Pulse(44)

‘And his car keys,’ I added.

The policeman went on staring.

Grant came in with the tea and I waited silently for him to leave.

‘So do you still think the man’s death is not suspicious?’ I said, my voice thick with irony. ‘I am absolutely certain that both the jockeys were lying to you. They know a lot more than they are telling.’

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘Well, for one thing, their reaction when I showed them the photo of the dead man.’

‘How exactly did they react?’

‘There was serious concern in Mike Sheraton’s eyes and Jason Conway was no less troubled.’

‘But did they actually say anything?’

‘Not as such, no,’ I said. ‘But their body language was screaming loudly in panic.’ The constable didn’t look that convinced. ‘I’m telling you, they know more than they’re saying. You could at least ask them the make of his car.’

‘I could,’ he agreed.

‘And do it separately so they can’t simply agree on an answer.’

He smiled. ‘You’ve been watching too many television dramas, Dr Rankin. No one is a suspect in this case.’

‘Not yet, but they will be.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask them but they will probably say that they don’t remember and, after all this time, I don’t think I’d remember either.’

‘Did you ask them why they didn’t come forward on their own?’

‘I did,’ he said. ‘But they both claimed they didn’t realise that the man they had argued with was the same man as in the photo.’

‘Dick McGee did. When he saw the image, he stopped as if he’d been shot.’

‘Then I will have to have a word with him as well.’ The DC smiled in a manner that made me think he was humouring me, and I didn’t much like it.

‘Look, I know you all think I’m crazy because I’ve spent time in a psychiatric hospital, but I’m not. I suffer from depression and I have an eating disorder but that doesn’t make me paranoid or a fantasist.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘And there’s another thing,’ I said, pulling the folded piece of paper from my pocket. ‘Someone let down all four tyres on my car in the racecourse car park this evening and left this stuck under the windscreen wipers.’

I handed the piece of paper over to him and he opened it.



He dropped it onto the coffee table as if he’d received an electric shock, the three written words facing uppermost: STOP ASKING QUESTIONS.

DC Filippos wasn’t smiling now.

‘And all my questions,’ I said, ‘were directed towards Dick McGee, Jason Conway and Mike Sheraton. No one else.’ I paused. ‘So now tell me those jockeys don’t know more than they’re saying.’





17


On Friday morning I went back to the racecourse, in direct violation of Grant’s express command.

He had told me firmly at breakfast that I must spend the whole day resting. I’d sat there emotionless as he spoke. I’d had no intention of obeying him, but I hadn’t exactly said so at the time. In fact, I hadn’t said anything at all.

I had things I wanted to do at the racecourse, but I did plan to be home well before Grant returned from work so he wouldn’t know.

I debated with myself whether I should park in the same place as I’d done the previous day and then secretly watch to see if anyone came again to let the tyres down. But, in the end, I decided to leave my Mini in Tom and Julie’s farmyard, as I’d done on Tuesday, and I made my way into the racecourse car park on foot, taking special care when crossing the Evesham Road.

The previous evening, DC Filippos had taken away the piece of paper after carefully placing it in a polythene sandwich bag I’d given him from my kitchen, making sure that Grant was unaware of its existence.

‘I’ll inform DS Merryweather and get the paper tested,’ he’d said. ‘It may give us some idea who left it there, although that doesn’t prove it was the same person who let your tyres down. Do you have any witnesses to that?’

I thought of Isabelle. ‘There is at least one other person who will swear that all four tyres were flat, but she was not a witness to them actually being let down.’ I wondered if I could also find my chivalrous knight in his three-piece tweed suit, not that he would know anything that Isabelle and I didn’t.

I arrived at the racecourse really early, before the gates even opened, and I hung about close to the jockeys’ reserved parking area.

I didn’t really know what I was going to do but I was determined to confront the three jockeys and to give them a piece of my mind for letting down my tyres. Perhaps I was hoping for a reaction from one or more of them, something that might give me a lead to further revelations concerning the unnamed man.

Or was I being stupid to get involved?

Leave it to the police, the sensible half of my brain kept telling me.

But the delinquent half was now winning easily.

Of one thing, I was sure – having the nameless man to worry about, together with the sure knowledge that my concern was not without foundation, had done wonders for my mood. I felt, suddenly, that I had a purpose back in my life and it gave me a terrific lift.