Declared Dead

by John Francome

  * * *

  I met James at a pub in Paddington, just round the corner from Musgrave's head office. Since our phone call, he had made a few discreet enquiries, in other words, bought someone a couple of rounds of drinks, and had found out that Musgrave's credit business was definitely run from the same address. There was therefore every chance of all the records being available for inspection. I resisted the temptation to have a stiff whisky, as it always made me go a little pink in the face and feel light-headed. Today more than ever I needed my wits about me if I was going to pass myself off successfully. I felt as nervous as I had done before the Gold Cup. James was pretending to be full of confidence, although I noticed he disappeared to the loo three times in the space of twenty minutes.

  At two-thirty we synchronised our watches and marched over the road. In his white shirt, pale blue tie and dark suit, James looked every inch a Revenue man. I also felt the part in a cheap grey skirt and navy jacket which I had bought that morning in C & A. I was wearing my hair up and had further altered my appearance by putting on a pair of plain glass spectacles which James had bought for me from the antiques market in Covent Garden. The big question now was whether Musgrave's lackeys would be fooled.

  To my surprise, they hardly registered a protest when we entered. The manager was politeness itself when we explained that we were from the Customs and Excise and were carrying out a spot check on their records on behalf of the district office. As a result, we needed to see all the books and credit ledgers for the last six months.

  'You boys usually call beforehand to give us some notice. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have cleared the desk in the governor's office,' he remarked with seeming lack of interest.

  'There it is,' said James. 'We've got a new governor, you see, and he's very keen on these random checks. I suspect it'll wear off when he finds out it doesn't produce any results. Where would you like us to work, then?'

  He led us towards what I guessed would be Musgrave's office through a room about twenty feet square, in which at least six men were taking phone calls from clients placing bets on the day's greyhound and horse racing. The most up-to-date information and satellite screens were banked against the walls and judging by the activity, there was no shortage of clients trying to get their money on.

  The manager, a morose slightly-built individual in his late fifties, saw that I was fascinated by the goings-on.

  'Surprised we're so busy, I suppose?'

  I grinned nervously.

  'It's the Aintree meeting,' he continued. 'Tomorrow's the National and I can't pretend I'm looking forward to it. Like a mad house in here, it'll be.'

  'The Grand National, you mean? How exciting, with all those big fences!' I exclaimed, feigning innocence. Once we were seated behind Musgrave's desk, James asked again for all the records and ledgers for the last six months' betting both on and off course. The manager wearily asked if we wanted him to stay and James politely declined.

  'I'll call you if I have any problems,' James added.

  As soon as the door was closed, James produced from his pocket a list of the races which he thought had been fixed. The first entry confirmed our suspicions – a race at Chepstow in December, where Musgrave had taken over fifteen thousand pounds of bets on the favourite at prices starting at 6-4 and going out to 5-2. The more money he took, the longer the odds he offered. The same approach could be seen on five other occasions and when it came to the Gold Cup, James whistled in disbelief at the size and number of wagers Musgrave had taken. The only difference was that on this occasion the wrong horse, Cartwheel, had won, and James calculated his losses to be over three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. All the big bookmakers had used him to lay off the bets that they themselves had taken on the same horse at a shorter price and the result was that he had taken a hammering.

  I stood guard in front of the door as James photographed all the incriminating entries. He was on the last one when there was a knock on the door and the manager asked if he could come in.

  'Hold on,' James shouted as he hid his camera. I moved away to the side and opened the door.

  'I'm sorry to disturb you, but I've just had Mr Musgrave on the line from Aintree. He's not best pleased that you've arrived without giving him notice and wants to take it up with Head Office after racing. He's asked me if you would leave your names and those of your superiors.'

  I looked imploringly at James who, for the first time that I had known him, was lost for words. His lips were moving, yet no sound was coming out.

  'Of course,' I said, taking the initiative. 'I'm sorry Mr Musgrave has taken exception but we're just doing our job. He's nothing to hide, I hope.'

  The manager visibly paled. 'Oh no, nothing of the sort. It's just that…'

  'Anyway my name is Dawn Lunn and my colleague here is Dick Lear. Our boss is Roddy Owen. Unless there's anything else, we've still got quite a lot to go through.'

  The manager took the hint and left, whereupon James miraculously recovered his powers of speech.

  'Dawn Lunn, Dick Lear, Roddy Owen; where the hell did you dream them up?'

  'I'm sorry. There you were, sitting like a lemon and all I could think of were the names of racehorses who'd won the Gold Cup. Dawn Lunn came from Dawn Run and Dick Lear is a cannibalisation of The Dikler.'

  'And Roddy Owen?'

  'I thought you knew your racing. He won the Gold Cup in 1958.'

  'Well you fooled old misery guts there, but I'm not so sure the joke will be lost on Musgrave…'

  'Who cares? He might guess it was me, but he's no idea about your involvement and by the time he finds out it'll be too late. Come on, finish off taking the photographs and then I want to look at something.'

  Five minutes later, I was seated at the desk studying the credit ledger for off-course bets struck by clients whose surname began with a P. There was not a single reference to Edward Pryde, or any Pryde for that matter, yet I knew full well that he had lost more than a hundred thousand pounds to Musgrave in off-course bets. I asked James to double check for me and he agreed that Edward's name was missing.

  'What's it all mean, Victoria?' he asked, when he had finished his scrutiny.

  'I'll tell you later. It's time we were on our way.'

  We bid the manager goodbye, made a speedy, albeit dignified, exit and hailed the first passing cab.

  'The Sportsman's offices in Fleet Street,' said James to the driver and, feeling extremely pleased with ourselves, we headed off to present the editor with our coup.

  Chapter 12

  I had never been into a newspaper's offices before and my image of them was based entirely on what I had seen in the movies and on the television. In fact, the real thing wasn't that far different except that I didn't spot anyone running around frantically shouting 'Hold the front page' and the atmosphere generally appeared a good deal more relaxed than I had expected. The editorial department of the Sportsman was situated on the third floor and consisted of a long open-plan room with offices housing senior staff on the right-hand side. James's desk was over in the far corner and apart from the odd knowing wink and glib comment as we walked over to it, our arrival attracted little attention. Tomorrow was, of course, the National and that was one of the major events in the calendar for any racing paper. There were the usual selections to be made and special features to be put together on the personalities, both human and equine, that made it such a memorable day for racing. James, of course, was hoping to change all that and persuade the editor that the cosy copy which traditionally dominated that day's paper should be surrendered to his sensational expose of Musgrave and Brennan.

  On the way over in the taxi, he had warned me that it would be an uphill struggle. His first task on arriving was to send the roll of film he had taken at Musgrave's office downstairs to the laboratory to be developed. He then sat me down at his desk, fetched a cup of black coffee in a paper cup (they had run out of milk), threw me a couple of racing magazines and disappeared into the editor's off
ice. This was a bit more like it, I thought, the cut and thrust of investigative journalism. He was gone a good half hour before he returned, looking dishevelled and angry. I could tell he had been arguing and I feared the worst.

  'Sometimes I wonder,' he said, throwing his notes on the desk, 'whether this is a serious newspaper or merely a Boy's Own for horse lovers. You'd think he'd jump at a story like this.'

  'He?'

  'Carlton Williams, the editor.'

  'Do you mean he's not going to print it?' I asked, not trying to hide my astonishment. It had never occurred to me that they might not publish it.

  'It's not that bad. I think I've persuaded him that it's a better front page lead than PIN MONEY TO BE THE HOUSEWIFE'S FRIEND.' (Pin Money was the ante-post favourite for the race.) 'He's now phoning the lawyers to see what they think and knowing that bunch they'll be seeing problems here there and everywhere. I can hear it already: "How can you prove this, Mr Thackeray? How do you know Victoria Pryde is telling the truth? How did you obtain entry to Musgrave's offices? What! By posing as government officers? Did you know that you were committing a criminal offence? Have you put these allegations to Mr Musgrave and Mr Brennan?" '

  'Will they kill it?'

  'Probably not. Old Carlton actually hates lawyers – I think his brother-in-law is a solicitor – and at the end of the day he prefers to act on instinct. Just feels he has to go through the ritual of consultation to keep the proprietor happy. Shit, look at the time! Do you mind if I start writing the copy and then we can go through it together? I think we ought to have a photograph of you to adorn it and I'll just call up the picture library to get one of Brennan and Musgrave as well, if we're lucky.'

  An hour later, after a lot of cussing and swearing and discarding of paper, James ripped the final sheet triumphantly from his typewriter and handed the completed copy over to me for approval. He certainly hadn't pulled any punches and on seeing it in cold print I could understand why the lawyers might be anxious.

  'It's very good,' I said. 'Do you think you'll get away with it?'

  'It's not just very good, it's brilliant. This, Victoria, is the racing scandal of the year and tomorrow is the perfect day to lead with it. Can you imagine what a sensation it will create? Ah, here comes that film back.'

  A young gum-chewing messenger dropped a brown envelope on James's desk. It was full of the photographs taken at Musgrave's offices. They had come out beautifully and all the relevant entries from his ledgers and field sheets were clearly legible. James studied them intently for ten minutes or so.

  'Good, aren't they? Wonderful things, these miniature cameras. I think we'll use the entries for the Worcester race – that should help you before the disciplinary committee – the ones at Chepstow in December when 1 reckon he made at least twenty thousand pounds, thanks to Brennan, and finally Cartwheel's race at Cheltenham. It's getting a bit late if this is going to be tomorrow's lead. Oh damn! I've just seen the lawyers arrive. You can always spot them by the sadistic gleam in their eyes – as if they were going to judge a thumb-screwing contest. Excuse me while I go and stand up for myself.'

  I had run out of form books and newspapers to read by the time James returned. The broad grin on his face spoke for itself.

  'Do you want the good news or the bad news?'

  'The good news.'

  'The good news is that it's tomorrow's lead; the bad news is that the lawyers have vetoed the references to Edward's murder and his link with Musgrave.'

  'But why?'

  'Contempt of court, love. With the trial coming up we mustn't publish anything which might create a substantial risk of real prejudice – those were the words the chap used.'

  'I don't understand. Surely it couldn't do that?'

  'I agree with you, but the barrister in there said that we can't go round making out your husband was a bad egg and so on, as it might lead the jury to say he deserved his fate and acquit Tom Radcliffe on sympathy grounds or because someone else might have done it.'

  'They both sound like excellent reasons to me! So Edward won't be mentioned?'

  'Not by name, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Victoria. I did my best, I promise.'

  'I thought you said the editor hated lawyers and always ignored their advice.'

  'Normally he does, but when they told him he could be imprisoned for contempt, his resistance withered. Can't blame him really.'

  'What about the pen being mightier than the sword?'

  'Depends on who's holding the sword.'

  'I follow,' I was trying to appear reasonable, although deep down I was bitterly disappointed. I desperately wanted Musgrave to have his comeuppance and had hoped that in the process I might have helped Tom.

  'Cheer up,' said James, 'it's not all bad. Let me just put the finishing touches to the story, give it to the sub and then I'll take you out for a bite at the Italian round the corner. It'll come off the presses just after midnight and we can see then just how well they've laid it out.'

  Three hours later, we had been joined by Amy and the three of us were standing in the machine room waiting for the first copy to come off the presses. As soon as it arrived, James let out a whoop of delight.

  'That should fix them!' he cried. 'What price Musgrave and Brennan being warned off now?'

  He handed me a copy to read and I had to admit that the editorial boys had done a good job when it came to presentation.

  'JOCKEY AND BOOKIE IN CORRUPTION PROBE' screamed the banner headline above black and white mug shots of Brennan and Musgrave.

  EXCLUSIVE. Today the Sportsman breaks its time-honoured tradition of devoting its front page to the world's greatest steeplechase. We make no apology, because in order to survive, and for great races like the National to have any standing, racing must be honest and above malpractice. When a corrupt jockey and a crooked bookmaker conspire together to ensure that horses do not run on their merits, it is the duty of any newspaper that loves racing to expose such iniquity. Such is the case of Eamon Brennan, the well-known Irish jockey, and George Musgrave, owner of the chain of betting shops that bears his name and well-known layer on the rails. Our investigations, led by James Thackeray, have revealed an improper and unsavoury association between Musgrave and Brennan, which has enabled the bookmaker to offer generous odds on horses that had absolutely no chance of winning. Why? Because Brennan would ensure they didn't. Not content with their substantial and immoral earnings, the pair sought to involve other jockeys in their dirty work. Victoria Pryde, leading female rider and retained by the Ralph Elgar stable, was put under pressure to throw away the Gold Cup on Cartwheel. She refused, costing Musgrave over three hundred thousand pounds in losing bets. Victoria's punishment was to become the victim of as nasty a piece of improper riding as has been seen for many years on our courses. Deliberately boxed in on Fainthearted by Brennan in a hurdle race at Worcester, she managed only to finish a gallant third. For Musgrave there was the additional pleasure of cleaning up on the so-called generous odds he had offered to all and sundry on the horse, for Victoria only the boos of the crowd and the ignominy of being sent to Portman Square by the local stewards for not riding Fainthearted on his merits. This is one unhappy occasion when Sir Arthur Drewe and his fellow stewards appear to have been looking the other way.

  We set out below copies of the entries in Musgrave's betting records for three separate races – the Union Jack Hurdle at Chepstow, the Cheltenham Gold Cup and the Topley Hurdle at Worcester. On each occasion, Musgrave offered better odds on a well-fancied horse than any other bookmaker, continuing to push the price out irrespective of the enormous amounts of money he had already taken. At Chepstow, where Brennan was riding the favourite (he eventually finished fourth), Musgrave made twenty thousand pounds out of on-course bets alone. At Cheltenham, he stood to make at least fifty thousand pounds but Victoria Pryde's courage lost him a fortune. At Worcester, he again offered long odds against the early favourite, Fainthearted, and collected more than fifteen thousand pounds when the horse
could only just scrape into the frame. The Sportsman has details of six other races where a similar pattern has emerged. We have sent the results of our investigation to the Jockey Club and demand that the rulers of racing take the appropriate action to keep racing clean.

  Beside the article was a flattering picture of myself in racing silks captioned 'Heroic'.

  'Well,' said James, 'what do you think?'

  I kissed him on both cheeks. 'It's marvellous. What do you think Musgrave will do? Sue the paper for libel or something?'

  'I doubt it, not when he finds out, if he hasn't already, that we've got copies of all those betting sheets. My guess is that he may well soon be helping the police in their enquiries, along with your friend Brennan. You'd do best to keep a low profile for a bit, Victoria.'

  'I agree,' said Amy. 'Why not stay with me for the weekend and we can watch the National on TV. There's bound to be a load of journalists trying to contact you and at the moment it wouldn't be sensible to talk to anyone other than the police and, I suppose, the Jockey Club.'