Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc (8 page)

Malcolm was used to the sensation of looking over the heads of his fellows. When you're six foot three and spend most of your life in the company of jockeys, it's a familiar feeling. Right now, as he came out of the chapel, he found himself gazing into a face on a level with his own.

The fellow had wide-spaced eyes, gelled black hair and a bruiser's nose.

Sudden excitement gripped him. He'd never seen the man before but he knew who he must be. It had spread like wildfire among the congregation that the detective investigating Mandy's murder was in attendance.

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Malcolm couldn't resist. He smiled ruefully at the policeman. À bad business,' he said. `She was a great girl.'

The other took the bait - well, he would, wouldn't he? Why else was he there?

`She seems to have been very popular.' A Welsh accent - that was interesting. Malcolm thought the Welsh were thick.

`Didn't you know her?' Malcolm injected surprise into his voice. Ì thought you must be family.'

The other man shook his head. `DCI Leighton Jones. I'm looking into the circumstances of Miss Parkin's death.'

Òh, you're the police.' More surprise. `Malcolm Priest. Mandy used to work at my father's yard.'

Jones's eyes lit up. `Would that be Toby Priest?' Malcolm nodded and the detective became animated. `Your dad's earned me a few bob in his time.

Gregory's Cottage in the Thousand Guineas a couple of years back was one of his, wasn't he?'

So the copper followed the horses. Maybe he'd come along to pick up some racing tips. The thought tickled Malcolm - he could give the police some real tips.

Ì'm puzzled why you're here, Inspector. Is it like in the movies, when the detective attends the funeral looking for clues?'

Jones looked momentarily affronted. Ì'm attending at the request of the family. Just paying my respects.'

`That's a relief. For a moment I thought we might all be under suspicion.'

A small patronising grin crept across the detective's face. `Hardly. It's no secret that our enquiries are leading us in another direction. In my opinion, if young Amanda had kept to the company of you racing people, shed be with us still.'

For a mad moment Malcolm was tempted to wipe that smug expression off the other man's face and tell him the truth. Instead he murmured a polite goodbye and moved on. Only as he walked towards Jamie and his brother waiting for him by the car did he realise that sweat was rolling down his back. Talking to the plod had been some rush. And very satisfactory. The stupid sod was barking up completely the wrong tree.

48

With unspoken reluctance Jamie allowed Pippa to give him a lift to Ros Bradey's yard. To fulfil his part of the bargain, he'd spent the morning on the phone trying to track down Dave Prescott. He'd not seen the runner for six months, not since Dave had vanished out of Garstone overnight, transferred to another institution by some quirk of the system. They'd had no time to say goodbye and he'd not heard from Dave since. Prison was like that. You could spend years living almost literally in another man's pocket, then you'd wake up and find him gone for good. Sometimes, of course, that was a blessing.

All Jamie knew about Dave was that he had less than two months to serve before his release date, provided he didn't lose his time off for good behaviour. That was always a possibility. All it took was for some head case to wind you up - push ahead of you in the phone queue or nick your bog roll - and then if you fought back everything you'd worked for could be lost. But Dave was a smart guy, more alert to these kind of pitfalls than Jamie had been. He'd saved the jockey's bacon more than once.

Jamie began by ringing Garstone, which had been a waste of time. Maybe they were just being bloody-minded but they refused to pass on any information about inmates, past or present. Jamie cursed himself for not pretending to be a long lost relative, though he doubted if he would have learned much more. The prison authorities were bloody-minded by reflex.

It wasn't exactly like ringing the old school.

He then thought of searching the internet - there were bound to be old boys' networks, athletics clubs and chat rooms and message boards for followers of the sport. If he sowed a few seeds surely he'd reap a reward in due course.

When he told Pippa why he wanted to get on her computer she said, `That sounds like hard work. Why don't you try calling that gym of his brother's?'

Jamie wondered why that hadn't occurred to him. It was probably the thought of the gun that had put him off. And Dave had sworn he was not going anywhere near his brother when he got out. But it made sense.

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Half an hour on the net and a few phone calls yielded a list of gyms and health facilities in south-east London. Some he could obviously discount, like the big health chains, full no doubt of gently perspiring yuppies.

Dave's brother's place would be some kind of macho-man sweat tank where no one bothered to mop up the blood. A bit like Garstone.

He rang round, asking first for Dave's brother who he remembered was called Christopher. He got a reaction on his fifth call.

`Yeah, who wants him?' The voice - male, Cockney - was not friendly.

So he'd found the right place at least. Ìt's really his brother Dave I'm after.

I'm a friend.'

`Didn't know the bleeder had any left,' muttered the voice and acknowledged the contact details Jamie gave him with a grunt. `What's your connection with Dave then?’

'We met last year. When we were both, er. . .'Jamie's voice suddenly trailed off. `Tell him it's about a job,' he added, suddenly aware of how dodgy that sounded.

`You've got a nerve,' the voice snarled and the phone was slammed down.

So now, as he stood on Ros Bradey's doorstep, he had no idea whether his message would be passed on or not.

The old farmhouse in front of him had recently been smartened up. The white paint on the door looked fresh and the brass knocker gleamed. Boots of varying sizes and functions were lined up neatly in the porch and the front garden behind him was obviously lovingly tended. From a window to his right came the sound of piano music, something stirring and classical, though not to his taste. Not that he knew what his taste was these days, after days and nights suffering the cacophony of the Garstone ghetto-blasters.

He was about to knock when the music faltered, stopped, then started again, replaying a complex phrase. Jamie realised he wasn't listening to a recording but to a person playing a real instrument. He was amazed.

He couldn't claim he liked the torrent of notes that surrounded him but it was bloody impressive. He didn't dare knock on the door until it stopped.

Jamie had never met Ros Bradey before, since she'd arrived in the area after his imprisonment, but if she was being pursued by Toby Priest he had an idea what she would be like. For a start, he'd bet she'd be young enough 50

to be Toby's daughter. In his mid-fifties, having seen off three wives, the Colonel's taste was for youth. The word around Ridgemoor was that there was always a vacancy for a stable lass if she was pretty enough-and prepared to accept some duties that lay outside the usual job description.

Whatever the reason, there was always a high turnover of female help in the yard.

The woman who opened the door to Jamie, however, was no nubile stable lass. He couldn't guess her age. Petite and fine-boned, with wide-spaced brown eyes and a mass of treacle-coloured hair pulled off her face and fastened with a clasp. She wore no make-up and there were lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. But her jaw was firm and the skin of her neck was as delicate as a schoolgirl's. She was a woman of some presence.

Even though she was a newcomer, Ros must have heard something about him but she gave no inkling as she offered a brisk handshake. She did not smile but scrutinised him dispassionately with a penetrating gaze.

`Let's see what you're made of then,' she said, pulling a padded winter jacket off a coat hook and pointing back down the garden path. Jamie didn't dare mention the music. As she shut the door behind them with some force he had the impression that she was closing it on a part of her life that he wasn't supposed to see. To refer to the piano playing would be an invasion of her privacy.

She led him down a lane at the side of the house and through a five-barred gate. From here he could see a patchwork of fields arranged with practice fences and obstacles of various kinds. A couple of horses were being put through their paces. He noticed others being led towards a sprawl of old farm buildings, among them a large barn.

`That's my indoor school,' Ros volunteered as they got closer, `but we'll be using the paddock.'

`How many horses do you keep?' he asked as they entered a yard of old wooden stalls.

`Not more than twenty, if I can help it. But occasionally a few more than that. Sometimes it's hard to say no.' These final words came out with a force that made Jamie wonder if she would have liked to say no to him.

Had someone been twisting her arm? Toby, under pressure from Malcolm perhaps?

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`We'll take Bramble,' she announced, calling to a girl who darted into the stall of a solid old bay. `We keep him here as a schoolmaster. He leads any problem horses and gets people like you off the ground,' she explained.

`Have you ever been off the ground?’ The insulting tone implied that Ros already knew the answer. Jamie could tell that she despised anyone who thought they could ride and yet had never done any jumping.

`Never.'

`Do you think you've got the nerve for it?'

This was question Jamie had been asking himself a lot recently, and the closer he got to finding out, the less certain he was of the answer. Òf course.'

`Put Jamie on, please, Caroline.'

As the girl legged Jamie into the saddle, his immediate reaction was to pull up his stirrup irons.

`What do you think you're doing?'

Jamie looked at Ros with surprise. He'd never ridden any other way than short.

`Take your feet out of the irons, then cross the leathers over the front of the saddle. I want to see if you can ride or not. You'll never be any good at jumping unless you grip properly with your legs. And I don't want to see you hanging on to the horse's mouth either.'

Jamie did as he was told. Having his legs hanging loose on the horse's sides felt strange - like riding a bicycle without stabilisers for the first time. It altered his centre of balance and took a few moments to come to terms with.

`Right, just trot round and get used to him.'

As Jamie set off, out of the yard and into a nearby paddock, Ros called out one instruction after another. `Shoulders back.' `Grip tighter.' `Let him have some rein.' It was incessant. After ten minutes of trotting around with no irons, Jamie was tired and irritable. Anyone listening to Ros would have thought that he'd never ridden before. What he was being asked to do wasn't easy, but for a first time he felt he was making progress.

ÒK, pull up and take a rest.'

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The insides of Jamie's legs were burning. Even if he'd been riding regularly he doubted that he'd have coped with her demands.

Ros instructed Caroline to lay down a grid with a small jump. This was a line of poles on the ground for Bramble to step over, leading up to an obstacle. The poles were spaced at critical distances to ensure the horse kept to a rhythm and jumped off at exactly the right place.

Ros turned her attention back to Jamie.

Ì want you to trot around the outside and then come down the line. Keep hold of some mane so that you don't pull him in the mouth, and lean forward as he takes off.' She took a couple of handkerchiefs from her pocket and placed them beneath the saddle and Jamie's knees. Ànd don't let either of these slip out.'

Jamie walked away and set off around the paddock. He was so irritated at the way Ros was treating him that any thought of being nervous had completely vanished. He tried to concentrate on the task in hand.

Bramble had probably been through this a hundred times before but nevertheless, as Jamie turned him to face the line, he pricked his ears and broke into a canter. Jamie tried to pull him back but Bramble's mind was made up. The poles had been spaced for a trotting horse and, as a consequence, the moment the fast-moving Bramble was across the first one he had to adjust quickly to avoid standing on the next. That took him right on to the third pole and, from then on, it was like someone doing the hop skip and jump, with Jamie clinging on for dear life and both handkerchiefs gone.

Ros was less than impressed. Ì know you said you hadn't jumped before but I didn't realise you hadn't ridden either.'

In days gone by, Jamie would have given Ros a mouthful of abuse but Garstone had taught him to keep his rebellious feelings to himself. And, though he seethed inside, he knew he hadn't exactly covered himself in glory.

`Let me have another go,' he said.

Ros replaced the handkerchiefs without a word.

This time when Bramble went to canter Jamie was ready for him. The old horse trotted straight down the line and hopped over the jump 53

with his ears pricked. Jamie looked down to see the two pieces of cloth still in place.

Ros showed no emotion. `Do that once more and then you can do it without a saddle.'

Surprisingly, although it was more difficult without the saddle, Jamie could see what the exercise was meant to achieve. He could feel his legs moulding into Bramble's sides and the rhythm of the horse was easier to judge. The slight forward and backward movement as the animal took off and landed felt more natural.

`That will do you,' Ros said curtly as he asked if she wanted him to go again. Ì think the horse has had enough, even if you haven't.' Jamie was thankful for the rest. He felt he'd done all right for his first attempt.

Obviously his instructor was of a different opinion.

As had previously been arranged, Ros gave Jamie a ride to Ridgemoor after the lesson. From there Jamie would either hook up with Malcolm and get a ride back or call Pippa. Ros, it seemed, had a schooling session with one of Toby's jumpers.