Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc (36 page)

And the drugs?'

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`No, they weren't. But I was guilty, Pippa. Guilty of being stupid anyway.'

That wasn't how the prosecution had put it, he'd been pilloried as a golden-boy-gone-bad, a once-fine athlete who'd betrayed his talent by going into business with drug cheats. And he'd not put up a defence because that would have placed his brother in the dock instead. He'd refused to do that to Chris, a father of three with a business to run. `You don't want to talk about this, do you?' she said.

`You're entitled to ask. I was called a malign and evil influence and a corrupter of young minds. You ought to know who you're working with.'

She lapsed into silence which, in the circumstances, was a relief. Finally she said, `Personally, I've only one complaint about you, Dave Prescott.

You're a mean man with your booze.'

It could have been worse. Then he took her home.

`So?' Beverley said, staring at him across the kitchen table. `What's this all about?'

Malcolm raised the bottle of champagne he'd been clutching. `How about a drink?'

She shrugged. Ì've got one.' She picked up a glass from the counter. Ice clinked. A vodka-and-tonic, Malcolm assumed, her usual afterwork tipple.

`Tell me about the horse.'

Ìf you remember, my instructions were that Adolf had to win at all costs in his next race.'

Àctually, Malcolm, we simply requested closer control of his management.'

`You gave a pretty good impression of someone who wanted a winner.

Don't tell me you'd rather he'd finished halfway down the field.' Malcolm had fished two glasses from a cupboard and extracted the cork from the bottle. He poured the champagne and pushed one glass across the table towards her.

`So you doped him,' she said. She shook her head. `You're a real operator, you know that?’

'Takes one to know one.' He raised his glass. `Salut.'

Her glass was empty. She reached for the champagne. Ùp yours,' she said.

Ì'm not sure I want to hear this.'

Ì'm only telling you because our relationship is undergoing a change.'

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She laughed. Ìt's bloody well coming to an end, you mean.' Èxactly. I accept that. But if you want to move Adolf from Ridgemoor, you should realise he might not be back in the winners' enclosure for a while. If ever.'

She sipped her drink and thought for a moment. Ì haven't raised the matter of finding a new trainer. There's no reason why Barney should want to move him.'

Èxcellent. So we can carry on as before.'

`Not exactly, Malcolm. Don't you try and weasel round me. We've had a lot of fun but it can't go on.'

Ì agree. I'll keep myself to myself, I promise.' `Good.'

`Though I can't promise to keep my thoughts to myself. You're a bit special, you know, Bev.'

`Watch it or you're out of here.' She drained her glass. `Go on then, I suppose you'd better tell me about Adolf'

`Have you heard of EPO?'

Ìt's what distance athletes take, isn't it? Adds something to the blood.'

`That's the stuff. It enhances the oxygen-carrying capacity and gives the runner extra stamina. It works on horses too.'

Ìs that why you put him in for a longer race?' `Clever old you.'

She kicked him under the table. `Don't patronise me.' He rubbed his shin.

Òuch.'

She laughed, a little tipsily, he thought. He refilled her glass.

Ì'm on to you,' she said. `You're trying to get me drunk.' `Why would I want to do that?'

'Because.' She smiled at him knowingly. `You want to get me upstairs for a last ride around the park.'

`Honestly, Bev, that's not true.'

`Don't lie to me.' She kicked him again but with stockinged feet this time.

`You're just a randy bastard. You'd climb on anything in a skirt.'

Ànything in a business suit and spectacles, maybe. You've spoiled me for other women, Bev.'

`Bastard.' Her foot kicked out again and remained where it landed, on his leg just below the knee. Ì bet your Pippa gave you a right good going-over after our little chat.'

`You could say that.'

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`You've got some nerve showing up here begging for a last shag then.'

Ìs that what I'm doing?'

`That's exactly what you're doing.'

Her foot had wormed higher up his leg. He caught it in his hand and ran his thumb over the ball of flesh at the base of her big toe, then up into the arch. He knew she liked that.

`Suppose you're right,' he said, `what are my chances?'

Ì'm not in the mood. I've just got in from work. I'm tired and dirty and not nearly pissed enough to climb back into bed with you.'

Ì see.' He carried on massaging her foot. `Suppose I ran you a bath and poured you another glass of champagne?'

'You'd be wasting your time.'

Ì can't think of a better way of wasting it.'

A quarter of an hour later, Malcolm was ready. This was the trickiest bit of all. He ascended the stairs slowly. In his hand was the bottle of champagne, barely a glassful left in it. He'd wiped the bottle clean of his fingerprints and now carried it, like a waiter, wrapped in a tea towel. In his pocket was the key to the bathroom -just in case Beverley had been inclined to lock him out. However, there had been no objection from her when she took possession of the room - she'd probably not noticed its absence.

He knocked on the door and opened it in one movement. There was no squeal of protest.

Ì wondered how long it would be before you turned up.'

The bath took up most of the small room. The water magnified the riot of her sumptuous pink flesh as she reclined full length. She made no attempt to cover herself.

He raised the bottle. Ì thought you might like a refill.'

She gazed at him myopically, her face altered without her spectacles. Her bedroom face, as he thought of it.

`You just want to have a gawp,' she said, but she held out her glass all the same, her breasts swelling briefly above the waterline.

He emptied the bottle into her glass and set it down on the floor by the bath. He stood over her, looking down at her body.

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She drank then set the glass down carefully on the bathroom ledge. `Like what you see?' she asked.

Òh yes,' he said truthfully. `Very much.'

It was simple to kill her. A damn sight easier than getting rid of Pete and Mandy. He began to soap her feet, caressing her gently as he had done in the kitchen.

`That's nice,' she murmured, allowing herself to sink slowly up to her neck in the warm water.

Suddenly he seized Beverley's ankles and yanked them upwards hard, plunging her head under the surface.

He'd heard about this method years ago, from a veteran Sergeant in the Army. The Sarge had said if it was done right, the mouth and nostrils filled so quickly with water that the victim blacked out instantly. Since the man was drunk at the time, the other guys had dismissed it as a joke -

especially when he'd referred to his technique as `the ultimate wife-deterrent'. But Malcolm had not forgotten. Later, he'd made enquiries about the Sergeant and was impressed to discover that the man's wife had indeed drowned in the bath.

It was all over for Beverley in seconds, the surprise such that she had no time to grab the sides of the bath. So his old Army pal had not been lying.

`The beauty of it,' he'd said, slurring his words as he reached for his pint pot, ìs that there's no struggle, no mess and not a mark on her. It's the shock, see. They black out just like that.' As Malcolm could now testify, the Sarge had not been lying.

He held Bev by the ankles, head under the surface, for as long as it took to make sure she was dead. Then he lowered her feet back into the water and left the room.

There was a certain amount of cleaning up to be done before he left - some surfaces had to be wiped, his champagne glass needed to be washed and put away and, nice touch this, he thought, the flower display had to be removed from the hall table. He carried it back to the car and set off for home.

It would take more than a fancy bunch of flowers to smooth Pippa's ruffled feathers, but it was a start.

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Marie was in a hurry. Shed spent too long brushing Spring Fever. This was her preferred time of the day - returning from exercise and putting the horses back into clean stalls with lots of straw banked up around the sides and a full hay-net. It was a wrench to leave the stables every morning and make her way, with a detour home to change, to the dingy back room in the surgery.

She was about to mount her bike when she heard Ros call her. Didn't she realise how late it was?

Marie propped her bike against the wall and turned towards the other woman. Ros looked out of sorts, as if she had something difficult to say and didn't know how to go about it. Marie instantly forgot that she was running late. She had a funny feeling she knew what was coming.

`Caroline told me you ran into Jamie Hutchison here last week.'

Marie nodded. She'd half expected Ros to raise the matter before but had been grateful that she'd not done so. She wondered why she was mentioning it now.

Ì'm sorry,' Ros continued. Ì did promise I'd make sure both of you weren't here at the same time.'

Ìt's OK. I'm glad I met him - he was very helpful. Just as long as my dad never finds out.'

Ros looked relieved. `So it didn't upset you?'

She shook her head. Ì don't hate him like my dad and my aunt do.' Ì

gather you wrote to him after his fall.'

She flushed. `He told you that?'

Ros looked awkward. `He was very touched that you should take the trouble. He's written you a reply.'

`He has?' A spark of excitement flared momentarily inside her, followed by a pinprick of guilt. How could she be moved by hearing from her brother's killer? What a sick individual she must be. Ì haven't received anything,' she said.

Ros pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jacket and offered it to Marie.

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She didn't have to take it. Now was her chance to honour her father's feelings and turn her back on Jamie Hutchison for ever.

`Thanks, Ros,' she said as she accepted the letter.

Joyce accompanied Clem up the hill to his bench, as she did most mornings before she went off to work. Sometimes it was slow going as he stopped frequently to catch his breath. But she'd learnt not to hover too anxiously and to let him take his time. He didn't like being fussed, as he called it - he could get there under his own steam.

He could, too. Sometimes she was amazed how resilient he was. A month or so back, when it was frosty underfoot, she'd slipped over and he'd hauled her back to her feet. She'd been shocked at the strength that remained in those big arms, picking her twelve stone off the floor as if she were a toddler.

`By God, Clem,' she'd said. `You're a powerful man for all your coughing and wheezing.'

He'd grinned at her. Àye, well I used to jack up trucks for a living,' and they'd both laughed.

But there was no laughter this morning. He was out of sorts and she knew he wouldn't tell her why, she'd have to ask. Joyce had never been married but she guessed that lots of couples ended up like her and Clem, attuned to each other's mood swings and resentful of them at the same time.

`You all right then?' she said as they finally reached the bench. Àye,' he wheezed. `You can get going now.'

`Not until I know what's up with you.'

`Nothing's up with me, woman. Now get yourself off.'

She glared at him. It was a familiar process. There was something the matter and she was obliged to force it out of him. It occurred to her that if they were a married couple she wouldn't have to put up with it. She could up sticks and walk away. She could hardly do that to her ailing brother.

Finally, he muttered, `The little bastard's on the mend.'

She didn't have to ask who that was. There was only one little bastard in their lives. Hutchison. May God rot his soul.

`He's going to be fit to race at Carlisle. I heard it on the radio.' Joyce sighed. Her hatred of the jockey was no less intense than her brother's but it didn't loom so large on her horizon. What with the everyday hassle of 241

work, domestic chores and caring for the invalid, there wasn't much time left over to brood on the continued existence of Jamie Hutchison. The opposite was true of her brother.

`Do yourself a favour, Clem. Try and forget about him, eh? He's not worth it.'

His face softened and he laid a heavy paw on her arm. Ì'm sorry, Joycie.

You put up with a lot from me, don't you?'

'Aye, I do.' She grinned. All her resentment vanished in a flash. Even if Tom Jones was waiting for her at the bottom of the hill in a chauffeur-driven limo she'd never leave her brother. `That's the truest thing you've said all morning.'

`Listen,' he leaned closer, his breath hot on her cheek. Ì need a favour from you.'

`Yes?'

Ì don't reckon I've all that much time left-' `Rubbish, Clem. Don't say that.'

`Let me finish. I've not a lot of time left to do what I have to do. Now, you've got something of mine. You took it from me.'

She shook her head and tried to step away but he held her fast. `Don't deny it,' he continued urgently. `You know what I'm talking about. I never said anything about it before because I reckoned you knew best. But it's different now, Joyce. I need it back.'

Ì can't do that. I got rid of it.'

He stared at her in outrage. Ì don't believe you.'

`Please yourself but I threw it in the river years ago.' She pulled her arm from his grasp.

`That was mine, woman! You had no right.'

`Too bad,' she said and stomped off down the road.

Had he gone mad? The last thing she'd return to her unhappy, homicidal brother was a gun.

Marie stopped on her way home to read Jamie's letter. It was handwritten in blue Biro on a single sheet of unlined white paper.

Dear Marie Kirkstall,

Thank you for your kind wishes after my recent fall. I'm recovering well and expect to be riding again soon.

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This is a difficult letter for me to write and I apologise if I express myself badly. I should have written it at the time of the car accident but I wasn't fit enough. Then as time went on it became harder and harder to do and I'm ashamed to say I bottled out.