Glenis Wilson - Dead Reckoning: A contemporary horse racing mystery

Contents

The Harry Radcliffe series

DEAD CERTAINTY

DEAD ON COURSE

DEAD RECKONING

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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.

T he 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 Id 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. Couldnt wait.

I walked up to Alices front door. It could have done with a good wash down but probably wouldnt stand it. The paintwork was cracked and peeling badly. No doubt all the knocking it had taken from her punters Alice was a prostitute hadnt helped.

I rang the bell. Nobody answered. I tried a knock, then knocked again, harder. The door swung inwards a little it wasnt 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 wasnt 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. Id 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. Id thought her a survivor in a harsh world. I was wrong.

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

If Jo-Jo hadnt met him, shed 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 Jakes disgust but theyd both been killed when their car crashed into the back of a horsebox.

Jake Smith had also said hed spent the night with Alice.

What he hadnt said was hed killed her.

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

Id been here before.

What the hell did I do now?

T he churchyard gates stood open. By four oclock this afternoon theyd be closed and padlocked. The churchyard kept short hours during the winter.

But it was only two oclock. 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, Id been to see Janine at the flower shop. There was no need to tell her what I wanted she knew.

Your mothers favourite white roses?

Yes, please, Janine. But this time, Id 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 wasnt only Annabel, my estranged wife, who loved the beautiful fragrance and purity of white freesias; theyd been Silvies favourites, too Silvie, my severely disabled half-sister.

Always on the fourth of November, Mothers 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 theyd remain so was unknown. Not long, Id 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 couldnt 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 Mothers 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 Georges 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?

Id had enough of surprises, most of them unpleasant. Another mystery I didnt 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 hed wanted to ask my mother? I was assuming it was from a man but, if so, what connotations should I read into it?