no chance.’
‘You’re wrong, Mike. That’s what will give me a chance. A chance to get off Jake’s hook. If I pay lip service to his demands and find out sweet FA, he’ll have to back down. I will have tried and failed. End of story.’
‘Knowing you,’ he said and shook his head sadly, ‘you probably will find something out. And if you do, what are the chances the killer won’t come looking for you to close your mouth – and your eyes. That’s what happened to Carl, don’t forget.’
I looked at him steadily. ‘Mike, I will never forget what happened to Carl. If I could rerun that particular tape, I would never have asked him to meet me. But since you can’t undo the past, I’m stuck with it.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. That was crass of me. But for God’s sake, don’t go feet first into this snake pit. You might never get out alive.’
‘I’m not thrilled at the thought, but reading the small print, I’m stuck with it.’
He sighed heavily, shoulders drooping in dismal resignation. ‘All I can do is offer my help.’
‘I accept your offer, should I—’
‘I know, I know …’ he lifted a hand, adding, ‘should you find your back up against the stable door.’
I gave him a rueful smile. ‘Something like that, yes.’
He shrugged again, drained his tea and stood the empty mug in the sink. ‘Come on, let’s get some work done.’
I followed him outside across the stable yard, glad to put the whole messy business out of my mind and concentrate on riding out first lot.
By late morning, and having ridden out second and third lots as well, a car drove up that we both recognized. Not hard to do. We had ridden in it to Skegness and back on Monday.
The doors opened and Samuel and Chloe got out, both wearing wide, happy smiles. At the sight of Chloe, all the grim thoughts I’d successfully pushed out of my mind for the previous four hours rushed back. She was a beautiful woman, a sweet person. I groaned inside. I couldn’t risk that beauty being spoiled or that sweet person taking some horrendous physical beating – or worse, because I was quite sure Jake was capable of extreme action if he didn’t get what he wanted. Whatever it took, I thought – and was instantly reminded that Jake himself had used the very same words to pin me to the cork-board.
‘Hello, lovely to see you. How’s my darling White Lace?’
I knew Mike would have kept Chloe informed of the vet’s findings, but I wasn’t sure if she knew about Annabel giving the mare healing.
‘Great to see you both, too. White Lace is doing very well. Come and see for yourselves.’
‘Marvellous day last Sunday, Harry,’ Samuel said. ‘Enjoyed it no end.’
‘Oh, yes. And I enjoyed Monday’s golf as well.’
Mike came striding up, having seen the car arrive. ‘Me too, Samuel. Hello, Chloe, you’re looking well. Racehorse ownership suits you.’
She laughed at him. ‘You don’t have to give me your ‘owner’s spiel’ to keep me on your books. Just try keeping me out.’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he laughed.
We all walked over to the mare’s stable and she obligingly stuck her head out over the half-door.
‘She looks very calm now – don’t you, my darling?’
‘Yes,’ Samuel agreed with his daughter. ‘Looks a picture. The shoulder’s healed very well, too. Surprisingly well, because it was nasty.’
‘Got to admit it,’ Mike said, ‘Annabel’s healing has had a most positive effect on her. Settled the nervousness and speeded the flesh knitting up.’
‘Annabel’s healing?’ Chloe queried.
‘Spiritual healing,’ I clarified.
‘Wow! She’s a qualified healer, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s marvellous. I mean, look at my mare. She’s so improved.’
‘I’m certainly impressed. And I shall use her again,’ Mike said. ‘Like Annabel told us, animals respond very well, much better on the whole than people, because they have no mental blocks that throw up obstacles. They just accept the healing and allow it to do just that.’
‘She’s a very useful lady to have around, I can see that,’ Samuel said, nodding, and put out a hand to stroke the mare. ‘White Lace has really benefited. Would you pass on my thanks to Annabel, please, Mike?’
‘Certainly will.’
‘And now,’ Samuel said, a wicked twinkle in his eye, ‘talking of white lace … You boys didn’t remind me of what I said on Sunday at Huntingdon races, did you?’
‘Remind us.’
‘I said after we’d slaughtered eighteen holes at North Shore, I’d tell you what I have in mind for a celebration.’
‘And we thought we’d got away with it,’ Mike joked.
‘Uh-huh, oh, no. I want you both to agree. It will give Chloe and me a lot of pleasure if you do.’
‘Agree to what, Samuel?’ I asked. ‘And what’s it got to do with White Lace?’
‘Nothing,’ he chuckled. ‘Well, not the mare; it will be the bride who’ll be wearing white on Saturday. There’s a wedding taking place at North Shore Hotel and you chaps are invited. It’s an all-day job, stay overnight and play a round before leaving on Sunday if you wish.’
Dead on Course Page 7