Declared Dead

by John Francome

  'So you can look at him for the last time. I'm sure my mother will be delighted to let us stay with them pending the court proceedings.'

  'You're mad. He's your son as well, you know. Don't you love him too?'

  'I suppose so, but to be honest I love myself a great deal more.'

  * * *

  I arrived home from Cheltenham at about six-thirty, to find Freddie still finishing his tea. He was so excited to see me that I put aside my fears and threw myself into playing games with him for the next hour. We were building a space station with his Lego set when the phone rang. It was a man's voice on the line, one I didn't recognise, flat and very matter-of-fact. He asked for Edward Pryde.

  'I'm sorry, he's not back from Cheltenham. Can I give him a message?'

  There was no response at the other end.

  'Hello? Is anyone there? Who is this?' I wasn't in the mood for an obscene phone call or a practical joke.

  'My name's not important. You must be Mrs Pryde. I thought you rode a very gutsy race today. A great shame, though, about the result. Could you just tell your husband there are one or two very upset people around who'd like a word with him?'

  The line went dead. The vultures were beginning to gather.

  * * *

  The proposed carcass did not arrive home until the early hours of the morning. After putting Freddie to bed I had been inundated with phone calls from friends congratulating me on my victory and journalists trying to obtain further information on the attack in the paddock after the race. I just blamed it all on a disgruntled punter, which in one way of looking at it was true, and said that as far as I was concerned the incident was closed.

  I had been in bed for well over two hours, going over the race in my mind again and again to stop me thinking about the confrontation ahead, when I heard the sound of Edward's Jaguar pulling up outside. Through the crack in the curtains I saw the headlights go out. My heartbeat began to quicken as the key turned in the lock of the front door. He usually poured himself a nightcap before coming to bed and I listened for the sound of his footsteps as he walked to the dining-room where the whisky was kept. Only this time there was silence, save for the tick of the alarm clock beside the bed. Edward was down there all right, but where and what he was doing I had no idea. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door, opening it gently, just a little. The light was on in the kitchen and I could hear the kettle puffing as it boiled. Presumably he was making himself a cup of coffee to sober himself up. I went back to bed and waited.

  It must have been a good ten minutes before he came up the stairs, taking each step deliberately as if he was afraid of falling over. I thought of getting up and pushing him back down again in the hope he'd break his neck. Death by misadventure they would call it. I just didn't have the courage. He came to a halt outside the door and paused for what seemed an eternity. I could bear it no longer.

  'Edward. Is that you?' I asked pointlessly.

  He responded by throwing open the door and hurling a pan of boiling water towards me in the bed.

  I was lucky he was so drunk. Most of the water hit the wall behind, although some splashed on my shoulder and neck and part of my forehead. I screamed in pain and rushed past him into the bathroom and locked the door. Heart pounding, I listened to see if Freddie had woken up but fortunately there was no sound from him. For the next ten minutes I stood under a cold shower cooling off my shoulder and wondering what I should do next. I decided my only option was to sit on the floor and wait there until Edward had fallen asleep.

  About half an hour later, I could make out the sound of snoring. I tiptoed into the spare room, took his shotgun from under the bed and loaded it with two cartridges from the ammunition belt he kept above the wardrobe. I then returned to the bedroom and sat down in the rocking chair beside the window and watched him. If he woke up and threatened me or Freddie I was going to blow him away.

  It seemed unlikely to happen. He was out to the world. He lay there in front of me on his back, still in his checked racing suit, his mouth open, occasionally muttering incomprehensible half sentences punctuated by the odd tobacco-inspired cough. It was strange, almost unbelievable, to think that once upon a time I had thought him beautiful and wanted no more than to caress his soft skin and run my fingers through his thick dark curly hair. All I could see now, as I rocked back and forth, was a countenance ravaged by greed and deceit, rounded off by a lascivious mouth, which was about as sensual as an adder's tongue. And I just wished I had enough courage to pull the trigger and shoot him dead.

  * * *

  Despite my attempts to stay awake, I dozed off to a barrage of disjointed dreams and woke up at seven with the loaded shotgun balanced precariously across my knees. Edward was still lying comatose on the bed and at least that meant I could avoid any further scene for a few hours. I certainly didn't delude myself that the boiling water would be his final gesture of frustration and anger. Luckily, I had agreed to school some horses over at Wantage and three quarters of an hour later, after dressing Freddie and leaving him with Mrs Parsons in the village, I arrived at Tom Radcliffe's yard. It was, as usual, bustling with activity and Tom himself was waiting to greet me.

  'Hail the conquering hero!' he shouted. 'We were worried that now you've ridden the winner of the Gold Cup you might consider schooling a couple of novice chasers beneath your dignity.'

  I grinned. 'Well, I must admit I was tempted to go back to sleep after the butler served me breakfast in bed, but then I thought I'd better help out a poor struggling trainer.'

  Tom grinned and hugged me and as he did so I almost burst into tears. He was big and slightly overweight but as strong as an ox, and after what Edward had done I suddenly needed to feel safe.

  In fact, Tom was anything but struggling. In the five years he had held a licence he had sent out a continual stream of winners and was now one of the top trainers in the country. What's more, he had achieved his success without the backing of rich parents or social connections.

  He'd had a few rides as an apprentice jockey but by his own admission was never very good and had soon given up. It was then he was offered a job as travelling head lad to Ron Cox, who trained over a hundred horses on the flat in Newmarket, and Tom had never looked back. He'd been blessed with a gift for understanding horses and knew exactly what distances and going they preferred but, more importantly, he could tell to the minute when they were right.

  In no time at all he had made quite a lot of money by backing Cox's horses and word of his success soon spread around the small world of the racing industry. He then found that he no longer had to risk his own money. Punters were actually putting money on for him in return for information. In his first flat season Tom had won or earned over £15,000 from betting, but his success was beginning to cause friction between himself and his boss. Word was going around that if you wanted to know how one of the horses from Ron Cox's was likely to run, you asked Tom and not the trainer.

  The situation came to a head the following spring in the first big flat race of the season, the Lincoln Handicap at Doncaster. Ron had entered a four-year-old bay colt called Tuneful, which Tom had been riding out at home throughout the winter. He could tell that the horse had grown much stronger during the off-season and had been backing it through his punters since early February, when the horse had begun to work well at home. Tom calculated that he would win the best part of £100,000 if Tuneful did the business, but then two days before the race, Ron declared that the horse wouldn't run because he didn't think that it was fit enough. They had had a stand-up row in the middle of the yard and Tom had taken the liberty of telephoning the horse's owner and offering to refund his entry fee and all of his travelling costs if the horse didn't win. That had been enough to persuade the owner and the horse had duly taken his chance and won in a photo-finish from another Newmarket-trained horse.

  Tom didn't wait to be given the sack. He handed his notice in and with his winnings moved to Wantage and set up as a trainer on his own
. He knew that he couldn't afford to buy the type of horses needed to compete successfully on the flat, and for that reason had concentrated on the National Hunt game. He'd begun with twelve horses, owned mostly by his original band of punters, but now trained over seventy horses owned by some of the most respected people in the country.

  Tom stood for everything Edward most resented, although perversely, it was Edward who had been one of the first to recognise his ability. And at a time when he had been flush with money, he had been one of the initial owners to send Tom a horse. The horse had been a novice hurdler called Without Prejudice and had won his first three races by a distance. It looked as though he might one day be good enough to run in the Champion Hurdle, and Edward was offered a lot of money for him, but after much debating Tom had persuaded Edward to keep the horse. It was sod's law that on his very next run the horse had broken down and Edward had, of course, blamed Tom. Poor Tom. He had understandably felt guilty about what had happened and had waived six months' unpaid training fees, but Edward had still remained convinced that somehow he'd been cheated. Thereafter, he'd devoted himself to bad-mouthing Tom around the racecourse, happily to no avail, and Tom had continued to give me rides.

  'Hey, what's this?' Tom had noticed the marks on my neck. 'I read about the cut to your lip, but how did this happen?' He eyed me suspiciously as if he already knew the answer.

  'It's nothing. A silly accident last night when I was frying some chips,' I lied clumsily.

  'Frying chips? Who are you kidding? I know you don't have a weight problem and that rosy complexion hasn't come from eating greasy food. You never eat chips and you know it.'

  'They were for Edward.'

  'What? Do you mean that he didn't even have the decency to take you out to dinner to celebrate? Typical. Or perhaps he had nothing to celebrate. I saw him in the Mandarin bar immediately after your victory and he didn't look best pleased. Sick more like. That husband of yours couldn't back the winner of a walk-over and there's a rumour going round that he really is in bother this time. That kind of talk doesn't do you much good either.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Gambling debts breed crooked jockeys.'

  I looked at him and wondered whether he knew more than he was letting on. I decided to change the subject. 'Where are these horses I'm meant to be schooling?' I turned to walk towards the boxes and as I did so Tom grabbed hold of my arm.

  'Hey, Victoria, not so fast.' He pointed again at my neck. 'He did that, didn't he? Don't answer then. And all this stuff in the papers about a disgruntled punter attacking you. That was him as well, wasn't it? I'm beginning to think this has gone on long enough. If I get my hands on that bastard I'm…'

  The tears began to well up in my eyes.

  'Please, Tom, don't. I can't stand any more trouble at the moment. If anyone is going to have the pleasure of killing Edward, I want it to be me.'

  I turned round to see Tom's head lad, Jamie Brown, standing there with a riding helmet in his hand. I had no idea how long he had been listening and frankly, in my present mood, I really didn't care.

  * * *

  After an hour's schooling, I was desperate for something to eat and readily accepted Tom's invitation to breakfast. He'd had a couple of steady girlfriends but had so far managed to escape marriage, largely due to a middle-aged Scots dragon called Mrs Drummond. It was rumoured that she terrified everybody in the yard, including even the head lad, and she had certainly succeeded in driving away a number of girls who fancied turning Tom's stables into a love nest. Because I was married, and happily so far as she was concerned, Mrs Drummond always gave me a warm welcome. That my grandmother also came from Inverness was an additional factor in my favour.

  We sat down to an enormous helping of bacon and eggs and Tom tried hard to make me laugh by reading out loud from the morning's edition of the Sportsman. Staring out from the front page was a picture of yours truly, grinning in her racing silks, and beside it the banner headline proclaimed: 'PRYDE'S VICTORY COMES BEFORE A FALL'

  'What a dreadful pun!' said Tom. 'I can't believe they actually pay someone to write this rubbish.'

  'It's probably one of James Thackeray's. He loves that kind of thing.'

  Tom chuckled. 'That clown! The only literary thing about him is his surname. Listen to this piece of purple prose:

  "Yet again the Blue Riband of racing produced a sensational climax to the festival meeting. Under an inspired, if not always elegant, ride from dashing professional Victoria Pryde, Cartwheel put his nose in front on the line to rob Irish hotpot, Pride of Limerick, of victory. But the drama didn't end there. No sooner were they past the post and disappointed Irish punters heading for the bar, than a stewards' inquiry was announced. Thousands of anxious racegoers held their breath and their betting slips for what seemed an eternity as the stewards, led by Brigadier-General Allsopp, decided whether Pryde should keep the race and earn herself a place in the history books as the first woman to ride the winner of the Gold Cup. Irish maestro Eamon Brennan, rider of Pride of Limerick, was confident that the placings would be reversed, claiming that Victoria's inability to keep a straight line had cost his mount the Cup. The stewards thought otherwise, and all those who snapped up the generous 5-1 on offer on Cartwheel were soon celebrating their good judgment. Unfortunately for Victoria, her joy was short-lived. Returning to change after being interviewed on television, she was struck to the ground by an unidentified man and, as a result, left the course nursing a cut lip. The police are investigating the assault, which they believe to have been committed by a disgruntled punter."

  'Disgruntled punter!' Tom put the paper down and snorted. 'On that basis, there must be at least two million suspects. I'm surprised to see that Cartwheel started as long as 5-1.'

  'I suppose it must have been because of all that money on Pride of Limerick. You know how the Irish pile in when their blood's up.'

  Tom nodded. 'I suppose so, but even then you don't tend to find the bookies being that much more generous about the opposition. Sometimes I think we're in the wrong business. Let's see what the betting report says.' He turned to one of the inside pages of the paper, which always carried a short summary of the betting on every race. 'Here, look at this. "One of the features of yesterday's race was the generous odds laid on Cartwheel. One rails bookmaker is rumoured to have laid the horse to lose over a quarter of a million pounds." There's one person, then, who doesn't have you as his pin-up.'

  I smiled nervously and wondered whether there could be any connection between that unnamed bookmaker, my less than happy husband and the previous night's phone call. It was a subject that for the moment I wanted to put out of my mind.

  I had been booked to ride a novice chaser for Ralph Elgar that afternoon at Lingfield and with the heavy overnight rain there was a chance he had decided not to risk him. I asked Tom if I could give Ralph a ring and find out what was going on.

  He waved me to the phone: 'It's all yours. Tell him you've decided to spend the day with a real trainer.'

  Ralph answered almost before the tone had rung out. 'Victoria?' he boomed. 'Thank God! Where the hell are you? I've been trying to get hold of you all morning. Your husband claimed to have no idea where you were and gave me an earful for waking him up so early.'

  'I'm sorry. I'm down at Tom Radcliffe's, doing a bit of schooling.'

  'It's Edward you should be schooling, in some manners.'

  I chose to ignore the jibe. 'Is Lingfield still on?' I asked.

  'The racing is, but Mainbrace isn't running. I've checked with the Clerk of the Course and as the going's so heavy we're allowed to withdraw without incurring a penalty. I've discussed it with the owner and she's not prepared to take the chance. That means you've got a day off and if you want my advice, and you're going to get it anyway, you won't spend it with that rascal Radcliffe.'

  'Don't be so cruel. He's very nice really. In fact, I'm going off any minute to see a friend in London.'

  'London? That's the last place
you'd catch me spending a free day. Ah well, it takes all sorts. Make sure you look after yourself: you know you're my favourite girl jockey!'

  'I know, and I'm also your only girl jockey!'

  I put the phone down and smiled at Tom. 'Good old Ralph. I owe him so much.'

  'Dirty beast. I reckon he's got a soft spot for you.'

  'Who, Ralph? Don't be ridiculous! He's twice my age.'

  'When's that ever stopped anybody? By the way, who's this friend you're going to see in London? Is he anyone I know?'

  'That'd be telling. But for your information, it's a she.'

  * * *

  I drove to Didcot station and took the next train to town. An hour and a half later, I was sitting in the lounge of the Waldorf Hotel in the Aldwych having coffee with Amy Frost, an up and coming solicitor and old school friend. Even though she had been against my marrying Edward and studiously avoided his company ever since, Amy had remained loyal and supportive to me and if anybody could help me now it was going to be she. I told her the whole story, beginning with the Worcester race and ending with the previous night's attack with the boiling water. She listened impassively, even making the occasional note on a jotting pad perched on her shapely crossed legs.

  'So there it is,' I concluded. 'My husband's a vicious and egotistical lunatic who is knee-deep in debt and it seems I can't leave him without losing custody of my child. Is he really right when he says the courts would prefer him to look after Freddie rather than me?'

  Amy picked up her coffee. 'It's not quite as simple as that. I suppose you've seen the announcement in this morning's papers?'

  'No, why? I read the Sportsman on the train and planned how I could do away with my husband without being caught. Weedkiller ought to do the trick.'

  'I'll treat that as a joke. It's your beloved father-in-law. He's just been appointed Lord Chief Justice, probably the most important legal job in the land.'