by Gene
`Right then, lads and lasses,' announced Barney Beaufort in the tone of voice that clearly said the shutter was coming down on the evening's hospitality. Ì think we've all got our marching orders.'
Malcolm recognised his cue. Àbsolutely,' he said, and picked up the sheet of paper that the travel agent had painstakingly prepared - a design for the racing colours of his new acquisition, Beaufort Bonanza. Ì'll talk to my father and arrange for you to visit Ridgemoor as soon as possible.'
His hand still tingling from Beaufort's bone-crushing goodbye handshake, Malcolm headed for his taxi. At the door he looked back and caught a glimpse of Barney steering Beverley into the lift. The pair of them were laughing. A surge of anger swept through Malcolm. What right did that old goat have to a woman thirty years his junior? For two pins he'd turn round and take Beverley off him.
But he didn't. Control, that was the important thing. Emotions had to be controlled. Malcolm was well aware of his profound talent for destruction and how to channel it to his advantage - as some people could testify. If they were still alive, that is.
Pippa wasn't happy about the idea, Jamie could see that. `What's his name again?'
`Dave Prescott.'
Ànd I'm supposed to have heard of him?'
They were lolling on the sofa in the living room, watching the flames of the fire dance on the ceiling, chewing things over.
`He was a champion middle-distance runner about fifteen years ago. The next generation after Coe and Cram.'
`So what happened to him?'
`He got a bad injury before the Barcelona Olympics. It finished his career.'
Pippa prodded him with her bare foot. `What I meant was, how did he end up inside?'
For six weeks Dave Prescott, the man Jamie was suggesting as an adviser to Pippa on her training methods, had occupied a cell on the same landing at Garstone.
`Drugs.'
44
Pippa looked appalled. Ì'm not having him here then, Jamie.' Ìt wasn't heroin or anything really heavy,' he protested. `Heavy enough to have him locked up.'
In truth Jamie wasn't sure of the details. He'd listened to many how-Iended-up-in-here stories in Garstone and they all had a degree of similarity. Someone had let someone else down. It was a stitch-up. The jury had been swayed by circumstance. It always sounded like special pleading.
In Dave's case, his brother ran a gym in London's East End where body-building drugs frequently changed hands. The police had caught Dave in possession of two packages, one containing steroids, the other a hot handgun. Dave had told Jamie he was just minding the parcels at the request of his brother. Of course.
Jamie decided not to mention the gun. `He's OK, honestly. And he has been a top-class athlete.'
The two of them had bonded over the running. On his first morning on the wing, Prescott had stood in the doorway of Jamie's cell and watched him run on the spot, his feet pounding on the stone floor until sweat poured down his face. Dave had thought it was hilarious. Then he'd joined in, jogging alongside. At first Jamie had thought he was simply making fun of him and asked him politely - always prudent in Garstone - to go away.
Dave had ignored him and then effortlessly outlasted him. Only later did Jamie find out who the new boy was.
Over the next few weeks they'd played badminton whenever they could get on the one court in the beaten-up old gym. Jamie didn't have as good a technique as his opponent but he hated to lose and threw himself around like a lunatic. Dave had laughed at that too. Jamie had been sorry when the runner was released.
Pippa got up to stoke the fire. When she returned to her seat he could tell from her face that she'd come to a decision.
Àll right. Get him along - on one condition.'
Jamie knew what was coming. Malcolm had reported to her their earlier conversation and she'd been on at him already about his future. He'd repeated to Pippa his decision to give up riding and, when she'd come up 45
with a counter-proposal, he'd rejected it. But she wasn't a woman who gave up easily.
Ì'll talk to your Dave Prescott if you see Ros Bradey.'
Ros was a former show jumper who ran a nearby schooling yard, where she put horses of all sorts through their paces over jumps. She also visited yards and held schooling sessions for trainers who didn't have the time or inclination to do it themselves. Jamie knew from his sister that Toby Priest had his eye on Ros - in every sense - and she'd been making regular trips to school horses at Ridgemoor.
Pippa's suggestion was that Jamie switch to riding over jumps, where his increased weight would not be a factor.
Ì told you, Pippa, I don't like the idea.'
`So what else are you going to do with your life? Riding horses is the only thing you're any good at.'
Jamie took a deep breath and bit back the angry response that sprang to mind. Controlling his emotions was one thing he'd learnt inside. If you blew your top in Garstone you were liable to end up with half a face.
Pippa showed no such restraint. She leant closer to twist the knife. `What's the problem? You're not afraid of getting hurt, are you?' He exhaled slowly, trying to sort out his precise objections in his mind. Riding Flat horses had always seemed to him the ultimate racing experience.
Competing for the top prizes on the most stylish racecourses. Riding in the legendary races - the Guineas, the King George, the Arc and the rest. Here was speed and elegance and big money combined. And what did National Hunt have to offer? A serum called Cheltenham, best watched on a sofa at home away from the booze filled punters from over the water. Mostly it was flogging lumbering steeple-chasers through the mud at gaff tracks for lousy prize money. Compared to the Formula One glamour of the Flat, racing over the sticks was a minor-league drag race.
And, there was no getting away from it, you were much more likely to do yourself serious damage.
On the other hand, what was he going to do? Pippa was right - being a jockey was his only skill.
He returned his sister's steely gaze. ÒK then.' `So we've got a deal?’
'I'll give it a try, Pippa. I promise.'
46
Jamie glanced anxiously round the crematorium chapel. As expected, it was full of people he knew. It was possibly the last place he'd wanted to be so soon after his release but he could hardly opt out on the basis that he might find it embarrassing. He'd not known Mandy Parkin that well but he had a clear memory of an animated, pretty girl, smothering her horses with affection. It was hard to believe that she was lying in the coffin at the front of the hall. The murder had taken place a month ago but the police had only just released the body.
These circumstances put his own problems into perspective. And no one here was going to be concerned about him when their minds were concentrated on the unhappy fate of a girl who had recently been one of their own. Jamie had been puzzled to hear that the fun-loving, horse-mad Mandy had fallen for a druggie - and now look what had happened to her.
But he shouldn't be entirely surprised. He'd seen for himself in Garstone just what drugs could do.
By his side Richard looked sombre. Jamie tried to catch his eye as the jockey pushed a lick of sandy hair off his forehead in a familiar, nervous gesture. But Richard avoided his glance. He wasn't enjoying this any more than Jamie.
On the other side of Richard, looming over him, Malcolm gave Jamie an imperceptible wink. Buck up, mate, was the message. He'd urged Jamie to accompany them, saying it would be a good opportunity to see a load of familiar faces and let them know he was back in circulation. `Kill two birds with one stone,' was how he'd put it-which wasn't exactly tactful, given the circumstances. But Jamie had laughed all the same, he couldn't help himself.
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 eye
s, 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.
47
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
Chapter Three
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.
49
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 arrang
ed 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?
51
`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.