'We're very confident that the blood found near the car will match the blood found on the bronze.'
'And if they don't match?'
'We still have a murder enquiry, and until he is found your husband becomes a missing person again. But don't pin any hopes on it. That body is your husband's and what's more, we believe that Tom Radcliffe murdered him. What we don't know is whether you were in it with him. Were you?'
'Of course I wasn't. I was up all night looking after Freddie. I think you ought to know that there are many people who wanted my husband dead. You see, he was a blackmailer.'
I could have sworn the Inspector grinned.
'That's a very serious allegation to make, Mrs Pryde, particularly about a man who's in no position to defend himself.'
I proceeded to tell them all about the diary and our conversation that Friday afternoon. It was obvious from their reaction that they didn't believe me.
'Where is this diary, then?' asked the Inspector.
'I presume it was burned with him. I didn't know it even existed until the day we found it. He must have carried it about with him.'
'And why didn't you mention this before?'
'Because I hoped it wouldn't be necessary. It's not the nicest thing, you know, for my son to be brought up with his father's wrongdoings exposed in this way.'
'Very thoughtful of you. And also a very convenient explanation for what I regard as a seriously unhelpful attitude. Are you really asking us to believe that your husband was blackmailing his own father?'
'That's what I said.' I was beginning to become angry at his supercilious manner.
Wilkinson looked despairingly over at the Superintendent, who now spoke for the first time.
'The initials JP2 weren't also there by any chance were they?' he sneered.
'I'm sorry, I don't follow you.'
'Pope John Paul the Second. Quite frankly, your allegations are ridiculous and do you no credit. If your motive is to help Mr Radcliffe, you're not going the right way about it.'
Amy intervened before I could let fly. 'There's no need to be rude to my client. I expect you to follow up this particular line of enquiry. Unless you intend to charge my client, I must advise her not to answer any more questions.'
The officers looked at each other and shook their heads. 'No, that's all right. You can go for the moment, Mrs Pryde, after you sign the statement that we'll now prepare. I must warn you not to talk to anyone about this case or to try and get in touch with Mr Radcliffe. We'll have to check up about Saturday night.'
'You mean, talk to Freddie?' I started to panic.
'Unless someone else can corroborate what you've just told us.'
'Ralph, Ralph Elgar. He got up a couple of times and asked if he could help.'
'That should be all right, then.'
'Can't I see Mr Radcliffe, just for five minutes?'
'That's impossible.'
'Where is he?'
'He's still here helping us with our enquiries.'
'Will he be released today?'
'I'm afraid I'm not in any position to answer that.'
* * *
That night Amy phoned to say Tom had been charged with Edward's murder. The dried blood found near the car had matched precisely the blood sample taken from the bronze. It seemed that DNA was a truly reliable form guide. As far as the police were concerned Tom had both motive and opportunity to kill Edward. Although they couldn't pinpoint the precise time of death – bones and blood yield no such clues – they firmly believed that Tom had killed Edward after leaving the pub and that his memory block was a convenient fabrication. The final irony was that as I had admitted we were lovers, the police were intending to call me as a witness for the prosecution. According to Amy I was lucky. I had been a short head away from joining him in the dock as an accessory or accomplice. She ended the call by telling me that in the morning the police were going to apply for a warrant to search the cottage.
'Is there anything you don't want them to see?' she asked.
'Of Edward's? Nothing I can think of. They're welcome to it all.'
* * *
I lay in bed and thought of Tom. When I was an amateur, and he first started giving me rides, I thought his interest was solely platonic, a kind of peace gesture in the light of Edward's antagonism towards him. Unlike Edward, he obviously enjoyed any success I had. He was fun to be with and I found his good humour and enthusiasm a welcome antidote to Edward's ever-increasing depression and short temper. Our affair just blossomed one day.
We had driven down to Devon and Exeter where I was riding a horse for Tom in a handicap chase. When we arrived at the course, there was thick fog and racing was abandoned. Tom suggested that we went for lunch in a nearby hotel just on the edge of Dartmoor. It was cold outside and there was an enormous log fire burning on one side of the restaurant. We both had a bit too much to drink, and during lunch, Tom reached across for my hand and told me how much he loved me. I hadn't really known what to say. I wasn't certain whether I loved him but at that moment knew that I wanted to go to bed with him.
Ten minutes later, after having booked a room, we were upstairs in a warm bedroom. As soon as the door was closed, Tom pulled me gently towards him. He then took my face in his hands and kissed me softly on the lips.
'I've been wanting to do this for months.'
I didn't say anything but pulled him back against me and we began kissing again. Our tongues darted in and out, exploring and licking. He then moved his hands gently down my neck and began to undo the top buttons of my blouse. Once he had undone them far enough, I almost stopped breathing with excitement as he moved his hands slowly inside. As he began caressing my breasts, he moved his head lower, his tongue exploring the inside of my ear, and then started to kiss my neck. From being almost breathless, I was now breathing heavily and my nipples began to ache as they hardened. I hadn't felt so good in ages, and moved my hand under his jumper and began to unbutton his trousers. As I slipped my hand under the elastic of his boxer shorts and started to run my fingers gently over his smooth skin, I could hear his breathing quicken. From then on, we had all but torn the clothes off each other and had made wonderful love on the carpet.
I hadn't felt any guilt at all, and after that we had made love as often as possible, and wherever possible, until I realised that it had to stop because I had been putting my own interests above my son's. If Edward found out, he'd make sure we both suffered: I couldn't live with myself if Freddie was hurt because of my infidelity.
I had at least kept Tom's letters and now and then I used to take them from their hiding place and recall our times together. The letters! I shot up in bed. They were hidden in the cottage and their contents would be extremely damaging to Tom if the police were to find them. I had no option but to go and recover them. I dressed and slipped out of the back door of the house.
It was well past two in the morning when I arrived at the cottage. I drove past to make sure the police weren't watching it and parked the car a hundred yards down the road. I was terrified as I pushed open the front door and tiptoed across to the stairs. I didn't want to turn on the lights and decided to fetch a torch from the kitchen. I then went up to the spare room. I put my hand up the chimney of the fireplace in the corner, which we never lit. There was a small alcove inset into the wall; I'd discovered it by chance a couple of years previously. I felt about for the small package of letters. It was a month since I had last taken it out. I fumbled around on the edge of the ledge but could not feel anything. Just as I began to panic, my fingers brushed against the package. I heaved a sigh of relief. I must have pushed it further back than usual on the last occasion. I shone the torch on the packet and opened it. One last nostalgic look through before I burned them. But instead of the bundle of envelopes, I found only a few newspaper cuttings and a photograph, taken on holiday some years before, of me – naked from the waist up. I was smiling at the camera but it was Edward who had had the last laugh.
Chapte
r 6
The next day the papers were full of the news. THE CHALK PIT MURDER screamed one headline; BODY IN THE BOOT another; and even The Times had TOP JUDGE'S SON IN MURDER RIDDLE. I sometimes wondered just how many top judges there were. The Sportsman, true to form, had its own angle on the story: TRAINER'S ARREST RUINS TITLE CHANCES it proclaimed, referring to Tom's attempt to become the season's leading trainer. That particular piece of genius had all the hallmarks of James Thackeray and I decided to give him a call later in the morning. I suspected I would need an ally in the press, particularly the racing one, and there was quite a lot of information he could find out for me.
To start with, I needed to know the name of the bookmaker who had laid Cartwheel so disastrously at Cheltenham, and also how the Sportsman had come to carry the announcement that Mr Pryde was dead. Whoever had put that notice in was either a murderer or a soothsayer, and I knew that Tom Radcliffe was neither.
That morning, Tom was remanded in custody at Newbury Magistrates' Court and, according to Amy, the committal hearing was due to take place the following week. Pressure from on high meant that the trial would probably be heard within a couple of months. I felt angry and impotent but realised that neither emotion would be of much use to Tom in his present predicament.
Accepting Amy's advice, I spent the week at Ralph Elgar's refusing to take any calls. That didn't stop a journalist from one of the tabloids calling at the house and slipping through the letter box a grubby piece of paper on which was scribbled an offer for the exclusive rights to my life story. He had even spelt my surname wrongly. When I didn't reply, it was taken as a signal that the money wasn't enough and – an increased offer soon followed. Fifty thousand pounds, provided I gave full intimate details of my sex life and posed topless! Both letters ended up in the fire.
It was just as well I had decided not to ride for a week, as not one trainer had called wanting my services. Ralph told me bluntly that the gossip on the racetrack was that I'd been having an affair with Tom, and that when Edward refused to give me a divorce, I'd encouraged Tom to murder him. So the wrong person was on trial. Even Ralph was shaken when I admitted that Tom had been my lover. Suddenly it seemed everyone had at least one fond memory of Edward Pryde, whereas I was being written off as too ambitious for my own good. It was at times like these that wives rein in their husbands and no one could afford to be heard, at least in public, to adopt a forgiving attitude towards adultery. After all, that sort of thing could so easily become an epidemic.
I left it to Amy to keep me in touch with the latest developments in the police enquiries. I nurtured the forlorn hope that something at least might come of their questioning of the names in the diary, enough to establish that I wasn't lying and that other people had a motive for wanting Edward dead.
Unfortunately it only took a couple of days before I was relieved of that illusion. According to Amy's information, the police tried to interview Michael Corcoran in Tom's yard but to no avail. It appeared that he had failed to return to the lads' hostel after a day off and had not been heard of since. No one seemed unduly perturbed, as it was fairly common for stable lads to up and leave without any notice and my initial reaction was that Edward's death had given Corcoran the chance to start his life afresh. I can't say I blamed him really.
They had also approached Sir Arthur Drewe and Lord Pryde. According to Amy's source at Scotland Yard, they had both blown a fuse on being questioned, and Pryde had threatened to have Wilkinson kicked out of the force if he persisted in such an offensive and outrageous line of enquiry. Hardly surprising when you think about it: the death of a blackmailer must be a great relief to his victims.
Finally, they had carried out a cursory check on the records of all the major bookmakers, which had revealed only a handful of bets in the name of Edward Pryde. For some reason they had chosen to overlook the fact that, if I was to be believed, he was avoiding off-course betting tax and in such circumstances you would hardly expect the bookmaker concerned to record the wagers in an official ledger.
It was now apparent that I was the only person, other than his lawyers, who was prepared to work for Tom's acquittal and even then I was in the invidious position of being a potential witness for the prosecution. The problem was knowing where to begin. It was no use confronting the individuals named in Edward's diary, as in the absence of any material proof to the contrary they would just deny any knowledge or involvement. What's more, if one of them really was the killer I would be exposing myself to danger and I certainly had no desire to be a member of the honourable company of dead heroes. All this meant I had to tread carefully and cautiously and the only consolation was that I had plenty of time on my hands to do it.
Being a jockey was clearly going to be a part-time occupation for the forseeable future; the ground was beginning to firm up and Ralph had roughed-off most of his horses for the season and spare rides seemed to be few and far between. The only runners he had that week were a couple at Worcester on the Thursday and by happy coincidence one of them was Fainthearted, the horse I had pulled on Edward's orders on that very first occasion all those months ago. I could not waste this opportunity to redeem myself and to justify Ralph's continued support and I therefore decided to defer my sleuthing until after the day's racing was over.
It was the first sunny day of Spring and as Ralph and I drove to the course together we discussed the riding instructions for both the races in which he had runners. Ralph was his usual chatty self, doing his best to keep my mind off the whole business. It was clear that he was very keen on Fainthearted's chances in the first and he reiterated that I was to hold him up for a late run and if possible only hit the front just before the winning post. As an ex flat horse, Fainthearted had the intelligence to pull up as soon as he was ahead and from a jockey's point of view there was nothing more sickening than hitting the front too soon, apparently full of running, and then finding yourself coming to a standstill as if the race was over. This time Ralph wanted no mistakes and, unusually for him, he kept on repeating how he wanted the horse ridden. I just sat back and listened. Judging from his uneasy manner and disregard for the other traffic on the road I was pretty sure that he was going for a major touch and with Fainthearted carrying only ten stone four on his back there was every reason for feeling confident.
Having narrowly missed at least two collisions I was very glad when we arrived unscathed at the course. As we walked into the members' enclosure I noticed several people point at me and then turn away as we drew closer. Even the man on the gate appeared surprised to see me, as if I should be wearing widow's weeds and not racing silks. I hated being the object of such attention and for once was relieved to be the only woman jockey riding that day. As soon as Ralph had gone off to check that the horses had arrived safely at the racecourse's stables, I hurried over to enjoy the solitude of the lady jockeys' changing room. Not for us the luxury of having a valet to help us dress like our male counterparts. With the race only twenty-five minutes away, I started to undress and put on the brown and pink colours of Fainthearted's owner, glancing in the mirror to check that I was presentable. I was surprised at how suddenly I seemed to have aged. My skin had lost its glow; my eyes looked dull and soulless and I thought I could see the first grey hairs in my blonde, bobbed hair. Sighing, I picked up the saddle and went over to the weighing room to weigh out. Ralph's travelling head lad was waiting to take it from me.
'This is an absolute certainty,' he said as I handed it over. He then looked me straight in the eye: 'Try not to make a cock up at the last hurdle this time.' He didn't give me time to answer, just turned and went off to the saddling boxes. As I stood there wondering whether he knew what had happened last time, a couple of jockeys came up and said how sorry they were about what had happened to Edward.
'I know we take the piss out of you quite a lot, but seriously, if there's anything you want, just give us a shout.'
It's amazing how just a few words can lift you and I felt much better.
&nbs
p; I returned to the changing room to collect the rest of my gear and stood for a few minutes, lost in thought, looking out onto the River Severn. I could see two crews of young oarsmen straining away in enthusiastic rivalry and at that moment I envied them the pleasure of true amateurism. A tap on the door from one of the racecourse officials brought me sharply back to reality. It meant I had four minutes to get ready. I tied on my cap, pulled my goggles over it and picked up my gloves and whip. Then, taking a couple of deep breaths, I wished myself luck and skipped down the wooden steps and on towards the weighing room. This was it and I had never felt so nervous.
As I walked along, several punters sidled up to me and asked if I thought we would win. I just smiled, said nothing and muttered to myself that we better had. I joined up with the other jockeys, gaily joking amongst themselves, and finally entered the paddock where I could see Fainthearted being led around by the lad. The good weather meant that none of the horses were wearing sheets or rugs and Fainthearted's neck was already gleaming with sweat. I pulled my half-fingered gloves on in readiness for a battle with a pair of slippery reins, knowing that if I lost it he would run away with me to the start and almost certainly cart me during the race itself.
The paddock was packed with excited and ever hopeful owners and trainers, some of whom were more on their toes than their animals were. The Topley Hurdle had attracted the maximum field of twenty-eight runners although I reckoned there were only four in with a real chance. One of those was to be ridden by Eamon Brennan and I made a mental note to stay well clear of him during the race. I soon spotted Ralph in the corner, chatting with the owners, and walked over. I had barely time to reach them and say hello before the bell rang for the jockeys to get mounted.
'I don't need to tell you how to ride him,' said Ralph. He could say that again! 'Just remember to take him down to the start last and be certain you've got him well and truly settled before you put him into the race.' I nodded and turned to make my way through the throng to where Fainthearted was pulling his lad round in a very small circle.
Declared Dead Page 7
