Declared Dead

by John Francome

  George didn't take a lot of interest in the next race and made no attempt to offer competitive odds. He was content to take the occasional bet from his credit customers and once the runners were off, he left his position and walked briskly through the gate that led to the members' entrance and on towards the ground floor bar below the stands. I followed him and waited until he had placed his order, then walked up to the bar beside him and asked the girl serving for a gin and tonic. Musgrave appeared immune to my presence as he went on studying the Stock Market prices in his copy of the Independent. I tapped him on the shoulder and introduced myself:

  'Mr Musgrave. Victoria Pryde. I don't think we've met but I believe we've spoken on the phone. You remember, the evening of the Gold Cup.'

  If looks could kill, they could have sent there and then for the undertaker.

  'I think you've made a mistake,' he replied, folding up his paper and downing his whisky. 'I make a point of not talking to jockeys. It can get you into trouble with the authorities and I have no intention of losing my licence. Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Pryde. I must go and look after my customers for the next race.'

  I grabbed him by the arm, although he quickly and firmly removed my hand. I let him have it. 'That sounds very noble, Mr Musgrave. No doubt you told them that Brennan's horse wouldn't win in the last, that Fainthearted wouldn't be allowed to win at Worcester last time out and that I was meant to be on a non-trier at Cheltenham.'

  His expression showed I had hit a raw nerve and for a brief moment I thought he was going to strike me. He quickly recovered his composure as the bar filled up with racegoers. He moved even closer to me so that our bodies were almost touching and he couldn't be overheard.

  'You'd better watch what you go round saying or I'll have my lawyers onto you.'

  He was making a real effort to control his temper and I had no intention of helping him. 'Really? Surely not your lawyers! No doubt you would also ask them to explain to you the consequences of taking bets off course and not paying tax on them. I think they call it fraud. If they want some proof on that score tell them not to hesitate to get in touch with me. It would be such a tragic end to your career as a bookmaker.'

  He poked me menacingly in the ribs. 'You're a dead person,' was all he said before striding out of the bar. George Musgrave apparently decided not to bet on the final two races, judging by the empty space which suddenly appeared on the rails. I was left wondering' what his next step would be while having no doubt about mine. I telephoned my mother in Wincanton and asked her to come and collect Freddie. It was time he took a holiday.

  * * *

  I drove on into London and that evening had dinner with Amy. It was a welcome relaxation from my own problems to catch up on the latest developments in her social life and hear about the men who were vying to win her favours. You somehow don't think of lawyers as having sex lives. By all accounts her admirers divided into two groups: barristers who took themselves extremely seriously and regarded it as an outrageous snub to their amour propre when she refused to go to bed with them and journalists who spent the evening disclosing their sources over bottles of champagne and were then too drunk to remember what happened next. I thoroughly enjoyed her company and admired her ability to shake off in her spare time the shackles of her serious and demanding professional life.

  I left her flat just before midnight, after endless cups of black coffee, and began the long drive to Ralph's yard in the Cotswolds. Traffic was light, and an hour and half later I was heading away from Cirencester on the last twenty miles of the journey through the countryside. As I drove along I took stock of my investigations to date. Viewed dispassionately, they were long on effort and short on success. I was no wiser as to Corcoran's whereabouts and had succeeded in antagonising Lord Pryde (not altogether unintentionally) and extracting a death threat from George Musgrave. I hadn't yet mustered the courage to confront Sir Arthur Drewe with his extra-curricular activities. It was all very well going round planting mines, and even watching the explosions, but I was no nearer discovering who really had murdered Edward. All I could hope was that his assailant might try the same tactics on me and thereby expose himself. It was a risky and dangerous ploy on my part and that was why I had decided that the time was right to keep Freddie well out of it.

  I had no idea how long I had been followed. At first I had assumed that the car about a quarter of a mile behind was just another late traveller returning home and I hadn't paid any further attention. I had been perfectly content to cruise along listening to a Tina Turner tape and pondering my next moves. I would probably not even have noticed the car if I hadn't overshot the turning to Stow on the Wold and had to reverse twenty yards to take it. My pursuer had been far enough behind not to make the same error, but I had no doubt that he was also taken by surprise by my late manoeuvre and his brakes screeched as he jammed them on to make the turning. From then on he kept his distance, accelerating and slowing down to match my own changes of pace. He was somehow always just that one bend behind and each time I thought I had shaken him off, the lights of his car would reappear in my mirror.

  I told myself not to panic, that if I drove speedily yet carefully I would reach Ralph's without being caught. I would then hoot my horn as I came up the drive, waking everybody up, but at least scaring the tail away. My only problem was that there were still fifteen miles or so left to go, through winding countryside, and I was also in no doubt that I had the less powerful engine. Combe Hardy was about two miles ahead and I remembered that there was a pub there. It was well after closing time, although there might just be a chance that the landlord was still up. I decided that if there was a light on as I approached, I would take a late turn into the car park, run from the car screaming rape and bang on the door for help. I would probably be taken for a neurotic woman who was imagining things but that was better than being murdered or whatever other fate was being planned for me.

  I thought of Freddie and Tom and whether I would ever see them again. I looked in the mirror. He was still there all right. I assumed he was on his own, although without street lighting and any cars coming in the opposite direction to illuminate the road behind, I couldn't be sure. I accelerated as we reached Combe Hardy, hoping to give the impression that I was going to drive straight through. I looked in desperation for a light, any light, in the pub ahead. Alas, like the rest of the village, it was in darkness. I kept my foot on the accelerator and sped on into the night and the long desolate stretch of road across the hills which led to the next village of Charlton Bywater. He now drew even closer, almost flirting with my rear bumper, his headlights blinding me with their glare. All I could do was to move over to the centre of the road to stop him overtaking.

  My attention was so consumed with these antics that J nearly hit the oncoming car. Appearing at sixty miles an hour out of the darkness, it swerved to avoid me and then repeated the manoeuvre just in time to avoid colliding with my shadow. For one brief moment, as the car flashed past, its lights caught the face of my would-be assailant, yet all I could make out was the silhouette of the driver crouched low behind the wheel. For a second I lost my concentration and he seized his chance. Forcing his way past, he cut in sharply ahead of me. Instinctively, I swerved to avoid running into him, steering the car off the road and to my horror down the hill to my left. As I somersaulted I tucked my head into my chest as if I had fallen from a horse and was rolling over to avoid the other runners. I held my breath and waited for the end.

  I hit the tree just as the engine cut out and came to rest upside down. I couldn't believe it: I was alive. Drops of blood trickled down my face and into my hair, but I didn't care. The important thing was I had survived. I tried my fingers. They all moved. I had forgotten about my legs. Without them I could never ride again. The front of the car had caved in on impact and the dashboard and steering wheel had been shoved forward to within a few inches of me. I wiggled my toes inside my shoes and kicked out with my legs. I thanked God I wasn't paralysed. My back
ached but it wasn't so painful that I couldn't shift it slowly side to side. The stock-taking was going well.

  I think it was the sound of a twig snapping that told me someone was out there. It had never occurred to me that he would come back. I wanted to scream for help, yet there was no point. I was in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night, and trapped upside down in the front seat of a wrecked car. It would be the final irony if both Edward and I met our deaths in a motor car. I regretted not joining the RAC.

  I could make out the sound of footsteps more clearly now, moving slowly and deliberately around the back of the car. He was certainly taking his time, no doubt waiting to see if I was still alive. I wondered whether he would go away if he thought I was dead. Or maybe he wanted to take no chances and be absolutely certain. A well-aimed blow to the forehead would almost certainly be put down to the crash. I could just see it in the papers: TRAGIC DEATH CAUSED BY JOCKEY'S CARELESS DRIVING. That other oncoming car would be able to say how fast I had been travelling and I would go down as just another statistic in the year's toll of fatal road accidents.

  I looked around the car. Just below me on the floor – or was it the roof? – lay a bottle of cologne spray which I kept in the glove compartment. It must have fallen out as we came down the hill. I stretched out the fingers of my left hand and grabbed it. I was just in time before a torch shone through the window of the passenger seat. I kept my eyes closed and remained motionless. I could catch the filter of light as the torch was carried round to my side of the car. I held my breath. A hand rattled the handle but to no avail. The door had jammed tight. Now I was locked in and he was locked out. Not for long.

  There was a short pause and then pieces of glass flew into my face as he smashed the window. I kept my eyes closed, praying and hoping that he would first examine me to see if I was dead. I could sense a hand feeling for the door handle beside me and then tugging at it and wrenching the door open. It was then I moved. Releasing the safety belt with my right hand I rolled out onto the grass, and at the same time squirted the spray upwards in the direction of the impenetrable face behind the torch. And then I ran as fast as my aching legs could take me. I didn't look round to see if I was being followed – I was once cautioned by the stewards for doing that at Towcester when I nearly got caught on the line – and headed I knew not where. Twenty minutes later, and utterly exhausted, I found myself in the outbuildings of a farm and, deciding that I must have shaken him off, collapsed exhausted on a bed of straw in the nearest barn.

  * * *

  The Friesian cow who came to take my breakfast order did not seem in the least perplexed by my presence and soon wandered away to continue with her own munching. I was anxious not to be asked 'any questions by the farmer who had unwittingly provided me with hospitality and made at once for the nearest village. After a two-mile walk, I found a telephone box and called Ralph. I hadn't been missed. When I had failed to show up to ride out the first lot, they had assumed I had stayed on overnight at Amy's and was motoring down first thing. I told Ralph what had happened and his first question was whether I had reported it to the police.

  'Not yet,' I replied, 'and I'm not sure I will. They won't believe me and all that will happen is I'll be charged with driving without due care and attention.'

  'We'll see about that. If someone really tried to kill you last night it's a serious matter and the police have to investigate.'

  'Ralph, there's no if about it. Whoever was driving that car last night also killed Edward, I'm certain of it.'

  'Hold on, Victoria. You're almost certainly still in a state of shock and shouldn't jump to conclusions. Wait there and I'll be over in, say, twenty-five minutes. Where did you say the car was again?'

  'On its back in a field somewhere off the Combe Hardy and Charlton Bywater road. If you collect me first we can go and find it together. Please don't be long.' I told him where I was again, according to the sign in the telephone box, and then rang Amy. She at least had no trouble believing me.

  'The police won't,' she warned, corroborating my own instinct. 'It stands to reason. Everyone who drives off the road blames it on some other lunatic.'

  She was right. By the time Ralph had picked me up and we had located the car, the police were already on the scene. From the local bobby's very first question, when he asked how I could explain the skid marks up on the road, I knew that my account would be treated with ridicule. I saw no point in telling him about the final incident after the crash and confined myself to an account of how I had been followed and forced off the road by a driver I couldn't identify in a car whose number plates I never noticed and whose make remained a mystery to me. I gave Ralph a dirty look when he tried to interrupt. The bobby's last question left me in no doubt about the way his methodical mind was working.

  'Had you had anything to drink last night with your meal, Madam?' I admitted that I had drunk about half a bottle of wine in the course of the evening. The knowing way the officer shook his head made me wonder whether I was going to be charged with driving under the influence as well as with sundry other road traffic offences.

  Ralph drove me home and I was having a much needed bath when Mrs Drummond called. I rushed downstairs to take the call, convinced that my luck had changed and that Corcoran had turned up.

  'He's in Ireland,' announced Mrs Drummond.

  'You're a marvel,' I chortled. 'How did you find out?'

  'I talked to a couple of the lads, who said that they were not surprised when he failed to return that weekend, as he had been talking about clearing off once he had sorted out a problem over here.'

  I wondered whether that was a euphemism for disposing of my husband.

  'And then by chance,' Mrs Drummond continued, 'I got a call last night from the man himself, asking to speak to Mr Radcliffe about his holiday money and unpaid wages. He obviously hadn't heard about the murder. He was pretty reluctant to talk when I said Mr Radcliffe was unavailable and all he'd tell me was that he was in County Limerick looking for work in a racing stable and wanted to be left alone. I could hardly hear him, he talked in such a quiet voice. I'm sorry, dear, he refused to be more specific or even give a forwarding address. There's always his mother, I suppose.'

  I hid my disappointment, thanked Mrs Drummond profusely for her help and told her not to hesitate to contact me again if there was any more news. I was still determined to locate and talk to Corcoran, yet wondered what realistic chance I had of finding him in Southern Ireland. That was one place in the world where if you wanted to disappear no one held it in the least bit against you.

  Chapter 9

  I had bruised my back quite badly in the crash and Ralph insisted on calling in his own doctor to examine me. Having given my body the once over and made the usual knowing noises, he declared that I had sprained my spinal ligaments and ordered me to lie on my back for the next three days. I started to protest until Ralph reminded me, in a friendly yet firm way, that I was his retained jockey and if I wanted to remain that way he expected me to make every effort to stay fit. I was, he said, entitled to do what I liked in my spare time but so long as I wanted to go on riding the horses in his yard he would give the commands when it came to my fitness. And the first command was to do what the doctor ordered.

  I realised Ralph was right. I had no desire to give up being a jockey and anyway it was the only way I knew to make a decent living. Edward's estate had only one asset, the cottage, and that had been left to Freddie. I hardly expected to be remembered in his will, whatever his legal obligations to me as his wife, but at least he had ensured that it stayed in the family.

  Being bedridden didn't mean that I was helpless. There was always the telephone, and letters to write. My first call was to James Thackeray. I had thought of leaking the details of my crash to the racing press and trying to enlist their help in tracking my attacker, but on reflection thought better of it. Apart from the real risk of having my tale greeted with the same incredulity as the police had displayed, I wanted to att
ract as little publicity as possible to my extremely amateur sleuthing. I said nothing to James about what had happened and limited myself to asking him a couple more favours.

  The first concerned Corcoran. I was still determined to locate him, and apart from travelling over to Ireland and physically combing the countryside, I decided the best approach was to make an appeal to his wallet or that of someone who now knew where he was. Accordingly I read over to James the following notice for inclusion in the next seven issues of the Sportsman:

  MICHAEL CORCORAN

  Formerly employed in Tom Radcliffe's yard at Wantage and now believed to be working or seeking employment in stables in Ireland. Would the above or anyone knowing of his whereabouts contact Amy Frost at Messrs Arthurs, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn, London. Substantial reward payable. All replies treated in strictest confidence.

  I didn't know what I meant by substantial, or for that matter where I was going to find the money to pay even a modest reward. I hoped I could deal with that particular problem as and when the occasion arose. James said he would make sure the notice would be given a prominent position in the classified section of the paper.

  The second favour concerned Musgrave. When I encountered him at Kempton Park, I had accused him of being behind Brennan's efforts to stop me winning at Worcester. I was convinced that he had been responsible for Fainthearted drifting out in the betting – knowing I wouldn't win allowed him to offer generous odds – and once again I was hoping that James's contacts in the betting world would help me find out if I was right. He agreed on one condition.