Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc

by Gene

  `Can you think of any way she could have come by such a sum? An inheritance, perhaps? Or a gift from someone in the family?' Elizabeth shook her head vigorously. `There's been nothing like that in our family.

  I'd have known about it.'

  `Maybe she won it on a horse?'

  Ì doubt it. She used to give us tips but most of them were rotten. She thought every horse she worked with was going to win though they rarely did.'

  `So she could have backed a winner?'

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  `Not on that scale. She'd never bet more than a tenner.' Elizabeth attacked her currant whirl again. `God knows how she got that money. She never said a word to me about it. What do you want to know for anyway?'

  That was a good question. Jane wasn't entirely sure herself. She decided to be honest.

  Àt present we're not making much progress with this enquiry and so I'm trying to explore all avenues that are available. We believe the motive for the murders was robbery. It seems, as I'm sure DCI Jones told you, that there was a substantial amount of cash in the cottage before the fire, at least twenty or thirty thousand pounds. Since the money is missing, it is reasonable to assume that whoever killed Amanda and Pete and set the fire, also took the cash.'

  Elizabeth had polished off her second pastry by now and was wiping icing from her fingers. She put down the paper serviette. Ì thought it was a rival drug gang. I went through all this with Mr. Jones - and with you last time.

  I suppose you're going to start going on about old boyfriends again. I can't say I'm very impressed, Inspector Culpepper. It's obvious who did it but you don't have enough evidence so you're barking up any old tree. And all this about Mandy's building society is a complete red herring.'

  Jane regretted trying to take Elizabeth into her confidence. And bringing those pastries wasn't such a bright idea either. The poor woman, obviously upset, was starting on her third. It was like bringing a bottle when you visited an alcoholic - it didn't do them any favours.

  She ploughed on, however. Ì understand your concern, Mrs. Jacobs, and it may well be that you are right. My point is that a large sum of money was in their possession. I'd like to know how they got hold of it - even if only to complete our knowledge.'

  `Not "they",' said Elizabeth vehemently. `Pete had the money, he got it through dealing drugs. It was nothing to do with Mandy.'

  Jane thought of Filthy Barrable's story - of how Amanda had shouted at Pete for not putting the money in a safe place. So she knew about the cash and was anxious for it to be hidden. Even if Pete had acquired it, she had a stake in its ownership.

  `We can't be sure about that. It's one of the reasons why I'd like to account for the ten thousand pounds your sister came by a couple of years ago.

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  Maybe it's got nothing to do with the current circumstances but I'd like to be able to rule it out. Any light you can shed would be helpful.'

  `Well, I can tell you one thing,' Elizabeth muttered begrudgingly. Òctober 1999 is when she left Yorkshire. She stopped working at Ridgemoor and found a job in Lancashire.'

  At last, some kind of response to her plea for information.

  The door opened and Mrs. Jacobs senior stepped in. `More coffee?' `Yes, please,' said Jane quickly. It had been hard work so far and she wasn't going anywhere in a hurry.

  From the window of his small office at Ridgemoor Malcolm peered across the yard to the main building, an imposing old farmhouse where his father lived. These days it housed Toby's own luxurious suite of offices but it had once been the family home. After the departure of the third Mrs. Priest Toby had spent a fortune remodelling the interior to suit his new lifestyle as businessman bachelor. God knows, Malcolm reflected, how he'd managed to afford it. But Toby, often thanks to his well-connected owners, had always been able to lay his hands on money.

  Ros Bradey's car was still in the drive, which was a nuisance as Malcolm needed an urgent private word with his father. If the old man was romancing La Bradey - and who could blame him? - then he could be left twiddling his thumbs for a long while. On the other hand, he knew his father had a lunch meeting at Doncaster, in which case his tete-a-tete with Ros would not be prolonged. She'd been in there for the best part of an hour already.

  Malcolm headed across the yard, impatient to get his chore over and done with.

  He met Ros emerging from the front door. She didn't look as if she'd just disentangled herself from the arms of a lover. Her hair was piled on her head in an elaborate arrangement and she wore jodhpurs and brightly polished riding boots. And her manner was curt. She managed a tight smile as he held the door open for her. `Good morning, Malcolm,' she said, adding, ànd good luck,' as she strode past.

  What did she mean by that? he wondered as he admired her retreating rear view in an impersonal fashion. He'd often been intrigued by his father's 148

  women, and had a bit of luck with them on occasion. Right now, however, his hands were far too full even if he were so inclined.

  `Hi, Dad,' he said as he entered the main office at the back of the house. It had been extended into the garden with a long glass window that gave onto a panoramic view of the Ridgemoor gallops and the hills beyond.

  First-time visitors were always impressed by the spectacular vista.

  Malcolm barely gave it a glance.

  Toby was standing by his desk, hands in his pockets. He grunted a greeting.

  So that was the reason for Ros's remark. His father was in a mood. For a second Malcolm considered postponing his conversation but dismissed the thought - he'd been waiting half the morning for this opportunity after all.

  `Got a moment, Dad?'

  Toby made a show of looking at his watch. Ì've got to be out of here in ten minutes. Talk to me while I get changed.'

  Malcolm followed his father upstairs and into the room he used as a dressing-room. A suit and shirt had been laid out for him - the work of the live-in housekeeper, Janet. Malcolm stole a quick look into his father's bedroom and noted that Janet had been at work there too. The bed looked as if it had been made according to military regulations - further proof, if needed, that no hanky-panky had been taking place.

  Ì saw Ros as I came in,' Malcolm ventured. `How's it going with her?'

  His father gave him a sour look. `Mind your own business.' Àctually it is my business. That is, if you decide to marry her.' Toby stopped in the act of unzipping his trousers. `Who said anything about marriage?'

  Ì'm just thinking ahead. I know what you're like when you can't get them to drop their knickers. That's why you married the last one.'

  Toby's marriage five years ago to wife number three had lasted not much more than a couple of years, enduring just as long as his interest in her willowy body. Subsequently the attempts of the lady in question - a widowed society hostess - tòsophisticate' the horse trainer had foundered in predictable acrimony.

  `You've got a bloody cheek,' Toby muttered, pulling on his clean shirt.

  Malcolm felt better after this exchange. Sex was one of the few topics in which he felt the equal of his father. The pair of them shared the same 149

  acquisitive attitudes. Toby had bought Malcolm the services of a pretty tart for the night of his sixteenth birthday and had been amused, years later, to hear that Malcolm had lost his virginity two years before that memorable evening. The same birthday gift laid on for Malcolm's stepbrother Richard had traumatised him for weeks. Malcolm and Toby still liked to tease him about it.

  Now was Malcolm's chance. Àbout Adolf, Dad. . .'

  Toby groaned. `Not now, for God's sake. I spend more time discussing that animal than any other in my yard.'

  Ì know, but this is important.'

  `Not to me it isn't. Don't ask me to spend another afternoon sucking up to that clown Beaufort. I've done my bit and you can deal with him yourself from now on.'

  Ì will, I promise. It's just that I've had a meeting with Beverley Harris about Carlisle and-'

  Toby cut him off again. `
Beverley Harris is a bitch. Nice arse on her but complete poison.'

  Ìf you say so, Dad.'

  The trainer was fiddling with a cufflink but his eyes were on Malcolm, probing his face. `You've not been playing away with her, have you?' he said shrewdly.

  `We just have a business arrangement.'

  `Rubbish - I can read you like a book. You're a fool, Malcolm. You've a damn fine woman of your own at home and it's about time you put her in the club, instead of mucking around with a ball-breaker like Beverley bloody Harris.'

  `She's not going to break my balls, I promise. And don't worry, we'll be calling you Grandad soon. Pippa and I are working on it.'

  Toby glared at him then resumed fumbling with his cufflink. `Here, Dad, I'll do that.'

  Toby allowed his son to take charge of his wrist. `So, what do the Beaufort lot want now, then?'

  À new jockey and they pick the next race - subject to Adolf's fitness.'

  The trainer shrugged. Ìs that all?’ The sarcasm was heavy. `He's got to win next time.'

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  `Tell me something new.'

  `Seriously, Dad, he's got to finish in the frame at least.'

  Toby put on his jacket and looked at himself in the full-length mirror that fronted the wardrobe. He looked distinguished. Respectable. Not the sort of man who'd dope horses.

  `Can you do something?' Malcolm ventured. He didn't want to beg but his father was quite capable of making him do so.

  Ì'll think about it,' said Toby. `Please, Dad. I'd be really grateful.'

  `Huh.' Toby headed for the door. Ìt's not that nice an arse, you know,' was his parting shot.

  Jane smiled encouragingly at Elizabeth and sipped her fresh cup of coffee.

  `Do you know why Amanda left her job at Ridgemoor?'

  `She found a better one.' Ìn what way?’

  'You know, more responsibility, more money. We were sorry she went -

  we didn't see her so often. We also lost our best babysitter.' `So she left of her own free will?'

  Òf course. Well, as far as I know. Why is it important?'

  Ì was just wondering. If she were made redundant, for example, there could have been a lump sum of severance pay. Which might account for the ten thousand pounds.'

  Òh.' Elizabeth looked unimpressed. Ì don't think you've got much of an idea how things work in horse racing. I doubt if stable girls are ever made redundant. And if they are, they'd be lucky to get their bus fare and a bag of horse nuts.'

  Jane had no doubt Elizabeth was right. The timing of Amanda's change of job and her windfall of £10,000 must be entirely coincidental. Reluctantly she changed the subject.

  Ì made enquiries about Amanda's photos, as you requested.' `Yes?'

  It was a shame to dash her hopes. Ì'm sorry, Mrs. Jacobs, but we're positive they were destroyed in the fire. We can identify the remains of the tin they were kept in from the crime-scene photographs.'

  Òh.' Elizabeth opened her mouth to add something, then stopped. Jane could see she was making an effort to control her feelings. Eventually she said, `That's a pity.' It was evidently more than that. `But you do have photographs of your sister, don't you?' Elizabeth nodded.

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  On impulse, Jane asked, `May I see them?' It didn't seem right to get up and leave at this point.

  Elizabeth left the room and returned with some green photo-developers'

  envelopes. Ì always mean to put them in albums,' she said, `but I never get round to it.'

  She began to pass Jane the snaps one by one, with a word of explanation on each. There were several different batches, taken on occasions during the past three or four years: in a playground with the kids, a Christmas meal, on the moors with a child in a backpack.

  Jane recognised a couple of the shots - Elizabeth must have supplied them to help the investigation. But here were more of Amanda larking around with the children, pulling a squiffy face as she posed with a glass of wine, cradling a sleeping baby. It struck Jane that Amanda was more than pretty.

  Everyone in the pictures, from the children to adults such as Elizabeth's mother-in-law, looked at her with adoration. How they must have enjoyed her visits.

  Elizabeth's commentary had dried up.

  `You must miss her so much,' said Jane. It was a thoughtless remark but something personal needed to be said. It was hard to look at these happy family snapshots of a lost loved one and not empathise.

  Elizabeth made no sound but began to weep openly. The tears ran silently down her face in a curtain and she made no effort to stem them. Jane took a bundle of paper tissues from the packet she carried in her briefcase and offered them to the distressed woman. Elizabeth ignored them and instead, grasped Jane's hand.

  They sat like that for what seemed an age, Jane leaning forward awkwardly, her fingers held fast in the younger woman's painful grip, as her grief overflowed. At last the tears stopped, as suddenly as a tap being shut off, and Jane's hand was released.

  Ì'll be all right now,' said Elizabeth in a matter-of-fact tone, wiping her face. `Sometimes it just has to come out. Though I try not to cry in front of the kids.' She blew her nose loudly.

  `They still don't know she's dead. I bought them Christmas presents from Mandy and said she'd gone away for a while - like their Auntie Jo.'

  `Do you get any help?'

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  `You mean counselling? Or grief-management?’ There was contempt in her voice. `No, thank you very much.'

  Ì was thinking more of Victim Support. Of talking to other people in the same situation. That might help.'

  Elizabeth began to gather together the photographs now scattered across the table. `We're having a memorial service for Mandy - will you come?'

  Ì'd like to very much.'

  Ì'll send you the details.' She was organising the photos into piles and putting them into the correct envelopes. Ì want to get as many of her old workmates as possible. So few people from Ridgemoor could get to the funeral. That bastard Toby Priest wouldn't give them the time off work.'

  `Who's Toby Priest?'

  Elizabeth picked up an envelope, one Jane had not looked through, and pulled out a photograph. `That's him.'

  Jane examined the shot. It showed a group of men, many of them stripped to the waist in the sunshine, waving at the camera. They looked sweaty and red-faced and one had his foot on a ball.

  Elizabeth was pointing to an older man standing at the rear. He was square jawed and his well-cut hair was streaked with grey. He posed with a whistle to his lips. Jane thought he looked familiar.

  'Toby's the most successful horse trainer in the north,' added Elizabeth.

  `Ridgemoor's his yard.'

  That explained why Jane knew the face. He must crop up regularly in the news.

  `What's this about?' she asked.

  `The Ridgemoor lads played a lot of football. Toby sometimes used to referee.'

  Ànd Amanda watched?'

  'Mandy and some of the other girls used to go along.'

  Jane reached for the other photos in the batch. It was interesting to get a glimpse into Amanda's working life. The three other photos in the envelope were identical.

  Àre there any others of the yard?' she asked. `These are all the same.'

  `The rest were destroyed- that's what you just told me. These are the ones I got out of the developers with the ticket I found in her handbag.' Jane 153

  remembered now. `Why do you think she made copies of this particular photo?'

  Elizabeth shrugged. Àll I can think of is that she wanted to give them to some of the lads.'

  `But this must have been taken a while ago. She left Ridgemoor over two years before her death. Why do it after all that time?'

  Elizabeth sighed. Ì like to think that she'd decided to get in touch with her old life again. You know, to ditch Pete and drugs and get back with her old friends. Do you think that's possible, Jane?'

  It was the first time she'd used her Christian name. Jane was t
ouched. She put her hand on Elizabeth's arm. Òf course,' she said.

  It was time to go. As Jane stood she picked up one of the football photos.

  `May I borrow this?'

  `Keep it,' said Elizabeth. Ì've got plenty.'

  Many things about the evening ahead with Ros unnerved Jamie. The prospect of mingling with a cultured set of people and responding to music he didn't understand was part of it. In his days as a Flat jockey he'd mixed unselfconsciously with all types, particularly the wealthy horse-owning set. But he'd been a different person back then - young, brash and successful. Two and a half years down the track, Jamie's life was in bits and putting it back together was a struggle. He said as much to Dave.

  The runner seemed surprised by Jamie's attitude. `You're looking at it from the wrong perspective, mate. This is not some terrible ordeal you've got to survive - it's an opportunity to show people that you're alive and kicking.'

  Jamie had not been convinced. `They're all going to know I've been to jail for killing some poor kid. Half of them are going to hate me.' `Maybe, but you've got to learn to live with that. Don't forget that most of them are probably damn lucky they're not standing in your shoes. I bet if anyone has a go at you they'll have a drink in their hand.' Jamie smiled. Dave was probably right. He'd also put his finger on something Jamie was painfully aware of. Back in the old days, when he'd breezed through evenings like this, he'd been high on whatever he'd been able to lay his hands on. No wonder he'd not had a care in the world then - he'd been out of his mind.

  In prison he'd sworn to himself never to do drink and drugs again - and 154

  he'd stuck to it. He might nurse a glass of wine for show but that's all it was. The consequence was that he would have to face the evening ahead stone cold sober.

  And he'd be in the company of Ros. That was his other cause of anxiety.

  Why had she invited him? Did she really like him, as Dave said? Till the other day he'd found her forbidding and cold. Those deep brown eyes observed him dispassionately, probing for every little fault in his riding.