by Gene
She was led up to his office straight away. `He's waiting for you,' said the PC who showed her the way. That sounded ominous.
Time had not done the Superintendent any favours since they'd last met.
He looked pasty and haggard, with even less hair. She hoped to God she'd weathered better than him.
`Good Christmas, Jane?' he asked. He didn't sound as if he particularly wanted to know. His eyes were still on the open file in front of him.
She took the seat he indicated on the other side of his desk.
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`Very nice, thank you, sir,' she replied, which was stretching the truth a bit
- nobody would call Christmas and Boxing Day at The Palm Tree Residential Homènice'. Though the staff were saints, in Jane's opinion, to see her mother there, in a wheelchair after her last stroke, was hard.
Ì expect Robbie keeps you on your toes?'
All credit to Wright, even in these troubled times he had researched her son's name. Her curiosity was growing.
`You know teenagers, sir,' she replied, keeping up the facade.
The truth was she'd hardly seen her son during the past fortnight. She'd not thought it fair to inflict The Palm Tree on a fourteen-year-old at Christmas so he'd spent it with his father and stepmother. Then they'd whisked him off to Switzerland for the New Year on a skiing holiday - their present to him and very generous it was too. Deprived of his company it had meant she'd spent the entire holiday period feeling as if she were one step away from becoming a Palm Tree resident herself. None of which was of interest to the Superintendent.
He looked at her with bloodshot eyes, finally giving her his full attention.
`You've heard about Leighton Jones?'
'Yes, sir.'
Of course she'd heard. Detective Chief Inspector Jones, the heaviest hitter in the Sketch Valley CID, had been sent home the day before, suspended on full pay pending an investigation by the Discipline and Complaints branch. Quite why Leighton was under investigation depended on who you listened to. But he'd made his name on the Drugs Squad and the whisper was that he'd become too closely associated with a couple of bad boys responsible for most of the drug trafficking in the area. But who could say at this stage? A chancer like Leighton walked a fine line - it would be easy to put a foot wrong.
`So you've probably already guessed why I've asked for you,' he continued.
That she didn't know, though she imagined it was to do with tidying up some mess of Leighton's. It couldn't be anything good, Wright was being too polite.
`DCI Jones was Senior Investigating Officer on a double murder. I'd like you to take over his role in the investigation.'
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Jane's mouth dropped open and she shut it quickly. In the course of her career she'd been on several murder teams and, as Deputy SIO, had run an incident room. But she'd never acted as an SIO herself. This was a first. It made up for a few other things.
Wright registered her reaction. `Don't get too excited. There's a school of thought that wants to scale this operation down. It's a couple of months old and a result looks doubtful. Two drug addicts in a burnt-out cottage.'
A distant bell rang in Jane's head. `The Bonfire Night Murders?' Wright nodded. `You must have been reading the East Lancs Journal. I don't know why the nationals didn't pick it up. Murder, arson, torture - it's got everything. Except sex, of course.' He flashed her a quick, cautious smile.
So he did remember. Pity.
`Torture?' she said, picking up on the one word that didn't sound familiar from what she'd read. Ì don't remember that.'
Ìt came to light later. Simon Bennett will fill you in. He is - was -
Leighton's deputy.'
And now he was hers.
`Great.' Her enthusiasm was not faked.
Wright got to his feet and she followed suit. `The logical thing to do was to put Simon in charge. He's a competent man. But. . .' he fixed her with a purposeful glarè. . . I want some fresh thinking on this. That's why I've brought you in - Acting Detective Chief Inspector.'
Her heart thumped with excitement. Acting DCI. This was a heaven-sent opportunity.
`Thank you, sir. I won't let you down, I promise.'
`Just give it your best shot, Jane. That's all any of us can do.'
It wasn't the most inspiring call to arms but it didn't dampen her spirits one bit.
It was a wet afternoon at Haydock Park, with storm clouds scurrying in from the Irish Sea, eager to dump their contents on the north-west of England. The rain, however, did little to dampen the enthusiasm of the race goers in Box 13 of the Tommy Whittle stand. The guests of Beaufort Holidays - mostly favoured employees for this inaugural occasion - had enjoyed a substantial lunch and, armed with suitable lubrication, were looking forward to winning a few quid on the gee-gees. And the cherry on 71
the cake, according to their generous host, would be the first sight of the company's own horse. Beaufort Bonanza, a handsome black gelding, was making his maiden appearance in the last race. Barney's excitement (and the brandy) had already turned his cheeks a hearty puce. Malcolm hoped his client would survive the afternoon. He knew one thing, if the old fart had a heart attack it wouldn't be him who administered the kiss of life.
He'd leave that to Beverley who had seized the role of hostess with some aplomb.
`Sorry to see your wife's not here,' Malcolm had said to Barney over lunch. It was mischievous of him but the businessman had not turned a hair.
Òh, she never comes to work dos,' he'd boomed. `My job's to get out and earn a crust. Hers is to sit at home and scoff it. Isn't that right, Beverley?'
Malcolm couldn't help but admire the man. A doormat at home to push around and a woman half his age to parade in public.
As a concession to the occasion Beverley was wearing one of her less sober suits. The shade of pastel blue complemented her eyes which, today, were showcased by a pair of thin-rimmed oval spectacles. The jacket was nipped in at the waist, hinting at the curves beneath, and Malcolm noted several appreciative glances cast in her direction by the other men in the group. Barney patted her hip and squeezed her arm every chance he got.
Now and again she shot Malcolm a conspiratorial glance. She was loving every second.
He'd tried to get out of attending this Beaufort bash once he'd discovered that there would be no chance of a get-together with Beverley later.
Ì know one or two nice little hotels out that way,' he'd said the last time he'd paid a visit to her bedroom. `We'll stop over.'
She'd lifted her head from his chest, her expression humourless. `Not possible. I'm driving Barney back.'
`Well, when you've dropped him off. We'll go somewhere nearer home.'
Ì don't know when I'll be finished.' `You mean you'll bring him back here?'
She'd not replied to that but fastened her wide thin mouth on his to shut him up. Malcolm had a pretty shrewd idea Barney paid the rent on the cottage. Maybe it was done through the books of his company. Like the 72
dress allowance that filled her wardrobe with designer clothes and her chest of drawers with expensive underwear. No wonder she was so devoted to the company cause.
The next day, on the phone, he'd tried to wriggle out of attending the meeting at all but she wasn't having it.
`May I remind you, Malcolm, that you have a very generous contract with Beaufort Holidays. Mr. Beaufort will be most unhappy if you are not there to lend your support on the occasion of our first race.'
Malcolm could have told her to stuff it, of course. Women did not talk to him like this. On the other hand, while he still found her attractive, it amused him to submit.
`Yes, mistress,' he'd said, knowing the irony would pass her by.
So here he was, on this tedious company knees-up, surrounded by flushed and noisy office managers and tele-sales execs, all of whom were looking for a winner. And, as the acknowledged expert on horses, he was expected to supply it.
Malcolm fancied himself as a bit of a
tipster - after all, he ought to be. But today was not one of his best.
Ì don't think much to your fancies, Mr. Bloodstock Agent,' said the loudest and largest of the company suits after Malcolm had recommended three duds in a row. Èh, Barney, I hope he's a better judge of horseflesh or your Bonanza will be a right duffer.'
Malcolm considered telling this fat clown where to shove it but that, of course, was not an option.
`Sorry about that,' he muttered as pleasantly as he could manage. Beverley stepped in swiftly. `What would you know about it, Roland? A clot like you couldn't tell a racehorse from a rocking horse without getting a second opinion.'
To Malcolm's surprise, Roland roared with laughter at this treatment. She leaned over and placed her hand on his pudgy knee. `What you do is look for the horse with the biggest feet. You see how wet it is? If they've got big feet they're not so likely to get bogged down.'
This impressive argument kept everyone amused and, by some fluke, provided the name of the winner in the next two races. By the time Barney and his merry group of connections headed down to the parade ring for 73
Beaufort Bonanza's race, expectations were running dangerously high.
Malcolm hoped to God that Adolf would put on some kind of a show.
The last race on the card was significant not just for the first appearance of the Beaufort horse. It was the first race of Jamie's comeback and his first under National Hunt rules. He had not ridden competitively since the day of his accident and his win on Morwenstow. Haydock in the January mud on an unknown and unpredictable animal like Adolf was a far cry from Ascot in September. But a race was a race and this one represented a step back to the profession that had been his life.
Ì've won here on the Flat,' he said to Ros as they stood in the parade ring, the wind whipping rain into their faces.
Ì know,' she said. `The Sprint Cup on Samantha Brown.' Jamie was suspicious. `Did Toby tell you?'
Às a matter of fact he did mention it, but I remember watching it on television. You came from ten lengths down in the last furlong. An astonishing piece of riding from an apprentice.'
He looked at her in amazement. Throughout their many sessions she'd given the impression that his past experience didn't count. To hear a word of praise from her unsmiling lips was as rare as winter warmth.
Now she was smiling, creasing the fine lines at the corners of her eyes.
`You were one of the best young riders I'd ever seen. I was pleased when you came to work with me.'
`You never said so.'
`Why should I? You were meant to learn. And you have.'
Jamie glowed with pleasure. The boost to his morale was timely. The race ahead was going to be a challenge.
Toby had not wanted to run Beaufort Bonanza so soon but the owners, so Malcolm said, were insistent. Like any other employee of Beaufort Holidays, Adolf had to earn his keep. And flying the company flag was more important than honing his skills in private.
Às far as Barney Beaufort's concerned,' Malcolm told them, `he just wants an entry on the card. Then he can take a box at the meeting and swank to his corporate guests.'
So here they were at Haydock Park with Jamie preparing to step back into the racing arena on a temperamental novice. All the indications were that 74
the ground wouldn't suit Adolf. The going had deteriorated in the steady downpour, making a notoriously sticky track even more testing. Jamie had secretly hoped that the meeting might be abandoned but no such luck. The going was officially described as heavy. Quite what Adolf would make of it he had no idea.
There was only one factor in their favour: the race was a bumper - a National Hunt contest run on the Flat. Neither horse nor jockey would have their newfound jumping skills put to the test. That was something.
A group of intrepid race goers were squelching across the grass towards them, Malcolm at their head. Jamie recognised Barney Beaufort and the woman who'd accompanied him to Ridgemoor before Christmas to inspect the horse. Adolf's connections had arrived.
Barney greeted Ros with the words, Ì'm a bit disappointed your boss hasn't turned up.'
Jamie was amused to note a flicker of irritation cross her face. She counted nobody, not even Toby, as her `boss'. She recovered quickly.
Ùnfortunately he had a longstanding commitment to be at Southwell,' she said with a smile. `He's most upset not to be here, I can assure you.' `Well, I don't suppose he can be in two places at once,' said Beaufort grudgingly.
By now Adolf was making his way round the ring led by Trish, a Ridgemoor stable girl. Some of the Beaufort team greeted his arrival with a boozy cheer which earned glances of disapproval from more experienced groups of owners. As Adolf approached, pulling hard, Jamie saw, the Beaufort people surged forward and the horse reared away skittishly.
`Can I stroke him?' shouted one of the women. `He looks right nervous,'
said a man.
`May we have some room, please?' Ros's voice cut through the clamour.
She quickly legged Jamie into the saddle. `Get him out on the course quickly,' she muttered. Àway from this lot.'
But Barney wanted to play out his two pen-worth for the watching throng.
He had hold of Adolf's bridle and boomed, `Now listen here, everyone.
Red Rum had his last race on this course and I'm a proud man today to send out Beaufort Bonanza for his first.' He looked up at Jamie. `Good luck, young fellow, the weight of history is upon your shoulders.'
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He must have a screw loose, thought Jamie as he guided Adolf out of the ring.
As had been predicted by all apart from the enthusiastic Beaufort party, Adolf did not relish his first taste of competition. He stepped gingerly down to the start of the two-mile race, not enjoying the boggy turf. His race was the last on the card and the course had been pretty well churned up.
He mucked Jamie around at the start, bumping into the runners on either side and then, when the tape went up, he shot off down the course like a scalded cat.
`Calm down, you silly sod,' Jamie shouted uselessly, tugging as hard as he could on the reins to try and get some purchase on the horse's mouth. But Adolf's head was in the air, his jaw and neck locked solid, and there was no restraining the powerful beast. Even if there'd been a brick wall in front of him Adolf would have tried to charge through it.
They were way out ahead of the field, maybe some six lengths clear though Jamie couldn't risk looking back. The thought flashed through his head that this was the position he'd dreamed of being in the race - if only this were the last furlong and not the first.
Soon the heavy ground took its toll, the gluey surface draining the energy from Adolf. He began to struggle and, by the time they had completed the first mile, the other runners had overtaken them. Now they laboured in the rear, losing touch with every stride.
Jamie hunted over to the outside in search of better ground but that made little difference. He urged Adolf on with hands and knees, and then with kicks to the ribs and a crack on the shoulders from the whip. He might as well not have bothered. The horse was unhappy with the whole experience and had no intention of competing. After a mile and a half, with the rest of the field a distant vision ahead, Jamie pulled him up and then set off on the long hack for home, wondering what on earth to say to Barney Beaufort.
Forget about Red Rum, the weight of history had done for the pair of them.
In the Beaufort Holidays camp, dismay was mixed with hilarity. When things go so disastrously wrong, what else can you do but smile? `Never 76
mind, Barney,' said the branch manager from Clitheroe. `We all had a cracking day out.'
But Barney did mind, Malcolm could tell, as reproachful eyes were turned in his direction. He did his best to stick up for the horse, reaching into the well-used bag of racing phrases to explain the poor performance. But once he'd repeated that the ground was unsuitable, that the race had come too early for him and that the experience was part of a valuable learning curve, wha
t else was there to say?
Barney nodded sagely. `We live to fight another day,' he announced, neatly topping Malcolm's list of cliches.
Àt least the horse has come back in one piece, Mr. B,' said Beverley, tucking her arm companionably through Barney's and turning to whisper some words into his ear which even the alert Malcolm could not catch.
The mournful expression on the businessman's face softened and he patted her hand. `Time for one more drink, everybody,' he announced, ànd we'll hope for better luck next time.'
`Look at it this way, Barney,' cried Roland. `He'll be a better price next time out.'
Malcolm wished he'd thought of that one. There was no denying the optimism of some punters.
He turned down a final drink. Time to beat a hasty retreat. After all, he'd done his duty. Beverley caught up with him as he made his way to the ground floor of the stand.
`Changed your mind, have you?' he said as her fingers sought his. `We can still make a night of it.'
Ì wish,' she said, tugging him to one side of the departing throng. Ì just slipped out for a moment to say goodbye.'
`Really?' Her arm had now crept beneath his coat to circle his waist and her face turned up to his, just inches away. `Goodbye then,' he said and bent to kiss her. She darted her tongue into his mouth and pressed the length of her body into his.
It was a pretty stupid thing for the pair of them to do, to snog like teenagers in full view of the departing racegoers. Anyone could have seen them - even Barney. Malcolm was sure he could hear the travel agent's voice booming out not far away.
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She broke away first, her face flushed. Ì've got to get back.' `Dump Barney, for God's sake. Tell him you're sick or something.' Ì can't,' she said simply and walked off back the way she had come. Malcolm watched her go, the well-cut suit emphasising the swing of her trim hips. He wasn't a man given to jealousy but the thought of her turning him down for the evening in preference to some florid, fifty-ish travel agent gave rise to a variety of emotions he didn't care to identify.