Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc

by Gene

  Òf course.'

  Ì mean, about the crash. Our crash.'

  Malcolm looked him in the eye. `Sure. What are you doing at the moment?'

  Ì was just going to see if there was room for me in the horse box. Pippa's gone off and I need a lift.'

  Ì'm about to leave. Come with me and we'll talk on the way.' Why not? It made perfect sense.

  Ì can't believe you were just going to take off back to London without speaking to me.'

  Pippa was giving Dave a hard time and he couldn't blame her. They were in the Land Rover parked outside the station and there were only twenty minutes to go before his train. But it was going to be a tough twenty minutes.

  `Look at me, Dave, and just tell me why.' He shrugged and said nothing.

  `We've just had our first bit of success together and you want to leave -

  why?'

  They'd been over and over the same ground since they'd left the racecourse.

  `No more, please, Pippa. I can't explain.' `That's because you won't. What have I done?'

  'Nothing, honestly. You're great and I've loved the experience and everything but it's time for me to do something else.'

  `Like what? You say you've got plans but what are they? Give me one decent answer and I'll say goodbye and good luck.'

  He stared mutely out of the window.

  293

  `See?' she cried. `You're giving up on something you've hardly started.

  You're just running away and I don't understand it. For God's sake, Dave, you owe me an answer. Why?'

  Seventeen minutes to go now. It was agony but he could do it.

  He wasn't going to tell her that he was leaving because of her. That once the notion that her marriage might be over had lodged itself in his head it had grown into something that he couldn't contain. He knew that if he carried on working by her side he'd soon be hopelessly in love - and what was the point of that? None, since she was committed to that slime-ball Malcolm.

  What's more, if he stayed, he knew he'd end up telling Pippa what he'd seen Malcolm doing with Beverley, God rest her. And he definitely couldn't tell her that. In his experience, the messenger always got shot.

  Fifteen minutes to go. It seemed like an eternity.

  Malcolm and Jamie pushed through the crowd assembling in front of the Jubilee Stand for the next race. Malcolm vaguely noted the action in the betting ring, his thoughts racing ahead.

  It was a stroke of luck, Jamie needing a lift. It couldn't have been better if he'd planned it himself, given the circumstances. But something would have come up - it always did.

  He noted the preoccupied expression on Jamie's face. It wasn't the look of a lad who'd just ridden a 10-1 winner in great style. It was the expression of a man preparing some awkward questions.

  Malcolm just needed to get Jamie away from the course with as few people seeing them as possible - people who might remember seeing them go, that is. For the moment they were OK, the crowd around them was thick. There was nothing like being in a crowd to be invisible.

  Joyce was disturbed by the greyness in Clem's pallor. He was taking forever to catch his breath. She had found him a seat near to the first aid post so, if things got desperate, maybe they could give him some oxygen.

  He was mumbling something.

  ,I can't hear you.' She put her ear close to his mouth. Ì fluffed it, Joyce.'

  `What do you mean?,

  'He came right by me. I could have got him but I couldn't do it. I'm sorry.'

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  Joyce was sorry too. More than that, she felt cheated. So that was that. She stared miserably ahead. And saw, appearing out of the crowd away to their left by the betting ring, two men walking towards them. One was tall and broad with sandy hair, the other was shorter, carrying a hold-all. As they passed in front of her, she made the connection. It was Jamie Hutchison and one of the others who'd been in the car, Malcolm Priest. They were heading for the trackside car park. In a few minutes Jamie Hutchison would be gone and their only chance of justice gone with them.

  Her brother was still mumbling apologies. A man with the means to take vengeance but broken by his own failings.

  'Clem,' she said in a voice that commanded attention. `There's something I haven't told you about our Marie. She's been seeing Jamie Hutchison.'

  That woke him up. `What do you mean "seeing"?' `He writes to her. They meet. Use your imagination.'

  His face began to redden and his eyes bulged, all trace of weary self-reproach banished in an instant. He was imagining things all right.

  ,Hutchison's just over there with his brother-in-law. They're going into the car park.'

  Clem didn't waste breath on words. He was on his feet, moving slowly but steadily in the right direction.

  Joyce took his arm. By crikey she'd push him all the way there if she had to.

  Once they were away from the crowd Jamie started, as Malcolm knew he would. He'd had that look on his face, as if he couldn't contain himself any longer.

  Ì don't know how to put this, Mal, but you know I've been having dreams about the crash?'

  Malcolm knew all right.

  `They're screwing me up. They won't stop. And I'm not sure if they're what really happened. The doctor said my memory might come back.

  Suppose it has?'

  `What's in your dreams then, Jamie?' He needed to know.

  `Don't take offence, Mal, but I picture us all in the car - you, me and Rich.

  Only I'm not driving. You are.'

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  They were in the car park now, walking along a row of vehicles, Jamie still talking urgently.

  `Then I dream about the smash, and you and Rich pulling me out. You both think I'm dead.'

  `You did look like a goner for a while.' And it's a damn shame you weren't

  - it would have saved a load of hassle.

  `Because you and Rich think I'm dead, you decide you'll say I was driving.'

  Malcolm forced a laugh. They'd reached his BMW and he unlocked the boot. `Chuck your bag in the car.'

  If he could get Jamie out of here and off the main road he'd be able to deal with him. They'd take the scenic route over the high fells. There were a few places up there where a body would never be discovered. They'd stop for a breath of fresh air and he'd take Jamie while he was unaware. The man was such a trusting fool - how had he survived in prison?

  Malcolm opened the driver's door. Jamie was on the other side of the car, still talking.

  Ì feel terrible bringing this up. You've always been great to me, Mal.

  Visiting me inside, giving me a home. And that money you lent me.'

  `You'll have me in tears in a moment. Just shut up and get in the car.'

  Please.

  As a rule, police officers do not witness crimes - they are just called upon to solve them. But there are exceptions to any rule.

  Jane and Simon had reached the racecourse eventually and had spent half an hour engaging in that well-known pastime of looking for a needle in a haystack.

  Ì never thought there'd be such a crowd on a weekday,' said Simon.

  `Haven't these people got jobs to go to?'

  Ì except they're all schoolteachers up from Lancashire,' remarked Jane drily.

  They were not helped by never having seen Malcolm Priest in the flesh.

  Armed only with the football photograph (ÒK,' admitted Simon, ìt does look like a bruise') and the internet-generated image of Malcolm and Jamie going to court, it was not a simple task.

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  Jane rang Colin Stewart and asked him if he knew what kind of car Priest would be driving. He called back after a couple of minutes with the information - a black BMW What's more he supplied the registration number. Jane reckoned she owed the young detective a drink or two.

  Ìf we can spot his vehicle,' she said to Simon, `then at least we'll know he's at the course.'

  Simon regarded her sardonically. `There's a few car parks here, you know.

 
We'd be better off watching the exits. Or the men's bogs.'

  Jane ignored him and caught the attention of a passing steward. A few moments later she was hustling Simon past the bookies in the ring, away from the stands. Ahead could be seen lines of cars parked alongside the track.

  `That's where the owners and trainers park, apparently. I bet that's where he's put his car.'

  They looked across the vista of stationary vehicles. `Bloody hell, Jane!'

  Simon cried. `That's him!'

  She saw him at the same time - a tall, square-shouldered figure standing at the open door of a black saloon, facing another man across the roof of the car. Jamie Hutchison.

  Then her view of the jockey was blocked out by a large bulky man, moving awkwardly, supported by a broad-beamed middle-aged woman.

  The pair moved slowly along the path, heading directly towards the BMW

  Jane's attention was on Malcolm Priest. `Quick, Simon,' she said, striding forward, `before he gets away.'

  Clem's breath whistled and spluttered in his ruined chest, the sound of it deafening in his ears. Surely Hutchison could hear him puffing like a steam train?

  He was close now, just the width of a car away. Near enough. His limbs were as heavy as lead and he raised the gun in slow motion.

  He held it at arm's length in both hands, like he'd seen in the movies, and aimed at the back of the jockey's head. The gun-sight wobbled in his shaky grasp.

  He had to be quick.

  He forced his hands to be still.

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  `Get in, mate. 1 want to beat the traffic.' Malcolm sounded impatient.

  Jamie opened the car door. He supposed he had been yakking on a bit.

  There was plenty of time to talk on the journey.

  As he ducked to step inside there was an almighty bang in his ear and he pitched forward. A bomb, he thought stupidly.

  There were more bangs and the sound of shattering glass. Jamie crouched in the well of the car, his face pressing against the rubber footmat. He was aware of shouts and scuffling close by.

  A voice cried, `Police! Don't move!' but he scarcely registered the words.

  His attention was fixed straight ahead as he looked through the car and out of the open door on the driver's side. Lying on the ground, his brother-in-law and good friend Malcolm stared sightlessly up at the sky, a wet red hole in his neck.

  The train was pulling in, thank God. All Dave had to do was give Pippa a quick peck on the cheek and hop on board, out of her life. Despite what he'd said about keeping in touch, he knew he wouldn't. Best not to, all things considered.

  She'd stopped haranguing him five minutes back but she'd refused to go.

  Instead she'd accompanied him onto the platform, a hurt and reproachful presence by his side.

  `This is it then,' he said, turning to her.

  Her mobile rang and she glanced at the incoming number. Ìt's Jamie,' she said. `Probably wondering where I've got to.'

  Dave hoisted his pack. `Tell him cheerio from me.'

  She had the phone to her ear. `Tell him yourself. He wants to talk to you.'

  Dave took the little instrument with reluctance. He'd been through all this with Jamie. Carlisle passengers were alighting from the train, taking their time with cases and bags. Their southern-bound replacements hefted their luggage impatiently. Dave still had time.

  `Yes, Jamie?'

  He listened with increasing concentration. And disbelief. The passengers rearranged themselves on the train and doors began to slam shut.

  Pippa jostled his arm. `You're going to miss it.'

  He cut off the call and pointed to a bench. `Sit down, Pippa.' `But what about the train?'

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  `Forget the train. Just sit down.'

  `He changed your mind? You're not going after all?' He nodded and her face lit up.

  This was going to be hard. They watched the train depart. And after all the noise and activity had died away, he told her about Malcolm.

  Epilogue

  4 May, 2002

  It was a pity, Jane thought, that you couldn't put the dead on trial. Even though Malcolm Priest was no longer among the living, natural justice surely demanded a public airing of his crimes.

  But though it wasn't possible to try a corpse, it was necessary to mount a case against a man who was half dead. Clem Kirkstall had suffered a heart attack on the day after he'd tried to kill Jamie Hutchison and had been in hospital, under police surveillance, ever since. According to the doctors, he was unlikely to live long enough to take his place in the dock.

  Jane had been busy since the shooting at Carlisle Racecourse. With three murder enquiries spread across three regional police forces, she was much in demand.

  Ì'm thinking of retiring and writing a book,' she said to Simon as he entered the bedroom with a breakfast tray. He was wearing a pair of Calvin Klein boxer shorts. Whereas she herself - as she had pointed out to him the night before - preferred to sleep a la Marilyn Monroe, dressed in just a dab of perfume.

  `What kind of book?' he asked, as he set about arranging coffee cups and plates on the bedside table. He seemed to have magicked fresh orange juice and croissants out of the air as well. She could get used to this.

  `True crime. The wicked deeds of Malcolm Priest. I've got tons of stuff on him now. Did you know he was discharged from the Army after an accident in an armoured car? Malcolm ran over one of his own men. He never was the safest driver.'

  Simon reclaimed his place on the other side of the bed. `Will I get a mention in this epic?' he asked.

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  `You are the sceptical Mr. Plod who refused to listen to the brilliant insights of your colleague and superior i.e. me. However, you do redeem yourself in the end.'

  And that he had. Jane's theories about Malcolm would have remained wild speculation but for Simon, who had reminded Jane that certain items from the original crime scene had been preserved in the hope of yielding a DNA match with the perpetrators of the crime. These included cigarette ends, used paper tissues and soft drink cans, most of which had been discarded by the firefighters and spectators who had gathered to rubberneck the blaze.

  But Simon had been remorseless in chivvying the laboratory for a test on everything, and they had finally matched Malcolm's DNA with that on a cud of chewing-gum picked off the pavement outside the cottage. It was the link that had turned Jane's pie-in-the sky theories about the Bonfire Night Murders into something more earthbound.

  Confirmation of Malcolm's culpability in Alan Kirkstall's death had been easier to prove. Unable to stand up to some probing police interrogation, Richard Priest had admitted that his brother had been driving and that he'd lied to protect him. He'd failed to shield his father, who had supported the brothers after the event, and the pair of them now faced a charge of conspiring to pervert the course of justice. It was a pity that Malcom wasn't able to stand trial alongside them. In a funny way, Jane felt sorry for Richard. With a father and brother like that, she imagined it would have been hard for him not to swim with the tide.

  The person Jane felt most sympathy for, however, was Clem. She gathered from her Cumbrian colleagues that, when the doctors had finally allowed them to interview him, he had been consumed with remorse. He was convinced that he'd murdered the wrong man.

  It had given her great pleasure to visit the dying man and reveal that he had avenged his son after all - even if it had only been by accident. `Marie told me Jamie didn't do it,' Clem had whispered, so softly that she'd had to lean close to his bedside to catch his words. Ì didn't believe her.'

  `But you must, she's telling the truth.'

  `What a great fool I am,' he'd said but she didn't agree. She thought he was a bit of a hero.

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  She turned now to Simon, who was sitting up in bed by her side. Àren't you eating?'

  Ìt's more fun watching you,' he said, leering as the crumbs from her croissant settled on the slopes of her breasts.

  She blushed und
er his gaze. Things were turning out better than she'd thought possible.

  The day before, she'd finally met Colin Stewart who told her the Coroner was scheduling an inquest into Beverley Harris's death.

  Ì'm sure Malcolm killed her,' he said as they sat down. `Just like you said straight off. Very impressive, ma'am.'

  She accepted his praise gracefully. He looked even younger than she had imagined. But there was no denying he was competent.

  `We turned up a witness who saw a man get out of a black BMW near Beverley's cottage on the evening she died. An old lady who lived round the corner. A bit of a curtain-twitcher obviously but worth her weight in gold, I reckon.'

  Jane agreed. `Nosy old ladies are often a better bet than a CCTV camera.'

  `This one, Mrs. Thomson, can't remember much about the man but she does recall he was carrying a big display of flowers. Roses and carnations, she says, scarlet and white. Jamie Hutchison says that when his brother-in-law came home that night he had a large flower display which he said was a peace-offering for his wife, with whom he'd had a row. Mrs. Priest confirms the flowers - red roses and white carnations - and also the row.

  Guess what it was about?'

  He didn't wait for her answer. `Beverley Harris. She'd rung Mrs. Priest and claimed Malcolm had been propositioning her. Of course, he'd been doing more than that. Apart from Karen Robinson's testimony, we found Malcolm's DNA and prints all over the bedroom.'

  `Well done, Colin. You've convinced me.'

  `Wait. That's not all.' He was anxious to give her the whole picture. `We took away some of his clothes for examination and found a key in a trouser pocket. The key to Beverley Harris's bathroom. I reckon he pocketed it just before she went into the bathroom, in case she got all modest and locked him out. Then he forgot to put it back.'

  301

  `The fatal mistake. Murderers usually make one. Though I suppose he might have got away with it.'