Dead Reckoning Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Glenis Wilson from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Recent Titles by Glenis Wilson from Severn House

  The Harry Radcliffe series

  DEAD CERTAINTY

  DEAD ON COURSE

  DEAD RECKONING

  DEAD RECKONING

  Glenis Wilson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Glenis Wilson.

  The right of Glenis Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8708-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-813-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-878-0 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  Dedicated with love to my family and especially to the one where the honour lies.

  Acknowledgements

  ‘The legacy of heroes is the memory of a great name and the inheritance of a great example.’ Benjamin Disraeli

  To the one who has gone before, the great master of horseracing novels, Dick Francis, thank you for all those wonderful reads. I offer my sincere gratitude and humbly follow in your footsteps.

  Nick Sayers at Hodder & Stoughton. His belief in me and the manuscripts kept me going.

  Everyone at Severn House Publishers.

  David Meykell, former clerk of the course, Leicester Racecourse, for allowing me to ‘do’ a murder on his racecourse.

  Roderick Duncan, clerk of the course, Southwell Racecourse.

  Jean Hedley, clerk of the course, Nottingham Racecourse.

  Mark McGrath and Bill Hutchinson, former managers, North Shore Hotel and Golf Course, Skegness.

  Tom Hindle, present manager, and all the lovely staff, past and present, at the above hotel.

  Wally Wharton, jockey, superb horseman and life-long friend.

  David, Anne and Elaine Brown, printers and friends.

  Sarah at Sarah’s Flowershop.

  All the library staff at Bingham, Radcliffe-on-Trent, West Bridgford and Nottingham Central.

  The police at Skegness and the staff at Nottingham Prison for checking facts.

  Management at The Dirty Duck at Woolsthorpe, near Belvoir Castle, Leics.

  All the people who have helped me in whatever way during the course of writing the ‘Harry’ novels.

  And of course, all my lovely readers, bless you for your wonderful comments and emails. To every one, may I say a very big thank you – have a great read.

  PROLOGUE

  The dark street was deserted. The population of Newark had gone to ground. With the changing of the clocks, winter had come rushing in. It was freezing cold.

  I pulled up and parked in the golden puddle of light beneath a street lamp. I hoped Alice would be in. A swift ten minutes to update her on the news, as promised, and I’d be on my way again, heading for home.

  Nowhere like home – warm, comforting, safe. Everything that had been lacking in my life for the last few weeks I was going to appreciate and enjoy to the full. There was a fire laid ready for lighting, a whisky with my name on it and a cat, Leo, an enormous ginger tom that would jump on to my shoulder in greeting the moment I entered Harlequin Cottage. Couldn’t wait.

  I walked up to Alice’s front door. It could have done with a good wash down but probably wouldn’t stand it. The paintwork was cracked and peeling badly. No doubt all the knocking it had taken from her punters – Alice was a prostitute – hadn’t helped.

  I rang the bell. Nobody answered. I tried a knock, then knocked again, harder. The door swung inwards a little – it wasn’t fully shut. Hesitating a moment, I called her name. Silence.

  Feeling uneasy, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Calling out her name louder, I walked down the hall to the kitchen. The street lamp outside shone a glow through the window. The light wasn’t bright but it was enough for me to see her.

  Alice lay on the kitchen floor, face down. She was dead. Must have been dead for several days judging by the smell emanating from her body, the blood congealed and black. The back of her head had been smashed in.

  In shocked horror, I stood and stared down at her. I’d liked Alice. Brash and common she might have been, but underneath she was good-hearted, had cared a lot about her friend, Jo-Jo, who was also a prostitute. I’d thought her a survivor in a harsh world. I was wrong.

  And then it really hit me. I knew who’d killed her. I could hear again Jake’s words as he’d sat opposite me in the pub a few days ago. Recently released from prison after serving time for GBH, he’d been talking about his late sister, Jo-Jo.

  ‘If Jo-Jo hadn’t met him, she’d still have been alive …’

  It had been Alice who had introduced Jo-Jo to Louis Frame. Frame had set Jo-Jo up in a flat for his sole attentions – much to Jake’s disgust – but they’d both been killed when their car crashed into the back of a horsebox.

  Jake Smith had also said he’d spent the night with Alice.

  What he hadn’t said was he’d killed her.

  Looking down at her lifeless body, I also knew I was the only person who
could identify her killer.

  I’d been here before.

  What the hell did I do now?

  ONE

  The churchyard gates stood open. By four o’clock this afternoon they’d be closed and padlocked. The churchyard kept short hours during the winter.

  But it was only two o’clock. Plenty of time to walk up the rise and over to the east side, by the hedge, under the branches of a rowan tree. The sacred spot where my closest family lay buried, immune from the indifference, the savagery of this world.

  I looked down at the bunch of flowers in my hand. Earlier today, I’d been to see Janine at the flower shop. There was no need to tell her what I wanted – she knew.

  ‘Your mother’s favourite white roses?’

  ‘Yes, please, Janine. But this time, I’d like you to add a further bunch.’

  ‘Ha, yes, and these would be white freesias?’

  Hiding the pain that knifed through me, I smiled and nodded. It wasn’t only Annabel, my estranged wife, who loved the beautiful fragrance and purity of white freesias; they’d been Silvie’s favourites, too – Silvie, my severely disabled half-sister.

  Always on the fourth of November, Mother’s birthday, I bought a bunch of white roses. Today was certainly the fourth, but today for the first time the blooms were a mix of roses and freesias.

  I lifted the flowers, took a long, appreciative sniff of their fragrant sweetness. They were really beautiful. How long they’d remain so was unknown. Not long, I’d guess. With the night temperatures now dropping to freezing, it seemed like cruelty to place the delicate blooms in the integral vase within the headstone … leave them outside in the cold cemetery.

  I revised my thought: not cruelty – murder. Seemed it was something I just couldn’t get away from. I pushed the obnoxious thought away. This was not the time, nor the place. Today was for the placing of the flowers on Mother’s grave; I was the only person left to do so. Despite Uncle George being my only living relative, it was more than his peace of mind was worth to bring flowers. Aunt Rachel, his wife, had her reasons to limit Uncle George’s activities in this direction.

  So, that just left me.

  I walked on, up the rise, over to the east side. Then I stopped short in disbelief. Over by the side of the hedge was the grave, but it had fresh flowers already placed in the vase – they were white roses!

  Who? The one word repeated in my mind as I stood and gaped. Who?

  I’d had enough of surprises, most of them unpleasant. Another mystery I didn’t want. Reaching the side of the grave, I bent over and nudged the flowers apart. Nestling down near the bottom of the stems was a small white card. I hunkered down and read the message.

  Forgive me, Elizabeth. I should have had the courage to ask you long ago. Too late for us now – my loss. May you and Silvie comfort each other.

  My sincere love to you both.

  The card was unsigned.

  I rocked back on my heels and blew out a gusty sigh. What on earth was that all about? The message told me nothing about the identity of the person, except that whoever had penned it must have known my mother a long time. Had known her preferred choice of flowers. Not only that, he knew about Silvie, too. And just what was it he’d wanted to ask my mother? I was assuming it was from a man but, if so, what connotations should I read into it?

  I had enough problems right now; I didn’t need any more. Tomorrow, I was supposed to put in an appearance at Newark Police Station. Finding a dead body wasn’t something most people did. With myself, it seemed to be getting a habit.

  Mentally, I’d drawn a red line under the last few weeks, had thought life was back in balance, the past truly dead and buried. What a joke. When I’d found Alice’s dead body, I’d been pitched right back up to my eyebrows in the foul mess, and now I couldn’t see any way out.

  TWO

  ‘Me?’ Mike’s face was creased in bewilderment. ‘Why would I put flowers on your mother’s grave?’ He dug a fork into a pile of cheesy scrambled egg and chewed enthusiastically. ‘Not me, Harry.’

  We were sitting in the kitchen at his racing stables having breakfast between first and second lots. As a racehorse trainer, he was right up there with the best. We’d gone to school together as kids. He was still my best friend. And he was also my boss; I was his retained jockey.

  ‘More scrambled egg?’ Pen smiled and waved a wooden spoon at me. ‘Plenty left.’

  ‘No, thanks, but it was delicious.’ I laid down knife and fork and stirred a spoonful of honey into my coffee. ‘Any more and I’ll never get on the next horse.’

  ‘I don’t have that problem, my sweet.’ Mike beamed at her. ‘Tip it out on my plate.’

  She leaned over, dropped a kiss on the top of his head and scraped the last of the eggs from the saucepan. Since Pen had recently moved in with Mike, she’d seamlessly taken over the household organization including cooking the all-important breakfast, eaten after doing nearly three hours of stable graft, including riding out first lot. She was a big asset and I knew Mike still couldn’t believe she’d reciprocated his love and was happy to share his tough lifestyle. His face was one permanent smile. Except on an odd occasion, like just now when I’d asked him if he was the unknown flower-giver.

  ‘Got to be a simple explanation, mate,’ he said, forking up the last of his breakfast. ‘How about it being Victor?’

  ‘Never thought about him,’ I admitted. ‘Suppose it might be.’

  Victor Maudsley, Elspeth’s ex-husband, a retired racehorse trainer, had a long-standing acquaintance with our family.

  ‘The flowers came from Grantham. The name of the shop was printed on the reverse of the card.’

  ‘Well, if it’s bugging you that much, why not go over and ask at the shop who bought them?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d thought I might. But it’ll have to wait till I get out of the police station. Got to go there this afternoon.’

  ‘Ha, yes,’ he said and cleared his throat, ‘Alice …’

  I inclined my head. ‘As you say … Alice.’

  ‘You going to let on about Jake Smith?’

  ‘Don’t know, to be truthful.’

  ‘Hmmm … might draw his fire in your direction if you do.’

  ‘I’d thought about that.’ I pulled a face. ‘Not a man to trifle with.’

  Pen placed a hand on my arm as I got up from the table to put my empty plate and mug in the sink.

  ‘If he did kill that poor woman … well, I think it’s your duty to tell the police, don’t you? She deserves justice, even if she was a prostitute.’

  ‘Exactly what I’d thought about poor Jo-Jo when she, along with Louis, were killed in that car crash.’

  ‘You think that was Jake Smith’s motive for killing Alice, because she introduced Jo-Jo to Louis Frame?’

  ‘Jo-Jo was Jake’s sister … her death hit him hard. Alice told me he was a man that didn’t mess about.’

  I recalled Jake’s words, spoken to me in what should have been the sanctuary of my own bathroom.

  ‘Somebody’s going to pay the price for Jo-Jo’s death. And if you don’t find the killer, it’s going to be you.’ This from a man who’d just been released from prison for GBH. Jake was a man who carried out his threats.

  Mike added his empty plate to mine. ‘Work calls …’

  We left Pen to it and walked back down the stable yard.

  But the memory of finding Alice was strong in my mind and I couldn’t shake it off. Whoever had smashed in her skull certainly hadn’t been messing about. He’d meant to kill her.

  THREE

  ‘For an amateur detective, you do seem to have been extremely successful, Mr Radcliffe.’ The police officer facing me across the table shuffled papers in the open file.

  ‘I’m not a detective, amateur or otherwise, I’m a jump jockey.’

  ‘But you have been involved in attempted murder and murder cases, haven’t you, sir?’

  I pursed my lips, couldn’t deny it. ‘I would say coerced w
ould be a better word. Involved seems to imply I was a willing party. And I wasn’t.’

  ‘Have you any idea who would have wanted to kill Alice Goode?’

  There it was, the ‘straight in the face’ question I’d been dreading.

  ‘She was a prostitute,’ I hedged, ‘trouble and danger would seem part of the territory.’

  ‘That’s your theory then, is it, sir? She was killed by one of her … clients?’

  ‘Well, it seems likely, don’t you think?’

  ‘At this stage of our inquiry we are keeping a very open mind, sir.’ He changed tactics. ‘Have you heard anyone issue threats, or warnings, against Alice Goode?’ The inspector smiled thinly. ‘Think very carefully, sir. This is a murder investigation.’

  Inside, my guts curled like a cobra that had been trodden on. It was definitely the ‘meat in the sandwich’ moment. And I’d no doubt the recording machine would be taking careful note of my reply. If I didn’t come clean about Jake Smith, the long arm of the law – when it found out I’d withheld relevant information – would descend swiftly upon me.

  And if or when I divulged Jake’s oblique threat, they were going to come after me with the next question of why he’d issued the threat. To answer that would give them the clear motive of revenge. OK, it would certainly divert them away from me but it also set me up as the dolly for Jake’s fire.

  I didn’t know which of them I was most afraid of right now.

  ‘Let me put it another way.’ Leaning forward, almost conspiratorially, he said, ‘Did you have sex with Alice Goode that night? Before she died?’

  ‘No. I have never had sex with her.’

  ‘But you knew her, didn’t you? You’ve been to her house before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’ve never had sex with her, right?’

  ‘I’ve told you, no, never.’

  ‘Oh, come now, sir. We’ve known for years Alice was practicing as a prostitute on our patch. Let’s say, she was a very persuasive woman.’