Fear of the Fathers (2 page)

At the second-last it was still neck and neck, but then Jumping Jon's rider let out some rein and he started to shoot clear. He arrived at the last fence with an ever-increasing lead of four lengths. Jennings held his breath, willing the horse over the final flight. Jumping Jon rose majestically, flying through the air with the grace of a gymnast. But then, on landing, he lost his footing and stumbled almost to a halt. The jockey shot halfway up his neck and held on grimly. The crowd let out a great gasp. The horse in second, Barney's Bluff, jumped the fence and drew level.

With all his strength, Jumping Jon's jockey righted himself and pulled hard at the reins, virtually picking his mount off the floor. Barney's Bluff drew away. Back on an even keel, but with three lengths to make up, Jumping Jon started to rally, slowly whittling away his opponent's lead. The crowd regained their voice and cheered violently. Jennings, forgetting the company he was in, rode out the finish with flailing arms and falsetto voice.

A hundred yards from the line Jumping Jon was still a length down and seemingly destined for the runner-up spot. The Cheltenham hill, however, is most unforgiving, and Barney's Bluff began to tire. Jumping Jon was wearing him down with every stride: three quarters of a length; half a length; a quarter of a length; a neck. The crowd screamed like never before. And then there was hush. The horses had crossed the line together, nobody could tell who had won.

“Photograph!” called the announcer. “Photograph for first place!”

A breathless Jonathan Ayres turned to Jennings. “What do you think?” he asked.

Jennings shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know sir. I couldn't really tell. It looked like a dead-heat to me.”

“I couldn't tell either,” said Ayres. “Let's just keep our fingers crossed.”

“If it helps sir, I think there's another 30,000 people here who are hoping for the same thing.”

“I suppose I'd better go down to the winner's circle, just in case.”

Jennings led Ayres and his wife down the stairs towards the enclosure. Two other Special Branch operatives, Stone and Davis, cleared a way through the crowd.

The horses and jockeys returned to the unsaddling enclosure. The hanging silence spoke volumes. Jennings was as tense as everybody else. Even with his limited knowledge of horseracing he sensed that he was part of a unique moment. The wait was interminable, the air growing thicker with every agonizing second. Then, just as patience reached the end of its elasticity, the loud speaker crackled to life.

“Here is the result for first place,” said the announcer. There was a Mexican murmur and the crowd rocked nervously. Please be number eight, thought Jennings.

“First…number eight!”

The whole place exploded with cheers of joy and relief. Hats dotted the sky. Carried away in the wave of euphoria Jennings punched the air with delight. But his fist froze at its apex. His eyes fell upon a bearded Indian man standing behind a rail twenty yards away. He wore a dark grey suit and trench coat, and matching trilby hat. Unlike the rest of the crowd he was neither vociferous nor animated. His right arm was in a shooting posture, his hand hidden under the sleeve of the coat and pointing towards Jonathan Ayres. All Jennings could see was a dark tunnel, but he was almost certain that the man had a gun.

Instinctively Jennings jumped in front of the Prime Minister. He felt a thud in his chest and he hit the ground. The man disappeared into the crowd.

It had been three months since Stratton had died. Stella Jones was still coming to terms with her loss. Even now his death seemed dreamily unreal. As she paced up and down the supermarket aisles, she wondered what she could do to lay his ghost to rest. There had been no funeral – the body snatching incident had seen to that – and so no chance to say a proper goodbye. The stagnant cloud of her soul was hovering in the past. She needed the storm to break and wash her clean. The world was moving on apace without her. She needed closure.

A suspicious-looking figure in a white hoodie broke her thoughts. He was hanging around the spirit section with light-fingered intent. She casually wandered over to the beers to get a closer look, just in time to catch the youth secreting a bottle of Blue Label into the pouch of his top. He turned to leave, only to find the way barred.

“I think you ought to put that back,” said Stella, standing firm, arms folded.

The gawky thief looked at her incredulously. “Put what back?” he said.

“The vodka. And don't pretend you haven't got it.”

The thief grunted. “Who the fuck are you anyway?”

“I'm the store detective.”

Realizing the futility of playing dumb, the thief grunted again, removed the bottle, and put it back on the shelf. Then, with gazelle-like speed, he made a break for it. Stella didn't move. It was enough for her that the goods had been returned. Chasing after him would involve a lot of effort for a minimal result. Apart from the physical side there would be the police and a stream of paperwork to deal with. And all for what? The kid would get a slap on the wrist and carry on as he had been. There would be no repercussions, arrest was just an occupational hazard.

Stella chided herself for being so cynical. She was slowly losing her moral grip. She could hear Stratton's voice in her head, telling her not to stop caring. But how could she care? She felt like she was up against insurmountable odds. The world was a desolate place these days; if it wasn't war and starvation abroad, it was knifings and shootings at home. The streets of Britain were fast becoming a savage dystopia, as a disaffected and forgotten generation waged their anger at a society in which poverty itself had become a crime. In the face of this, was it possible to stand firm and true? Where could you find the strength to hold your head up high and continue doing the right thing?

Stella carried on dutifully pacing the aisles with her mock trolley of goods. It occurred to her that by letting the shoplifter go, she had missed out on the only excitement she was likely to have that day. A good chase might have stemmed her malaise. She had only taken the job to stop herself moping around the flat, but instead of lifting her spirits it had chiselled away at her even more.

The store manager Barry Bathwick approached Stella in the frozen food section. “Hi Stella,” he said. “How's it going?”

“It's ok,” she said. “Very quiet.”

“What about that lad in the drinks' aisle stealing the vodka?”

“He put it back.”

“Why didn't you try to stop him?” said Bathwick nervously. Stella's forthright nature made him uncomfortable.

Stella shrugged. “To be honest with you Barry, I just couldn't be bothered. What's the point? Nothing would have happened to him anyway.”

“That's not the attitude is it?”

In a show of petulance Stella pushed her trolley into a cabinet. “No, it's not the fucking attitude! Do you think I don't know that! But what do you expect? Trudging up and down this two-bit store all day! Listening to your tedious crap! It's enough to break anyone's spirit!”

Barry Bathwick raised his head and straightened his tie officiously. “Well, if you don't like it…”

“Yes. I know exactly where the door is, thank you.”

Outside the supermarket she reached into her handbag and fished out her cigarettes. She had been thinking about quitting but hadn't quite gotten round to it. She lit up and took a deep lungful of smoke. Ahh…a friend in need, she thought.

She walked slowly to her car, regretting her rashness. The job had been shitty, but it had been something to do. Now all she had to look forward to was Jeremy Kyle and endless repeats of Diagnosis Murder. She had to break free and leave the past behind. Perhaps she needed to see a psychiatrist.

As she opened the door to her MR2 a soft voice spoke to her. “Are you ok there?” it asked.

Stella turned round to see a young bespectacled priest. He was carrying a bag of shopping and his face looked full of genuine concern.

“I'm ok,” she said. “I've had worse days.”

“Of course,” said the priest. His voice was kind with a gentle Irish lilt. “You just look like you could do with talking to someone.”

Stella smiled politely and said, “Thank you for your concern, Father, but I'm really ok. I just want to get home.”

“Of course you do,” said the priest. “I'm sorry to have troubled you. You must forgive my intrusion.”

Stella looked at the apologetic priest and felt a twinge of guilt: he was, after all, only trying to help. “Don't mention it Father,” she said. “It's nice to know that there are still people who care.”

“Of course there are. And there always will be.”

“Goodbye Father,” she said, and got into the car.

“Goodbye my child,” the priest hollered after her. “And if you ever need solace you can find me at Our Lady's – ask for Father Pat Cronin!”

The crowd continued to cheer. Jonathan Ayres was lost in a world of confusion. He looked down at Jennings' prone body and then looked around for help. Jennings' two Special Branch colleagues sprang into action. Davis headed into the crowd to chase the gunman, and Stone shielded Ayres and his wife. The noise began to die as section by section it dawned on the racegoers that something was wrong.

“What the hell happened there?” Ayres asked Stone.

“An attempt on your life sir, I believe,” he said calmly. He then radioed the rest of his team with a description of the gunman and a command to seal off all exits.

“What about Jennings?” said Ayres, pointing to the lifeless body.

“Oh, he'll be alright sir. Just a bit winded I expect. He's wearing body armour.” He kicked Jennings in the ribs. “Come on lazybones! Stop playing dead – we've got a gunman to catch.”

Jennings groaned and got to his knees, looking down in disgust at his mud-covered suit.

“Thank God!” said Ayres. “I thought you were dead.”

Jennings got to his feet, and after a brief discussion with Stone raced into the bewildered crowd to join the search. He jostled his way through the masses, frantically turning this way then that. Intermittently he bobbed his head up above the throng in a desperate search for his man. It was nigh on impossible though; he was drifting, lost in a never-ending sea of trench coats and trilbies.

He barged through the melee and found some breathing space at the back of the paddock. He was joined by an equally disconsolate Davis who, being near to retirement, was almost worn out with effort.

“Anything?” asked his colleague between gasps for air.

“Not a thing,” replied Jennings. “All I can see is hats. I think we're going to have to evacuate the place and get him on the way out.”

“I agree,” Davis nodded. “It's going to be a nightmare, but it has to be done.” He radioed Stone who gave authorization.

Two minutes later the public address crackled to life and advised racegoers to exit the course. There was no cause for alarm.

In true British fashion, the crowd began to vacate in an orderly manner. No fussing or complaining, just a sombre stroll to the gates. Jennings watched with a tinge of national pride. When it came to a crisis nobody in the world coped better than his fellow countrymen.

Two men were posted at each gate. They all had a description of the gunman. Jennings, Davis and Stone waited patiently as the stands emptied. Their man was unlikely to risk exiting with everyone else. He would probably try and hide out somewhere until the place was deserted.

With the last patron gone and the Prime Minister safely on his way back to Downing Street, Stone organized his search team. As well as himself, Jennings and Davis, there were another five Special Branch operatives. They split up into four teams of two, and each pair was allocated a separate area.

Jennings and Davis walked into the main stand. The heaving sardine tin of an hour before had been replaced by long, empty spaces, and deserted lobbies and bars. Plastic cups and discarded betting slips littered the carpets and corridors. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of sweat and stale alcohol. Jennings cast his eyes around looking for places to hide: there were plenty, too many – counters; cupboards; toilets; elevators; stairwells – their man could be anywhere.

Davis sighed. “Where do we start then?” he asked resignedly.

They ambled slowly to the end of the stand and began their search. The day wasn't panning out quite as Jennings had planned. The joyful punter had turned into a weary hunter. He wondered if there was any way of removing himself from the Prime Minister's list of favourites.

Outside the clouds drew closer. The soft patter of rain pinged the windows, and the heavens gave a hungry rumble. Jennings looked to the skies with a thickening sense of doom. He suddenly noticed how dense and warm the atmosphere had become. Converse to the open space in which he stood he was feeling quite claustrophobic. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow. He glanced across to Davis who was searching behind a Tote counter. “Is it just me, or is it stifling in here?” he asked his partner.