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INSIDE TRACK.

by John Francome

Jamie Hutchison's career as a champion Jockey came to a horrible end when the car he was driving spun out of control, killing a young boy.

Now, after spending years in prison, he's been released with the hope of starting a new life.. He has two problems, though: He can't forgive himself and he can't remember committing the crime.

Jamie's sister Pippa, a top horse trainer, would like Jamie to race horses again. Her attempts at helping him are honorable but she needs a lot of help herself. The owners of the horses she works with are moving their horses to rival Toby Priest, and she can't understand how he's turning slow, losing horses into winners.

Toby Priest has his own worries. DI Jane Culpepper is asking a lot of questions about a girl who used to work for him, a girl who has just been murdered. Is it frug related like everyone's whispering?

John Francome serves up a meaty dish of murder, sex, and violence.

Filled with fascinating looks behind the scenes of one of the most glamorous sports - horse racing -

Inside Track is a tense, thrilling, naughty pleasure of a book.

John Francome, an ex-National Hunt Champion jockey, is also one of the UK's most popular racing commentators. His electrifying racing thrillers have received outstanding critical acclaim. He lives in Berkshire, England.

INSIDE TRACK

John Francame

St. Martin's Minotaur, New York

INSIDE TRACK. 2002 by John Francome

1

With thanks to Nick Oldham, Gary Nutting (www.harrythe horse.net), Scarlett Shackleton, Debbie Wicks of Carlisle Racecourse and, in particular, John Hoskison, author of Inside: one man's experience of prison.

5 November, 2001

While he waited, Malcolm Priest watched the fireworks from the top of the hill. It seemed an appropriate activity. He had more than time to kill tonight. The thought amused him. If ever there were a good night to plot murder and arson it was surely November the fifth.

He had parked in a lay-by popular with dog-walkers, ramblers and courting couples, though on this bitter night he had it to himself. On a clear day you could admire Pendle Hill and the Lancashire Fells to the west. More to the point you could look directly down into the village of Staithley laid out at your feet. It was a pretty place, if you ignored the petrol station on the road leading north and the video store thirty yards up from the church. In the lanes behind the High Street stood substantial suburban dwellings with luxury cars in the driveways, and spacious gardens where the bonfires now dwindled and the occasional banger still popped.

Malcolm had no interest in the fancy houses. His eye was on a small cottage with a tatty thatched roof at the end of the lane behind the church.

Through his new binoculars - a recent present to himself after he'd lost sight of a grey filly in the mist at Ripon - he had a good view of the front of the cottage. A light had just been switched on upstairs - in the bedroom, he guessed. Nearly time to go. Thank God for that. He was getting stiff after sitting still for so long. A hot drink wouldn't go amiss. He found a stick of chewing gum in the glove compartment and folded it into his mouth.

2

More lights came on upstairs. He had a brief glimpse of a figure at the window - blonde hair, scarlet sweater - then the curtains were drawn.

Mandy was going to bed. Soon to be joined, no doubt, by her boyfriend Pete - the slimeball who'd shaken him down for the money. Go on, you dozy twerp, get upstairs and give her one.

But the light remained on downstairs. Druggies weren't renowned for their high sex-drive, Malcolm reflected. In which case it was a mystery why Mandy had fallen for Pete. During his own short fling with the stable girl, Mandy had been a fast little filly in every respect.

Malcolm got out of the car and stretched his limbs. The night was crisp, the stars brilliant in the black velvet sky. He took a deep breath and held the air in his lungs, then slowly exhaled. He had to keep his excitement under control.

It was a ten-minute walk down the road to the cottage below. Time to get cracking.

The cottage was barely visible from the lane, so overgrown was the hedge that bordered the front garden. Malcolm pushed boldly through the squeaking gate and strode up the bumpy gravel path. He wasn't bothered if his approach was overheard.

A light still shone from the downstairs window, spilling onto the unweeded flowerbed through a gap in the curtains. Malcolm peered through the crack. He could make out a shabby chintz sofa and a pair of legs - scuffed denims, bony black-stockinged feet - resting on a low slung coffee-table.

Malcolm tapped on the window. There was no response from the figure on the sofa, just a muffled burst of studio jollity from a hidden television. He tapped louder.

The legs slid off the table and the figure leant forward, head turned towards the window. Lank chin-length hair framed a long pale face. Pete.

Malcolm moved back from the circle of light falling from the window as the curtains were pulled to one side. `Who's that?' called Pete over the sound of the TV show.

Now he had Pete's attention Malcolm stepped into the porch and rapped on the front door. Eventually there were noises from inside, the sound of 3

footsteps scuffling in the hall. The door opened uncertainly. Just six inches

- but that was all Malcolm needed.

`Yeah?'

Malcolm shouldered through the gap, his fourteen stone of muscular bulk wedging the door wide. One gloved hand seized Pete's scrawny throat, pinning him against the wall.

`Sorry to barge in on you like this,' said Malcolm softly, leaning on Pete so he hadn't room to swing a fist or kick out. With his free hand he shut the door behind him. He was in and there was no going back now.

`Jesus, Malcolm,' the other man spluttered as Malcolm relaxed his grip.

`What the hell do you think you're playing at?'

Just the sound of his plummy voice irritated Malcolm. It reminded him of a boy at school, an arrogant little smartarse whose leg he'd enjoyed breaking in a rugger scrum. Even if Pete hadn't blackmailed him to the tune of thirty grand, Malcolm would have relished hurting him. But not just yet.

`Listen - is Mandy upstairs?' Pete nodded.

Their heads were so close it was a moment of intimacy. Pete's hair was in his face. It smelt of tobacco.

`Best if we don't disturb her, eh? We'll have a little talk in your front room.'

Pete stared into his eyes, unseeing. It struck Malcolm that he was scared witless. He had reason, after all.

`Don't worry,' he said soothingly. À short chat. Clear up one or two things.'

`Then you'll just go?'

What a weight of meaning there was in that one word `just'. Malcolm smiled pleasantly. `Sure.'

Pete looked doubtful - he wasn't a fool after all - but he led the way into the front room.

It was a scruffy tip, stuffy from the heat of the open fire glowing in the hearth.

Malcolm shut the door behind him and hit Pete in the pit of the stomach with all his weight. The thin man doubled over onto the floor clutching himself, jerking his knees up into his chest. He was too winded to cry out.

4

Malcolm yanked the TV plug out of the wall. Bloody irritating racket. Pete was starting to whinge, breath rattling in his throat as he took in pathetic little gulps of air. It didn't sound good. Being an A class doper his lungs were probably buggered.

The big man took careful aim and kicked the twitching figure just below the buttocks, in the unprotected vee of his bony thighs. Pete writhed in pain, trying to scuttle, crab-like, across the floor and away from his assailant. His squeals could be heard now, a high-pitched keening like an animal in pain. It was pathetic.

Shrugging off his coat - it was bloody hot work - but retaining his gloves, Malcolm took out the cord he'd brought with him. It would have been amusing to boot Pete some more but he had a plan and intended to stick to it.

The door opened as he was tying the last knot. `Pete?'

He'd not seen Mandy for two years and the change in her was marked. Her buxom glow had faded. Her cotton nightdress revealed skinny legs. He remembered them hooked around his waist once as he'd had her in an empty stall, her thighs strong yet butter-soft. Not any more.

`Hello, Mandy.'

She stared at him, surprise and alarm in her pale grey eyes. Then she saw Pete, trussed up on the floor, and ran for it.

Malcolm caught her before she could get out of the front door, grabbing her squirming frame from behind. He clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her screaming. She bit him, her teeth sharp even through the thin leather of the glove. He slammed her head against the wall, catching the edge of a framed poster and knocking it to the floor. He could see her pupils contract in pain as he yanked her round to face him.

`Shut up or I'll really hurt you,' he hissed.

She glared at him. There was more fight in her than in that useless streak of piss lying next door. But she nodded her head - she'd be quiet. He took his hand from her mouth slowly. He didn't trust her an inch. Ìnside,' he ordered.

Pete lay just as he'd left him, snivelling into the threadbare rug. Mandy dropped to her knees beside him and cradled his head.

`You didn't have to hurt him, you bastard.'

5

Malcolm ignored the remark. Given the circumstances he'd been rather lenient. Not that he'd finished yet.

He took more cord from his coat. Ì've got to tie you up, Mandy.' `No.'

`Just for a bit. Then I'll let you go.'

She was on her feet now, backing away from him. He could overpower her, of course, but he'd rather avoid a fight. If she scratched his face he'd have some explaining to do. Fortunately, there was an easy way round the problem.

He kicked Pete in the stomach. The bound man yelped in a most satisfying manner.

`Stop it!' Mandy cried.

Malcolm stamped on Pete's ankle. A crunching sound preceded the howl of pain from his victim.

That settled the issue.

`You disgust me,' spat Mandy as Malcolm lashed her arms and ankles together. `How could you do this?'

He pulled the cord tight. `You lied to me. You said you'd never ask for money again. You should have kept your word.'

He dumped her on the floor next to Pete. Her nightdress had ridden up over her thin hips, revealing a pale belly and a fuzz of brown hair. Once the sight would have aroused him. Funny how desire for someone could just vanish. He pulled the nightdress down to cover her. She didn't appear to have noticed.

Now she changed tack. `We only asked for what the newspapers would pay. It's over now, honestly, Malcolm. We won't ask for anything ever again.'

He squatted next to her. Time to get on. `Where's the photo?' `Pete gave it to you.'

`What about the negative?' Ìt's lost.'

`Did you lose it before or after you made copies?' Ì can't find it, I swear.'

Malcolm paused. This was what he had expected, more or less. Shed have the negative, all right, but it might not be here.

`Where do you keep your other photos?'

Ìn the sideboard.' She indicated across the room with her head. Òver there.'

6

He pulled out a tin box stuffed full of snapshots, together with their envelopes and strips of negatives. He pawed through them - holidays, horses, schoolgirl stuff- all Mandy's from the look of them. He found a batch from her days at Ridgemoor and shuffled through them carefully.

There were pictures of stable lads and lasses, scenes on the gallops, even photos of himself, sharing a joke with his brother in the ring at Newmarket. Not what he was looking for.

Ìs this all of them? None hidden anywhere else?' 'Honestly, Malcolm, no.'

`Why should I trust you? You lied to me before.' `No!'

Ìt's OK, Mandy. I'd have done the same in your shoes.'

He poked the fading embers of the fire and threw a photograph into the grate. It flared after a few seconds and curls of orange soon reduced it to feathery grey ash. He tossed on more photos.

`What are you doing?' cried Mandy.