Declared Dead

by John Francome

  'That I wasn't trying and all that stuff. You know they've sent me to Portman Square?'

  'I've heard. Are you going to be represented? I would if I were you, you know.'

  'I hadn't thought about it. You're probably right, although I've got enough problems with lawyers at the moment.'

  'Poor you. You're still certain Radcliffe is innocent then?'

  'You know I am, and that's why I'm calling. You ready?'

  'At your service. I'll do anything for a pretty face. You'll remember to give me first refusal on the serial rights after the trial?'

  'You and the rest of Fleet Street! Got a pen handy? Right, could you find out everything you can – you know what I mean, family, clubs, interests, etcetera – about Sir Arthur Drewe and Eamon Brennan?'

  'You mean the Drewe who stands as a steward?'

  'That's the one.'

  'I'll do what I can, although I don't see Eamon Brennan having many interests outside racing. He's the only jockey I know who wears blinkers off course.'

  I laughed. 'Just do what you can, please. I'll be here all tomorrow if you call.'

  'Blimey, you don't give a man much time! I'm not going racing tomorrow, though, so you may well hear from me. In the meantime, Victoria, keep your pecker up.'

  My next call was to Amy and she readily agreed to provide me with the legal low-down on my father-in-law, the Lord Chief Justice. That left just Michael Corcoran. In his case I decided that the best approach would be to visit Tom's yard, which reminded me that I still had a bone to pick with his head lad, Jamie Brown.

  The next morning a letter arrived from solicitors acting on behalf of my parents-in-law. Judging by the weight of the notepaper, they had retained a top and no doubt extremely expensive city firm, whose partners' names had more barrels than a brewery. The letter itself made grim reading:

  'Dear Madam,

  We have been instructed by Lord and Lady Pryde concerning the well-being of their grandchild Frederick Clifford Pryde. We understand that Master Pryde is at present staying with you at the above address.

  It is our clients' considered view that, in the light of the recent tragic events involving the death of their son, you are not a fit and proper person to have custody or care and control of the child. The purpose of this letter is to put you on notice that, following the hearing of the trial of Regina v Radcliffe, our clients will apply to the Family Division of the High Court to have their grandson made a ward of court. We hope that you will accept that such an action is in his interest which, as you will no doubt appreciate, is the paramount concern in such a situation.

  We respectfully suggest that you show the contents of this letter to your own legal advisers.

  Yours faithfully'

  It was followed by an unintelligible signature.

  With the greatest respect to Lord and Lady Pryde, and for that matter their solicitors, I had absolutely no intention of giving up my own child. Freddie was essentially a happy young boy whose father had been a skunk. I intended to make sure the rest of his life was carefree and secure. From what I knew about Lord and Lady Pryde, fun was in strictly limited supply. Still fuming, I took Freddie out riding and returned shortly before lunch to find a message to call Amy.

  She had been as efficient as ever.

  'Here you are, a layman's guide to Lord Pryde culled from a variety of sources – including Who's Who, a couple of friends of mine at the Bar, and my father, who it turns out was at school with him. All dad can remember is that he's a diabetic. Ready? Some of this you'll no doubt know.'

  I picked up my pen. 'Fire away!'

  'Gerald Clifford Pryde, sixty-four this year. Educated at Marlborough and Brasenose College, Oxford, where he won the Coltart Prize for Jurisprudence. Called to the Bar two years later. Member of Lincoln's Inn. Became a Queen's Counsel after enjoying enormous success, particularly in criminal cases, where his grasp of detail and ability to master heavy briefs in fraud trials was legendary. Became Recorder of Bicester and Chancellor of the Four Arches, whatever that is, a year later. Chaired the Government Inquiry into the Rocamadour Takeover, and is a member of the Committee for Legal Reform. Author of A Guideline to Sentencing of Juveniles and Delinquents – that sounds like a bundle of laughs – and The Origins of Latin Maxims. Must remember that one for Christmas! Appointed to the High Court bench eight years ago. Three years later became a Lord Justice. The rest, as they say, is history. Reputation for being a tough sentencer and an arch conservative. Not that popular with Counsel, who reckon that he forgets that he was once a barrister himself and ought to know that it's not always Counsel's fault that things go wrong. Clubs: Garrick and Athenaeum.'

  'Remind me about family details.'

  'Hold on a sec. Married Eleanor, nee Grime. One son, Edward. Aren't Grimes the cereal people?'

  'Yes. She's the one with the money. Keeps a pretty tight hold over her husband, which probably explains that little slip on his part. Interests?'

  'Theatre, but they all say that. Bridge, and numismatics.'

  'Coin collecting? I never knew that. Probably started when he married old Eleanor. What's his address in London?' I knew that, in addition to their house in Oxford, the Prydes had recently taken the lease on a flat in one of the Inns of Court.

  'It's in Lincoln's Inn. You'll have to ask the porter, and even if he tells you, there are bound to be security guards.'

  'Don't worry, I'm sure he'll see his daughter-in-law when he hears what it's about.'

  'Another secret?'

  'No. I've received a letter from his solicitors threatening to make Freddie a ward of court. When I'm ready to see the old man, I'm going to use that as a pretext.'

  'And your real reason?'

  'There are some things I don't even want to tell my lawyer yet!'

  I had no sooner put the phone down than it rang again. The second leg of the double had come up.

  'James here. Pen and paper handy?'

  I told him to let it flow.

  'Well, let's start with Eamon Brennan. It's funny what you discover about these jocks. Born in Kilkenny and ran away from home at the age of fourteen to become a lad in Jim Hogan's yard. Became apprenticed to him two years later and at the ripe old age of seventeen rode his first winner under rules. From then on, never looked back. Champion jockey three times, then lost the job with Hogan after his performance in the Sweeps Hurdle, where it was rumoured he pulled the odds-on favourite. Since then has ridden freelance, until accepting a retainer last year in England with Colin Rhodes. Not renewed this season, apparently by mutual consent. Still based in England but frequently rides over in Ireland. A brilliant horseman who can't lie straight in bed, he's so crooked. Separated from his wife and has one conviction for possessing an offensive weapon. Will that do?'

  'And Drewe?'

  'Not a very nice man. Educated Eton and Sandhurst. Has a filthy temper and loves fox hunting. Has estates in England and Ireland, that's Southern Ireland – County Limerick to be precise. My chum on the Gloucestershire paper describes him as an upper-class brute who must have overslept the day they handed out brains. Wife's apparently a formidable dragon whose father was an Earl. The family's a pillar of local society – you know, front pew of the church every Sunday and twice on Christmas Day, and he's Master of Foxhounds. Stands as a steward at Worcester, Cheltenham and Fontwell. He's a very keen shot and, oh yes, one final thing; there's a rumour going round that he's going to be appointed Chairman of the Disciplinary Committee of the Jockey Club.'

  I wondered whether Edward had picked up that piece of information; it would no doubt have called for an increase in Drewe's premium on his insurance policy. 'His address?'

  'In England? Rivers Hall, Upper Wallop, Gloucestershire. Will that do?'

  'It's more than I could have hoped for. James, I can't thank you enough.'

  'Don't try. Just don't forget that exclusive interview after the trial. I've already written the headline: "HOW MY LOVER GAVE MY HUSBAND THE BOOT." Do you like it?'

/>   'It's in very poor taste! I may not exactly be the grieving widow…'

  'All right. I'm sorry. Go on. Prove Radcliffe innocent, but remember if you don't I'm still available.'

  'James, I'm going to prove Tom's innocent if it is the last thing I do.'

  'Well, just make sure it isn't.'

  * * *

  I don't know why I gave the impression of being so confident. If Sir Arthur or Brennan had killed Edward it was hardly likely to have happened on the spur of the moment. Either could have arranged to meet him on some pretext late that Saturday night, or come to the cottage after he had returned home. The forensic experts couldn't pinpoint with any precision the day, let alone the time, of the murder and all the police had to go on was the fact that nobody had seen Edward alive after he left the pub with Tom. What about Corcoran or Musgrave? Corcoran had disappeared; clearly I had to locate him and find out if he had any information to offer. Unfortunately, if he had killed Edward, which I very much doubted, he was hardly going to advertise his present whereabouts.

  Musgrave had to be considered a suspect after those phone calls and Edward's failure to deliver the right result in the Gold Cup. He had lost at least a quarter of a million pounds according to the Sportsman and that was on the course alone. If he had laid generous odds in his betting shops the deficit could be considerably greater. Edward's murder might well satisfy his instinct for revenge, yet I somehow doubted if he would have done the dirty work himself. According to recent newspaper reports, the going rate for a contract killer was five thousand pounds; that would certainly explain the professional nature of the crime. To a hardened East End villain, a human barbecue probably had the same clinical attraction as a concrete overcoat. It was only the blood stains on the bronze that had enabled the police to make a positive identification of Edward and nobody could have foreseen that bit of bad luck. I cursed myself. If I had only cleaned the bronze they could never have charged Tom and he'd be a free man instead of languishing in some grotty jail.

  There was one person whom I had automatically discounted from my list of suspects: my father-in-law. Fathers don't kill sons, I reasoned, except no doubt in Greek mythology. I realised that Lord Pryde had a good motive: fear that his son's demands might increase now that he had become Lord Chief Justice, but I couldn't see why, if he had paid up for so long, he suddenly wouldn't be prepared to go on doing so.

  I was still determined to go and face him. I didn't see why I should be told that I was unfit to bring up a child when he himself had stood by and condoned his own son's criminal activities. I also had a strong desire for revenge, to make him wriggle at the knowledge that I had inherited his guilty secret. Ever since our marriage, Lady Pryde had treated me like a second-class citizen; she had not let pass any opportunity to stress her family's social superiority. There was no doubt that Edward was better bred than me, yet even Northern Dancer has sired the occasional dud.

  Not knowing where to begin, I decided to start at the end, at the scene of the crime. Before driving out to Melksham I went over to the cottage to collect the mail and generally give it a look over. I was interested to see if the police had disturbed or removed anything during their search. If they had, there was, alas, no longer any Mrs Parsons to clean up. She had felt it only decent to hand in her notice after the discovery of Edward's body.

  To my astonishment the place was a complete shambles. Tables were upturned, books strewn all over the floor and the contents of the drawers had been hurled around the sitting and dining rooms. It was the same story upstairs. I couldn't believe the police could have behaved like this and immediately rang Inspector Wilkinson to complain. He was as surprised as I was.

  'Mrs Pryde,' he said, this time putting on his most reassuring voice, 'I can guarantee that has nothing to do with us. Last week we undertook a careful and orderly search of your premises and in fact removed certain material, but only because we felt it to be relevant to our enquiries. I can assure you that my officers left the premises in the same good order that they found them. I know because I was there to supervise them. It looks like somebody else has paid you an unauthorised visit. Have you been staying there at all recently?'

  I told him that Freddie and I were still living with friends.

  'I'm afraid,' he went on, 'that this kind of thing does happen. We live in a sick society and there are a few nasty individuals around who take advantage of other people's misfortune to do a bit of petty thieving. Do you know if anything's missing?'

  'Not that I've noticed so far.'

  'I'll send a couple of men over straight away.'

  'All right. Can you leave it for a short while? Let me just go through everything first and see what's gone.'

  'If you insist, but please don't go putting your fingerprints everywhere, Mrs Pryde.'

  Whoever had burgled the place had clearly not been a petty thief. The television and video were untouched, as was the silver cutlery, a family heirloom in the drawer of the sideboard. What had occurred was a systematic, although judging by the chaos, increasingly frenzied, search and there was nothing to indicate if it had been successful or not. Who, why and what, I wondered? I thought back to that Friday when Freddie discovered the diary and Edward's smug expression as he bragged about his investors. He had boasted of how he had kept a photocopy of the incriminating letter which his father had received from Lorenz. Perhaps that wasn't the only piece of evidence in his possession. With Edward dead, could it be that one of the investors had now come to reclaim the proof of his own indiscretion? I decided it was worth a fresh look around the cottage just in case the searcher had left empty-handed. There was no need to look in the obvious places, as the intruder had done that already.

  I plonked myself down in Edward's favourite chair by the fire and surveyed the room. Behind the pictures or inside the photograph frames would be too simple. I also discounted the grandfather clock in the corner. The stuffed owl on the table by the window looked more promising. I was convinced it was winking at me. 'That's it!' I said aloud, congratulating myself on my powers of detection.

  Edward had always hated that bird. I had picked it up one day in a junk shop for a fiver and brought it home in great triumph. He had taken one look and kindly said it reminded him of my mother. I rushed over and took it out of its glass box. There was no sign of the skin being broken, although I could well imagine the pleasure he would have taken in stuffing documents up its backside. I ran to the kitchen and took a knife from the drawer, now certain that I had discovered his cache. Asking my mother for forgiveness, I unceremoniously tore open the old bird's chest and back and stuck my hands inside, but all I got was stuffing, a sentiment echoed by the look of disdain in the owl's eyes. Feeling a complete idiot, I returned the mutilated creature to its former resting place.

  As I did so, I caught sight of a photograph of Edward on the mantelpiece, taken when he was out shooting on his uncle's estate. The gun held proudly in his right hand was his most treasured possession. His father had brought him up on the saying, 'You should lend your wife before your gun', and that was exactly how Edward felt about it. He was endlessly cleaning and oiling it; I had once even caught him taking it to pieces. I remembered how angry he had been at the time. I ran upstairs to the spare room and looked under the wardrobe. The brown oblong case with his initials on it was still there. I pulled it out only to find that the lock had already been forced, although as far I could tell nothing had been removed. I looked down both barrels to no avail, and then studied the butt. Five minutes later I had removed the four screws which fixed the end-plate to the stock of the gun. I removed the plate and extracted its unorthodox contents. Replacing the screws, I returned the gun to its case and went downstairs with my discovery: a small bundle tied with a red ribbon. I slipped it off, my fingers trembling in anticipation. I was not disappointed.

  There were four items: the first was a handwritten letter addressed to Gerald Pryde Q.C. from Peter Lorenz, in which he referred to an enclosure of a cheque for ten th
ousand pounds 'as per our agreement'; the second was a single sheet of scruffy paper, undated, containing a signed confession by Michael Corcoran that he had stolen the wages from Tom Radcliffe. No wonder Edward was so confident of his abiding loyalty. The third was a handwritten demand from George Musgrave for the settlement of one hundred thousand pounds' worth of losing wagers, each one carefully itemised on the rear. Presumably Edward thought he could use Musgrave's admission of illegal bookmaking as a bartering weapon. But the last enclosure was the most thrilling: it was a colour photograph with remarkable definition, considering its unusual subject matter. I couldn't resist a smile. Sir Arthur Drewe was dressed in his own racing silks and riding what looked like a very strong finish. The only problem was that his mount was a buxom brunette called Annabel Strong. She held a permit to train horses owned by herself and members of her family. I had no idea that Sir Arthur was her retained jockey.

  I wondered how on earth Edward had obtained the photograph. All in all a very exciting find; my only disappointment was the absence of anything positive on Brennan. I suppose he would hardly have been foolish enough to commit the existence of a cash retainer to writing.

  I waited for the police to arrive and then headed for Melksham and the chalk pit. Motoring across the rolling Wiltshire Downs it was hard to believe that my journey had such a ghoulish purpose. The old chalk pit had been abandoned over twenty years previously and apart from the occasional courting couple or gang of hell's angels on their motor bikes, it was a lonely and desolate spot. When I had worked on the Newbury paper 1 had once written a piece on the pit as part of a series on our neglected countryside. My editor had described it as a load of sentimental bilge, full of clichйs and tired metaphors. Now the pit had earned itself a place in history and would no doubt become a tourist attraction in the not too distant future.

  I turned off the B216 and drove along a narrow single-track road. After three miles I parked the car on the side of the road and walked the fifty yards or so back to the old track which led up to the pit. It was clear from the tyre marks that there had been plenty of recent traffic. Today, however, it was deserted again. Ten minutes later I reached the top of the pit itself, and below me I could see an area about twenty feet square which had been roped off. It could be reached by the worn drive that the lorries once used to collect the chalk. I walked down and inspected the site where no doubt the car had been found. There were scorch marks on the ground, but apart from that there was nothing to indicate that it had been the scene of such a gruesome crime.