Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc (45 page)

`This is it then,' he said, turning to her.

Her mobile rang and she glanced at the incoming number. Ìt's Jamie,' she said. `Probably wondering where I've got to.'

Dave hoisted his pack. `Tell him cheerio from me.'

She had the phone to her ear. `Tell him yourself. He wants to talk to you.'

Dave took the little instrument with reluctance. He'd been through all this with Jamie. Carlisle passengers were alighting from the train, taking their time with cases and bags. Their southern-bound replacements hefted their luggage impatiently. Dave still had time.

`Yes, Jamie?'

He listened with increasing concentration. And disbelief. The passengers rearranged themselves on the train and doors began to slam shut.

Pippa jostled his arm. `You're going to miss it.'

He cut off the call and pointed to a bench. `Sit down, Pippa.' `But what about the train?'

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`Forget the train. Just sit down.'

`He changed your mind? You're not going after all?' He nodded and her face lit up.

This was going to be hard. They watched the train depart. And after all the noise and activity had died away, he told her about Malcolm.

4 May, 2002

It was a pity, Jane thought, that you couldn't put the dead on trial. Even though Malcolm Priest was no longer among the living, natural justice surely demanded a public airing of his crimes.

But though it wasn't possible to try a corpse, it was necessary to mount a case against a man who was half dead. Clem Kirkstall had suffered a heart attack on the day after he'd tried to kill Jamie Hutchison and had been in hospital, under police surveillance, ever since. According to the doctors, he was unlikely to live long enough to take his place in the dock.

Jane had been busy since the shooting at Carlisle Racecourse. With three murder enquiries spread across three regional police forces, she was much in demand.

Ì'm thinking of retiring and writing a book,' she said to Simon as he entered the bedroom with a breakfast tray. He was wearing a pair of Calvin Klein boxer shorts. Whereas she herself - as she had pointed out to him the night before - preferred to sleep a la Marilyn Monroe, dressed in just a dab of perfume.

`What kind of book?' he asked, as he set about arranging coffee cups and plates on the bedside table. He seemed to have magicked fresh orange juice and croissants out of the air as well. She could get used to this.

`True crime. The wicked deeds of Malcolm Priest. I've got tons of stuff on him now. Did you know he was discharged from the Army after an accident in an armoured car? Malcolm ran over one of his own men. He never was the safest driver.'

Simon reclaimed his place on the other side of the bed. `Will I get a mention in this epic?' he asked.

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`You are the sceptical Mr. Plod who refused to listen to the brilliant insights of your colleague and superior i.e. me. However, you do redeem yourself in the end.'

And that he had. Jane's theories about Malcolm would have remained wild speculation but for Simon, who had reminded Jane that certain items from the original crime scene had been preserved in the hope of yielding a DNA match with the perpetrators of the crime. These included cigarette ends, used paper tissues and soft drink cans, most of which had been discarded by the firefighters and spectators who had gathered to rubberneck the blaze.

But Simon had been remorseless in chivvying the laboratory for a test on everything, and they had finally matched Malcolm's DNA with that on a cud of chewing-gum picked off the pavement outside the cottage. It was the link that had turned Jane's pie-in-the sky theories about the Bonfire Night Murders into something more earthbound.

Confirmation of Malcolm's culpability in Alan Kirkstall's death had been easier to prove. Unable to stand up to some probing police interrogation, Richard Priest had admitted that his brother had been driving and that he'd lied to protect him. He'd failed to shield his father, who had supported the brothers after the event, and the pair of them now faced a charge of conspiring to pervert the course of justice. It was a pity that Malcom wasn't able to stand trial alongside them. In a funny way, Jane felt sorry for Richard. With a father and brother like that, she imagined it would have been hard for him not to swim with the tide.

The person Jane felt most sympathy for, however, was Clem. She gathered from her Cumbrian colleagues that, when the doctors had finally allowed them to interview him, he had been consumed with remorse. He was convinced that he'd murdered the wrong man.

It had given her great pleasure to visit the dying man and reveal that he had avenged his son after all - even if it had only been by accident. `Marie told me Jamie didn't do it,' Clem had whispered, so softly that she'd had to lean close to his bedside to catch his words. Ì didn't believe her.'

`But you must, she's telling the truth.'

`What a great fool I am,' he'd said but she didn't agree. She thought he was a bit of a hero.

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She turned now to Simon, who was sitting up in bed by her side. Àren't you eating?'

Ìt's more fun watching you,' he said, leering as the crumbs from her croissant settled on the slopes of her breasts.

She blushed under his gaze. Things were turning out better than she'd thought possible.

The day before, she'd finally met Colin Stewart who told her the Coroner was scheduling an inquest into Beverley Harris's death.

Ì'm sure Malcolm killed her,' he said as they sat down. `Just like you said straight off. Very impressive, ma'am.'

She accepted his praise gracefully. He looked even younger than she had imagined. But there was no denying he was competent.

`We turned up a witness who saw a man get out of a black BMW near Beverley's cottage on the evening she died. An old lady who lived round the corner. A bit of a curtain-twitcher obviously but worth her weight in gold, I reckon.'

Jane agreed. `Nosy old ladies are often a better bet than a CCTV camera.'

`This one, Mrs. Thomson, can't remember much about the man but she does recall he was carrying a big display of flowers. Roses and carnations, she says, scarlet and white. Jamie Hutchison says that when his brother-in-law came home that night he had a large flower display which he said was a peace-offering for his wife, with whom he'd had a row. Mrs. Priest confirms the flowers - red roses and white carnations - and also the row.

Guess what it was about?'

He didn't wait for her answer. `Beverley Harris. She'd rung Mrs. Priest and claimed Malcolm had been propositioning her. Of course, he'd been doing more than that. Apart from Karen Robinson's testimony, we found Malcolm's DNA and prints all over the bedroom.'

`Well done, Colin. You've convinced me.'

`Wait. That's not all.' He was anxious to give her the whole picture. `We took away some of his clothes for examination and found a key in a trouser pocket. The key to Beverley Harris's bathroom. I reckon he pocketed it just before she went into the bathroom, in case she got all modest and locked him out. Then he forgot to put it back.'

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`The fatal mistake. Murderers usually make one. Though I suppose he might have got away with it.'

Colin shook his head. `Never. I was after him. I'd have nailed him too if he hadn't been daft enough to get himself shot.'

`You sound quite keen on this Colin,' Simon had remarked the evening before as she'd recounted their meeting.

Ì am,' she said, sitting at the place he'd laid for her at the dinner table.

`Should I be jealous?' He was lifting something aromatic out of the oven -

her oven, which she used only to warm plates and bake ready meals.

`Dreadfully,' she said, sipping the wine he had poured her. Àny virile young man is a temptation for me. So you'd better not let your standards slip.'

He'd stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the flesh at the base of her neck. She shivered with pleasure.

`Yes, boss,' he growled in her ear.

They were at the beginning of something good and both of them knew it.

They were trying to keep their feet on the ground but it was hard.

`Jesus, Mum,' Robbie had complained when she'd spent an hour on the phone with Simon. `You're in love with him, aren't you? Admit it.'

But she wouldn't admit that to herself.

And Tanya, so Jane had gathered, was giving Simon an equally hard time.

Now they'd spent a whole night together and it had taken a bit of arranging. Jane and Simon had not only had to synchronise their own calendars but had to make sure their offspring were otherwise taken care of.

Tanya and Robbie seemed to have a more mature friendship than their parents. Jane had yet to catch them snogging on the doorstep. They listened to impenetrable music. Robbie was teaching Tanya to play a better class of chess. And, at Tanya's instigation, the pair of them went on trips to see his grandmother at The Palm Tree.

Jane was delighted, and mightily surprised. Ì got the impression from you,' she said to Simon, `that your daughter was a party girl. Now it turns out she's Mother Teresa.'

He'd just shrugged - he didn't understand either.

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So, as they lay side by side in bed, wearing little but their own happiness, it was with alarm that they heard the front door open down the hall.

Òh God, Robbie's back,' cried Jane, leaping out of bed and grabbing her dressing-gown. `You'll have to stay in here, Simon.'

But it was too late.

`Mum?' The knock was an accompaniment to the door swinging wide open. By Robbie's side stood Tanya.

Caught red-handed.

Jamie sat on the step of Dave's caravan, scratching Matilda's ears. She wanted him to take her for a walk but he wasn't budging just yet, he was waiting for someone. Besides, it was a peaceful spot. He could see why Dave was so attached to it.

Malcolm's death had been a complete bombshell, to be followed by even bigger explosions. Even now, after the information that the police had laid before him, Jamie found it hard to believe that Malcolm had been anything other than the benign and generous brother-in-law whom a man could trust with his life.

Ìt's extremely fortunate for you,' the sympathetic policewoman had said,

`that you did not leave the rececourse with Malcolm once you had revealed to him that your memory had returned. He might well have decided to dispose of you on the way home.'

Jamie had found that hard to believe.

`Think about it,' she'd said. `He'd already got rid of three other people who were inconvenient to him. And you were the most inconvenient of all. I suspect if his brother had not been present he would have ensured that you didn't survive the car crash.'

Jamie had said nothing to that.

Òf course, this is just my supposition. I couldn't prove it.'

But they'd proved plenty of other things and Jamie had hardly known how to handle it. It had been even worse for Pippa, realising she'd been sharing her life with a murderer.

Fortunately Dave was still on hand - no more had been said about his threat to return south - and, of course, there were the horses. Pippa had spent a day in bed, sedated against shock, then got up for first lot the next 303

morning. The life of a training yard couldn't come to a halt just because of a seismic human drama. The animals came first.

So they'd just worked their way through it. While the police trawled through the house, examining Malcolm's possessions, demanding lengthy interviews from all of them about what had happened when, the three of them and the yard staff had just mucked in and done the best they could.

The funny thing was, they'd done pretty well. It had been the best beginning to the Flat season Pippa had had and she was turning owners down. It was funny how things worked out.

The day after Malcolm was killed, when Jamie had no idea whether he was coming or going, he'd taken a phone call from Bertie Brooks. At last his former agent had got round to getting in touch. Thinking about it, Bertie's timing had never been that good.

Jamie had been polite but the decision was suddenly clear-cut. He wasn't going to hand his riding career over to someone he didn't trust. Where was Bertie when he'd stumbled out of Garstone unsure if he even had a future in racing? He'd rather be represented by a rank amateur who'd walk through fire for him.

`Dave,' he'd said. `Would you like to be my agent?' `What would I have to do?'

`Ring round trainers and get me rides. Be in there quick when someone else drops out. Big me up and say I'm the greatest jockey on the circuit.'

'But you are, mate. I can do that easy.' So that had solved that.

Matilda wuffed excitedly and Jamie looked up. Was that a fox slinking across the corner of the field? At any rate, it wasn't who he was expecting.

Matilda calmed down and put her head on his knee.

Vanessa had left. Today would have been her wedding day but that prospect had gone up in smoke. Following Richard's disgrace, no one had been surprised. But Jamie knew that wasn't the real reason. Vanessa had told him Richard had called the wedding off the night before Malcolm was shot. He knew why too and, had it not been for other events, he would have felt guilty. But he was done with guilt.

`You're better off without him,' he said to her. `Why on earth be jealous of what you got up to with me a few years ago?'

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`You're right,' she said. Ì might go back to Australia for a bit. No offence, Jamie, but the guys there have got real balls.'

He looked at his watch. Marie was late. He knew it was hard for her to fit everything in. It was a long trip to hospital to see her father and she spent a lot of time with her Aunt Joyce. The woman had come within a whisker of being charged with being an accessory to murder but it looked as if she'd escaped. Since the intended murder victim had been himself, that made the situation difficult. Particularly for Marie.

Matilda lifted her head and then bolted for the gate. As she careered out of sight he heard a familiar voice welcoming the dog.

A few seconds passed and he fought the urge to run after Matilda. He liked this moment best of all, when Marie came through the gate and walked towards him, a shy smile on her lips and the sunlight catching her thick fair hair.