‘Is Jake here?’
‘Nah.’
I edged in through the half-opened door. It was immediately closed behind me. An unpleasant smell of unwashed bodies and old, lingering cooking overlaid by a distinct fug of cigarette smoke pervaded the house.
Smith led me through to the lounge. It hadn’t seen a vacuum cleaner in a long, long time and every surface was cluttered with accumulated junk and newspapers all covered in a good layer of dust. In the centre of the room was a coffee table ringed by numerous mugs and beer cans, and an ashtray that was trying very hard to hold all the cigarette butts stubbed out in it, but losing the fight.
‘You’re the bloke who found out who killed Carl, ain’t you? Our Jake reckons you’re helping to find Jo-Jo’s killer an’ all. That right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, what do you want from me?’ His eyes bored into my face.
‘Mr Smith, if I could alter things, believe me, I wouldn’t hesitate.’
‘Nothin’s going to bring my kids back.’ He sat down on a sagging settee and lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
‘It was certainly my fault I clouted Carl when we both came off at Huntingdon racecourse back in March, although it was an accident. But it still knocked his teeth out.’
‘Ah, it did. He had to have a set of false ones made.’
‘Mr Smith, do you know the name of the dentist who made those teeth?’ I waited with barely held-down anticipation. If I could find out, the trail would be red-hot.
‘Wait here. I’ll fetch it.’ He heaved himself out of the chair.
I didn’t have time to ask him what he was talking about. He disappeared and I heard him climbing the stairs.
Minutes later, he was back holding a small box. It looked for all the world like a child’s very small shoebox in plain brown cardboard. He lifted off the lid and showed me.
Inside, it was empty except for a bedding of tissue paper and a folded sheet of paper that looked like an invoice.
‘They came in this ’ere box. ’Course, they was only the plaster cast, like – the first impression, Carl called them. His real ones was buried with him.’ He took a deep drag from the cigarette wobbling dangerously in his trembling hand. ‘These ’ere plaster ’uns was stolen. Reckon it must have been done at Carl’s wake. Nobody else has been to the house.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t know who it was. All I knows is everybody who came to the wake was racin’ folk.’
‘Can I ask you: was John Dunston one of the people at the wake?’
He peered suspiciously at me. ‘You reckon it was him?’
‘Was he at the wake?’ I persisted.
‘Aye, he was.’
‘Thank you. And the invoice …’ I pointed to the folded paper inside the little box. ‘Could I see the name of the dentist who supplied them?’
In answer, he took the sheet of paper and unfolded it.
Across the top was the name of the firm: White, Hubbard and Brownley.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When I’d gone up to bed last night, I’d left out the graph of suspects and events on my desk. Now, there was one more piece of jigsaw to add in. Even as I wrote down what I’d learned from Fred Smith, I could see the connections being formed. To complete this particular portion of the picture, I needed to make a phone call to Paul Wentworth. If what I suspected proved correct, it would really bring the investigation to life.
A phone call to Jake Smith was also on the cards. I didn’t hold great hopes that he could answer the one question I needed to ask, but it was worth a phone call to find out.
I went into the kitchen, made a strong coffee and took it back to my desk. In between taking slurps, I mentally rearranged this latest line of approach. At last, there were links forming; not chain-links maybe – more tenuous, gossamer ones – but still they were there, and the more I played about with the ‘what ifs’ the more I could see which way the trail was leading. A surge of excitement was building inside me as one name kept flashing like a neon sign in my mind’s eye.
Finishing my drink, I reached for the phone and dialled Paul Wentworth’s number. There was no way of disguising what I needed to know. The only way was to ask him straight out. But if he hedged around and wanted to know why, he was going to be disappointed. Right now, I needed to hold all the aces. The slightest hint of what my investigation had uncovered would be disastrous.
‘Hello, Paul. Harry Radcliffe here.’ We exchanged small talk for a minute or two and then I pitched my question.
‘Do you remember I was asking about the dentist you recommended to Barbara Maguire?’ He did. ‘I meant to ask you how you found out about him. I mean, you and Pen are relative newcomers to the area. Was it the case that you had a different dentist before you moved to Boxton?’
He confirmed that yes, he had used a different one where he’d lived before.
‘So how did you find out about White, Hubbard and Brownley?’
Then I waited. His reply brought a wide smile to my face. His answer confirmed my suspicions. Lying on the settee had worked magnificently. I had a hard time holding myself in check, but I thanked him and replaced the receiver.
Then I bellowed ‘Yes!’ and punched a triumphant fist in the air. The chase was on.
The journey to Fakenham proved frustratingly slow. It wasn’t like a straightforward trip up or down the country. Going across took much longer. Jockeys were well used to a toe-down approach when travelling to racecourses, but it wasn’t always possible and the racecourses located in the east of the country were notoriously slower journeys, prone to hold-ups. Today, however, it helped that the one race I was booked to ride in was the last one on the card.
The horse, Grey Shadow, wasn’t one from Mike’s stable. It was a ride I’d been fortunate to pick up when the jockey who was due to ride him got dropped the previous day at Ludlow. I’d ridden two winners and as a result was high profile at the meeting. The injured jockey’s trainer had approached me, offered the ride at Fakenham and I’d gratefully accepted.
When I arrived, I left my car in the owners, trainers and jockeys’ car park and went straight to the weighing room, but during the journey I’d used the time to run over Paul Wentworth’s answer and where it fitted the jigsaw. His answer had been the one I’d been desperately hoping for.
All I needed now was for Jake Smith’s answer to one more question. His mobile phone had been switched off this morning and I was loath to try Fred Smith’s landline. The state of the man spelled out he wasn’t coping with his double bereavement. Jo-Jo’s death had undoubtedly brought back all the trauma and grief of losing Carl. Two deaths were too heavy a burden to bear. But I had to speak to Jake. Just that one question to ask. If I got the right answer, the killer was in my sights.
Providing proof, though … now that would be something else.
Unable to contain my impatience any longer, I left the weighing room and threaded my way through the crowd of racegoers to the pre-parade ring. Standing by the rail, I dialled Jake’s number. This time his phone was switched on and he answered straight away.
‘Hello, Jake. Been trying to get you earlier.’
‘Yeah. Stayed over last night at Alice’s. Didn’t want distracting. Know what I mean, Harry?’ He chuckled softly.
His words threw me for a minute. I’d gained the impression Alice had been wary of him. However …
‘I went to see your father this morning. He showed me the box that Carl kept his false teeth in – the ones made of plaster.’
‘The old man’s taking it bad.’
‘Yes, I could see that. I’m sorry. Losing family is bloody hard.’
‘You can say that again.’ The menacing edge in his voice was chilling.
‘I just need to ask you something. How come Carl used that particular dentist? Was it his usual one?’
‘No. Never went near ’em, did he? Except this time – well, with a mouthful of teeth gone, like, he’d got to do something. A man needs to eat.’
‘Yes
,’ I said, well aware that, accident or not, it had been my fault. ‘So, do you know why he went to that particular firm?’
‘Someone recommended them.’
‘Who was it, do you know?’ I waited in suspense for his answer.
He did know – and he told me.
If I hadn’t been surrounded by racegoers, I’d have whooped out loud in triumph and punched the air again.
The surge of adrenalin lasted until my race. It added an extra supercharge of energy that carried me along with it. I rode an inspired, punching finish and Grey Shadow flew past the post five lengths ahead of the field.
It was a great feeling to ride into the number-one spot in the winners’ enclosure. To know everyone was rooting for me. It gave me a tremendous lift.
After every race now, I gratefully gave thanks to the man upstairs for letting me have my racing back. Life itself was precious, but for me, racing made life worth living. And because of that, I needed to give back too.
Amongst the crowd ringing the enclosure, I noticed Edward Frame and Samuel. Holding aloft betting slips, they waved enthusiastically. I touched my cap in acknowledgement of the applause, dismounted, undid the girths and went to weigh in.
Later, back in the jockeys’ changing room, I stripped off and gave the silks to the valet. I couldn’t wait to get back home and follow the trail unwinding before me. And then I realized what day it was – Thursday. I was due at Uncle George’s party tonight. There was nothing further I could do until tomorrow. Except perhaps one thing. As I dressed in my normal clothes, I gave it serious thought.
Far too late now to help Lilly Dunston, but I could face John Dunston, offer my sympathy for his loss. Tell him I knew he’d stolen the plaster cast from Fred Smith at Carl’s wake, left it on the cottage doorstep to get at me. Tell him I knew why he’d engineered the deaths of Louis Frame and Jo-Jo Smith. That I knew he was over a barrel because of Lilly’s condition, and I understood. I didn’t condone his actions – but I understood where he was coming from.
Lilly had been his wife and had relied on him to look after her. He’d needed money badly. Fully aware of that fact, the vindictive bastard behind the murders had deliberately exploited him, made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Nothing like using the love between husband and wife as a lever. Love was the strongest force in the world.
I came to a decision. Robson had a runner in the same race as my own. If Dunston was working, and it was highly likely he would be – no Lilly to look after now and a funeral to pay for – he could be in the box park right now, preparing to load up.
Collecting my saddle and grip, I made my way to the jockeys’ car park. Visibility had worsened during the last half-hour and heavy, pewter-coloured storm clouds were rolling in from the west. I unlocked the boot of the Mazda, tossed my grip inside and relocked it. Then I walked back across the car park.
By the time I reached the horsebox park, it was practically dusk. Rain had begun spitting sporadically. It was going to be a wipers-and-lights-on, slow and miserable journey home. I quartered the field like a springer flushing game. By the time I found Robson’s horsebox, the rain was torrential.
The ramp was down but the horse hadn’t been loaded yet. I went to have a quick look in the cab, but Dunston wasn’t there. Walking to the back of the box again, I heard a strange noise coming from inside.
To begin with, I thought he might have been sobbing – very likely in the present circumstances – and I hesitated. Grief was a private thing. But the sound was more of a gurgle than a sob. I climbed up on to the ridged ramp and went inside a little way.
In the gloom at the rear of the driver’s compartment, I saw a figure on the floor. Edging closer, still unsure of my reception, I could now make out an unpleasant smell, one familiar to all jump jockeys – one that made the back of my neck prickle with apprehension.
Moving closer now, I could hear the noises were certainly not sobs. My eyes were becoming accustomed to the deep gloom inside the box and I could tell the figure lying down was a man.
I went up to him. It was Dunston all right. But he was most definitely not all right. Shock hit me like getting double-barrelled by a horse – right in the solar plexus.
He was lying in a pool of blood. A knife slash had almost severed his right ear, which lay across his cheekbone, the diagonal, gaping wound running on down the back of his neck, a knife protruding from his chest. Just how much blood he’d lost was impossible to judge – a hell of a lot. He was, miraculously, still alive. I saw the white flash as his eyes moved when I bent over him. Reassuring him that he was going to be OK, I phoned for the on-course doctor.
Then I quickly pulled down the cuff of my white shirt and ripped it free. Placing the makeshift pad firmly on top of the neck wound, I applied pressure, trying to staunch the flow. Although the cotton became saturated, the blood was no longer pouring out. If the killer had hit the carotid artery, further to the side, the man would be dead now. Maybe the killer had been aiming for that and Dunston had swung round at the last moment. It would explain the shape of the wound and the severed ear.
The knife could stay where it was. Buried in his chest, it was preventing blood loss. Once removed, death would follow quickly unless medical help was on hand.
Dunston made a gurgling sound as he tried to get words out.
‘Don’t talk, mate. Save all your strength. Just hang on. The doctor will be here in a minute or two.’
‘Too late …’ I could just hear the whisper.
‘No, no, don’t try talking. Hang on, that’s all, hang on.’
‘Lost Lilly …’ He choked, coughed up blood.
‘I know, I’m so sorry.’
‘I … killed …’ He struggled for words.
I realized Dunston, believing he was about to die, was trying to confess, absolve himself before he went.
‘I know. You killed Louis Frame and Jo-Jo, but the bastard had you over a barrel, I understand.’
His eyes stared up at me as he fought to breathe.
‘You didn’t kill Lucinda, though, did you?’ I was talking fast now. I wanted his confirmation, but I also wanted his attention, to keep him conscious until the doctor got here. Dunston was very close to death, but there might just be a chance if he could hold on. The knife hadn’t gone into his heart – it was too far to the right – but I was pretty sure it had punctured a lung.
‘You didn’t kill her?’
‘Nooo … told me to …’ He was dragging the words out.
‘The bastard wanted you to kill Lucinda as well as Louis and Jo-Jo?’
‘Ye … es.’
‘Tell me, who was it?’ I didn’t want to mention the name, didn’t want to put words in his mouth.
But his strength, what little he had left, wasn’t enough. His mouth was working, but the blood continued to trickle out and he was barely breathing.
Outside, there was a bright splash of light from a lamp, voices and flurried activity.
‘You’re OK. The doctor’s here. You’re going to be OK.’
His eyes stared up at me glassily, despairingly. I knew it was probably too late, as he’d said, but I also knew he didn’t want to take the secret with him.
‘If you can’t talk, can you blink? Twice for yes,’ I said urgently.
He blinked twice.
I bent close to his good ear so no one else could hear, and as the doctor came up the ramp, I whispered the name of the killer.
‘Give me space …’ The doctor came between us.
I backed away, desperately watching Dunston’s face. There was a blaze of light now inside the box and I could see him quite clearly.
He blinked twice.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I was late getting to Uncle George’s party – very late.
‘Harry, thought you weren’t coming.’ As he opened the door, Uncle George’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Come on in, lad.’
I took a deep breath, then stepped inside. Right now, the last thing I wanted to
do was party.
I’d seen Dunston screamed off by ambulance to the nearest hospital. His life was only holding between one fought-for breath and the next. For all I knew, he was dead now. But I didn’t know. I’d been banged up at the police station, being asked a million questions and having a statement taken. They were really, really interested in me.
‘You were the gentleman who found Carl Smith’s body when he was murdered at Leicester races, I understand. And you were first on the scene to find Lucinda Frame’s body on North Shore golf course. Now, it seems, you’ve discovered an attempted murder at Fakenham racecourse.’
I’d groaned. ‘I’m never going to live this down now, am I? How is Dunston? Is he still alive?’
They wouldn’t tell me. I’m not sure whether they even knew.
I was the first person on the scene, covered in Dunston’s blood. I’d been the person to discover Carl Smith, head first down a lavatory at the races, and then poor Lucinda, stabbed and bloodstained. Was I making a habit of it? Going for the treble?
I could possibly be the prime suspect.
Any information the police knew, they were keeping to themselves. I had been there for hours before they relented and I was free to go to Uncle George’s party.
The party was already into the later stages, everybody well oiled and enjoying themselves hugely. Amongst the throng, I noticed quite a few of Uncle George’s cronies from the fishing club, but the majority of people I didn’t know.
As if sensing my thoughts, Aunt Rachel homed in on me, busily doing her hostess bit, giving introductions, holding out a beer. I reached out for the glass, my arm now clothed in a shirt complete with clean cuff. ‘Thanks, I could do with this.’ I could have done with a double whisky.
‘Busy day?’ she said brightly.
‘You could say that.’
‘Evening, Harry.’ Victor Maudsley, looking very sharp in a beautifully cut suit, came up to us and took over where she left off. ‘A happy day.’
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