Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc (17 page)

Shed turned up at Ros Bradey's yard dead on time, at half past six, cycling the mile and a bit in the damp morning darkness. She hadn't minded the early start, she was used to it after her cleaning job. And this time she was off to do a job she loved - even if it was unpaid.

Ros had welcomed her politely, if briskly, and thrown her straight into the business of mucking out boxes. There'd been shouted introductions to a couple of other girls at the same chore and Caroline, obviously Ros's senior helper, had shown her round the small, twenty-horse yard.

Now Marie was on her third box, occupied by a nervous-looking chestnut gelding with a white nose who shied away from her when she entered the stall.

She talked to the horse as she raked through his soiled bedding. Alan had told her she was a nutter when she'd behaved like that with Misty, their old horse, but she'd not been able to get out of the habit. And now it was a Godsend to have someone to chat to. So she told the chestnut gelding about the good things in her life- swapping the office-cleaning for the doctor's surgery, getting down to some proper study for her resit and now, spending some time in a stables. By the time she'd run through that there was no time to get into the not-so-good things, like the fact that Dad and Auntie Joyce were driving her up the wall and she just knew Auntie was letting him smoke on the sly, and the recently discovered information that 108

Colin was going out with a hairdresser with a pierced tummy - not that she cared, good luck to him, but she wished she hadn't heard it first from Gail.

`Tea?'

Ros was standing by the box door with a couple of mugs in her hand.

Marie looked up in surprise but Ros cut off the embarrassed apologies that sprang to her lips. `You've done a good job on these boxes.'

Marie took her tea. `Thanks. It's a while since I've mucked out.' Ànd how's he been?' Ros indicated the chestnut who was watching them closely, as if aware he was under discussion.

`Great. He thinks I'm a bit funny 'cos I haven't stopped prattling but I don't think he minds really.'

With her free hand Marie reached out to scratch the big white muzzle. The horse allowed himself to be petted.

`Who told you to clean his stall?' Ros was looking at her keenly. Ì was going to deal with him myself.'

Marie was flustered. No one had told her, she'd just assumed it had to be done. `Sorry,' she blurted.

Ros was smiling. `Don't apologise. He gave me a nasty kick the other day and he's tried to bite a couple of other girls. But you two seem made for each other.'

Òh.' Marie looked at the horse. He was licking her palm now, nuzzling into her like a great big softie.

Ros was appraising the pair of them. `How much time have you got off?’

'I'm supposed to be at the surgery by ten.' `Then you've got plenty of time to ride him.' Òh yes, please!'

`Have you done any jumping?'

Ì used to.' She'd been a medal-winning show-jumper at the age of twelve -

but she wasn't going to boast.

ÒK. I'm schooling him for a friend. I'll give you both a lesson, if you like.'

Marie certainly did like. She hadn't felt so excited for ages. Malcolm sought Toby out on the Ridgemoor gallops during second lot. It was a good spot to bend his ear with no chance of being overheard. On the other hand, he had to battle for his father's attention as the trainer kept his eye on his horses being put through their paces.

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Ì need a bit of help with Adolf,' Malcolm began. `The Beaufort people weren't too happy with the Haydock outing.'

`First time out, what did they expect?'

'That's what I said but Beverley Harris is getting her knickers in a twist.

She's trying to score points with her boss.'

Toby took his time scanning his string of horses through field glasses as they galloped across the moor. `What do you expect me to do about it?'

`Ring Barney Beaufort and reassure him. Tell him what a great prospect Adolf is.'

Toby grunted unhappily. `So you want me to lie for you?’

'I want you to put the best gloss on the situation you can manage.' Ì don't like Beaufort or his horse.'

`But you do like the money, don't you, Dad? Thirty-odd grand for soft-soaping old Barney's not a bad day's work.'

His father lowered the glasses and glared at him nastily. Malcolm ignored the venom in his look. He'd made his point - money always talked with the old man.

ÒK, I'll ring him if I must.' `Thanks, Dad.'

It was hard work sometimes but his father always came through in the end.

Filthy Barrable was not as poisonous a prospect in the flesh as Jane had been led to believe. Not from a distance anyway. His hair was neat and his broad face boyish and cheerful. The cheer faded as Jane reached the table in the corner of the motorway cafe where DC Lucy Jenkins had taken him for a free fry-up. Despite her eight years' service and black belt in judo, Lucy was as wide-eyed and dimpled as a school-leaver, which made her the ideal candidate to lure Filthy into the open. Jane could, of course, have simply yanked Filthy off the street for a formal interview but sometimes the heavy hand could be counter-productive.

Àye up,' he said in a thick Yorkshire accent - as if he were an actor in a Hovis commercial, thought Jane as she took a seat next to him, cutting off the escape route to the door. Not that flight would do him much good -

he'd need a ride out of the motorway service area.

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Up close Jane realised Filthy had not been misnamed. A pungent aroma clung to him that could only be caused by serious neglect of personal hygiene. She had to force a smile as she introduced herself.

`So you're the one who's come on for Jonesie,' he said. Ì heard he'd put through his own goal.'

Lucy gave Jane a slight shake of the head. Whatever Barrable had heard about Leighton he'd not got it from her. The troubles of DO Jones, the scourge of the Lancashire drugs scene, would have been seized on eagerly by dealers and customers alike. Filthy and his friends probably had a better idea of the beleaguered detective's prospects than his colleagues.

Ì imagine you know what I'd like to discuss with you, Mr. Barrable,' said Jane.

Filthy chased the last piece of fried bread round his plate and popped it into his mouth.

'I thought you might prefer these surroundings to an interview room at the station.'

He stared at her as he chewed. Then swallowed. `Which,' she persisted, Ì

could easily arrange.' Finally he spoke. `Got any burn?'

Jane was still translating the request in her mind when Lucy threw a packet of cigarettes on to the table. They were enveloped by Filthy's big grimy fingers in an instant. Jane watched him strip the cellophane from the packet and jam the white tube between his lips.

Were these the hands that had squeezed the life out of Pete and Amanda?

Why not? By his own admission Barrable had been on the spot. He'd seen the money. He could have done it easily.

Filthy dragged smoke into his lungs and grinned at her. The packet had disappeared somewhere inside his stained denim jacket.

Jane knew he hadn't done it. His girlfriend had given him a lift to Pete's place and waited outside while Filthy went inside to score. After he'd done the deed the pair had driven back home to shoot up. Soon after, they'd joined in the Guy Fawkes party thrown by the students next door. He was solidly alibied from 9.30 pm until the early hours of the next morning.

Even supposing he had committed the murders and torched the house, that meant the fire would have burned for another ninety minutes before the 111

alarm was raised - most unlikely according to the fire experts she'd talked to.

In any case, Filthy had told them about the money which was presumed missing. Why would he do that if he'd stolen it? And why would he invent the money if it didn't exist? He might be a smelly individual but no one thought he was stupid. As far as this enquiry went he was of considerable importance. In any trial his testimony was going to be crucial.

So it was in a tone of scrupulous politeness that Jane asked if he would mind running through the events of the evening of last 5 November once again, for her personal benefit. Ì would really appreciate it,' she added softly.

He appeared to give the matter some thought. Àll right,' he said finally and began his tale.

It didn't vary in any significant detail from the account Simon had first given her, nor from his signed witness statement. He'd arrived, strung out, shortly after half-past eight. Pete, who was in a larky mood, had mucked him around. First he'd pretended he didn't have any drugs to sell, then he'd told Filthy he wasn't dealing in wraps and piffling amounts any more.

Filthy had got fed up and made to leave, thinking of other sources he could try. Pete had then announced he was only joking and of course he could sort Filthy out. He'd gone on to boast that he was about to expand his operations. Filthy, having heard this before, said Oh yeah? and Pete had picked a plastic carrier-bag off the table and dumped it in Filthy's lap, saying Take a look at that, then. Inside was the money, three bricks of new-looking banknotes bundled together with rubber bands.

`Don't ask me how much there was,' said Barrable. `There was red notes and there was brown and there was a lot. That's all l know.' `Did you ask him how much?'

`Course I did but he went all coy. He said, "Enough to get me on the Orient Express." What he meant was, get him in with these East Europeans he was always on about. That's how he talked about them. The drugs come through Turkey, see.'

Filthy lit another cigarette from the butt of his first. Ì reckon he was about to tell me how much was in the bag when Mandy came in. She went ballistic when she saw me holding the money. She yanked it off me and 112

screamed at Pete, had a real go at him. First I thought it was because he'd let me see it but it was because he'd told her he'd put it in a safe place and he hadn't.'

`Did you put this in your statement?' Jane couldn't remember this particular detail.

`Maybe not. I'll add it if you like. Anyhow, he calmed her down, said he'd stash it right away and she turned the telly on, well fed up. Pete gave me some stuff and I thought it was time I split, so I did.'

`He didn't say where he was going to put the money, did he?' Barrable shook his head.

Òr where he'd got it from?'

`He just said he'd had a slice of luck.' `Where do you think he might have got it?'

Filthy stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back in his seat. `Haven't got a clue,' he said. `Tell you what though, it's not my idea of luck.' Jane nodded. She couldn't agree more.

`Got anything for me yet, Dave?'

Pippa was tired of asking this question. It was nearly a week since his arrival and so far Dave Prescott had made no pronouncement whatsoever.

If it wasn't for Jamie, who so badly needed a friend, she'd have told him to get lost.

No, she wouldn't, she corrected herself, because she'd grown to rather like Dave on her own account. There was something comforting about his good-natured presence, despite his off-putting appearance. And though he'd not yet delivered the goods for which he'd been hired, he had his other uses. On his second day Pippa had caught him on the phone in the office and assumed he was making a call on his own behalf. It turned out that he'd been answering calls while the office was unattended and had compiled a neat list of messages for her to respond to.

After that, he'd put in a couple of hours every morning, manning the phone and sorting the paperwork. He was remarkably organised. `What's so strange about it?' he responded when she'd said as much. Ì administered the East-West Cross-Country Run for six years. We had runners from all over the world and raised a mint for charity. Your little outfit here's a breeze compared to that.'

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Pippa might have taken offence had he not accompanied this remark with a wink and answered the phone before she could open her mouth. But this morning he'd taken a seat on the other side of the desk and produced a sheet of crumpled paper covered in the tidy handwriting she was becoming accustomed to. And in response to her regular enquiry, he'd nodded and tapped his notes.

Àt first,' he began, Ì thought you were a bit of a fruitcake. Horses and humans run differently, as I'm sure you've observed. There's the matter of travelling on four legs rather than two. And horses can't talk either, so there's a communication problem right there. However, you seem an intelligent woman so I thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt.'

`Thank you,' she said. It seemed appropriate.

Ì've had a good look at what you get up to here. I'm thinking of it like the sort of training camp you get in East Africa where, say, the top Kenyan runners get together for months. I've been trying to put the differences between horses and humans out of my mind and concentrate on the similarities. So what you've got are a collection of elite athletes living side by side, training together every day, all with the aim of winning races.

Òne thing strikes me straight off. Your horses have got it pretty easy.

There's these teams of body slaves pampering them day and night, feeding and grooming and fussing around them. And when they're actually asked to put in a bit of effort, what do they actually do? Not much, as far as I can tell. You trot them up onto the gallops, get them to run around for an hour and then it's back home for tea and biscuits and another round of pampering. It's not exactly a heavy workload, is it? If these were athletes they'd be doing a hundred miles a week at least. I mean,' he continued, emphasising his point by prodding the desk top with a long bony finger, ìt can't be right that a four-legged animal weighing almost half a ton is doing less work than a ten-stone human being. Have you ever considered taking them out twice a day?'

Pippa sighed. He had a point. Ì know what you're saying, Dave, but it's the cost. The lads finish at lunchtime and they're off till four. If they stay all afternoon I'll have to pay them more and I'm on a tight enough budget as it is.'

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