died? Surely not. That killing was expertly carried out. It was an assassination. As I had told the police, someone had to have come to the races with the wherewithal to commit murder in his pocket. Metal detectors were not usual at the entrances to racecourses, although Aintree used them after the Grand National was postponed one year due to a bomb scare.
The rain had stopped by the time we walked back to the flat hand in hand — her left, my right — dodging the puddles and laughing out loud. This was why I never took Marina to the races. This was a different world, one in which I could relax and act like a teenager, one in which I was increasingly happy and near to the point where I would seek to make it permanent. We stopped and kissed at least four times during the short fifty-yard stroll and went straight back to bed.
I had always preferred lovemaking to be gentle and sensual and it was clearly Marina’s pleasure, too. After the violence of the previous day, I found solace in her tender embrace and we both seemed hugely satisfied by the experience. Afterwards we lay in the dark, touching occasionally, close to sleep.
As a rule, I removed my false arm prior to making love but we had been swept away with the passion of the moment so now I gently eased myself out of bed and went into the bathroom. The five or so inches remaining of my left forearm fitted snugly into the open end of a hard fibreglass cylinder built to be the same length as my healthy right. The plastic-covered steel myo-electric hand was attached to the bottom end of the cylinder. Chris Beecher had been correct, it was little more than a fancy hook. The fingers were permanently slightly bent and the hand was able to grip between forefinger and thumb by means of an electric motor that moved the thumb in and out. The motor was powered by a rechargeable battery that clipped into a recessed holder above the wrist.
Electrodes inside the arm-cylinder were held close to my skin near to where my real arm ceased. Initially I had had to learn how to open and close the hand using impulses I had previously used for bending my wrist. Try to move back the real hand that wasn’t there and the false hand opened. Move it forward and the hand closed. Easy. Unfortunately there was a slight delay between the impulse and the action and, consequently, I had broken the eggs and almost everything else I gripped. Nowadays, the thought processes were second nature but I still tended not to stop the impulses soon enough and breakages were common. Hence I had learnt to live a mostly one-handed life to match my one-handed body.
One could sleep with the arm in place but I almost never did as it was hard and very uncomfortable to lie on, its unfeeling fingers having a tendency to dig in to real flesh. Once I had almost knocked a beautiful bedfellow unconscious when turning over in my sleep. A couple of pounds of steel and plastic was definitely not an aid to romance.
The open end of the arm-cylinder fitted over my elbow, a plastic cuff gripping tightly around the ends of what was left of my ulna and radius bones, the bumps on each side of the elbow. I was impressed by the strength of the join between the genuine me and the fake. I had recently discovered that the fit was so good that, if I locked my elbow straight and stressed my biceps, I could hang my whole body weight by the arm. Not that I really fancied testing it with my life.
Removing it was consequently quite a challenge. I bent my elbow as far as it would go and gradually eased the plastic away from my skin. I placed it on the shelf over the washbasin. A tight-fitting rubber cosmetic glove covered the hand and wrist, protecting them from rain and beer spills. Shapes had been moulded into the rubber to represent fingernails and tendons, with bluish lines for veins. I preferred to wear it than not for the appearance it gave me of being two-handed. Lying there on the shelf, alone and disembodied, it looked gruesome and ghoulish. I covered it with a towel.
I padded in bare feet along the hallway to the kitchen to get some water and noticed the flashing light on the answering machine through the open door of the bedroom that doubled as my office. I pushed the button and the mechanical voice answered: ‘You have six messages.’
The second was from Huw Walker.
‘Hi, Sid,’ he said in his usual jovial manner. ‘Bugger! I wish you were there. Anyway, I need to talk to you.’ The laughter had faded from his voice. ‘I’m in a bit of trouble and I…’ he paused, ‘I know this sounds daft but I’m frightened.’
There was another brief pause.
‘Actually, Sid, no kidding, I’m really frightened. Someone called me on the phone and threatened to kill me. I thought they were bloody joking so I told them to eff off and put the phone down. But they rang back and it’s given me the willies. I thought it was all a bit of a lark but now I find that it ain’t. I need your bloody help this time, mate, and no mistake. Call me back. Please call me back.’
There was another long pause as if he had waited in case I picked up at my end. Then there was a click and the next message played. It was from my financial adviser reminding me to buy an ISA before the end of the tax year.
There were, in fact, two messages from Huw, not one. Message four was also his.
‘Where are you when I need you, you bugger?’ His voice was slurred and he had obviously been drinking in the time between messages. ‘Come on, pick up the bloody phone, you bastard! Can’t you tell when a mate’s in trouble?’ There was a pause in which I could hear him swallow. ‘Just a few losers, they says, for a few hundred in readies, they says. OK, I says, but make it a few grand.’ He sighed loudly. ‘Do as we tell you, they says, or the only grand you’ll see is the drop from the top of the effing grandstand.’ He was now crying. ‘Should have bloody listened, shouldn’t I?’
The message ended abruptly.
I stood in the dark and thought of him as I had last seen him; three closely grouped deadly holes in his heart.
Yes, he should have bloody listened.
CHAPTER 4
Archie Kirk called me at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning as Marina and I were still sitting in bed in our robes, surrounded by the newspapers.
‘Thought you were meant to be a private detective.’ He emphasised the word private. ‘Not very private to be splashed across the front pages.’
The Sundays had taken up where the Saturdays had left off, with hundreds of column inches bemoaning the death of Oven Cleaner. One red-top rag even called for a national day of mourning and a memorial service in Westminster Abbey.
However, I assumed Archie was referring to the front-page banner headline in
Someone in their newsroom clearly had a source in the Cheltenham police who had reported that ‘Sid Halley, ex-champion steeplechase jockey, has been interviewed by senior officers and is helping the police with their enquiries into the murder of jockey Huw Walker at Cheltenham races on Friday. No arrest has been made at this time.’
Clearly
‘Ridiculous,’ I said. ‘They’re fishing.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Archie, ‘enough people will believe it.’
Archie was always concerned for my welfare and now, it appeared, he wanted to protect my reputation as well.
He was some sort of civil servant but he didn’t belong to any specific department. Nominally, he answered to the Cabinet Office, but he appeared to work in his own way with little contact or regard for his superiors. He was the chairman of a small group who were tasked with attempting to foretell the future. Their remit was to try and work out the consequences of proposed legislation, to try and ensure that it would actually do what it was intended
