Microsoft Word - John Francome - Inside Track.doc (26 page)

Dave recognised her from the race meeting at Carlisle, where she'd been surrounded by a flock of men in suits. He'd pegged her as the bossy business type and he noted the calculation in her eyes as she gave him the once-over. Her gaze did not linger long. He was not her sort any more than she was his. Why on earth Malcolm was fooling about with her when he had Pippa at home, Dave couldn't imagine. And, frankly, he didn't want to know.

`Do you mind if we stop by my place?' said Jane as Simon Bennett pulled off the ring road and headed for the city centre. They'd spent a fruitless two hours in a police station sitting in on an interview with a Preston drug-dealer, a small-time operator like Pete. He'd hinted through his solicitor that he knew who was responsible for the Bonfire Night killings but it had been plain from the start that he was simply looking for a way out of his own predicament.

`That little toe-rag would have shopped his granny if he'd thought it would get him off,' muttered Simon, still musing on their wasted afternoon.

Ì'd just like to look in on Robbie,' she continued. `Make sure he's doing his homework.'

Ànd not polishing off your booze with the class sexpot?' `He's not like that,' she said.

He snorted. `They're all like that, given half a chance. I should know,' he added, Ì'm the father of the class sexpot.'

Was that why he was out of sorts? Had Tanya been upsetting him? `Well, Robbie doesn't know any girls.' More's the pity, she thought, but kept it to herself.

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Jane could hear the television even as she inserted the key in the front door and she could feel her mouth crimp at the corners. Simon had a sly grin on his face. God, what an old bag she must look.

Sure enough, her son had his feet up on the coffee-table, a bag of Doritos on his lap, and was watching some noisy sci-fi thing. He waved a hand at her, hardly taking his eyes from the screen.

'Robbie!' she shouted over the sound of an explosion. `Turn that off,' and she grabbed the remote control before he could obey her instruction.

`What's up, Mum?' he said in an irritatingly unfussed manner. Òh, hi,' he added, catching sight of Simon.

Jane reined in her temper and introduced them. As Robbie got to his feet and shook hands, she realised she was over-reacting. He might be gauche but he was a well-mannered lad and he was entitled to relax after school -

up to a point.

He knew what was on her mind. `Just ten more minutes,' he said, pointing to the TV Ì've got a heap of science and maths.'

`Why don't you start now then?' she said. `The sooner you start the sooner you finish.'

The cliche was out almost by reflex. Robbie rolled his eyes and shambled towards the door, clutching the Doritos packet and trailing crumbs. She kept her mouth firmly shut.

`See you again, Robbie,' said Simon.

`Sure thing. Hey.. .' the boy stopped. A thought had occurred. `Since you're both such hot-shot cops . . .'

'Robbie!' Jane's irritation was mounting. Since the age of five her son had been a past master of prevarication and she still didn't know how to deal with it.

`Just a quickie,' he said disarmingly. `There's three prisoners, see, and they're called into the Governor's office.'

Jane groaned inwardly. Another of his impossible brain-teasers. `The Governor shows them four snooker balls, three red and one black. He gives them one ball each but they can't see what they've got because their hands are tied behind their backs. OK?'

ÒK,' said Simon.

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`The Governor says that whoever is holding a red ball can walk out of his office a free man, but if a prisoner tries to walk out with a black ball, he'll serve an extra year on his sentence. And he tells them they're not allowed to talk to each other.'

Get on with it, thought Jane, but she kept it to herself.

`So, the prisoners stand around, wondering what to do. One of them can see the other two are holding red balls. Then he makes a decision and walks out of the office a free man. How did he know that he wasn't holding the black ball?'

Jane didn't have a clue. It must be something to do with the way her brain was wired up - she couldn't do cryptic crosswords either. Robbie, on the other hand, loved showing off his mental dexterity. He was looking at her now with a smirk of triumph on his face.

Àre you going to tell him, boss?' Simon turned towards her. Òr shall I?'

'Go ahead, Simon. Put us all out of our misery.'

Ìt's obvious, Robbie. If our prisoner had been holding the black ball the other two would have seen it and walked out. Because they hesitated, he knew he also had a red ball. Correct?'

Robbie nodded. Àt last - a copper with some brains. Mum didn't get it though. How come she's your boss?'

Jane was speechless. How could he?

Simon just laughed. `Because being a smart alec's only going to get you so far, Robbie. You need a bit of wisdom and I'd say your mother's wiser than you or me.'

Òh.' Robbie didn't look entirely convinced but for once he didn't stay to argue the point. `Catch you later,' he mumbled and ducked out of the door.

Simon caught her eye; he was grinning from ear to ear.

Dave was out of sorts all afternoon and found it hard to enter into the four-horse training programme that he had set up. He even shouted at Rosie, one of the stable girls who had volunteered to help out, when she didn't allow her horse time to ease off properly after a sharp piece of work. He saw her make a what's-up-with-him? face at Mick, one of the other lads.

When he stopped to think about it, Dave knew just what the matter was and it had nothing to do with the four game stable staff who cheerfully submitted to his bumbling instructions every afternoon. The discovery he 171

had made about Malcolm, much as he desired it, would not be consigned to oblivion. The image of the big man's hand on that woman just wouldn't go away. And while, in the normal course of events, he'd have considered it cause for a laugh and something to be shared with his mates, this was different. This was not a joke. The knowledge that what he said could directly affect Pippa's happiness was burning him up.

There wasn't anyone he could tell. Jamie was his best friend up here but he could hardly let on his sister was being two-timed- or was it his duty, as a friend, to tell him exactly that?

Whatever, he was determined not to go blundering in. This wasn't his business. Besides, he might have got the wrong end of the stick - though that was hardly likely unless he'd completely misread Pippa. He supposed she could know all about Malcolm's habits. Maybe they had one of those marriages you read about - an òpen' marriage. If that were the case, he himself would be first in the queue to help Mrs. Priest fulfil her end of the bargain. He didn't believe it for one minute. Open marriages were Sunday tabloid wish-fulfilment or, in his observation, bad marriages about to hit the rocks.

But only last week Pippa had told him that if she didn't turn the training around she might as well pack it in and have kids, like Malcolm wanted.

That didn't sound like a man unhappy with his wife. Unless, of course, the thought suddenly burst upon him, her refusal was why her husband was playing touchy-feely with Beverley Harris.

`What now, Dave?’ Jill, Pippa's travelling head lad who tagged along when she wasn't racing, was at his elbow.

'Um. . .' He hadn't been paying much attention. `What do you think?'

'I think Stickleback's had enough because that cut on his off hind still looks sore. But don't you want the others to let rip?'

She was poking fun because he always got them to finish off with a head-to-head gallop, yelling, `Go on, let 'em rip!'

`Yeah, I suppose I do. You tell 'em.'

She did as he asked and then, as they watched the three horses streak across the turf away from them, she asked, Àre you all right, Dave?' But she didn't get an answer. His thoughts were elsewhere.

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Jamie was no stranger to stage fright. As an apprentice, faced with his first professional rides, he'd been consumed by nerves - barely sleeping the night before, vomiting in the toilet before the race, standing tongue-tied in the parade ring. Fortunately, the symptoms had vanished the moment he rode down to the start. Then he'd been ice-cool, able to make split-second choices by instinct, reacting quicker than most riders. In the crazy rush of a horse race it seemed he had more time than others.

At first he'd reasoned that the distress he suffered beforehand was counterbalanced by his efficiency in the saddle. It seemed a fair tradeoff.

Then he hit a rough patch - twenty rides without even being placed, and on some good horses too. And when his mount decided not to run, or got knocked off line in the crush, or simply ran out of steam with the post in sight, Jamie had still gone through an agony before climbing on board. It no longer seemed fair.

Round about this time, he took his first drink `to steady his nerves'. It had worked like a charm, calming his racing blood and banishing the butterflies in his stomach. He started winning again, too, and he decided it couldn't be a coincidence. If he could ride well without sleep and half dizzy from being sick, surely he could perform even better after the calming effect of a little drink? It seemed like a licence to indulge - and he had.

In retrospect, Jamie could see that back then he'd been like a ticking bomb.

His wild behaviour had guaranteed that it wasn't a question of if but when the bomb would go off. And it had. He'd be living with the consequences for the rest of his life.

So now, in the weighing-room at Doncaster, he fought the urge to step into the toilet and throw up. Instead he took a deep, controlled breath and accepted discomfort as his lot. It was the price he paid for getting back into the saddle fuelled with nothing but his ability.

He knew the reason his nerves were running riot. Ahead was his biggest test yet as a jump rider and he was facing it on his own. Jamie had travelled to Doncaster to ride a hurdler for Ferdy Gates. He'd cadged a lift in the horse box with Ferdy's stable staff. He could have asked Dave to drive him in the Land Rover or Ros might have been free. But they had 173

business of their own to attend to and it was time he stood on his own two feet.

The two-mile race had passed uneventfully with his mount putting in a safe-and-steady performance - they'd finished sixth out of a field of thirteen. There had not been anything Jamie could have done to improve matters, since his horse had never been in touch with the leaders.

Ì'd try him over a longer distance next time,' Jamie said to Ferdy afterwards. Ì'd like to ride him again if I could.'

After that minor excitement Jamie had changed and sat twiddling his thumbs in the weighing room, waiting for his ride back at the end of the afternoon. Suddenly a large woman with a weather-beaten face had appeared and asked for a word. Irene Bolt had got his name from Ferdy.

Ì've a spare ride going,' she said. `Jockey hasn't turned up - I won't use that little sod again. You interested?'

So now Jamie was facing the prospect of riding High Sierra, a seven-year-old novice chaser, in a two-and-a-half mile handicap.

Ì can't say he's the most popular fellow in my yard,' Irene had said. `He's raw but he's got potential.'

Ì'd watch out, if I were you,' called another jockey as Jamie returned to change back into his riding clothes. A couple of the other lads also told him to be careful. Irene Bolt reputedly had a stable full of lousy jumpers with little or no steering. It seemed Jamie was the only jockey in the country who didn't know what you were up against when you rode one of her dodgy animals.

It was too late to do anything about it now. Jamie strode into the ring with a reasonable amount of trepidation. There had not been time to look up the form - there had barely been time to change into the right colours - and he was keen to see what he'd let himself in for.

High Sierra was a mean-looking bruiser of a horse. He gazed at Jamie with a disdainful eye, his tail twitching. Jamie noticed he was sweating heavily.

`Watch out for him biting the other runners,' Irene said cheerily as she gave him a leg-up. Ìt's jolly embarrassing when he does that.' `Bad-tempered, is he?’ Jamie asked.

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`He can be. The lads call him Psycho Sierra. He's quite a character.' That was one way of putting it, thought Jamie. No wonder his jockey hadn't turned up.

The horse pulled hard on the way to the start and Jamie took a firm hold, keeping the animal's head twisted over the running rail to prevent it bolting. The irony of the trainer's surname might have raised a smile had he not been hanging on for dear life.

High Sierra sullenly obeyed but Jamie could sense that rebellion wasn't far off. They joined the fourteen other runners milling round before the start.

Mindful of the trainer's remarks about biting, Jamie dragged his head away from the grey horse on his left. High Sierra appeared to obey instructions then suddenly jerked backwards. An oath split the air from the grey's jockey.

`Watch that sod. He tried to kick mine!' the rider shouted at Jamie. Bloody hell! What had he got himself into? Jamie pulled his horse away, out of the line, to prevent any further interference. At that moment the tapes went up, stranding them at the start as the rest of the field raced away.

It amounted to the worst possible start - literally. Jamie urged his troublesome mount after the others with murder in his heart - which probably made two of them, he thought.

It was almost a relief to play tail-end Charlie round the sharp end of the pear-shaped course. The tight corner didn't suit the big lumbering Sierra and Jamie took it with care and at no great speed. At present his aim was simply to get the animal down the back straight and over the fences in a smooth rhythm. If they got to the start of the long sweeping curve for home in one piece, then he could think about the contest itself.

This jump racing was a far different method of riding to what he had been used to. As Ros had pointed out, riding for the best part of five minutes over obstacles required a different mental technique to a minute-long wham-bam sprint on the Flat.