by Gene
The upshot of the confrontation was that Malcolm had uttered an outraged denial and sworn complete devotion to their marriage. Pippa, only slightly mollified, had ordered him out of her sight while she considered her options - one of which, she made it plain, was to talk to a solicitor.
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Malcolm wasn't entirely unhappy to be left to his own devices. Given time, he was confident that he could get back on the right side of Pippa.
After all, she had no real proof. Not yet, at least, and he aimed to prevent things going that far. Now was the ideal opportunity to deal with Beverley.
At the computer Malcolm ran off a fax proclaiming his delight that, as per instructions issued at Newbury, Beaufort Bonanza would be running in a two-and-a-half-mile hurdle race at the forthcoming Carlisle meeting. He sent it to Beverley with a copy to Barney Beaufort himself. It was a small matter but best to get it sorted right away.
As he worked he allowed his thoughts to shift to the other issues that were nagging at him. The worry that had flared up like toothache when his father confronted him and which Pippa's tirade had also touched off. There wasn't much he could do about the officers who had visited Toby, except hope his father's smokescreen would protect him. It was quite another matter to be threatened by Beverley.
How had she found out about Hans-Jurgen? Had she managed to get a look at the horse's passport on one of her trips to Ridgemoor? The address of a German vet, maybe even a phone number, would be on the document.
She could have tracked the dealer down that way. Not that it mattered how she had come across the German who had sold him Adolf. More important was whether she had discovered Malcolm had bought the horse for £8000 and passed the animal on to Beaufort for ten times that amount.
She obviously wasn't as dumb about horses as she made out.
An ugly picture took shape in his mind. Of Beverly cuddling up to Barney in her pink bedroom. Of her whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Sweet nothings which included Malcolm's name and a scam to relieve Beaufort Holidays of something over £70,000.
What would Barney do about that? He'd hardly take it on the chin. He'd put Malcolm's sales documentation under the microscope for a start. His next step would doubtless be to call the police.
Malcolm didn't like this development at all. This was one triumph Beverley could not be allowed to enjoy.
Parked by the side of the old village school, Malcolm waited for nearly forty minutes before Beverley's Citroen swept past and made the turn 232
down to the river. There had been plenty of time for him to mull over his plan for the evening ahead. Plenty of time, too, for him to wonder if Beverley wasn't coming straight home from work. But he'd dismissed the thought. He knew she'd come - she had to. And if she didn't turn up tonight there was always tomorrow.
He set off after her on foot, a bit self-conscious about carrying champagne and an elaborate display of flowers. They were certainly eye-catching, but hopefully his face wouldn't attract attention. In the event, he was lucky -
there wasn't a soul in sight as he reached the river. Beverley's car was parked on the road outside her front gate. The next vehicle was twenty yards along. Good. If she'd had visitors he'd have had to turn tail.
He crunched up the garden path to her front door. This was the tricky bit.
One of them, anyway. He held the flowers in front of him, up against the frosted glass of the door and, as it opened, announced, `Special delivery.'
She was still in her work clothes, though over her shoulder he could see her jacket hanging on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes glared at him suspiciously above the foliage.
`No, Malcolm,' she said.
`Peace offering,' he replied, injecting as much warmth into his smile as he could.
`You're not coming in,' she stated flatly.
`Fine. I understand. I just wanted to bring you these.'
She glanced at the sumptuous display of roses and carnations. `Very pretty. I'll give them to Karen, shall I?’
'I'm sorry I was a bit off with her. I hope she wasn't too upset.' Beverley's misty blue eyes narrowed. `What are you after?' `Nothing, honestly. I promise to get out of your life completely. Well, I have to, don't 1, after you put the poison in with Pippa.'
She permitted herself a self-satisfied grin. `You don't want to mess with me, Malcolm.'
`Right.'
The grin vanished as she took the flowers from him. Òn your bike then.'
He turned to go. Then stopped. `There's one thing.' `Yes?' Her eyes brimmed with suspicion.
Àbout Adolf.'
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`What about him? Think I might be planning a trip to Bavaria?’ 'No. I was wondering if you were thinking of moving him to another trainer.'
`So that's what's behind this. You're worried you and your old man might be out of pocket.'
Ìt's just that, if you were, there's something you ought to know. Like how Adolf won at Newbury. It wasn't exactly under his own steam.'
He could see the thoughts connecting in her head as the implication sank in. The prospect of Beaufort Holidays being involved in a doping scandal would be setting the alarm bells ringing. After all, it had been her idea to get involved with racing. Barney would be less than impressed. Àre you saying what I think you are, Malcolm?'
He shook his head. `Not out here, Bev.'
She sighed and took a pace backwards. Òh, all right then. Come in and tell me.'
Success!
He closed the door behind him and eyed her swivelling hips as she led the way down the hall.
Dave whistled to himself as he stirred sausages in a frying pan on the hob of his tiny stove. The other ring hosted a kettle just coming to the boil and in the oven a baked potato sat on a plate in a pool of baked beans. The caravan door was open to the evening breeze. It was the simple things, Dave thought to himself.
Thus preoccupied he didn't hear his visitor approach. He'd just turned to reach for the eggs, when he caught sight of Pippa standing in the doorway, framed against the evening sky, her face a tragic mask. His heart tripped in his chest. She was too beautiful to be real.
,Pippa,' he cried, aware of the false jollity in his voice. After her mini-collapse earlier in the afternoon she'd pulled herself together pretty quickly, called off the training session and disappeared into the house.
Dave had been trying hard not to think about the way she'd clung on to him. Maybe he'd got it wrong and it hadn't been anything to do with Malcolm. Maybe.
`Cuppa tea?' he said brightly. Òr how about a sausage and baked beans?
I'm thinking of opening a cafe'
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The last was a stupid remark which he instantly regretted. Very cool, Dave. But she was saying nothing - it was unnerving.
Finally she spoke. `Have you got anything to drink?'
Oh dear. Depressed woman asks for alcohol - it was always a bad sign in Dave's book. He found a bottle of cheap brandy he kept with his medicine kit and poured her a small measure. `That's all you're getting till you've eaten,' he told her and sat her on a chair outside.
She stared dully at him as he deftly divided the food on to two plates and, using a stool as a table, served it up. He squatted on the caravan step.
`You can't beat eating outdoors,' he said. `Best get a move on before it goes cold.'
He was gratified to see that she did as she was told, reluctantly at first, then with enthusiasm. She cleared her plate and mopped up the eggy leftovers with a crust of bread.
They shared an apple and a bar of fruit and nut for pudding. Then he allowed her another tot of brandy which she nursed as if it were ten-year-old cognac. They watched the dusk quickly thicken into night. `Dave,' she said at last, `why did they put you in prison?'
Up to this point he'd have been happy to talk to her about anything under the sun. But naturally she'd picked out the one topic that he really wished to avoid. What could he tell her? Only the truth.
`Because I was in posse
ssion of a quantity of illegal steroids.' `They sent you to prison for that?'
'And a loaded handgun.'
She stared at him, those boundless black eyes searching his face. `Why?'
she said simply.
`They were in a bag in my possession.'
His bag which he'd lent to his brother. Chris hadn't told him he was using it to store dodgy gear or that the police had turned over his club. When he'd pitched up at Dave's place at three in the morning he'd just asked Dave to keep an eye on it for a couple of days. He'd not told him what was inside but Dave knew better than to ask. `No one's going to come hassling you,' that's what Chris had said. But he'd been wrong. `Was the gun yours?
And the drugs?'
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`No, they weren't. But I was guilty, Pippa. Guilty of being stupid anyway.'
That wasn't how the prosecution had put it, he'd been pilloried as a golden-boy-gone-bad, a once-fine athlete who'd betrayed his talent by going into business with drug cheats. And he'd not put up a defence because that would have placed his brother in the dock instead. He'd refused to do that to Chris, a father of three with a business to run. `You don't want to talk about this, do you?' she said.
`You're entitled to ask. I was called a malign and evil influence and a corrupter of young minds. You ought to know who you're working with.'
She lapsed into silence which, in the circumstances, was a relief. Finally she said, `Personally, I've only one complaint about you, Dave Prescott.
You're a mean man with your booze.'
It could have been worse. Then he took her home.
`So?' Beverley said, staring at him across the kitchen table. `What's this all about?'
Malcolm raised the bottle of champagne he'd been clutching. `How about a drink?'
She shrugged. Ì've got one.' She picked up a glass from the counter. Ice clinked. A vodka-and-tonic, Malcolm assumed, her usual afterwork tipple.
`Tell me about the horse.'
Ìf you remember, my instructions were that Adolf had to win at all costs in his next race.'
Àctually, Malcolm, we simply requested closer control of his management.'
`You gave a pretty good impression of someone who wanted a winner.
Don't tell me you'd rather he'd finished halfway down the field.' Malcolm had fished two glasses from a cupboard and extracted the cork from the bottle. He poured the champagne and pushed one glass across the table towards her.
`So you doped him,' she said. She shook her head. `You're a real operator, you know that?’
'Takes one to know one.' He raised his glass. `Salut.'
Her glass was empty. She reached for the champagne. Ùp yours,' she said.
Ì'm not sure I want to hear this.'
Ì'm only telling you because our relationship is undergoing a change.'
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She laughed. Ìt's bloody well coming to an end, you mean.' Èxactly. I accept that. But if you want to move Adolf from Ridgemoor, you should realise he might not be back in the winners' enclosure for a while. If ever.'
She sipped her drink and thought for a moment. Ì haven't raised the matter of finding a new trainer. There's no reason why Barney should want to move him.'
Èxcellent. So we can carry on as before.'
`Not exactly, Malcolm. Don't you try and weasel round me. We've had a lot of fun but it can't go on.'
Ì agree. I'll keep myself to myself, I promise.' `Good.'
`Though I can't promise to keep my thoughts to myself. You're a bit special, you know, Bev.'
`Watch it or you're out of here.' She drained her glass. `Go on then, I suppose you'd better tell me about Adolf'
`Have you heard of EPO?'
Ìt's what distance athletes take, isn't it? Adds something to the blood.'
`That's the stuff. It enhances the oxygen-carrying capacity and gives the runner extra stamina. It works on horses too.'
Ìs that why you put him in for a longer race?' `Clever old you.'
She kicked him under the table. `Don't patronise me.' He rubbed his shin.
Òuch.'
She laughed, a little tipsily, he thought. He refilled her glass.
Ì'm on to you,' she said. `You're trying to get me drunk.' `Why would I want to do that?'
'Because.' She smiled at him knowingly. `You want to get me upstairs for a last ride around the park.'
`Honestly, Bev, that's not true.'
`Don't lie to me.' She kicked him again but with stockinged feet this time.
`You're just a randy bastard. You'd climb on anything in a skirt.'
Ànything in a business suit and spectacles, maybe. You've spoiled me for other women, Bev.'
`Bastard.' Her foot kicked out again and remained where it landed, on his leg just below the knee. Ì bet your Pippa gave you a right good going-over after our little chat.'
`You could say that.'
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`You've got some nerve showing up here begging for a last shag then.'
Ìs that what I'm doing?'
`That's exactly what you're doing.'
Her foot had wormed higher up his leg. He caught it in his hand and ran his thumb over the ball of flesh at the base of her big toe, then up into the arch. He knew she liked that.
`Suppose you're right,' he said, `what are my chances?'
Ì'm not in the mood. I've just got in from work. I'm tired and dirty and not nearly pissed enough to climb back into bed with you.'
Ì see.' He carried on massaging her foot. `Suppose I ran you a bath and poured you another glass of champagne?'
'You'd be wasting your time.'
Ì can't think of a better way of wasting it.'
A quarter of an hour later, Malcolm was ready. This was the trickiest bit of all. He ascended the stairs slowly. In his hand was the bottle of champagne, barely a glassful left in it. He'd wiped the bottle clean of his fingerprints and now carried it, like a waiter, wrapped in a tea towel. In his pocket was the key to the bathroom -just in case Beverley had been inclined to lock him out. However, there had been no objection from her when she took possession of the room - she'd probably not noticed its absence.
He knocked on the door and opened it in one movement. There was no squeal of protest.
Ì wondered how long it would be before you turned up.'
The bath took up most of the small room. The water magnified the riot of her sumptuous pink flesh as she reclined full length. She made no attempt to cover herself.
He raised the bottle. Ì thought you might like a refill.'
She gazed at him myopically, her face altered without her spectacles. Her bedroom face, as he thought of it.
`You just want to have a gawp,' she said, but she held out her glass all the same, her breasts swelling briefly above the waterline.
He emptied the bottle into her glass and set it down on the floor by the bath. He stood over her, looking down at her body.
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She drank then set the glass down carefully on the bathroom ledge. `Like what you see?' she asked.
Òh yes,' he said truthfully. `Very much.'
It was simple to kill her. A damn sight easier than getting rid of Pete and Mandy. He began to soap her feet, caressing her gently as he had done in the kitchen.
`That's nice,' she murmured, allowing herself to sink slowly up to her neck in the warm water.
Suddenly he seized Beverley's ankles and yanked them upwards hard, plunging her head under the surface.
He'd heard about this method years ago, from a veteran Sergeant in the Army. The Sarge had said if it was done right, the mouth and nostrils filled so quickly with water that the victim blacked out instantly. Since the man was drunk at the time, the other guys had dismissed it as a joke -
especially when he'd referred to his technique as `the ultimate wife-deterrent'. But Malcolm had not forgotten. Later, he'd made enquiries about the Sergeant and was impressed to discover that the man's wife had indeed drowned in the bath.
It was
all over for Beverley in seconds, the surprise such that she had no time to grab the sides of the bath. So his old Army pal had not been lying.
`The beauty of it,' he'd said, slurring his words as he reached for his pint pot, ìs that there's no struggle, no mess and not a mark on her. It's the shock, see. They black out just like that.' As Malcolm could now testify, the Sarge had not been lying.
He held Bev by the ankles, head under the surface, for as long as it took to make sure she was dead. Then he lowered her feet back into the water and left the room.
There was a certain amount of cleaning up to be done before he left - some surfaces had to be wiped, his champagne glass needed to be washed and put away and, nice touch this, he thought, the flower display had to be removed from the hall table. He carried it back to the car and set off for home.
It would take more than a fancy bunch of flowers to smooth Pippa's ruffled feathers, but it was a start.
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Chapter Thirteen
Marie was in a hurry. Shed spent too long brushing Spring Fever. This was her preferred time of the day - returning from exercise and putting the horses back into clean stalls with lots of straw banked up around the sides and a full hay-net. It was a wrench to leave the stables every morning and make her way, with a detour home to change, to the dingy back room in the surgery.
She was about to mount her bike when she heard Ros call her. Didn't she realise how late it was?
Marie propped her bike against the wall and turned towards the other woman. Ros looked out of sorts, as if she had something difficult to say and didn't know how to go about it. Marie instantly forgot that she was running late. She had a funny feeling she knew what was coming.
`Caroline told me you ran into Jamie Hutchison here last week.'
Marie nodded. She'd half expected Ros to raise the matter before but had been grateful that she'd not done so. She wondered why she was mentioning it now.
Ì'm sorry,' Ros continued. Ì did promise I'd make sure both of you weren't here at the same time.'