Dead on Course

by Glenis Wilson

  The man had said three hours, but for all I knew he might have killed her already. With four deaths to his tally, and Dunston running a close fifth, the bastard wasn’t going to hold back. And if I got myself killed before I could release Annabel, her end would be swift, too.

  The only weapons I had in the car were the screwdriver and torch. They weren’t going to protect me at all. When I reached the stable, I needed to find something like a broom handle before I went barging in. I didn’t know if he had a gun. But since none of his victims had been shot, it was odds-on that he didn’t. The most likely weapon would be a knife – an effective murder weapon and, above all, a silent one.

  As my mind ranged over what lay ahead, the road sped away beneath my car tyres. Cutting through villages and avoiding potential town traffic, I came off the A52 at Bingham and roared up the hill to Langar. I had made it back in an unbelievable hour and twenty minutes. Harby was the next village ahead and I spun the Mazda’s wheel and turned off down what was little more than a narrow farm track. It led over a cattle grid, wound through the fields, then ended by the defunct stable block. Part way down, out of sight around a bend, a car was parked up close by the hedge, undoubtedly ready for a swift getaway.

  Before rounding the last bend, I dowsed the lights and lowered my speed to a crawl before coming to a silent halt. My best hope was to take him unawares, but first I needed to find a weapon.

  Walking the last few yards, I fetched up by a corner of the stables. Tiptoeing carefully, I went all around the four sides of the building. It was in darkness, and yet from the side farthest from where Barbara’s working stables were sited was a window. It had what looked like a hessian sack nailed up, and through the thick weave I could just make out a dim yellow glow. It was ten-to-one Annabel would be in there.

  Going round to the opposite side of the stable block, I eased open a door and inched myself round the doorjamb. The stable was pitch-black and numbingly cold. An overpowering smell of animal feed filled my nostrils and I knew at least one of the big sacks must have split, allowing the contents to spill out. If they were horse nuts, it would be like trying to walk on ball bearings and the floor would be as treacherous as ice.

  Covering the head of my torch with my jacket, I switched it on. Luck was running my way. Along the wall to my left was an array of disused old tools left over from the days when the stables were used to house horses. I walked very quietly along and picked out a dusty pitchfork. Rusty it might be, but it still had the capacity to penetrate and kill if jabbed hard enough into someone’s chest. Even the thought of having to do so made my hands sweaty and slippery. Then I thought of Annabel – and the baby – and gripped the handle firmly. Whatever it took to save them …

  If the killer was watching out for anyone coming, his eyes would be focused at normal head height. Bending double, I moved along the centre walkway. Under one of the doors, I could see a very faint crack of light. The door itself was the usual style, comprised of two parts. Both were closed. But the woodwork was so old, the doorjamb had been eaten away by woodworm and there was a vertical gap running up by the top half where the door no longer fitted snugly. I drew myself up flat against the brickwork and angled my head. Barely an inch wide, the gap nevertheless afforded me all the inside view I needed.

  The man was sitting with his back half turned away from me, oblivious to my presence. In his hands, he repeatedly weighed a knife. The steel glinted brightly in the light from two flickering candles. So, I’d been right in guessing he didn’t possess a gun. It certainly evened up my chances.

  Then I looked past him to the far wall. The hook was there, just as I remembered it. So was the manger – and firmly tied to it was Annabel.

  My guts and body heaved in a spasm of anguished empathy. Her knees had buckled as far as they could go. Leaving her almost hanging by her hands. The gag was still in place, preventing her from crying out. But her face was contorted with pain and fear. And her loss of dignity was pitifully completed when I saw, running down her skirt, a long wet stain of urine. I hoped to God it was only urine, and wasn’t a sign that her waters had broken. The viciously tight rope was still bound beneath her breasts and cutting into her belly above her pubic bone. I could have wept for her pain and humiliation.

  Fury roared through me, but whilst all my instincts screamed at me to charge in and cut her free, it was too dangerous. Not for me, but for her.

  She was facing me, and for a split second I thought she had glimpsed the involuntary jerk I’d made because she began to make a despairing rolling motion with her head. I drew back instantly. Right now, I needed to get back outside the building and ring for help before tackling the evil bastard. If I could get the knife away from him, hold him there until help arrived, Annabel would have a chance. If I tackled him on my own and he stabbed me, it was an odds-on certainty he would stab Annabel.

  Silently, I eased my way back outside, leaving the pitchfork ready by the doorway but taking my torch and mobile. Time was still on my side. There must be at least an hour to go to the deadline.

  With trembling fingers, I punched in Barbara’s number so she could ring for the police and ambulance. If she told them to come straight away because a woman was being held hostage at knifepoint, they couldn’t refuse.

  Then I rang Mike’s number and, almost an afterthought, Sir Jeffrey’s. I still regarded Annabel as my responsibility, but she wasn’t. I had to tell myself she belonged to him now, not me. And right now, he needed to know.

  With back-up in place, I forced myself to wait a long, long five minutes. Ten would have been better, give them time to get here in case I cocked up, but images of Annabel burned my mind.

  I turned and went back inside to face the killer.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I felt the rasp of the rusty pitchfork prongs as they ran down either side of my throat and then I was knocked back by the force of the blow. The prongs penetrated the woodwork behind my head and I found myself pinioned to the stable door. When Mike had said if ever my back was up against a stable door, he couldn’t have known how true that would turn out to be.

  The killer had known I was there, had seized the pitchfork from where I’d left it and waited his chance. I’d walked straight into the trap. Now, I was pinned as helplessly as a butterfly to the stable door facing the one where Annabel was being held. He kicked that door open so I could see her.

  ‘So, top jock,’ he sneered, ‘what’re you going to do about it?’

  Annabel struggled ineffectively against her bonds, blood now running down her wrists where the rope had bitten in through skin and flesh.

  ‘Cut her free. You can do what you want with me, you sadist.’

  ‘Oh, I will, when it suits me. What about Dunston? You haven’t had time to finish him.’

  I thought rapidly. My only chance now was to rely on my wits.

  ‘No need to go.’

  ‘Why?’ He narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Rang the hospital, didn’t I?’

  ‘Well?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. I needed to keep him talking, play for time. ‘He’s already left.’

  ‘Left? What the fucking hell are you on about?’ He lunged at me with the knife and I felt the blade razor into the top of my left arm. ‘You’ve got five seconds …’ He twisted the knife savagely before pulling it out.

  Pain streaked through my nervous system like molten lava.

  ‘He’s dead.’ I forced the words through clenched teeth.

  At the edge of my vision, I could see Annabel battering herself back and forth against the manger, but I knew it was useless.

  ‘Don’t, don’t, Annabel, for God’s sake …’

  At my words, she sagged and crumpled, hanging now by her wrists that were pouring with blood. I was bleeding myself. My left arm was saturated, the blood dripping off my fingers on to the floor. How long did I have before the blood loss rendered me unconscious? I didn’t know. The wound was not only deep but jagged from where he’d twisted the k
nife. I began to pray somebody would turn up in the next few minutes or it would be too late for us.

  ‘How do you know he’s dead?’ He jabbed the knife at my face.

  The skin down the side of my cheek split and blood gushed out.

  ‘I told you. I phoned the hospital.’

  For one glorious moment, I saw the uncertainty in his eyes. Dunston dead meant he was in the clear. OK, he’d then go ahead and kill us. But he wasn’t going to finish us off until he’d made sure.

  He took his eyes off me, laid down the knife and fished out his mobile phone. I knew he couldn’t have the number, would have to ask directory enquiries first.

  Whilst his attention was taken up, I hunched my shoulders as high as I could, stiffened my neck sinews and rocked from side to side. Then I grasped each of the prongs of the pitchfork and flung myself forward. For an agonizing moment, I thought I’d failed, then the wood groaned and I felt it give where the woodworm had weakened it and I was catapulted into the stable beside Annabel.

  He gave a bellow of rage, dropped his mobile, made a grab for the knife and came at me.

  Sprawled on the floor, I did the one thing left to me. Drawing my knees high to my chest, I let him have a double barrel straight in the crotch. His bellow of rage turned to a high-pitched animal shriek of agony. The knife flew from his hand as, bent double, he clutched his genitals.

  I launched myself at him. It was a bizarre contest, I with one arm useless and pouring blood, he in extreme agony, unable to straighten up. Locked together, we rolled around, mauling and kicking each other without either of us gaining an advantage. But the thrashing around brought us to where the knife had landed.

  Too late, I saw him make a grab for it.

  He dragged himself to his feet, waving it in triumph. In the guttering candlelight, the steel glittered evilly as he raised the knife ready to strike. But as his arm reached the highest point before he plunged the steel down into me, we both heard cars racing down the lane, complete with wailing sirens. He hesitated, arm still high in the air. A smirk crossed his face.

  ‘Too fucking late,’ he crowed and brought his arm down.

  Despairingly, I gave a thrusting roll, kicking out with my feet and hitting one of the paper sacks. His hand brought the knife down, but instead of finding me as target, it ripped through the sack, spilling thousands of horse nuts that bounced, rolled and cascaded everywhere.

  Already prostrate on the ground, I was OK. But for him, up on his feet, the nuts were lethal. He took just one step towards me. It was all that was needed. His feet skidded on the equivalent of thousands of ice cubes and he came down with a sickening crash. Just as the police and Mike burst into the stable.

  ‘Watch out underfoot,’ I shouted.

  But the powerful beams from many torches illuminated the stable, clearly showing the danger. It also illuminated the man.

  He was lying motionless, his right arm twisted underneath his back. A bright red pool of blood spread out beneath him. He had fallen back on his own knife. The point was sticking up grotesquely through his chest. His eyes were wide open but they weren’t seeing anything.

  Brandon Lutens was dead.

  EPILOGUE

  Sir Jeffrey answered my ring on his doorbell. He was wearing a butcher’s apron, navy-and-white striped, over expensive trousers.

  ‘Very good to see you, Harry. How’s the arm?’ He indicated the sling supporting my left arm.

  ‘Healing, thanks. How’s the girl?’

  ‘Our girl, you mean.’ He gave me an amused, knowing look. I tried a nonchalant shrug with one shoulder and grinned.

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘come and see her. She’s lying in state in the lounge.’

  Annabel was indeed laid out on a sumptuously squashy four-seater settee, a rug covering her legs and precious bump. I went over to her, took a hand and squeezed it.

  ‘I’ve been to Janine’s flower shop.’ I held out a large bunch of highly perfumed white freesias. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘Darling Harry, my favourites.’ She lifted her face for a kiss. ‘Thank you.’ Having received her kiss and still holding my hand, she turned to Sir Jeffrey, ‘Jeffrey, dear, would you mind rustling up three coffees?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled indulgently down at her and disappeared towards the kitchen. I gave Annabel a wry look.

  ‘He’s so civilized. In his position, I don’t think I would be.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she laughed. ‘He knows he has nothing to worry about – as regards you.’

  I inclined my head. It was true. He was the man she’d chosen to share her life with, bear his children. Involuntarily, my gaze dropped to the baby bump.

  ‘He’s still fine in there?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Knows a safe place when he sees one.’

  And again, it was true. Annabel also knew she was safe with Sir Jeffrey. Whereas life with me, well … my life continued to grow less and less safe.

  We had ended up in the same hospital last week, although not in the same ward, and been kept in for observation. They’d stitched my arm back into one piece again, repaired my face and brought Annabel and bump safely through her traumatic ordeal.

  We’d been ordered to rest with absolutely no undue exertion.

  However, having had my discharge pass signed, that hadn’t prevented me from going over to the Norfolk and Norwich hospital. The police had, of course, hastened to inform Dunston that his would-be killer was dead and that meant he was safe from any further attack. It must have given him peace of mind. But I felt I owed it to Dunston to go and visit him in person.

  I’d walked in and sat down beside his bed.

  ‘I was sure Brandon Lutens was the killer,’ I’d said. ‘He was the man who recommended other people to use White, Hubbard and Brownley, the dentists. He was the one person who linked everything together. But when I asked you to confirm he was the man who knifed you – actually tried to kill you – I couldn’t be sure if you blinked twice for yes, or whether it was because of the sudden lights inside the horsebox.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I see what you mean.’ He’d rolled his head on the pillow to ease it. The whole of the right side of his cheek and around his ear was a complex network of stitches. ‘Nay, it weren’t the lights. I wanted to tell you t’was him. Thought I was off to join Lilly, y’see. An’ I didn’t want him getting away with it.’

  ‘Yes, I do see.’

  I’d reached across and placed a bag of grapes on the locker at the side of his bed.

  ‘I’ve had time to think, lyin’ here. An’ I want to thank you, Harry, for saving my life, ’cos you did.’

  ‘Get away. I’m just so sorry about your Lilly.’

  ‘An’ I am, believe me. But what’s happened has happened; it’s all you can say. I’m just glad you got the swine. He’s paid for it now.’

  ‘Indeed he has.’

  ‘An’ that young woman – the one expectin’ – is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, thanks, John. Yes, she and the baby are OK.’

  ‘Good, good …’

  He’d closed his eyes and gone off to sleep.

  ‘So, Harry,’ Sir Jeffrey said and poured fresh coffee as the three of us sat relaxing in front of a blazing log fire in the lounge after a most acceptable dinner of steak and salad, no chips, ‘give us the full SP.’

  I smiled at his phrasing. Despite him sharing the same bed as the woman I still thought of as my wife and who I was still hopelessly in love with, I liked the man, damn it. The irony of life!

  I’d already filled Mike in with the details – he’d been co-opted as Leo’s carer whilst I’d been in hospital – now I needed to relay them again.

  ‘It all started with the false teeth on the doorstep, didn’t it?’ Annabel smiled at me.

  ‘Yes. John Dunston was gunning for me because I’d found out the truth regarding the Leicester races murder. He had stolen Carl Smith’s replica pair of teeth at the wake following Carl’s funeral. As you
know, he left them on my doorstep. But, in turn, Dunston was being held over a barrel by Brandon Lutens. With the money he was being paid by Brandon, Dunston could afford to provide the nursing care his sick wife needed. It was Brandon who paid him to engineer the car crash that killed Louis Frame and the pregnant Jo-Jo.’

  Annabel drew in a sharp breath. ‘She was pregnant?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Three lives were lost in that crash.’ Sir Jeffrey shook his head sadly.

  ‘And when Jo-Jo died, Jake Smith decided to put me over a barrel with threats against Chloe so that I’d agree to find Jo-Jo’s killer. What escalated things, of course, was when Lucinda was murdered on the golf course.’

  ‘That’s what I don’t understand, Harry.’ Annabel frowned. ‘What motive did Richard Lutens have to kill her?’

  ‘Apparently, when Richard learned of Brandon’s death, he told the whole sordid tale to the police to try to save himself.

  ‘He and Brandon were in business selling horse feed. But the business was shaky. They needed to expand. Brandon deliberately set out to seduce Lucinda in order to get her father’s fortune – that’s why he had Louis killed.

  ‘When Louis died, Lucinda was the sole beneficiary to his vast fortune. Of course, if Jo-Jo had lived, the family line would have gone on, but when she died, everything went to Lucinda. And when Lucinda was murdered, everything went to Brandon.

  ‘But he was clever. To avoid suspicion, he knew he had to be seen by the wedding guests in the St Andrew’s Suite at the time Lucinda was murdered. So the two men hatched it between them. And no doubt Richard would have been given a sizeable chunk of Louis’ money for his services.’

  ‘How wicked!’ Annabel clenched her fists.

  ‘Hmmm, it was. And then poor Lilly fell downstairs and died, which meant Brandon’s hold over Dunston was ended and Brandon tried to kill Dunston to prevent him talking.’