Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc (35 page)

rang Jack Kenny' - Kenny was a retired Yorkshire detective who advised on yard security `- and he had a word with some Lancashire Superintendent called Wright. They're convinced she was the victim of a drug double-cross and the whole business was down to that useless boyfriend of hers.'

Well, that was a relief.

Ànyway,' Toby continued, Ì told the police I gave Mandy the money.'

`Why on earth did you do that?'

`Because the police aren't stupid. They must know something otherwise they wouldn't turn up here, would they? If Mandy was daft enough to put the money in the building society, she might have written something in the pass book about where she got it.'

That sent a shiver down his spine. Jesus! `But they didn't . . .' his voice trailed off.

`Come to interview you?' His father finished the sentence for him. `Count your lucky stars, my son. At any rate, I reckon I've still got a broader back than you.

Ìf you ever get to be a father you might understand.' `Thanks, Dad. I really mean it.'

Toby sighed heavily. Malcolm knew his father had been fonder of Mandy than he'd ever let on. Ì just hope to God they catch the bastards who killed her.'

Amen to that. The sooner they pinned the murders on a couple of dodgy drug-dealers the better.

After Toby had left, Malcolm made himself another coffee. His hands were shaking as he poured hot water from the kettle. Nerves - maybe he was getting past it.

229

There was only one good thing about his father's intervention - he'd not thought about Beverley Harris for a good half hour.

Then Pippa came on the line.

Jamie was having problems. It was all very well deciding he was going to write to Marie, but quite another to actually do it. The passage of time since the accident had not made the letter any easier to write.

He sat in his bedroom, hunched over the writing pad - this wasn't a task he wanted to be seen doing. But the doing was hard. Every attempt at expressing himself seemed to come out wrong, making him seem insincere and clumsy and just out to get himself off the hook. He stared out of the window.

He noticed Malcolm's car pull into the yard and saw Mal get out. He seemed in a rush. The downstairs door banged. Soon afterwards, as Jamie struggled with his impossible task, he heard voices from the room below.

It had been the one drawback to taking the room in the attic, that he should be directly above Pippa and Malcolm's bedroom. He'd been acutely aware that he was in danger of trespassing on their privacy, though they'd always reassured him on that point. He'd soon become used to noises from downstairs - the murmur of voices, the muffled drone of the radio, the sound of running water from their adjoining bathroom. But it was the sound of husband and wife making love that he was wary of. It made him feel like an intruder, poking his nose into his sister's affairs. Even worse, it emphasised his loneliness, reminding him of the emptiness in his own life.

Strangely - thankfully - it was not a sound he heard very often. What he was hearing now was intimacy of a different order - the sound of raised voices. The predominant note was sounded by Pippa. He'd had enough teenage rows with his sister to recognise that tone - outraged, furious, insistent. But it had been a long while, if ever, that he'd heard her sound so upset. And in the hurt and anger there was the unfamiliar note of bitterness.

This was a test of living in others' pockets - any couple were entitled to have rows and it was none of his business. Nonetheless it was impossible to ignore. There was certainly no hope of writing his letter now.

Jamie couldn't hear what was being said, for which he was grateful, but occasional phrases burst clearly upon his ears.

230

`Do you take me for a fool?' 7 thought you loved me.' Ìt's a question of trust!'

Try as he might, these anguished words from his sister's lips lodged themselves in his head and there wasn't much chance that they'd go away.

What on earth had been going on? He only knew he mustn't ask.

Malcolm drove back to his office on auto-pilot, his mind like a nest of snakes, alive with venomous thoughts. His day was continuing to slide downhill.

His mission to appease Pippa could hardly be counted a success. He was not entirely clear how much Beverley had revealed of their affair but Pippa appeared to have only a partial view of events. It seemed he had been painted as an all-round Tech, prone to indiscriminately groping any females in his vicinity.

`Don't be ridiculous, Pippa,' he'd protested. `The woman's a fantasist -

she's making it up!'

Unfortunately the prosecution had not been impressed by this line of defence, being only too aware of his previous convictions. He'd nearly been caught once or twice in their boyfriend/girlfriend days but his protestations of innocence had been accepted at the time. A year into their marriage he'd not been so lucky when Pippa had walked in on him in the tack room with one of her own stable girls. That had been downright stupid of him and he'd had to grovel very hard to keep the marriage in one piece. The incident had taught him lots of lessons, the most important being: never dirty your own doorstep.

So now he only played away and he made all the right noises when he was around Pippa - though, to be honest, he had let things slip on the home front during this Bev business. He was paying for that now. A few more nights tucked up with Pippa recently and he might have been able to argue more convincingly that Beverley Harris was simply a malicious troublemaker.

The upshot of the confrontation was that Malcolm had uttered an outraged denial and sworn complete devotion to their marriage. Pippa, only slightly mollified, had ordered him out of her sight while she considered her options - one of which, she made it plain, was to talk to a solicitor.

231

Malcolm wasn't entirely unhappy to be left to his own devices. Given time, he was confident that he could get back on the right side of Pippa.

After all, she had no real proof. Not yet, at least, and he aimed to prevent things going that far. Now was the ideal opportunity to deal with Beverley.

At the computer Malcolm ran off a fax proclaiming his delight that, as per instructions issued at Newbury, Beaufort Bonanza would be running in a two-and-a-half-mile hurdle race at the forthcoming Carlisle meeting. He sent it to Beverley with a copy to Barney Beaufort himself. It was a small matter but best to get it sorted right away.

As he worked he allowed his thoughts to shift to the other issues that were nagging at him. The worry that had flared up like toothache when his father confronted him and which Pippa's tirade had also touched off. There wasn't much he could do about the officers who had visited Toby, except hope his father's smokescreen would protect him. It was quite another matter to be threatened by Beverley.

How had she found out about Hans-Jurgen? Had she managed to get a look at the horse's passport on one of her trips to Ridgemoor? The address of a German vet, maybe even a phone number, would be on the document.

She could have tracked the dealer down that way. Not that it mattered how she had come across the German who had sold him Adolf. More important was whether she had discovered Malcolm had bought the horse for £8000 and passed the animal on to Beaufort for ten times that amount.

She obviously wasn't as dumb about horses as she made out.

An ugly picture took shape in his mind. Of Beverly cuddling up to Barney in her pink bedroom. Of her whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Sweet nothings which included Malcolm's name and a scam to relieve Beaufort Holidays of something over £70,000.

What would Barney do about that? He'd hardly take it on the chin. He'd put Malcolm's sales documentation under the microscope for a start. His next step would doubtless be to call the police.

Malcolm didn't like this development at all. This was one triumph Beverley could not be allowed to enjoy.

Parked by the side of the old village school, Malcolm waited for nearly forty minutes before Beverley's Citroen swept past and made the turn 232

down to the river. There had been plenty of time for him to mull over his plan for the evening ahead. Plenty of time, too, for him to wonder if Beverley wasn't coming straight home from work. But he'd dismissed the thought. He knew she'd come - she had to. And if she didn't turn up tonight there was always tomorrow.

He set off after her on foot, a bit self-conscious about carrying champagne and an elaborate display of flowers. They were certainly eye-catching, but hopefully his face wouldn't attract attention. In the event, he was lucky -

there wasn't a soul in sight as he reached the river. Beverley's car was parked on the road outside her front gate. The next vehicle was twenty yards along. Good. If she'd had visitors he'd have had to turn tail.

He crunched up the garden path to her front door. This was the tricky bit.

One of them, anyway. He held the flowers in front of him, up against the frosted glass of the door and, as it opened, announced, `Special delivery.'

She was still in her work clothes, though over her shoulder he could see her jacket hanging on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes glared at him suspiciously above the foliage.

`No, Malcolm,' she said.

`Peace offering,' he replied, injecting as much warmth into his smile as he could.

`You're not coming in,' she stated flatly.

`Fine. I understand. I just wanted to bring you these.'

She glanced at the sumptuous display of roses and carnations. `Very pretty. I'll give them to Karen, shall I?’

'I'm sorry I was a bit off with her. I hope she wasn't too upset.' Beverley's misty blue eyes narrowed. `What are you after?' `Nothing, honestly. I promise to get out of your life completely. Well, I have to, don't 1, after you put the poison in with Pippa.'

She permitted herself a self-satisfied grin. `You don't want to mess with me, Malcolm.'

`Right.'

The grin vanished as she took the flowers from him. Òn your bike then.'

He turned to go. Then stopped. `There's one thing.' `Yes?' Her eyes brimmed with suspicion.

Àbout Adolf.'

233

`What about him? Think I might be planning a trip to Bavaria?’ 'No. I was wondering if you were thinking of moving him to another trainer.'

`So that's what's behind this. You're worried you and your old man might be out of pocket.'

Ìt's just that, if you were, there's something you ought to know. Like how Adolf won at Newbury. It wasn't exactly under his own steam.'

He could see the thoughts connecting in her head as the implication sank in. The prospect of Beaufort Holidays being involved in a doping scandal would be setting the alarm bells ringing. After all, it had been her idea to get involved with racing. Barney would be less than impressed. Àre you saying what I think you are, Malcolm?'

He shook his head. `Not out here, Bev.'

She sighed and took a pace backwards. Òh, all right then. Come in and tell me.'

Success!

He closed the door behind him and eyed her swivelling hips as she led the way down the hall.

Dave whistled to himself as he stirred sausages in a frying pan on the hob of his tiny stove. The other ring hosted a kettle just coming to the boil and in the oven a baked potato sat on a plate in a pool of baked beans. The caravan door was open to the evening breeze. It was the simple things, Dave thought to himself.

Thus preoccupied he didn't hear his visitor approach. He'd just turned to reach for the eggs, when he caught sight of Pippa standing in the doorway, framed against the evening sky, her face a tragic mask. His heart tripped in his chest. She was too beautiful to be real.

,Pippa,' he cried, aware of the false jollity in his voice. After her mini-collapse earlier in the afternoon she'd pulled herself together pretty quickly, called off the training session and disappeared into the house.

Dave had been trying hard not to think about the way she'd clung on to him. Maybe he'd got it wrong and it hadn't been anything to do with Malcolm. Maybe.

`Cuppa tea?' he said brightly. Òr how about a sausage and baked beans?

I'm thinking of opening a cafe'

234

The last was a stupid remark which he instantly regretted. Very cool, Dave. But she was saying nothing - it was unnerving.

Finally she spoke. `Have you got anything to drink?'

Oh dear. Depressed woman asks for alcohol - it was always a bad sign in Dave's book. He found a bottle of cheap brandy he kept with his medicine kit and poured her a small measure. `That's all you're getting till you've eaten,' he told her and sat her on a chair outside.

She stared dully at him as he deftly divided the food on to two plates and, using a stool as a table, served it up. He squatted on the caravan step.

`You can't beat eating outdoors,' he said. `Best get a move on before it goes cold.'

He was gratified to see that she did as she was told, reluctantly at first, then with enthusiasm. She cleared her plate and mopped up the eggy leftovers with a crust of bread.

They shared an apple and a bar of fruit and nut for pudding. Then he allowed her another tot of brandy which she nursed as if it were ten-year-old cognac. They watched the dusk quickly thicken into night. `Dave,' she said at last, `why did they put you in prison?'

Up to this point he'd have been happy to talk to her about anything under the sun. But naturally she'd picked out the one topic that he really wished to avoid. What could he tell her? Only the truth.

`Because I was in possession of a quantity of illegal steroids.' `They sent you to prison for that?'

'And a loaded handgun.'

She stared at him, those boundless black eyes searching his face. `Why?'

she said simply.

`They were in a bag in my possession.'

His bag which he'd lent to his brother. Chris hadn't told him he was using it to store dodgy gear or that the police had turned over his club. When he'd pitched up at Dave's place at three in the morning he'd just asked Dave to keep an eye on it for a couple of days. He'd not told him what was inside but Dave knew better than to ask. `No one's going to come hassling you,' that's what Chris had said. But he'd been wrong. `Was the gun yours?