reaction for a little fiddle on the horses so I think there must be something more to it than that.’
‘How can you be sure it was something to do with fixing races?’ Charles asked.
‘Because Huw left two messages on my London answering machine the night before he died and as good as said it was. He was frightened that someone might kill him for not doing as he was told.’
‘I thought Bill Burton had killed him for playing around with his wife.’
I raised my eyebrows, both at the fact that Charles had heard the rumour and the way he expressed it.
‘So someone told me,’ he added. He had clearly used their exact turn of phrase.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I think Huw’s murder was premeditated. Bill Burton didn’t believe that, as you say, Huw was playing around with his wife until just before the first race that afternoon. Bill couldn’t have suddenly magicked a gun out of thin air. And Huw certainly left the first message on my answering machine hours before Bill had any hint that there was an affair going on between him and Kate. It wasn’t Bill who Huw was frightened of. So I think we can discount the tidy solution that Bill killed him.’
‘But Burton was bloody angry with Walker for winning on Candlestick. I saw it myself.’
‘No, he wasn’t. He was bloody angry because he had just found out it was true that Kate and Huw had been at it.’
‘Oh.’ Charles went over to the drinks tray and poured two more large single malts. It was indeed going to be a long night.
‘Bill Burton was murdered as well,’ I said. ‘I’m sure of that, too. It was made to look like a suicide but it wasn’t.’
‘The police seem to think it was, or so everyone says on the racecourse.’
‘I’ve been doing my best to cast doubts as to the accuracy of that theory. That’s why Marina got beaten up. It came with a message to me to leave things be, to stop sticking my nose into Huw’s death and allow Bill to carry the can.’
‘So that the case will be closed and the guilty party will still be free?’
‘Exactly,’ I said.
‘So are you?’
‘Am I what?’
‘Are you going to stop sticking your nose into Huw’s death?’
‘I don’t know.’
I swallowed a mouthful of Glenmorangie’s best 10-year-old and allowed the golden fluid to send a shiver round my body, the prelude to a comforting warm glow that emanated from deep down. I realised that I had eaten hardly anything all day and that drinking on an empty stomach was a sure-fire way to a hangover. But who cared?
‘No one has been able to stop you in the past.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But this is different somehow… hurting Marina is out of order.’
‘Hurting you is all right, I suppose?’
‘Well… yes. I know how much I can take. I’m somehow in control, even when I’m not.’ I paused. ‘Do you remember that time when it all was too much? When Chico and I were almost flayed alive with the chains?’
He nodded. He had seen the damage first hand.
‘Well, that was done to stop me investigating. At least they thought I would stop. They thought that I would have had enough, that surely I would get the message and run away. What they didn’t understand was that I was going after them all the more, simply because of what they’d done to try and stop me. I really believe that nothing, short of actually killing me, would stop me if I thought it was right.’
‘Didn’t a man once threaten to cut off your right hand if you didn’t stop trying to nail him for something?’
‘Yes.’ I paused.
I remembered the paralysing fear, the absolute dread of losing a second hand. I remembered the utter collapse it had caused in me. I remembered the struggle it had taken to rebuild my life, the willpower required to face another day. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I remembered it all too well.
‘That didn’t stop you, either.’
No, I thought, not in the end, although it had for a while.
‘Nearly,’ I croaked. My tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth.
‘You are surely not going to be stopped by a couple of punches to the face.’
‘But it’s not
‘Shooting hostages never stopped the French Resistance killing Germans,’ he said profoundly.
‘It would have done if it had been their families.’
We finally went up to bed past two o’clock. By then, we had polished off the bottle and I had more than made up for the lack of calories in my missed dinner.
I slipped in next to Marina and kissed her sleeping head. How could I knowingly put this precious human being into danger? But how could I not? Suddenly, for the first time since I had started this caper, I was vulnerable to the ‘we’ll not get you, we’ll get your girl’ syndrome. What was the future? How could I continue? How could I operate if I were forever fearful of what ‘they’ might do to Marina?
I tossed this dilemma round in my whisky-fuzzed brain, found no acceptable solution, and finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Sure enough, I woke with a headache. My own fault.
Marina had a headache too, not hers. As I had expected, her face looked worse than it had last night. And it was nothing to do with the daylight.
A giant panda has white eyes in a black face, Marina had the reverse. But the skin around her eyes was not only going black, it was going yellow and purple too. Her left eye was heavily bloodshot and the sticking plaster over her eyebrow gave her a sinister appearance. She looked like a refugee from a horror film. But these injuries were real and not the handiwork of a make-up artist.
She sat up in bed and looked at herself in the mirror on the wardrobe door that was cruelly at just the right angle.
‘How do you feel?’ I asked.
‘About as good as I look.’ She turned and gave me a lopsided smile.
That’s my girl, I thought and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek.
We both beat Charles to breakfast and found Mrs Cross busy in the kitchen.
‘Good morning, Mr Halley.’ I had never managed to get her to call me Sid.
‘Morning, Mrs Cross,’ I replied. ‘Can I introduce Marina van der Meer — Mrs Cross.’
‘Oh, my dear, your poor face!’
Marina smiled at her. ‘It’s fine, getting better every day. Car accident.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Cross again. ‘I’ll get you some tea.’
‘Thank you, that would be lovely.’
I had coffee and dear Mrs Cross provided me, as always, with ready buttered and marmaladed toast.
Charles came in wearing his dressing gown and slippers and sat down at the long kitchen table. He rubbed his forehead and his eyes.
‘When I was a midshipman I could drink all night and then be wide awake and full of energy for duty at six in the morning. What have the years done to me?’
‘Good morning, Charles,’ I said.
‘Good morning to you, too,’ he replied. ‘Why did I allow you to keep me up half the night boozing?’ He turned to Marina. ‘Good morning, my dear, and how do you feel today?’
‘Better than you two, I expect.’ She smiled at him, which seemed to cheer him up no end.
‘Morning, Mrs Cross,’ said Charles. ‘Black coffee and wholemeal toast for breakfast, please.’
‘With or without Alka-Seltzer?’ I asked.
‘Without, I can’t stand all that fizzing.’
We sat and ate our breakfast for a while in silence, Charles poring over the Saturday papers.
‘It says here,’ he said, pointing at the paper with a slice of toast, ‘that the English are turning into a race of gamblers. It claims that more than nine million people in this country regularly gamble on the internet.
