From their statements it appeared he did a reasonable job, even if he wasn't always guaranteed to turn up. These families and a handful of disreputable friends had been the only mourners at his funeral.
Jane was curious about Pete's own family. His parents were dead but it appeared that he had a brother and numerous aunts, uncles and cousins. A note in the file of a phone conversation with the brother supplied the information that the family had washed their hands of Pete years ago - and he of them.
There was one remaining family connection, however - a monthly payment of a thousand pounds, transferred from Ireland into his bank account. This, the enquiry had discovered, was Pete's share of the family fortune, left in trust for him by his grandfather. It explained how he had managed to pay his rent and keep his costly habits afloat while doing little beyond giving the odd private lesson and small-time drug-dealing.
Jane wondered how much good all those thousand-pound handouts had really done him. `Poor little trust-fund boy,' she murmured to herself.
But suppose, out of these regular payments and his dealing, he'd managed to get a good stake together, could he not have won the money in a bet?
Despite what the local bookies had said, Pete did follow the horses and, through Amanda, could maybe get some inside tips. Perhaps they'd amassed this money through clever gambling? That's what Leighton had thought - when he'd thought about it at all.
Jane still wasn't convinced. Wouldn't Pete have boasted to Filthy about a big win, given that he'd boasted about the change in his fortunes? Isn't that 135
what gamblers did? She was hardly familiar with their psychology, however. Perhaps she really should go racing with Simon.
She pushed the thought out of her mind and turned to Amanda's finances.
Her records had been found in the upstairs back room of the cottage where they had escaped damage from the fire. Jane found herself looking at the conventional paper-trail of a young woman's financial life - credit-card bills, reams of bank statements and a building society passbook. All the accounts except for the latter were in the red but that had not always been the case. It was clear where the rot had started to set in - six months before her death. Hello, Pete, goodbye cash, Jane thought. It was entirely predictable.
Until that point, it seemed, Amanda had skimmed along, just about keeping her head above water. There'd been regular incomings from her employer and what looked like outgoings on the usual living expenses, with the occasional plastic retail splurge. But the end of her employment had signalled an irreversible decline in her finances. The building society passbook told the most interesting story. Until the previous summer it had been healthily balanced, containing over £7000. Since then regular withdrawals had reduced the holdings to less than a hundred pounds. The bundle of cash that Filthy Barrable had seen was sorely needed.
Jane flicked back through the pages of the passbook, which revealed the entire history of the account. Amanda had opened it with a deposit of fifty pounds seven years ago. After that, she'd added small amounts each month of ten or twenty pounds. Jane assumed the money was saved out of her earnings, in the time-honoured fashion of the thrifty, as Amanda tried to scrape together a lump sum. At that rate, however, Jane wondered how Amanda had managed to get it up to seven grand. She found the answer in an entry for October 1999 when Amanda had deposited the sum of £
10,000. Where had that come from?
Jane glanced at her watch. Was twenty to six a bad time to ring Elizabeth Jacobs? It might be suppertime or bath time or bedtime - on reflection, any time was bad. With three young children to care for there would always be a reason why a mother's attention was engaged elsewhere. She punched in the number.
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The phone was picked up on the fifth ring. `Hello,' said a small voice.
Child noises could be heard in the background and singing - Jane recognised the soundtrack of The Jungle Book.
`May I speak to your mummy, please?’ 'Hello,' said the voice. `Hello.'
Was there something wrong with the line?
Jane repeated her question. The voice repeated the answer: `Hello, hello, hello.'
Just as she was on the point of ringing off, a woman shouted down the line, Ìs that you, Cliff? Hurry up and come home - they're driving me round the twist.'
There was an embarrassed pause when Jane introduced herself. This was obviously not a good time to talk.
`Do you mind if I pop round tomorrow morning?' she asked. Àt half ten, say?’
'I can't guarantee we'll have the chance to-' Elizabeth broke off and shouted something. There was a crash in the background and Jane heard a wail go up. Elizabeth spoke urgently, `That'll be fine. I've got to go.'
Another receiver was picked up elsewhere in the house. `Hello,' said a little voice. `Hello, hello, hello. . .'
Jane put down the phone.
Malcolm took up his station in the White Rose across the street from Beaufort Holidays. He swallowed a large scotch to soothe his nerves then nursed a pint at a table by the window. From there he could see directly into the staff car park. It was less full than it had been twenty minutes ago when most of the office drones had fled the premises on the dot of six.
Barney Beaufort's Bentley was still in gleaming evidence and, two spaces down, so was Beverley's Citroen. Malcolm's chief concern was that the pair would exit together. He had to get Beverley on her own.
The office door opened and a solid figure, astrakhan overcoat belted against the winter chill, strode towards the Bentley - unaccompanied, thank God. At last something was going right.
Malcolm knew how Beverley operated. He reckoned shed be another five minutes, ten at the most. In her scheme of things the appearance of endeavour was as important as the thing itself. She'd make a point of 137
remaining at her desk while the boss was in the building and exit swiftly once he was out of the picture.
He was not disappointed. Six minutes after the Bentley had rolled out of the car park, Beverley was standing beside the Citroen, keys in her hand.
`Not so fast, Ms Harris,' Malcolm said as he stepped between her and the vehicle.
She didn't appear surprised to see him. `You still lurking around, Malcolm? What do you want now?'
`What do you think, Beverley? I want an explanation of that charade this afternoon. Who the hell do you think you are - Pol Pot in high heels?'
She looked at him neutrally, her expression giving nothing away. `Get in the car,' she ordered and opened the door. He did as he was told.
With exaggerated care, unlike her usual driving style, she backed out of the car park and drove a hundred yards down the road, drawing to a halt in a dark side street.
She removed her spectacles and placed them on top of the dashboard, then turned to face him.
`Beverley,' he began, `just what the hell are you playing at?'
But he got no further before she threw herself on him, pulling his head down to hers and kissing him with an open mouth.
He tried to hold her off. He was still angry. He needed explanations, a chance to express his frustrations. But she was rubbing and stroking him, her tongue in his mouth, her leg across his lap.
At last she relaxed her grip and laid her head on his shoulder, her arm hugging his chest.
Ì've been wanting to do that all afternoon,' she murmured.
`What stopped you? Karen could have entered it in the minutes.' She giggled. `There's security cameras in the car park. That's why I had to bring you here.'
She was fondling him again, gently but with purpose. `Beverley, you crazy witch, let's go back to your place.' Ì can't wait that long.'
`There's hotels here in town.' `Mmm, yeah.'
`Come on then, let's go. I'll drive.'
She released him and sat upright. `Whatever you say, Malcolm. You're the boss.'
138
Hardly.
It was just her bad luck, thought Pippa, that the first person she ran into in the parade ring at Southwell racecourse was the one she'd most hoped to avoid: Arabella Childs. It had been more than six months since Mrs.
Childs' horse Black Knight had been removed from her yard but the manner of the defection still hurt. Shed seen Black Knight's name on the list of entries and, for one moment, had considered finding another race for May Day Warrior, her own horse. But she'd dismissed the thought at once. She was running a professional business and could hardly allow her own feelings to interfere.
Mrs. Childs was preparing to walk past without acknowledging her but Pippa wasn't having that. `How are things, Arabella?' she asked. The other woman barely broke stride. Ì can't stop, darling,' she said, Ì must discuss strategy with Toby.'
Pippa was left standing open-mouthed.
Dave watched the smartly dressed older woman scuttle off and muttered in Pippa's ear, `Must be her strategy for the post-race cocktail party.'
She found herself grinning stupidly. `Please, Dave, don't make me laugh.
Here come my owners.'
The connections of May Day Warrior, the two founders of a software company and their female partners, were walking across the ring towards them. The men provided a contrast in sizes.
`Blimey,' said Dave. `Little and Large.'
`Don't, Dave,' she implored, biting back laughter. She couldn't think why she was behaving so frivolously. It must have something to do with her lanky escort and - a sobering thought - the fact that Jamie was not with them. It wasn't his fault but the gloom that dogged her brother was infectious.
The May Day Warrior group were a cheery lot, out to make a night of it. It was obvious that their high spirits had already been fuelled by a few drinks. Nevertheless, Pippa was preparing herself to answer some searching questions on the horse's prospects. He'd come second last time out and she remembered saying (foolishly) that he'd be a cert to win his next race. She wasn't looking forward to being reminded of this remark but was saved in an unexpected fashion.
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Little, the small round one, was still pumping Dave's hand following Pippa's introduction. Ì don't believe it!' he cried. `You're the Dave Prescott! I saw you break the UK record for the five thousand metres at Crystal Palace.'
Dave grinned modestly. `That was back in the Dark Ages, mate.' `Yeah, when we last had world-class distance runners. I was at school and you were my hero. Hey, everybody!'
Pippa watched with surprise and increasing pleasure as the group turned their attention to Dave. She knew the two men were sports nuts and the women, thrilled by the occasion, mobbed Dave too. In the excitement, May Day Warrior and his rider were given a cheerful sendoff and nobody quizzed her about his prospects.
`Thanks, Dave,' she said to her companion as they made their way to the stand. `You've made their evening, whatever happens in the race.' Jamie could have accompanied Pippa and Dave to Southwell but the prospect of a four-hour round trip in the car hadn't thrilled him. The fact was, the fall he'd had at Carlisle had shaken him up more than he cared to admit. Apart from the bruises, it had revived some aches and pains that dated back to his car crash.
He'd been dozing on the sofa, so when the phone rang it took him some while to lever his aching body upright and answer it.
Àre you all right, Jamie? You sound half dead.'
Ì'm fine, Ros.' He wasn't going to admit to anyone, least of all her, that he was in pain. He'd just earned Brownie points for courage and didn't intend to lose them.
`Jamie . . .' She paused, for once sounding uncertain. `Do you like music?
Orchestral music, that is.'
`Yes,' he said without thinking. Àt least, I like it but I don't know much about it.'
You liar. You know nothing about it.
Ì need an escort tomorrow night to accompany me to a concert. It's a private affair with some friends. Would you be interested?'
`Yes,' he said and instantly regretted it. He'd be stuck with a load of toffs, listening to music he didn't understand, while his aching body played a different kind of tune. `Thanks, Ros, I'd love to.'
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Now why on earth had he said that?
As the horses took their places on the far side of the course for the start of the race, Pippa's light-hearted mood evaporated. Through binoculars, she watched Black Knight being herded into his stall with a sour taste in her mouth. He had been one of her favourites and she knew she'd done a good job on him, nursing him through one niggle after another yet still producing him fit on race days. He'd won for her at Lingfield and been placed on three other occasions, which wasn't bad. If it hadn't been for Toby she was sure she'd be saddling him for this race. It wasn't fair.
Dave gave her an encouraging grin which she did her best to return. On the journey down she'd given him the background to the race. `Basically, Dave, I used to train Black Knight alongside May Day Warrior and there was no doubt that the Warrior was the better horse. I'd never dream of entering them in the same race. But Black Knight's done well since Toby took him over. He won at Wolverhampton and the handicapper has raised him twelve pounds. So today's a big test. If Black Knight's really improved that much then I'll know I'm not that good at my job.'
Dave had listened without comment and then indicated the intricate timepiece on his wrist. `You want me to put a stopwatch on them?' he'd asked, which was about the most useful suggestion he could make. Why hadn't she thought of that?'
The horses set off at a steady pace. With two miles ahead of them - one and a half circuits of the all-weather track - there was no need for anyone to go mad. Considering its class, there were some reasonable animals in the race but Pippa calculated that May Day Warrior was as good as any of them. The runners passed the stands and the winning post for the first time and headed out into the country, the Warrior lying fourth out of the eight runners, well placed on the rail, with Black Knight just behind him.
She wondered if Black Knight's jockey - her brother-in-law Richard - was deliberately tracking her horse. The pair of them seemed glued together all the way down the far side of the course. With ten furlongs gone some of the runners were flagging and the leading three began to come back to May Day Warrior. Rounding the top bend he cruised into the lead and entered the home straight five lengths clear.