by Gene
`Come off it, sweetheart, she just doesn't want to speak to me.'
Ìf there's an urgent message I can get it to her when they break for lunch.
Otherwise, I'm sure she'll be dealing with her calls later. I'll make sure yours are on top of the pile.'
`You're an angel, Karen.'
`Thank you, Mr. Priest, but I'd prefer not to be called sweetheart or angel.
May I also suggest that there's no need for you to call again?' 'But then I wouldn't have a chance to talk to you, Karen honey. Oh - whoops. I bet I'm not supposed to call you honey either.'
`Have you been drinking, Mr. Priest?'
`That's a very personal question, Karen honey. Why don't you and I get together to discuss it? We could do it over a drink. What do you say? If I can't have the organ-grinder, maybe I could have the monkey.' Ì'm going to put the phone down now, Mr. Priest, and I would strongly advise you not to ring any more.'
Ànd I'd strongly advise you to take the poker out of your arse.' But Malcolm was talking to the dial tone - which was probably just as well.
The wind was picking up, sending ripples racing across the surface of the pond, and scudding clouds were interrupting the sunshine. But, internally fortified by her substantial lunch, Jane was not conscious of the changing weather. She was waiting for Simon's reply to her question.
`What do I think of Toby Priest?' He polished off his pint and set the glass down with a bang. `Personally, I think he's a nasty piece of work. Massive 223
ego. A bully. As two-faced as they come. If he wasn't a successful horse-trainer he'd probably make a top politician, a captain of industry or,' his green eyes flashed wickedly, à Chief Constable.'
Jane couldn't disagree. `Which makes it all the more puzzling why he admitted giving Amanda that money. He denied it at first then changed his tune. Why?'
'Beats me. Let's go inside and have a coffee. You're not dressed for spring in Yorkshire.'
It was true, she wasn't. Gratefully, she allowed herself to be steered indoors.
Àre you thinking what I'm thinking?' she said as they took their coffee to a far corner.
Ùnlikely,' he said. Ì'm thinking how much that pastel blue suits you.'
`For God's sake, Simon, keep your mind on the job.'
`Sorry, boss, must be the beer.' His teeth were white in the gloom of their corner as he grinned at her. She mustn't allow herself to be distracted.
`Look,' she said, ìt's obvious he was telling the truth in the first place when he said he hadn't given her the money. And when he laughed at the idea of making redundancy payments to stable staff - that rang true, all right. The horses might cost a lot but you can bet the stable girls earn a pittance. Ten grand would have been a fortune to Amanda.'
Simon nodded patiently. She knew that look; he was waiting for her to make her point. And so she would - in her own time.
`So his first reaction was the truthful one but, when he thought about it, he changed his story and admitted he'd given her the money. Then he had the nerve to come out with a load of sentimental tripe about being a father to her.'
`You can get locked up for being that kind of father,' muttered Simon.
Jane ignored him. `So the question is, why did he admit to doing something he didn't do?'
Ì'm sure you're going to tell me.'
Ì certainly am. He did it to protect someone. He knows who really gave her the money but he doesn't want us to find out. So he said he did it instead. Who's he covering up for? That's what we need to find out.'
`Correction, Jane, that's what you need to find out.' `You disagree then?’
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'No, l don't. I agree he lied just as you say and there's probably some hooky horse-racing reason why Amanda had ten grand from him. Like, maybe, he was giving her money to lay bets on sure things. You can imagine him trying to impress her. Men will say anything if they think it will get a girl into bed. Anyhow, she banked the money instead and took off with a younger bloke. Whatever it is, I bet you it's got nothing to do with who killed her. That's down to some out-of-order drug dealer who fancied pinching Pete's wedge and she just happened to be in the way, poor kid.'
Oh.
Ì'm sorry, Jane,' he said. `That's just the way I see it.'
He was probably right. Whatever, she didn't have the time or resources to take it any further.
Ànother coffee?' he asked.
She nodded and he headed for the bar. She watched him go. Had he really complimented her on the colour of her shirt? Was that the kind of thing he said when he wanted to get a girl into bed?
But he wasn't interested in her. Was he?
Pippa was out in the paddock with Dave. They were watching one of the lads, Micky, school Gates of Eden over some small fences when her mobile phone rang. She broke off to take the call.
She didn't recognise the voice - a female with a flat Yorkshire accent - but the name was familiar. She knew that Beverley Harris worked for one of Malcolm's clients. Why was she calling her?
Ì don't know how you've come through on this number,' she said.
'Malcolm's at his office.'
Àctually, it's you I want to talk to, Pippa.' Pippa? They'd never spoken before.
The voice dropped, taking on a confidential tone. Ì thought we needed a chat. Woman to woman, if you know what I mean.'
Pippa certainly didn't. The voice pressed on slyly.
Ìt's about your Malcolm. He's a bit of a ladies' man, isn't he? We've had to spend a deal of time together on this horse-racing business and I'm afraid he's inclined to overstep the mark.'
Ì don't follow you, Miss Harris.'
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`Look, Pippa, I'm a grown woman and I know how to handle a man with Desert's Disease.'
`What?’
'Desert's Disease - wandering palms. Surely you've heard the expression?
Well, anyway, you get my drift. Malcolm is inclined to put his paws all over a girl. I meet all sorts of men in the course of business and most of them are like little boys. Show them a sweetie and they think they can pop it straight in their gobs. It's like that with your Malcolm. Let him glimpse an inch above your knee and next thing he'll have his hand up your skirt.'
Pippa was racking her brains. Surely this was a practical joke? This conversation could not be real.
Èxcuse me, who did you say you were again?'
The woman's voice changed, grew harder. `You know very well, so don't pretend you don't know what I'm on about. Your husband's been trying it on with me for weeks and now he's started pestering my staff. Can't you keep him under control? It's flaming obvious he's not getting what he needs at home and I reckon it's down to you to sort him out.'
Pippa was shaking. She wanted to end the call but she couldn't. There was something compelling about this awful voice and the poison it was pouring into her ear.
The woman reverted to her earlier note of assumed friendship. Ì'm not blaming you, Pippa. After all, it's not as if you need to wear a bag over your head. I've seen your picture. You could be a real babe if you made more of an effort. Buy yourself some tarty knickers - never fails, if you ask me - and make sure your feller gets his oats at home. You do understand what I'm saying, don't you? And there's one other thing. You can tell him I know about his friend in Germany - Mr. Hans-Jurgen Bach.'
While Pippa was on the phone Dave had sounded Micky out about Gates of Eden. He was aware that if Jamie wasn't up to riding at Carlisle, the lad might have to take the race.
All the time he kept an eye on Pippa. It was obvious the call was causing her distress as she walked, head down, listening intently, to the corner of the field and out through the gate. When she didn't reappear after five minutes he went after her.
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He found Pippa in the lane, standing by a hedgerow of fresh-leaved hawthorns. At first he thought she was still on the phone but she was holding the mobile down by her waist, staring at the little instrument.
`Pippa?' She didn't turn towards him. `Do you want
to keep going with Gates? Only, I need a bit of help.'
She looked up, clearly surprised to find him by her side. She seemed different somehow. Her eyes were dull and her mouth was twisted, like a child fighting back tears. He knew at once that something was badly wrong.
He put his hands on her shoulders. `What's the matter? Has something happened?'
She swallowed. It seemed she didn't trust herself to speak. In their short acquaintance he'd seen her upset but not like this. His imagination raced wildly.
`Has there been an accident?’
'No.' The word was just a whisper, scarcely audible. `Who was on the phone? Was it Malcolm?'
The moment he said the name he made the connection. Light flared in her eyes and her jaw set firm in pain and anger. So she must know what he knew, about Malcolm and that Beverley Harris.
She was struggling to speak but he stopped her.
Ìt's all right, Pippa,' he murmured, though it was anything but. Then he folded her into his arms and she clung to him like a drowning woman.
So far it had not been his day, Malcolm reflected as he spooned coffee powder into a mug. He probably shouldn't have hit the office Scotch at eleven-thirty in the morning but the frustration of being fobbed off by Beverley had got to him. Making sarky remarks to Karen wouldn't do him any good. Quite the contrary. The skinny bitch would speak to Beverley the first chance she got and there was no chance she'd pull her punches.
He had a list of other calls he ought to make - trainers he should talk to, owners he'd promised to report back to and potential clients he ought to schmooze. But he couldn't concentrate on anything else but Beaufort Holidays right now. His last conversation with Beverley played and replayed in his mind. There were issues that still had to be debated. Like Beverley's feelings for Barney. She'd never said she was in love with him, 227
had she? She'd just said he needed her and that was a different matter. And no matter how virile Barney might be now, what about in fifteen years'
time? Beverley would be barely forty - in her prime - and Barney would be over seventy. Leaving aside his personal feelings, it was his duty to point this out to her forcibly.
There was also the matter of business - they hadn't discussed Adolf the other morning and it was imperative they did so. In the euphoria of the Newbury win Malcolm had been instructed to fix up another race for him as soon as possible. Toby had now entered Adolf for a run out at Carlisle at his new distance of two and a half miles. Malcolm couldn't imagine that there would be any objections but he wanted company approval on the record.
The door burst open and a familiar presence strode into the room. Even though he was a fully grown man, the sight of Toby fired up with fury still turned Malcolm's stomach to water and took him back to the days when he was just a terrified little boy, helpless in the face of his father's rage.
Toby stood over him, leaning on the desk with both hands, his face inches from Malcolm's. His eyes blazed. He was angrier than Malcolm had seen him for a long time. Something serious was up.
It was a moment before Toby spoke. When he did so his voice was cold and distant. Malcolm well knew the self-restraint his father was imposing on himself.
Ì've just had a visit from the police.'
Malcolm's first thought was of Adolf, and of the other horses. A doping scandal would put his father out of business - no wonder he was upset.
But what Toby said next took him off-balance. The surprise was like a kick in the guts.
`They asked me about Amanda Parkin.'
`Poor kid.' He had to say something and that was the kind of thing they all said about Mandy. A wasted life. Drugs are terrible. Poor kid. `That's not what you said about her when she had your nuts in her hand, as I recall.'
Malcolm said nothing. Mandy had always been a sore point between them.
It was one thing inheriting the odd girlfriend from your father, not such a good idea for them both to be poking her at the same time.
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`Don't you want to know what they asked me? How she came by ten thousand pounds in October 1999.'
`How did they know about that?' `She paid it into her building society.'
The silly cow. You give a girl a bundle of cash on a matter of utmost secrecy and she stashes it somewhere where it sticks out like a sore thumb.
`Why on earth are they interested in her building society?'
`God knows.' Toby slumped into the chair on the other side of Malcolm's desk. His anger appeared to have dissipated. Now he just looked weary. Ì
rang Jack Kenny' - Kenny was a retired Yorkshire detective who advised on yard security `- and he had a word with some Lancashire Superintendent called Wright. They're convinced she was the victim of a drug double-cross and the whole business was down to that useless boyfriend of hers.'
Well, that was a relief.
Ànyway,' Toby continued, Ì told the police I gave Mandy the money.'
`Why on earth did you do that?'
`Because the police aren't stupid. They must know something otherwise they wouldn't turn up here, would they? If Mandy was daft enough to put the money in the building society, she might have written something in the pass book about where she got it.'
That sent a shiver down his spine. Jesus! `But they didn't . . .' his voice trailed off.
`Come to interview you?' His father finished the sentence for him. `Count your lucky stars, my son. At any rate, I reckon I've still got a broader back than you.
Ìf you ever get to be a father you might understand.' `Thanks, Dad. I really mean it.'
Toby sighed heavily. Malcolm knew his father had been fonder of Mandy than he'd ever let on. Ì just hope to God they catch the bastards who killed her.'
Amen to that. The sooner they pinned the murders on a couple of dodgy drug-dealers the better.
After Toby had left, Malcolm made himself another coffee. His hands were shaking as he poured hot water from the kettle. Nerves - maybe he was getting past it.
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There was only one good thing about his father's intervention - he'd not thought about Beverley Harris for a good half hour.
Then Pippa came on the line.
Jamie was having problems. It was all very well deciding he was going to write to Marie, but quite another to actually do it. The passage of time since the accident had not made the letter any easier to write.
He sat in his bedroom, hunched over the writing pad - this wasn't a task he wanted to be seen doing. But the doing was hard. Every attempt at expressing himself seemed to come out wrong, making him seem insincere and clumsy and just out to get himself off the hook. He stared out of the window.
He noticed Malcolm's car pull into the yard and saw Mal get out. He seemed in a rush. The downstairs door banged. Soon afterwards, as Jamie struggled with his impossible task, he heard voices from the room below.
It had been the one drawback to taking the room in the attic, that he should be directly above Pippa and Malcolm's bedroom. He'd been acutely aware that he was in danger of trespassing on their privacy, though they'd always reassured him on that point. He'd soon become used to noises from downstairs - the murmur of voices, the muffled drone of the radio, the sound of running water from their adjoining bathroom. But it was the sound of husband and wife making love that he was wary of. It made him feel like an intruder, poking his nose into his sister's affairs. Even worse, it emphasised his loneliness, reminding him of the emptiness in his own life.
Strangely - thankfully - it was not a sound he heard very often. What he was hearing now was intimacy of a different order - the sound of raised voices. The predominant note was sounded by Pippa. He'd had enough teenage rows with his sister to recognise that tone - outraged, furious, insistent. But it had been a long while, if ever, that he'd heard her sound so upset. And in the hurt and anger there was the unfamiliar note of bitterness.
This was a test of living in others' pockets - any couple were entitled to have rows and it was none of his business. Nonetheless
it was impossible to ignore. There was certainly no hope of writing his letter now.
Jamie couldn't hear what was being said, for which he was grateful, but occasional phrases burst clearly upon his ears.
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`Do you take me for a fool?' 7 thought you loved me.' Ìt's a question of trust!'
Try as he might, these anguished words from his sister's lips lodged themselves in his head and there wasn't much chance that they'd go away.
What on earth had been going on? He only knew he mustn't ask.
Malcolm drove back to his office on auto-pilot, his mind like a nest of snakes, alive with venomous thoughts. His day was continuing to slide downhill.
His mission to appease Pippa could hardly be counted a success. He was not entirely clear how much Beverley had revealed of their affair but Pippa appeared to have only a partial view of events. It seemed he had been painted as an all-round Tech, prone to indiscriminately groping any females in his vicinity.
`Don't be ridiculous, Pippa,' he'd protested. `The woman's a fantasist -
she's making it up!'
Unfortunately the prosecution had not been impressed by this line of defence, being only too aware of his previous convictions. He'd nearly been caught once or twice in their boyfriend/girlfriend days but his protestations of innocence had been accepted at the time. A year into their marriage he'd not been so lucky when Pippa had walked in on him in the tack room with one of her own stable girls. That had been downright stupid of him and he'd had to grovel very hard to keep the marriage in one piece. The incident had taught him lots of lessons, the most important being: never dirty your own doorstep.
So now he only played away and he made all the right noises when he was around Pippa - though, to be honest, he had let things slip on the home front during this Bev business. He was paying for that now. A few more nights tucked up with Pippa recently and he might have been able to argue more convincingly that Beverley Harris was simply a malicious troublemaker.