I had never been into a newspaper's offices before and my image of them was based entirely on what I had seen in the movies and on the television. In fact, the real thing wasn't that far different except that I didn't spot anyone running around frantically shouting 'Hold the front page' and the atmosphere generally appeared a good deal more relaxed than I had expected. The editorial department of the Sportsman was situated on the third floor and consisted of a long open-plan room with offices housing senior staff on the right-hand side. James's desk was over in the far corner and apart from the odd knowing wink and glib comment as we walked over to it, our arrival attracted little attention. Tomorrow was, of course, the National and that was one of the major events in the calendar for any racing paper. There were the usual selections to be made and special features to be put together on the personalities, both human and equine, that made it such a memorable day for racing. James, of course, was hoping to change all that and persuade the editor that the cosy copy which traditionally dominated that day's paper should be surrendered to his sensational expose of Musgrave and Brennan.
On the way over in the taxi, he had warned me that it would be an uphill struggle. His first task on arriving was to send the roll of film he had taken at Musgrave's office downstairs to the laboratory to be developed. He then sat me down at his desk, fetched a cup of black coffee in a paper cup (they had run out of milk), threw me a couple of racing magazines and disappeared into the editor's office. This was a bit more like it, I thought, the cut and thrust of investigative journalism. He was gone a good half hour before he returned, looking dishevelled and angry. I could tell he had been arguing and I feared the worst.
'Sometimes I wonder,' he said, throwing his notes on the desk, 'whether this is a serious newspaper or merely a Boy's Own for horse lovers. You'd think he'd jump at a story like this.'
'He?'
'Carlton Williams, the editor.'
'Do you mean he's not going to print it?' I asked, not trying to hide my astonishment. It had never occurred to me that they might not publish it.
'It's not that bad. I think I've persuaded him that it's a better front page lead than PIN MONEY TO BE THE HOUSEWIFE'S FRIEND.' (Pin Money was the ante-post favourite for the race.) 'He's now phoning the lawyers to see what they think and knowing that bunch they'll be seeing problems here there and everywhere. I can hear it already: "How can you prove this, Mr Thackeray? How do you know Victoria Pryde is telling the truth? How did you obtain entry to Musgrave's offices? What! By posing as government officers? Did you know that you were committing a criminal offence? Have you put these allegations to Mr Musgrave and Mr Brennan?" '
'Will they kill it?'
'Probably not. Old Carlton actually hates lawyers – I think his brother-in-law is a solicitor – and at the end of the day he prefers to act on instinct. Just feels he has to go through the ritual of consultation to keep the proprietor happy. Shit, look at the time! Do you mind if I start writing the copy and then we can go through it together? I think we ought to have a photograph of you to adorn it and I'll just call up the picture library to get one of Brennan and Musgrave as well, if we're lucky.'
An hour later, after a lot of cussing and swearing and discarding of paper, James ripped the final sheet triumphantly from his typewriter and handed the completed copy over to me for approval. He certainly hadn't pulled any punches and on seeing it in cold print I could understand why the lawyers might be anxious.
'It's very good,' I said. 'Do you think you'll get away with it?'
'It's not just very good, it's brilliant. This, Victoria, is the racing scandal of the year and tomorrow is the perfect day to lead with it. Can you imagine what a sensation it will create? Ah, here comes that film back.'
A young gum-chewing messenger dropped a brown envelope on James's desk. It was full of the photographs taken at Musgrave's offices. They had come out beautifully and all the relevant entries from his ledgers and field sheets were clearly legible. James studied them intently for ten minutes or so.
'Good, aren't they? Wonderful things, these miniature cameras. I think we'll use the entries for the Worcester race – that should help you before the disciplinary committee – the ones at Chepstow in December when 1 reckon he made at least twenty thousand pounds, thanks to Brennan, and finally Cartwheel's race at Cheltenham. It's getting a bit late if this is going to be tomorrow's lead. Oh damn! I've just seen the lawyers arrive. You can always spot them by the sadistic gleam in their eyes – as if they were going to judge a thumb-screwing contest. Excuse me while I go and stand up for myself.'
I had run out of form books and newspapers to read by the time James returned. The broad grin on his face spoke for itself.
'Do you want the good news or the bad news?'
'The good news.'
'The good news is that it's tomorrow's lead; the bad news is that the lawyers have vetoed the references to Edward's murder and his link with Musgrave.'
'But why?'
'Contempt of court, love. With the trial coming up we mustn't publish anything which might create a substantial risk of real prejudice – those were the words the chap used.'
'I don't understand. Surely it couldn't do that?'
'I agree with you, but the barrister in there said that we can't go round making out your husband was a bad egg and so on, as it might lead the jury to say he deserved his fate and acquit Tom Radcliffe on sympathy grounds or because someone else might have done it.'
'They both sound like excellent reasons to me! So Edward won't be mentioned?'
'Not by name, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Victoria. I did my best, I promise.'
'I thought you said the editor hated lawyers and always ignored their advice.'
'Normally he does, but when they told him he could be imprisoned for contempt, his resistance withered. Can't blame him really.'
'What about the pen being mightier than the sword?'
'Depends on who's holding the sword.'
'I follow,' I was trying to appear reasonable, although deep down I was bitterly disappointed. I desperately wanted Musgrave to have his comeuppance and had hoped that in the process I might have helped Tom.
'Cheer up,' said James, 'it's not all bad. Let me just put the finishing touches to the story, give it to the sub and then I'll take you out for a bite at the Italian round the corner. It'll come off the presses just after midnight and we can see then just how well they've laid it out.'
Three hours later, we had been joined by Amy and the three of us were standing in the machine room waiting for the first copy to come off the presses. As soon as it arrived, James let out a whoop of delight.
'That should fix them!' he cried. 'What price Musgrave and Brennan being warned off now?'
He handed me a copy to read and I had to admit that the editorial boys had done a good job when it came to presentation.
'JOCKEY AND BOOKIE IN CORRUPTION PROBE' screamed the banner headline above black and white mug shots of Brennan and Musgrave.
EXCLUSIVE. Today the Sportsman breaks its time-honoured tradition of devoting its front page to the world's greatest steeplechase. We make no apology, because in order to survive, and for great races like the National to have any standing, racing must be honest and above malpractice. When a corrupt jockey and a crooked bookmaker conspire together to ensure that horses do not run on their merits, it is the duty of any newspaper that loves racing to expose such iniquity. Such is the case of Eamon Brennan, the well-known Irish jockey, and George Musgrave, owner of the chain of betting shops that bears his name and well-known layer on the rails. Our investigations, led by James Thackeray, have revealed an improper and unsavoury association between Musgrave and Brennan, which has enabled the bookmaker to offer generous odds on horses that had absolutely no chance of winning. Why? Because Brennan would ensure they didn't. Not content with their substantial and immoral earnings, the pair sought to involve other jockeys in their dirty work. Victoria Pryde, leading female rider and retained by the Ralph Elgar stable, was put under pressure to throw away the Gold Cup on Cartwheel. She refused, costing Musgrave over three hundred thousand pounds in losing bets. Victoria's punishment was to become the victim of as nasty a piece of improper riding as has been seen for many years on our courses. Deliberately boxed in on Fainthearted by Brennan in a hurdle race at Worcester, she managed only to finish a gallant third. For Musgrave there was the additional pleasure of cleaning up on the so-called generous odds he had offered to all and sundry on the horse, for Victoria only the boos of the crowd and the ignominy of being sent to Portman Square by the local stewards for not riding Fainthearted on his merits. This is one unhappy occasion when Sir Arthur Drewe and his fellow stewards appear to have been looking the other way.
We set out below copies of the entries in Musgrave's betting records for three separate races – the Union Jack Hurdle at Chepstow, the Cheltenham Gold Cup and the Topley Hurdle at Worcester. On each occasion, Musgrave offered better odds on a well-fancied horse than any other bookmaker, continuing to push the price out irrespective of the enormous amounts of money he had already taken. At Chepstow, where Brennan was riding the favourite (he eventually finished fourth), Musgrave made twenty thousand pounds out of on-course bets alone. At Cheltenham, he stood to make at least fifty thousand pounds but Victoria Pryde's courage lost him a fortune. At Worcester, he again offered long odds against the early favourite, Fainthearted, and collected more than fifteen thousand pounds when the horse could only just scrape into the frame. The Sportsman has details of six other races where a similar pattern has emerged. We have sent the results of our investigation to the Jockey Club and demand that the rulers of racing take the appropriate action to keep racing clean.
Beside the article was a flattering picture of myself in racing silks captioned 'Heroic'.
'Well,' said James, 'what do you think?'
I kissed him on both cheeks. 'It's marvellous. What do you think Musgrave will do? Sue the paper for libel or something?'
'I doubt it, not when he finds out, if he hasn't already, that we've got copies of all those betting sheets. My guess is that he may well soon be helping the police in their enquiries, along with your friend Brennan. You'd do best to keep a low profile for a bit, Victoria.'
'I agree,' said Amy. 'Why not stay with me for the weekend and we can watch the National on TV. There's bound to be a load of journalists trying to contact you and at the moment it wouldn't be sensible to talk to anyone other than the police and, I suppose, the Jockey Club.'
I saw the logic of their advice. I decided to phone Ralph to warn him about what was happening. It was well past his bedtime, but I guessed he wouldn't be too displeased to hear what was being published. After all, it would have a significant bearing on our hearing before the Jockey Club. Or at least, I hoped so.
We spent Saturday at Amy's flat watching Pin Money duly justify his position as favourite in the National and that night I went to bed early, intending to travel down in the morning to Wincanton to spend the day with Freddie. Amy and I were having breakfast when James arrived. He didn't look as if he had been to bed all night, being unshaven and generally rumpled. He gratefully accepted Amy's offer of a cup of coffee and then told us he had a treat in store.
'On Sunday,' said Amy dismissively, 'there's only one treat and that's lying in bed all day surrounded by the newspapers and the colour supplements.'
'Normally I would agree with you,' he countered, 'but today is special. I have just received a call from Mr George Musgrave, no less, asking me to go round to his office to hear his side of the story. Says he's prepared to blow the gaff on everything and name names, including that of a well-known steward.'
'Drewe?' I asked excitedly.
'He wouldn't say. All he wanted was a guarantee that I would print his version in tomorrow's paper.'
'And will you?' asked Amy.
'I'm not the editor. All I said was, I thought there was a very good chance of it appearing. I can't actually see how we can turn it down, because someone else will do it otherwise. I've agreed to be around there in Paddington in twenty minutes and wondered whether you fancy coming along.'
'What, both of us?' I asked. 'What about my low profile?"
'Yes, both of you. It's only fair you come, Victoria, since all this is your doing in the first place and I wondered whether you, Amy, might do the necessary legal bits if he's prepared to swear an affidavit.'
'I'd love to, but you can't swear them on a Sunday.'
'Typical. At least you could witness his signature on a piece of paper: that would impress the editor.'
'I'd be honoured. Only do you think it's safe?'
'Who knows? I can't seriously imagine Musgrave attacking us, can you? He's got enough problems already and…'
'If he killed Edward, why should he hesitate now?' I interrupted anxiously.
'Because it's all become too public. For all we know, Victoria, he may confess to Edward's murder and then Tom is in the clear. Had you thought about that?'
I hadn't, and to be honest I very much doubted that Musgrave saw James as an alternative to twenty minutes with a priest and a dozen Hail Marys. Nonetheless, I still wanted to go with him, if only to have the pleasure of seeing the bookmaker squirm and to find out who else was involved in his wrongdoing. I just felt certain it was Drewe.
The door to Musgrave's offices in Paddington was locked. Ringing the bell and a good deal of banging and shouting produced no reaction from within.
'I just don't understand it,' said James. 'He was most insistent that I was here at ten-thirty and it's now a quarter to eleven.'
'Maybe he's been held up,' suggested Amy. 'Did he say where he was coming from?'
'No, but I somehow got the impression he was phoning from here. Let's wait another ten minutes or so just in case he turns up. I hope he hasn't had a change of heart.'
'Where were you when he phoned?' I asked, out of curiosity.
'At home. I hadn't been in for very long.'
'I believe you. You look like you've been out on an all-night bender. How did he find your number?'
'I didn't think to ask. I suppose he must have phoned the paper last night, or found it in the phone book. There aren't many James Thackerays listed.'
'Do you think there's a back entrance?' asked Amy, who was clearly getting tired of hanging around.
'I doubt it,' said James. 'Do you want to go and have a look while I stay here with Victoria?'
Amy nodded and walked down the street for about twenty yards and then disappeared down an alleyway. She returned a couple of minutes later and signalled us to follow her. The small alley was in fact a cul de sac, used probably for delivering to the buildings on either side. Half way down on the left was a door marked 'George Musgrave. No entry'. Amy turned the handle and the door swung open.
'Simple, when you know how,' she said, beaming.
We climbed up a narrow flight of steps and at the top opened the door that led into a corridor. We walked along it for a few yards until we came to another door, which in turn led into the big square room through which James and I had passed during our recent visit en route to Musgrave's own office. It was strangely, almost disturbingly, quiet without the sound of the phones ringing and the commentary from the racecourse service. The televisions were off and there was not a sound or sight of human life.
'Mr Musgrave, are you there?' James shouted out. Unless he was hiding under a desk it was a waste of breath.
'How about his own office?' I asked, feeling extremely uneasy and trying to put a quick end to this particular adventure.
'Where is it?' asked Amy, who appeared far more relaxed than James – or me for that matter. It may have been the effect of his hangover but I noticed a distinct lack of the self-assurance he had shown at the start of our visit to these premises.
'Over there,' I replied, pointing to the other corner of the room.
Amy led the way through the desks and for some reason stopped in front of the door and knocked. 'Are you there, Mr Musgrave?' she asked boldly.
There was no reply and looking towards me for approval, she turned the handle and pushed the door open.
People used to queue to watch hangings, yet the sight of George Musgrave dangling from the ceiling made me want to throw up. He had used his tie as a noose and attached it to the old ventilator above his desk. I was surprised that it had taken his weight. Judging by the chair lying on the floor, he must have climbed up on the desk, using the chair as a step, and then kicked it away from under himself. While James leaned out of the window catching some fresh air and making a series of unattractive retching noises, Amy and I just stood and stared in disbelief at the limp and pendulous corpse, its face congested and purple.
'He's killed himself,' said Amy, with that lawyer's gift for stating the obvious. 'We'd better call the police. Come on, James, pull yourself together and dial 999.'
'Do you think we should cut him down?' I asked. 'It looks so undignified.'
'I think we should leave that to the police,' answered Amy. 'You never know, they might want to check it for fingerprints and things.'
'Fingerprints? You don't think…?'
'No, of course not. It's just it never pays to interfere. Leave it to the professionals. Come on, James, are you going to call them or shall I?'
The intrepid journalist came reluctantly over from the window, looking distinctly green and under the weather. He dialled the number and asked for both the police and an ambulance, an act which inexplicably had an immediate restorative effect on his demeanour. Suddenly shock and revulsion gave way to the investigative instinct and he produced his notebook from the inside pocket of his coat.
'Right, let's make a note of these details before the Old Bill arrives. Height, five foot eleven, say, although it's difficult to be precise from this angle; shoes best quality leather soles.'
'James, that's a bit insensitive!' I said.
'Sorry, it's just the view. Dark grey flannel suit, nicely cut, brown hair, neck disjointed and eyes bulging. What colour would you say they were, Victoria?'
'Do you have no sense of decency or respect?' I replied.
He shook his head. 'It depends on the circumstances. Musgrave was a crook; he's been caught. He's taken the easy way out. He wanted me round here so I could have the dubious privilege of being the first on the scene. No doubt he wanted to make me feel guilty. As I'm here, I might as well make the most of it. It'll make great copy in tomorrow's paper.'
I couldn't be bothered to argue. 'I think they're bluey green.'
'Do you think the records are still here?' James asked, looking round the office.
'Unless he's burnt or removed them. I hope he hasn't, as they're what I need to prove the link with Edward.'
'I don't think you should try and find them now,' said Amy. 'The police will be here in a minute and we're going to have a bit of explaining to do as it is, without being caught snooping around amongst the dead man's papers.'
James didn't try to argue and we decided to wait in the big room next door for the police to arrive. As we left the office, James turned round and went to glance through the papers on the desk. It was a curious and macabre spectacle – the animated, inquisitive figure of James, and dangling above him the lifeless body of Musgrave.
We duly gave our statements to the police and watched the ambulance men remove the bookmaker, covered by a white sheet, on a stretcher. As they carried him out I felt neither sadness nor relief, only an uneasy feeling that one more avenue of escape for Tom had now been closed.