Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc (32 page)

Jamie's remark brought Dave's attention back to the screen. The horses were lining up for the start of the race, two miles five furlongs round a 208

wide, left-handed oval over eleven hurdles. Dave picked out the scarlet and white of Adolf's colours and the shape of the big horse as he jostled impatiently amongst the other runners.

The tape went up and Adolf got a flying start, bolting straight into the lead.

`Go on, you beauty!' yelled Dave.

`Calm down, mate. You don't want him belting off like that - he'll shoot his bolt before he's gone a mile.'

Ì always like to see my money in front.'

Jamie laughed. `There speaks the great race tactician. Is that how you used to run yourself?'

While Dave was searching for a smart retort, another horse came out of the pack and, clearly out of control, stormed past Adolf, closely followed by another.

`That's better,' said Jamie. 'Carlo can hide him behind those two maniacs and settle him down.'

Dave supposed Jamie was right. `Come on, Adolf,' he roared, just for the fun of it.

In the Beaufort box Malcolm was feeling considerably better now the jockey had Adolf under control and tracking the leaders. He'd gone along with Beverley's demand to dump Jamie because it was easy to comply with but there was no denying that his brother-in-law was a forceful rider.

Inexperienced though Jamie was over jumps, Malcolm would have been happier if he were still in charge. But Carlo seemed to have weathered the storm. All he had to do was keep the horse tucked in behind the leading two and let the horse's natural ability - in this case his enhanced natural ability - take effect.

The horses were rounding the far bend out in the country, with the best part of a mile still to run. Adolf was travelling well, taking the hurdles in his stride and keeping out of trouble.

Àre you still confident?' murmured Guy Greaves's voice by his side.

Malcolm didn't take his eye off the runners as he tracked them through his field glasses.

`Very,' he replied - and he was.

Òh yes, my son,' yelled Dave, bouncing in his chair. Ìt's in the bag.'

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Adolf had taken up the running from three furlongs out with No Sanctuary, the favourite, also making ground a few lengths behind.

`Don't count your chickens. No Sanctuary's a good horse.'

But Jamie's words of caution were wasted on Dave. Even the sight of the more fancied horse steaming up on the outside could not dampen his confidence.

The pair were neck and neck at the beginning of the long home straight, with three hurdles remaining. Adolf pecked at the first and lost ground.

Dave groaned.

Apparently unfazed, Adolf came back at No Sanctuary only to slip back at the next hurdle.

`The other horse is a better jumper,' said Jamie, `but Adolf looks stronger.

It's as if he doesn't even notice the hurdles. He just gallops straight through them.'

Adolf was a length up going to the last, took it out by the roots and powered five lengths clear before he had crossed the line, with No Sanctuary flagging in the rear.

`That was amazing,' said Jamie. `He's never run that distance in his life.'

Dave was on his feet, punching the air. And it wasn't just the thrill of backing the winner that fuelled his excitement. He now had a fair idea why Pippa's horses kept losing to Toby Priest.

Barney Beaufort milked the moment for all it was worth, which came as no surprise to anyone, least of all Malcolm. The company's own photographer was on hand to take shots of Barney with an exhausted Adolf, accepting the piddling winner's cheque from the race sponsor and posing with assorted guests and dignitaries. Malcolm had no doubt that the next edition of the Beaufort Holidays newsletter - to which he appeared to be a subscriber - would require some extra pages.

Back in the hospitality suite the jollity continued with, inevitably, a degree of ceremony attached. Barney evidently considered it a prime duty of the chairman and CEO to dignify every public occasion with a speech.

Malcolm reckoned you'd have to shoot the old windbag to keep him quiet

- a notion that had its attractions.

Nevertheless, he charged his glass as instructed and listened to Barney's meandering account of the events which had led to this historic moment.

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His own name was bandied about and he took a modest bow, as requested, when he was identified as the connoisseur of horseflesh who had brought Bonanza to the company's attention.

From then on, the spotlight shifted to the real heroine of Barney's tale, the young executive blessed not only with a bonny face but a brilliant mind, Beverley Harris. She it was who had championed Bonanza's cause in the face of company scepticism, had stuck up for the horse when he'd under-achieved on his first outings and who had brought about the changes in racing strategy which had led to this victory.

Malcolm nearly choked on his Scotch. All Beverley knew about horses was which end produced manure. He looked up and found himself staring into Guy Greaves's pale shrewd face, now brimming with amusement.

`Laying it on a bit thick, isn't he?' murmured Guy. Òf course, there's a reason for that.'

Ànd what would that be?' Malcolm wasn't in the mood to listen to gossip about Barney and his Marketing Director - he was only too aware of their relationship. At least, he thought he was.

`Dear Beverley's been such a tower of strength since Barney's wife walked out.'

`What? She's left him?'

`Last year. Val found someone younger in advertising. Better-looking and just as rich. Barney was very cut up. Couldn't look at any other women.'

Malcolm was considering Greaves in a new light. The man was a bitchy little gossip.

Ìt took simply ages for Beverley to get romance on the agenda but she cracked it in the end. The smart money says she'll be the new Mrs. B once the divorce comes through.'

`When did she crack it exactly?'

Greaves pulled a face. `Well, I couldn't give you a precise timetable.' `Go on, have a try.'

The businessman thought for a moment. Ìf you ask me, the time she really began to fill in for Val was when the business of buying a horse came up.'

Malcolm thought as much. He'd always known she was tricky - that was part of her appeal - but he didn't like being the one who was tricked.

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Applause was echoing round the room as Barney's tribute came to an end.

Beverley beamed in appreciation. Malcolm knew it was impossible from this distance, but as her gaze swept over him he fancied he saw triumph in those milky blue eyes.

He'd never been beaten by a woman before and he didn't like it one bit.

Marie stayed late at the surgery which wasn't entirely sensible since (a) she wasn't paid for overtime (b) once she'd finished the clerical backlog she'd be out of a job altogether and (c) her Chemistry A-level resit was looming and she was behind on her revision. But the prospect of returning home was so gloomy.

There had been an atmosphere in the house for a few days, ever since shed come in to find her dad and Aunt Joyce cock-a-hoop in front of the television.

`Look at this, lass,' her dad had shouted, more excited than she'd seen him for months. Then he'd replayed her a section of a horse race which he'd recorded. This wasn't that unusual. He often recorded races and played back his winning moments for her appreciation. But this was different.

She'd watched in alarm as a jockey had been unseated and then, as he spun across the turf, the camera had clearly picked out the moment when a horse's hoof had smacked into him, sending his head rocking on his shoulders. Why on earth did he want her to see this?

`You know who that is, don't you, sweetheart?'

`No, Dad.' But she'd known, really, even before her father told her. Ìt's that little bastard Jamie Hutchison. Almost kicked his head clean off his shoulders, didn't he?'

Ìs he all right?' she'd asked, fear twisting her stomach.

Her father had laughed long and loud. `What do you think? They've carted him off to hospital. Next stop the funeral parlour, with a bit of luck.'

She'd wanted to smack the smug grin off his big red face. 'Sometimes, Dad,' shed said, `you really disgust me.' And she'd stormed off to her room.

The next day, sick of hearing her father and Aunt Joyce glorying over Jamie's accident, she'd scribbled a hasty postcard to the jockey, wishing him a swift recovery. It was a small gesture to offset the unChristian 212

feelings of the rest of her family. She knew why they felt the way they did but it wasn't right.

Now she felt guilty. Dad and Auntie Joyce would be furious if they knew what she'd done. She'd betrayed them. Jamie Hutchison was, after all, the man who had killed her brother - he ought to suffer. So what if he'd served his prison sentence? He should suffer and suffer and suffer until he was dead like Alan. That's how Dad and Joyce felt and wasn't it her duty to support them?

Not exactly. They weren't due her uncritical backing, not if it meant going against her personal beliefs. And she did not believe in the hate and malice that fuelled their every thought of Jamie. As far as she was concerned, she could not be expected to like a man who had, through his negligence and contempt for the law, been the instrument of her brother's death. But he too had paid a price for his actions and, if he had any decent feelings, would carry on paying for the rest of his days.

The truth was that all of them - Dad, Aunt Joyce and Jamie Hutchison, too

- had to get on with their lives. They must live as best they could, not letting the bad things of the past poison the future. It was now two and a half years since Alan's death. Where was the sense in picking at old wounds? Surely it was time to heal.

All of which was very noble, but her father didn't have much of a future before him and she'd betrayed him by writing to the man who'd robbed him of his son. As for Aunt Joyce, the way she looked at her these days and quizzed her on her whereabouts - it was as if she knew. Knew that she'd met Jamie at Ros's yard, had talked to him and sent him a get-well letter.

She picked another file from the pile on the floor and opened it. She wasn't going home just yet.

Jamie was walking but his feet didn't seem to touch the ground. He concentrated on keeping upright. Someone was by his side holding him.

That was good. He couldn’t 't fall with that strong grip on his arm, pushing him forward. It had been a long time since somebody had held him like this. Probably since he was a kid, being dragged along by his mum. But he wasn't a kid any more, was he? If he could ask the question, then he couldn't be, surely?

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`Come on, Jamie, old son. The car's just over here.'

Who was that? The mummy person, it had to be. The strong one, dragging him along.

`What's going on, Malcolm?'

That was someone else. A woman. He could see her now. Worth looking at, too. Pretty little blonde. Bit plump maybe but highly shaggable. He knew her, didn't he? What was her name?

Ìs he all right?'

`Yeah, just a bit pissed. We'll get him home, Mandy, don't worry.' Mandy, that was it, the one Malcolm had been cosying up to. Perhaps he should offer her a lift.

Jesus, Malcolm, you're not going to let him drive, are you?'

Of course he was going to drive. It was his car. Nobody drove his car.

`Don't be stupid, mate, you can hardly stand.'

So what? You sat down to drive.

`Very funny, Jamie. Rich, look in his pocket for the keys, will you?' If Richard laid a hand on him, he d smack him in the mouth.

`Go back inside, Mandy. We'll deal with him.'

Yes, go back inside. He d drop these two silly sods off and come back for her later.

Are you sure you'll be all right?' `We'll be fine, won't we, Rich?'

She was gone and they were walking again. Where were they going? Oh yes, to the car. He was going to drive now. Fantastic - no need to worry about moving his legs. Wheee!

Just as well this was a dream. You could do what the hell you liked in dreams.

`Malcolm!' Beverley looked amazed to see him standing on her doorstep at seven-thirty in the morning. `What on earth are you doing here?' `Let me in and I'll tell you.'

For a moment he thought she wasn't going to. She wore a blue patterned, thigh-high dressing gown over not much and her legs were bare.

Ì'll make you breakfast while you get dressed,' he said, to make it clear his intention wasn't just to turn up and park himself in her bed. Not that he didn't have hopes but it was best to let Bev think she called the shots.

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ÒK,' she said grudgingly and stood aside to let him in. He couldn't resist sliding his arms around her for a good morning kiss but she turned her cheek then slipped out of his grasp.

`Just coffee for me,' she said, pointing to the kitchen. Ì've got to be out of here by half past.'

While the kettle was boiling, he hunted for some coffee beans and unearthed some eggs. He ought to eat something to counter the flutter of excitement in his stomach. From above he could hear the creak of floorboards as Beverley moved around her bedroom. He could picture her standing naked in front of her dressing-table, selecting her underwear, buttoning her blouse.

He'd only spent the whole night with her once in this house, at the beginning of their fling, and he'd lain in bed the next morning savouring the sight of her dressing for work. He'd often thought that the sight of a woman getting dressed was as much of a turn-on as the process in reverse.

On that memorable occasion he'd been so turned-on by the time she zipped up her skirt that he'd virtually torn it off her and she'd had to dress herself again half an hour later. How would she react this time, he wondered, if he went upstairs and repeated the treatment? He was sorely tempted to find out. But then he thought of her recent snubs, the unreturned phone calls, the conversation he'd had with Guy Greaves at Newbury and concentrated on grinding the coffee beans. Finally her heels clacked on the stone-flagged kitchen floor and she took the mug of coffee he held out to her.