I arrived at Tom's yard at ten-thirty, when I reckoned I would find Jamie Brown, the head lad, in the office sorting out the race entries and declarations with Tom's assistant trainer. When the governor falls ill or, much more unusually, is languishing in prison on a murder charge, it becomes the responsibility of the assistant trainer and head lad to run the yard in his absence and to try and keep the winners coming. Tom had a large and on the whole fairly loyal bunch of owners, although they were unlikely to want to let their own financial interests suffer because of their trainer's present difficulties. I had heard that several horses had already been removed from the yard and no doubt many more would follow if the flow of winners dried up.
Unfortunately a virus had hit the yard at the end of March and since Tom's arrest, a number of the runners had struggled in towards the rear of the field and returned home to their boxes with runny noses. It was beginning to look as though even if, or rather when, Tom was acquitted, he was going to have plenty on his hands rebuilding his professional reputation,
I found Jamie alone in the office wading unhappily through a pile of entry forms. He was in his late forties, his wrinkled and weather-beaten face bearing testimony to a lifetime spent on the gallops. He loved horses and hated human beings, and his least favoured species was the lesser spotted female jockey. He made no attempt to stand up as I walked into the room and went on working as if I didn't exist. I tried the humble approach.
'Good morning, Mr Brown. I'm very sorry to disturb you, I really am, but it's very important. It's about Mr Radcliffe.' He still didn't move or look up, preferring to growl from behind the form book he was holding upright in his right hand.
'Haven't you caused enough trouble already, Miss? Do the police know that you're here, snooping around?'
'No, why should they? There's no law against it, unless you mean I'm not allowed to talk to you because of that statement you've given them.'
That succeeded in upsetting him. He shoved aside the entry forms, put down his book and glowered at me. 'Look here, all I told the police is what I heard in the yard that morning the day after the Gold Cup. I never thought I would get the governor into trouble, 'cos if I had I would've kept quiet. It was what you said I thought would interest them.'
'Mr Brown, I didn't kill my husband. Nor did Tom Radcliffe. But at the moment nobody seems to care about the truth. Do you know where I can contact Michael Corcoran?'
'Corcoran? Don't know and frankly don't care. I can't see how he could help you. He walked out of here without so much as a by your leave, after all we'd done for him.' Jamie Brown shook his head as if despairing of the whole of the human race.
'Did he tell anyone where he was going?'
Brown gave me a contemptuous look. 'You don't know so much about racing, do you? Stable lads come and go, it's not as if they were well paid. For all I know at this very moment he could be working for some other trainer who hasn't got round to registering him.'
'Come on, Mr Brown, have you really no idea? Surely he told some of the other lads where he was going or what his plans were?'
He shook his head. 'I don't interest myself in stable gossip. As far as I'm concerned he didn't turn up on Monday morning to do his two and that was his lot. I'm hard pressed enough as it is.'
'Would you mind if I had a chat with one or two of the lads to see if they know anything?'
'Yes I would. I don't want you going round asking questions, upsetting my staff. He'll turn up somewhere, they always do.' He returned to his entries, making it clear he regarded the interview as over. I could see I would make no further progress and wandered back into the yard in the hope of finding a lad or girl who might be able to help me. There was no one in sight so I decided to say hello to Mrs Drummond.
I nervously rang the bell to the house in anticipation of one her more frosty receptions. To my surprise, she welcomed me with open arms and invited me in for coffee. Knowing her affection for Tom, I decided to take her into my confidence and tell her about Edward's blackmailing and how Corcoran was one of his victims. Then and there she offered to phone his parents in Ireland to see if they had any news. After a little difficulty getting through, she eventually spoke to Corcoran's mother. Mrs Corcoran had not heard from her son for two months, but that in itself was not unusual. She explained that he wasn't much of a writer and every now and again would phone home, normally when one of his half dozen brothers or sisters had a birthday. She promised to let Mrs Drummond know as soon as she heard anything.
The call over, Mrs Drummond offered to pursue her own enquiries among the lads in the yard and we arranged that she would telephone either me or Amy at work in London as soon as she heard or discovered anything. Frankly I wasn't optimistic and was beginning to suspect that Corcoran had no wish to have his present whereabouts discovered.
Having drawn a blank, I headed to Kempton Park and the day's principal race meeting, to see if George Musgrave was to be found taking bets on the rails. It was the first time for as long as I could remember that I had been to a racecourse without having a ride booked and it was a curious sensation wandering round the members' enclosure, rubbing shoulders with the punters and being just another spectator. Of course, jockeys are not allowed to bet, at least officially, and I certainly couldn't afford any approach I might make to Musgrave being misinterpreted.
Weekday meetings draw surprisingly large crowds and the six race card had no shortage of runners to keep them interested. It was an ideal setting for the bookies and I would have been surprised if Musgrave was not on hand to try and relieve the public of their readies. My instinct was right. I watched the first race from the stands, although for most of the eight fences my binoculars were trained on the sleek, immaculately groomed figure of my late husband's bookmaker. Positioned about six down on the rails, he was a tall, thin-faced man with a thick crop of brown hair, and his complexion bore the healthy remnants of a tan, no doubt from a recent cruise in the Caribbean. Appearing confident and assured in his well-cut dark blue cashmere coat he could easily have been mistaken for a stockbroker or merchant banker. The only give-away was the pair of tinted glasses he put on every now and again to look at the prices on the boards of the bookmakers standing in rows behind him. Beside him, also on the other side of the rails, stood his clerk, his head buried in a ledger recording the day's bets. Too smooth by half, was my first impression of Musgrave and I began to work out the right way to approach him. I decided that the best tactic would be to wait and see if he left his position to go and have a drink or whatever and then to follow him in the hope that a suitable opportunity would arise.
In the meantime, I amused myself watching him in action. The third race on the card was a handicap hurdle and it was attracting a good deal of betting. Eamon Brennan was on the 2-1 favourite and judging from the action in the ring, and the odds on offer from the bookies at the top of the rails, the horse was a warm order at that price. Standing only two yards away from Musgrave I heard him lay three separate punters' bets of two and a half thousand to win five thousand and he seemed prepared to take as much as any of the other bookies wished to unload. Either he had nerves of steel or he knew something they didn't. To cap it all, only one minute before the off he started offering 9-4 and was nearly submerged in the flood of takers. Once the race was under way he perched himself on the rail that divides the members from Tattersalls enclosure and fixed his binoculars on Brennan's mount.
You had to hand it to the Irishman, he really knew how to ride – it takes a real artist to lose when the world thinks you're trying like hell to win. Coming with a well-timed run to join the leader going over the last he managed for a moment to take the lead and a roar went up from his backers. Just then his opponent rallied and to all those screaming encouragement in the stands Eamon was pulling out all the stops in an attempt to win, flourishing his whip like a man whose own mortgage depended on it. Of course it didn't, and his heroic efforts just failed in what was called as a photo finish but to the trained eye was going to amount to a short-head defeat. Musgrave put down his binoculars and winked at his clerk. A perfect result for the book and no doubt for Eamon a packet of readies in prospect substantially in excess of the winning percentage he had sacrificed.
George didn't take a lot of interest in the next race and made no attempt to offer competitive odds. He was content to take the occasional bet from his credit customers and once the runners were off, he left his position and walked briskly through the gate that led to the members' entrance and on towards the ground floor bar below the stands. I followed him and waited until he had placed his order, then walked up to the bar beside him and asked the girl serving for a gin and tonic. Musgrave appeared immune to my presence as he went on studying the Stock Market prices in his copy of the Independent. I tapped him on the shoulder and introduced myself:
'Mr Musgrave. Victoria Pryde. I don't think we've met but I believe we've spoken on the phone. You remember, the evening of the Gold Cup.'
If looks could kill, they could have sent there and then for the undertaker.
'I think you've made a mistake,' he replied, folding up his paper and downing his whisky. 'I make a point of not talking to jockeys. It can get you into trouble with the authorities and I have no intention of losing my licence. Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Pryde. I must go and look after my customers for the next race.'
I grabbed him by the arm, although he quickly and firmly removed my hand. I let him have it. 'That sounds very noble, Mr Musgrave. No doubt you told them that Brennan's horse wouldn't win in the last, that Fainthearted wouldn't be allowed to win at Worcester last time out and that I was meant to be on a non-trier at Cheltenham.'
His expression showed I had hit a raw nerve and for a brief moment I thought he was going to strike me. He quickly recovered his composure as the bar filled up with racegoers. He moved even closer to me so that our bodies were almost touching and he couldn't be overheard.
'You'd better watch what you go round saying or I'll have my lawyers onto you.'
He was making a real effort to control his temper and I had no intention of helping him. 'Really? Surely not your lawyers! No doubt you would also ask them to explain to you the consequences of taking bets off course and not paying tax on them. I think they call it fraud. If they want some proof on that score tell them not to hesitate to get in touch with me. It would be such a tragic end to your career as a bookmaker.'
He poked me menacingly in the ribs. 'You're a dead person,' was all he said before striding out of the bar. George Musgrave apparently decided not to bet on the final two races, judging by the empty space which suddenly appeared on the rails. I was left wondering' what his next step would be while having no doubt about mine. I telephoned my mother in Wincanton and asked her to come and collect Freddie. It was time he took a holiday.
I drove on into London and that evening had dinner with Amy. It was a welcome relaxation from my own problems to catch up on the latest developments in her social life and hear about the men who were vying to win her favours. You somehow don't think of lawyers as having sex lives. By all accounts her admirers divided into two groups: barristers who took themselves extremely seriously and regarded it as an outrageous snub to their amour propre when she refused to go to bed with them and journalists who spent the evening disclosing their sources over bottles of champagne and were then too drunk to remember what happened next. I thoroughly enjoyed her company and admired her ability to shake off in her spare time the shackles of her serious and demanding professional life.
I left her flat just before midnight, after endless cups of black coffee, and began the long drive to Ralph's yard in the Cotswolds. Traffic was light, and an hour and half later I was heading away from Cirencester on the last twenty miles of the journey through the countryside. As I drove along I took stock of my investigations to date. Viewed dispassionately, they were long on effort and short on success. I was no wiser as to Corcoran's whereabouts and had succeeded in antagonising Lord Pryde (not altogether unintentionally) and extracting a death threat from George Musgrave. I hadn't yet mustered the courage to confront Sir Arthur Drewe with his extra-curricular activities. It was all very well going round planting mines, and even watching the explosions, but I was no nearer discovering who really had murdered Edward. All I could hope was that his assailant might try the same tactics on me and thereby expose himself. It was a risky and dangerous ploy on my part and that was why I had decided that the time was right to keep Freddie well out of it.
I had no idea how long I had been followed. At first I had assumed that the car about a quarter of a mile behind was just another late traveller returning home and I hadn't paid any further attention. I had been perfectly content to cruise along listening to a Tina Turner tape and pondering my next moves. I would probably not even have noticed the car if I hadn't overshot the turning to Stow on the Wold and had to reverse twenty yards to take it. My pursuer had been far enough behind not to make the same error, but I had no doubt that he was also taken by surprise by my late manoeuvre and his brakes screeched as he jammed them on to make the turning. From then on he kept his distance, accelerating and slowing down to match my own changes of pace. He was somehow always just that one bend behind and each time I thought I had shaken him off, the lights of his car would reappear in my mirror.
I told myself not to panic, that if I drove speedily yet carefully I would reach Ralph's without being caught. I would then hoot my horn as I came up the drive, waking everybody up, but at least scaring the tail away. My only problem was that there were still fifteen miles or so left to go, through winding countryside, and I was also in no doubt that I had the less powerful engine. Combe Hardy was about two miles ahead and I remembered that there was a pub there. It was well after closing time, although there might just be a chance that the landlord was still up. I decided that if there was a light on as I approached, I would take a late turn into the car park, run from the car screaming rape and bang on the door for help. I would probably be taken for a neurotic woman who was imagining things but that was better than being murdered or whatever other fate was being planned for me.
I thought of Freddie and Tom and whether I would ever see them again. I looked in the mirror. He was still there all right. I assumed he was on his own, although without street lighting and any cars coming in the opposite direction to illuminate the road behind, I couldn't be sure. I accelerated as we reached Combe Hardy, hoping to give the impression that I was going to drive straight through. I looked in desperation for a light, any light, in the pub ahead. Alas, like the rest of the village, it was in darkness. I kept my foot on the accelerator and sped on into the night and the long desolate stretch of road across the hills which led to the next village of Charlton Bywater. He now drew even closer, almost flirting with my rear bumper, his headlights blinding me with their glare. All I could do was to move over to the centre of the road to stop him overtaking.
My attention was so consumed with these antics that J nearly hit the oncoming car. Appearing at sixty miles an hour out of the darkness, it swerved to avoid me and then repeated the manoeuvre just in time to avoid colliding with my shadow. For one brief moment, as the car flashed past, its lights caught the face of my would-be assailant, yet all I could make out was the silhouette of the driver crouched low behind the wheel. For a second I lost my concentration and he seized his chance. Forcing his way past, he cut in sharply ahead of me. Instinctively, I swerved to avoid running into him, steering the car off the road and to my horror down the hill to my left. As I somersaulted I tucked my head into my chest as if I had fallen from a horse and was rolling over to avoid the other runners. I held my breath and waited for the end.
I hit the tree just as the engine cut out and came to rest upside down. I couldn't believe it: I was alive. Drops of blood trickled down my face and into my hair, but I didn't care. The important thing was I had survived. I tried my fingers. They all moved. I had forgotten about my legs. Without them I could never ride again. The front of the car had caved in on impact and the dashboard and steering wheel had been shoved forward to within a few inches of me. I wiggled my toes inside my shoes and kicked out with my legs. I thanked God I wasn't paralysed. My back ached but it wasn't so painful that I couldn't shift it slowly side to side. The stock-taking was going well.
I think it was the sound of a twig snapping that told me someone was out there. It had never occurred to me that he would come back. I wanted to scream for help, yet there was no point. I was in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night, and trapped upside down in the front seat of a wrecked car. It would be the final irony if both Edward and I met our deaths in a motor car. I regretted not joining the RAC.
I could make out the sound of footsteps more clearly now, moving slowly and deliberately around the back of the car. He was certainly taking his time, no doubt waiting to see if I was still alive. I wondered whether he would go away if he thought I was dead. Or maybe he wanted to take no chances and be absolutely certain. A well-aimed blow to the forehead would almost certainly be put down to the crash. I could just see it in the papers: TRAGIC DEATH CAUSED BY JOCKEY'S CARELESS DRIVING. That other oncoming car would be able to say how fast I had been travelling and I would go down as just another statistic in the year's toll of fatal road accidents.
I looked around the car. Just below me on the floor – or was it the roof? – lay a bottle of cologne spray which I kept in the glove compartment. It must have fallen out as we came down the hill. I stretched out the fingers of my left hand and grabbed it. I was just in time before a torch shone through the window of the passenger seat. I kept my eyes closed and remained motionless. I could catch the filter of light as the torch was carried round to my side of the car. I held my breath. A hand rattled the handle but to no avail. The door had jammed tight. Now I was locked in and he was locked out. Not for long.
There was a short pause and then pieces of glass flew into my face as he smashed the window. I kept my eyes closed, praying and hoping that he would first examine me to see if I was dead. I could sense a hand feeling for the door handle beside me and then tugging at it and wrenching the door open. It was then I moved. Releasing the safety belt with my right hand I rolled out onto the grass, and at the same time squirted the spray upwards in the direction of the impenetrable face behind the torch. And then I ran as fast as my aching legs could take me. I didn't look round to see if I was being followed – I was once cautioned by the stewards for doing that at Towcester when I nearly got caught on the line – and headed I knew not where. Twenty minutes later, and utterly exhausted, I found myself in the outbuildings of a farm and, deciding that I must have shaken him off, collapsed exhausted on a bed of straw in the nearest barn.
The Friesian cow who came to take my breakfast order did not seem in the least perplexed by my presence and soon wandered away to continue with her own munching. I was anxious not to be asked 'any questions by the farmer who had unwittingly provided me with hospitality and made at once for the nearest village. After a two-mile walk, I found a telephone box and called Ralph. I hadn't been missed. When I had failed to show up to ride out the first lot, they had assumed I had stayed on overnight at Amy's and was motoring down first thing. I told Ralph what had happened and his first question was whether I had reported it to the police.
'Not yet,' I replied, 'and I'm not sure I will. They won't believe me and all that will happen is I'll be charged with driving without due care and attention.'
'We'll see about that. If someone really tried to kill you last night it's a serious matter and the police have to investigate.'
'Ralph, there's no if about it. Whoever was driving that car last night also killed Edward, I'm certain of it.'
'Hold on, Victoria. You're almost certainly still in a state of shock and shouldn't jump to conclusions. Wait there and I'll be over in, say, twenty-five minutes. Where did you say the car was again?'
'On its back in a field somewhere off the Combe Hardy and Charlton Bywater road. If you collect me first we can go and find it together. Please don't be long.' I told him where I was again, according to the sign in the telephone box, and then rang Amy. She at least had no trouble believing me.
'The police won't,' she warned, corroborating my own instinct. 'It stands to reason. Everyone who drives off the road blames it on some other lunatic.'
She was right. By the time Ralph had picked me up and we had located the car, the police were already on the scene. From the local bobby's very first question, when he asked how I could explain the skid marks up on the road, I knew that my account would be treated with ridicule. I saw no point in telling him about the final incident after the crash and confined myself to an account of how I had been followed and forced off the road by a driver I couldn't identify in a car whose number plates I never noticed and whose make remained a mystery to me. I gave Ralph a dirty look when he tried to interrupt. The bobby's last question left me in no doubt about the way his methodical mind was working.
'Had you had anything to drink last night with your meal, Madam?' I admitted that I had drunk about half a bottle of wine in the course of the evening. The knowing way the officer shook his head made me wonder whether I was going to be charged with driving under the influence as well as with sundry other road traffic offences.
Ralph drove me home and I was having a much needed bath when Mrs Drummond called. I rushed downstairs to take the call, convinced that my luck had changed and that Corcoran had turned up.
'He's in Ireland,' announced Mrs Drummond.
'You're a marvel,' I chortled. 'How did you find out?'
'I talked to a couple of the lads, who said that they were not surprised when he failed to return that weekend, as he had been talking about clearing off once he had sorted out a problem over here.'
I wondered whether that was a euphemism for disposing of my husband.
'And then by chance,' Mrs Drummond continued, 'I got a call last night from the man himself, asking to speak to Mr Radcliffe about his holiday money and unpaid wages. He obviously hadn't heard about the murder. He was pretty reluctant to talk when I said Mr Radcliffe was unavailable and all he'd tell me was that he was in County Limerick looking for work in a racing stable and wanted to be left alone. I could hardly hear him, he talked in such a quiet voice. I'm sorry, dear, he refused to be more specific or even give a forwarding address. There's always his mother, I suppose.'
I hid my disappointment, thanked Mrs Drummond profusely for her help and told her not to hesitate to contact me again if there was any more news. I was still determined to locate and talk to Corcoran, yet wondered what realistic chance I had of finding him in Southern Ireland. That was one place in the world where if you wanted to disappear no one held it in the least bit against you.