Race to Death Read online

  The other man didn’t budge. ‘If you go to the corner, you get a great view of the clock tower.’

  ‘I saw it,’ Adrian muttered.

  All the same he looked round, not wishing to be rude. As he did so, he felt a sharp prick on his neck.

  ‘Ouch! I’ve been stung!’

  He turned back. The face in front of him looked fuzzy. His throat felt as though it was closing up. Fumbling to loosen his tie, he realised he had drunk far too much. His fingers wouldn’t work properly. He opened his mouth to cry out, but his lips seemed to be frozen. His tongue felt thick. He tried to move his head. It was fixed, his neck rigid. Barely conscious, he felt someone grip him tightly under his arms.

  His relief at being helped turned to anger. The steward was wasting valuable time. Adrian needed urgent medical attention. He had suffered a stroke, or an anaphylactic reaction to an insect bite. Moments before, he had been enjoying a day out at the races. Now he could be dying. Someone he dimly recognised was lifting him off the ground. With eyes stuck wide open, he registered a beard and gold-rimmed glasses. He was being held upright, propped against the railing. With a jolt he felt himself hoisted upwards and pushed forwards, in danger of slithering helplessly over the edge. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t move or call out.

  As he fell a loud wind roared past his ears, indistinguishable from the roar of the crowd. The race was over.

  2

  PEOPLE WERE MILLING ABOUT chatting, laughing, queuing and drinking. Women in party frocks and smart suited men mingled with grave punters, all there to chance their luck on the horses. Adrian had gone to look at the view from the fifth floor, leaving Vivien with Charles who had gone to buy a bottle of champagne. The two brothers had left her on her own for ages, standing alone in the chattering crowd. At first she didn’t mind. With so many gorgeous dresses to look at, it was like watching a fashion show. After a while she grew anxious, afraid that Adrian and Charles would never find her again. Nervously she searched the assembled throng, looking for a familiar face. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves except her. At last she spotted Charles pushing through the crowd towards her. She looked away to hide her relief. Although she was pleased to see him, she was embarrassed watching him barge past other people to reach her, as though he was afraid to leave her by herself. He hadn’t minded abandoning her earlier.

  He joined her, red-faced and out of breath. Three champagne flutes jiggled precariously in his grasp as he wiped his damp forehead with his sleeve, grumbling about the toilets and the queue for drinks. Raising her glass to take a first sip, she was vaguely aware of a commotion behind her. A shrill scream rang in her ear, reverberating painfully inside her head. At the same time, people started jostling one another violently all around her. Someone jogged her arm and she dropped her glass. It shattered on the ground. She barely noticed its contents fizz and splash her shoes, because by then Charles had grabbed her by the elbow to drag her away from the disturbance. One of her shoes fell off as she stumbled after him. Pausing only briefly in his stride, he heaved her bodily off the ground, with one arm. Carrying her at his side, he forged his way through the crowd that was surging past them towards the source of the tumult.

  ‘Don’t look round!’ he yelled at her.

  Nearby she heard someone sobbing.

  Reaching the edge of the crowd he put her down. Everyone around them seemed to be talking at once. An authoritative voice was yelling above the din. Vivien couldn’t make out what he was saying. Other voices nearby clamoured in a disjointed chorus.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘From the balcony on the top floor.’

  ‘Dropped like a stone.’

  ‘He needs help.’

  ‘Is there a doctor here?’

  ‘It’s too late for that.’

  As if losing a shoe wasn’t bad enough, Vivien noticed for the first time that her frock was spattered with champagne. She swore. Straightening up, she felt her face blush with shame. A man had fallen from a balcony. There was no need for her to see past the crowd of onlookers to know he must be dead or at least badly injured. Blood was probably still oozing from his shattered skull, and she was concerned about having her dress dry cleaned. With a shudder, she glanced around. No one was paying her any attention.

  In the mêlée, security guards began shepherding spectators over to the side of the terrace where Vivien was standing behind Charles. Holding his arm for support, she pulled off her shoe. The area where the man had fallen was speedily cordoned off, watched over by a team of security guards. Unceremoniously corralled together, the crowd all seemed to be talking. Once the initial shock had worn off, the mood of the onlookers became irascible.

  ‘How long are we going to be kept here like this?’ a drunken voice yelled.

  A chorus of complaints broke out.

  ‘We paid good money to come here today.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now,’ a policeman answered firmly. ‘I’m afraid no one is allowed to leave until we’ve had a chance to speak to you all.’

  ‘Well, go on then, speak up.’

  ‘We need to speak to each of you individually, sir,’ the copper replied stolidly.

  Vivien moved to one side of Charles, but there was nothing to see. Several uniformed police officers had gathered around the body, masking it from view. A burly man was running and bellowing, waving his arms vehemently to intercept two security guards who had almost reached the entrance to the Ebor building. Above the sporadic din, Vivien could just about make out the orders he was barking.

  ‘Don’t go in. No one is to go inside the building until we get the green light. Guard all the exits. Don’t let anyone in.’

  A security guard started forward as two men emerged from the building. Just then, several people surged forward in front of Vivien, blocking her view.

  Adrian had been gone for about an hour. She searched the crowd in front of her but it was impossible to find anyone in this scrum. At her side, Charles leaned down and yelled in her ear.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. Have you seen Adrian?’

  Instead of answering, he seized her by the arm and began pulling her towards the front of the crowd. Awkwardly she hobbled after him, worried about broken glass, or her toes being trodden on.

  ‘Stop pushing,’ a man growled.

  Other voices joined in. ‘We all want to see what’s going on.’

  Ignoring the chorus of protests, Charles carried on shouldering his way through the throng. He dragged her over to a uniformed policeman, where he loosened his hold on her. The two men had a hurried conversation. As Charles was speaking, the policeman turned to stare at Vivien. Unnerved by the intensity of his gaze, she felt a tremor of fear.

  The two men fell silent when she stepped forward to hear what they were saying. Charles stared fixedly at something over her shoulder. The constable shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

  ‘What’s happened?’ The words rose hysterically in her throat. ‘Something’s happened to Adrian, hasn’t it? Has he – did he – is it him? I want to see.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Charles asked gently. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. I’m his brother. I can do it.’

  ‘Do what?’

  He hesitated before answering. ‘They need someone to have a look at the man who fell from the balcony and confirm if it’s Adrian or not.’

  He couldn’t meet her eye. They both knew.

  3

  THE NARROW STREET WAS packed with tourists, rubbing shoulders together, enjoying the crowded walk along The Shambles, York’s well preserved medieval street. Half closing his eyes, Ian could almost have believed they had stepped back to the fourteenth century, if it weren’t for the modern shoppers, girls with cropped hair and tattoos, boys wearing anoraks and earrings, and everyone in trainers. He looked up at quaint wooden shop fronts, which he could see over the top of his wife’s head
. It was one of the advantages of being over six foot tall. Bev’s delicate beauty made him smile, but although he looked robust beside her apparent fragility, the reality was inevitably more complex. He watched her eyes flit from one side of the narrow street to the other, taking in displays in the shop windows: jewellery, silverware, chocolates, tearooms, and all manner of knick knacks and confectionery. From time to time she gave an excited cry, but for the most part she stared, wide-eyed, at bow windows with their squared panes, interspersed with white walls and black timber. If they had been in York on holiday she would have been in raptures over the displays, but her pleasure was restrained.

  Although she was putting a brave face on it, Bev wasn’t happy about their move to York, hundreds of miles away from her family and friends. Having worked his way up from a detective constable to his recent post as detective inspector, there had never been any doubt in Ian’s mind that he would accept promotion, wherever it took him. As it happened, it wasn’t entirely chance that had taken them so far from Kent. Keen to make a success of his marriage as well as his career, he wanted to put some distance between himself and his in-laws. Despite his rapid promotion, Bev’s parents had never thought him good enough for their daughter and he wanted to take her as far away from their stifling influence as he could.

  At lunch time they walked through a park to a small café from where they had an impressive view of an historic monument. Clifford’s Tower stood on top of a high mound. Ian smiled at the sight of kids clambering up the steep slopes and rolling down again. They had just started eating when Ian’s work phone rang. Bev’s neat features puckered with annoyance. ‘Can’t you ignore it? We’re eating. We can’t just get up and go.’

  They both knew the answer to her question. If the call was a summons to a crime scene, the sooner Ian set off the better.

  After listening intently for a moment, he gave an apologetic grimace.

  ‘It looks like I’ll be paying a visit to the races sooner than I planned.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got to go to work right now. What about lunch?’

  ‘Why don’t you finish your lunch, then go and have a look round the market and get a taxi home?’ He pulled out his wallet. ‘You wanted to go to the market –’

  Although she smiled at his clumsy attempt to placate her, he could see her eyes were glistening with disappointment.

  ‘I’ll ask them to pack it up for us. We can have it later,’ she said, although they both knew he might not be home for dinner.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, standing up. ‘Let’s sort out the food and get back to the car and I’ll drop you home.’

  He gave a guilty grin, doing his best to hide his impatience. He didn’t want to abandon his wife, but his thoughts were already on the brief report he had just heard.

  ‘What do we know?’ Ian asked the sergeant who was waiting to drive him to the races.

  Ian had been introduced to Detective Sergeant Ted Birling, but this would be the first time they worked together. The sergeant was in his mid-twenties. Ian found it strange to think that there was nearly ten years between them. He didn’t feel any older than his colleague. With black hair and very dark eyes, Ted looked Italian or Spanish. He would have been classically handsome if his eyebrows weren’t so thick. The lower half of his face was covered in stubble and the backs of his hands were covered in coarse black hair. While Ian wanted to find out as much as he could about the death they had been called to investigate, he was also keen to discover what sort of officer Ted was. The sergeant’s wiry physique gave an impression of physical power in spite of his relatively short stature.

  ‘It’s a simple case really, sir. A man fell to his death from a fifth storey balcony at the racetrack.’

  ‘So are we looking at suicide?’

  ‘It appears that way, on the face of it, although the constable on site says there’s a question over how he came to fall.’

  Ian sighed. If they had been dealing with a murder case, the detective chief inspector would have attended the scene herself. As it was, his boss had chosen to ruin Ian’s Saturday by sending him to check on a man who had jumped off a balcony.

  ‘Selfish cow,’ he muttered.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘Nothing. Do we know why we’ve been called out?’

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘It’s not very clear, but several witnesses reported seeing a second person on the balcony with the victim just before he plunged to his death, and apparently a race official found someone lurking on the balcony shortly after the incident.’

  They turned off the main road. Ahead Ian could see the sweep of the white fences of the racecourse.

  ‘Lurking, eh? Let’s not go jumping to conclusions before we have all the facts. This is probably a suicide, or an accidental death. The dead man had probably had a few too many.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Despite his cautious words, Ian felt a rush of excitement. The incident might be suspicious, in which case he was about to embark on his first investigation as a detective inspector – and he was going to be the first senior officer on the scene.

  4

  A LONG STRAIGHT AVENUE took them past more signs. They turned right towards the racetrack. To their left a stunning art deco clock tower soared high above the other buildings in view. ‘Terry York’ was written in large lettering on the clock face. As they drew closer, Ian was disappointed to see many of the window panes were broken. The building was derelict.

  ‘That clock tower’s amazing,’ he said aloud.

  ‘Yes, it’s a listed building.’

  ‘I wonder what’ll happen to it?’

  Ted didn’t answer. A moment later they drew up beside a triangular porch on their right bearing a sign, ‘Welcome to York Racecourse’. Ahead of them a white arch spanned the road bearing the same inscription. Before they were out of the car a uniformed constable appeared, striding towards them.

  ‘This way, sir.’

  They followed him through the turnstile.

  The walkway that led to the racetrack was broad enough for a white forensic tent, with room to stand around outside it. Behind the tent, two uniformed officers guarded the entrance to the five storey Ebor building. Sending Ted to find out whether anyone had accompanied the victim to the races, Ian spoke to a portly grey-haired sergeant in charge of a team providing a police presence on site.

  ‘That’s where he jumped from, sir.’ The sergeant squinted up at a vertical series of balconies. ‘All the way from the top, five floors up.’

  ‘Jumped or was pushed,’ a constable beside him added, in a voice high-pitched with excitement.

  ‘He didn’t stand a chance,’ the portly sergeant said, shaking his head. ‘Lucky he didn’t land on top of anyone. The place was heaving before we cleared the area.’

  Ian looked up at the balcony. Once the man had fallen, it looked as though a fatality was inevitable.

  ‘It must be a drop of over fifty feet,’ he said.

  ‘Something like that, sir.’

  It seemed a very public way to commit suicide. But if the man had thrown himself off the balcony, presumably he hadn’t been thinking straight. Ian turned back to the sergeant waiting patiently at his side.

  ‘There must have been any number of witnesses?’

  ‘Yes, there were hundreds of racegoers here. Hundreds.’

  ‘Had most of them been drinking?’

  ‘Not all of them, sir. There’s many are serious about the horses.’

  ‘We’ve got a list, sir,’ the uniformed constable piped up.

  Ian gave a brisk nod.

  ‘This could have been an accident,’ he said, speaking more to himself than to his colleagues.

  ‘An accident, sir?’

  ‘I’m just wondering whether he could have gone too close to the edge of the balcony because he was too drunk to appreciate the danger he was in. Or he might have been high, having a good time on his day out, and misjudged the risk.’

  ‘I couldn’t
comment on that, sir,’ the sergeant answered impassively. ‘But I understand there was something suspicious about it.’

  Ian felt his heart begin to race, but before he could ask any questions Ted joined them. He looked animated.

  ‘Several witnesses claimed they saw a second figure up on the balcony with the victim, and we’ve got the other man in custody,’ he announced triumphantly. ‘One of the race officials brought him down shortly after the incident. It looks as though they were having an argument up on the balcony, and the suspect pushed the victim over the edge.’

  ‘We don’t know he was pushed, and if he was, we don’t yet know it was deliberate,’ Ian pointed out.

  ‘There are several witnesses –’

  ‘Let’s not start making assumptions, Sergeant.’

  Ian turned and thanked the grey-haired sergeant in uniform before walking away with Ted.

  ‘It’s a long way up there,’ Ian said as they approached the entrance to the Ebor Stand. ‘No one down here could have seen exactly what happened. Things are not always what they seem. The suspect might have been trying to stop the victim jumping. That could have looked from down here like he was pushing him. Don’t confuse speculation with conclusions based on clear evidence.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Meticulous forensic scrutiny of the balcony and lifts was under way. Ian and Ted pulled on protective suits and shoes and entered the lift. On the fifth floor, white-suited photographers and scene of crime officers were at work, examining every inch of the bar and balcony. There was nothing to suggest that a struggle had taken place. Crossing to the perimeter, Ian glanced over the barrier. As a rule heights didn’t bother him, but he felt slightly giddy looking at the ground far below. A stout metal bar ran round the balcony, roughly waist height on a tall man. Less than a foot beyond that a thick barrier of reinforced glass ran around the outer limit of the terrace. There was no way anyone could have slipped past the protective barrier by accident.