`No, you're not. He's allowed one failure. We'll make up for it next time.'
`We'd better. Or I'll slaughter the chinless little turd.'
He would too. Anyone who stepped out of line with Malcolm Priest took his life in his hands.
`Pippa, Dave's left. He gave me these,' Jamie held out the Land Rover keys, ànd asked me to tell you he's gone back to London. For good,' he added.
`He can't do that.' Òf course he can.'
`No, he can't. Not now. Not till he's talked to me.' Her face had turned white.
`He can do what he wants. We don't have a contract with him or anything.
We can't keep him against his will.'
Òh sod it.' She stamped her foot, just like she used to do when their mother wouldn't let her stay out late. `Did he say why?'
'No, he didn't.'
Ì don't suppose you ruddy well thought to ask him. Where is he now?' 'He said he was catching a cab into town.'
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She snatched the keys out of Jamie's hand. Ì'll find him. I'll give him a lift to the station if that's what he wants but not before I find out what's going on in his stupid thick head.'
And she vanished without saying goodbye.
Pippa halted the Land Rover at the taxi rank and sprang out. Dave was on his own. Not many punters forsook the course halfway through the afternoon's card.
`Get in!' she shouted at him.
`Hello, Pippa,' he mumbled unhappily. `Get in and I'll take you to the station.' Ìt's OK, I'll wait.'
`No, it's ruddy well not OK!' She had him by the arm and was dragging him towards the vehicle. `Get in!' she ordered.
He did as he was told.
Finally, after forty minutes of stop-start, then crawling bumper to bumper along a coned-off single carriageway, Jane and Simon emerged from the maze of roadworks. Ahead lay a seductive vista of empty three-lane highway. Like every other frustrated motorist, Simon stamped his foot to the floor and burned rubber.
`What was that all about?' he complained. Ì didn't see one workman or one machine in operation.'
`You're doing a hundred, Simon.'
`Going to give me a ticket, are you?' He eased his foot off the accelerator all the same.
`Calm down,' Jane said. `We'll be there in time for the fourth race.'
Malcolm Priest had better not leave early.
Bag in hand, Jamie left the changing-room. Gates of Eden had been his only ride of the day and he was rueing the fact. Till he'd walked into the weighing-room he'd not realised how much he had missed the place during his lay-off. His jump-racing colleagues had welcomed him back like a long lost friend, even though he'd only been one of their fraternity for a few weeks. And he'd just ridden a cracking winner so at least some part of his life was falling into place.
The way he felt right now, he'd even take on one of Irene Bolt's dodgy animals. But there were no spare rides today and now he wasn't even sure how he was going to get home. If Pippa didn't reappear, he supposed he 292
could always ride back with the horse. He decided to head in that direction and maybe leave his stuff in the horse box.
`Hey, Jamie!' It was his brother-in-law, making his way through the crowd towards him with a broad smile on his face. `You rode a stormer. Brilliant stuff'
`Thanks.' The big man's generous praise, earned at the expense of his own horse too, pricked at Jamie's conscience. But he had a bone to pick with him and maybe now was the time to do it. `Malcolm, can we talk somewhere?'
Òf course.'
Ì mean, about the crash. Our crash.'
Malcolm looked him in the eye. `Sure. What are you doing at the moment?'
Ì was just going to see if there was room for me in the horse box. Pippa's gone off and I need a lift.'
Ì'm about to leave. Come with me and we'll talk on the way.' Why not? It made perfect sense.
Ì can't believe you were just going to take off back to London without speaking to me.'
Pippa was giving Dave a hard time and he couldn't blame her. They were in the Land Rover parked outside the station and there were only twenty minutes to go before his train. But it was going to be a tough twenty minutes.
`Look at me, Dave, and just tell me why.' He shrugged and said nothing.
`We've just had our first bit of success together and you want to leave -
why?'
They'd been over and over the same ground since they'd left the racecourse.
`No more, please, Pippa. I can't explain.' `That's because you won't. What have I done?'
'Nothing, honestly. You're great and I've loved the experience and everything but it's time for me to do something else.'
`Like what? You say you've got plans but what are they? Give me one decent answer and I'll say goodbye and good luck.'
He stared mutely out of the window.
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`See?' she cried. `You're giving up on something you've hardly started.
You're just running away and I don't understand it. For God's sake, Dave, you owe me an answer. Why?'
Seventeen minutes to go now. It was agony but he could do it.
He wasn't going to tell her that he was leaving because of her. That once the notion that her marriage might be over had lodged itself in his head it had grown into something that he couldn't contain. He knew that if he carried on working by her side he'd soon be hopelessly in love - and what was the point of that? None, since she was committed to that slime-ball Malcolm.
What's more, if he stayed, he knew he'd end up telling Pippa what he'd seen Malcolm doing with Beverley, God rest her. And he definitely couldn't tell her that. In his experience, the messenger always got shot.
Fifteen minutes to go. It seemed like an eternity.
Malcolm and Jamie pushed through the crowd assembling in front of the Jubilee Stand for the next race. Malcolm vaguely noted the action in the betting ring, his thoughts racing ahead.
It was a stroke of luck, Jamie needing a lift. It couldn't have been better if he'd planned it himself, given the circumstances. But something would have come up - it always did.
He noted the preoccupied expression on Jamie's face. It wasn't the look of a lad who'd just ridden a 10-1 winner in great style. It was the expression of a man preparing some awkward questions.
Malcolm just needed to get Jamie away from the course with as few people seeing them as possible - people who might remember seeing them go, that is. For the moment they were OK, the crowd around them was thick. There was nothing like being in a crowd to be invisible.
Joyce was disturbed by the greyness in Clem's pallor. He was taking forever to catch his breath. She had found him a seat near to the first aid post so, if things got desperate, maybe they could give him some oxygen.
He was mumbling something.
,I can't hear you.' She put her ear close to his mouth. Ì fluffed it, Joyce.'
`What do you mean?,
'He came right by me. I could have got him but I couldn't do it. I'm sorry.'
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Joyce was sorry too. More than that, she felt cheated. So that was that. She stared miserably ahead. And saw, appearing out of the crowd away to their left by the betting ring, two men walking towards them. One was tall and broad with sandy hair, the other was shorter, carrying a hold-all. As they passed in front of her, she made the connection. It was Jamie Hutchison and one of the others who'd been in the car, Malcolm Priest. They were heading for the trackside car park. In a few minutes Jamie Hutchison would be gone and their only chance of justice gone with them.
Her brother was still mumbling apologies. A man with the means to take vengeance but broken by his own failings.
'Clem,' she said in a voice that commanded attention. `There's something I haven't told you about our Marie. She's been seeing Jamie Hutchison.'
That woke him up. `What do you mean "seeing"?' `He writes to her. They meet. Use your imagination.'
His face began to redden and his eyes bulged, all trace of weary self-reproach banished in an instant. He was imagining things all right.
,Hutchison's just over there with his brother-in-law. They're going into the car park.'
Clem didn't waste breath on words. He was on his feet, moving slowly but steadily in the right direction.
Joyce took his arm. By crikey she'd push him all the way there if she had to.
Once they were away from the crowd Jamie started, as Malcolm knew he would. He'd had that look on his face, as if he couldn't contain himself any longer.
Ì don't know how to put this, Mal, but you know I've been having dreams about the crash?'
Malcolm knew all right.
`They're screwing me up. They won't stop. And I'm not sure if they're what really happened. The doctor said my memory might come back.
Suppose it has?'
`What's in your dreams then, Jamie?' He needed to know.
`Don't take offence, Mal, but I picture us all in the car - you, me and Rich.
Only I'm not driving. You are.'
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They were in the car park now, walking along a row of vehicles, Jamie still talking urgently.
`Then I dream about the smash, and you and Rich pulling me out. You both think I'm dead.'
`You did look like a goner for a while.' And it's a damn shame you weren't
- it would have saved a load of hassle.
`Because you and Rich think I'm dead, you decide you'll say I was driving.'
Malcolm forced a laugh. They'd reached his BMW and he unlocked the boot. `Chuck your bag in the car.'
If he could get Jamie out of here and off the main road he'd be able to deal with him. They'd take the scenic route over the high fells. There were a few places up there where a body would never be discovered. They'd stop for a breath of fresh air and he'd take Jamie while he was unaware. The man was such a trusting fool - how had he survived in prison?
Malcolm opened the driver's door. Jamie was on the other side of the car, still talking.
Ì feel terrible bringing this up. You've always been great to me, Mal.
Visiting me inside, giving me a home. And that money you lent me.'
`You'll have me in tears in a moment. Just shut up and get in the car.'
Please.
As a rule, police officers do not witness crimes - they are just called upon to solve them. But there are exceptions to any rule.
Jane and Simon had reached the racecourse eventually and had spent half an hour engaging in that well-known pastime of looking for a needle in a haystack.
Ì never thought there'd be such a crowd on a weekday,' said Simon.
`Haven't these people got jobs to go to?'
Ì except they're all schoolteachers up from Lancashire,' remarked Jane drily.
They were not helped by never having seen Malcolm Priest in the flesh.
Armed only with the football photograph (ÒK,' admitted Simon, ìt does look like a bruise') and the internet-generated image of Malcolm and Jamie going to court, it was not a simple task.
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Jane rang Colin Stewart and asked him if he knew what kind of car Priest would be driving. He called back after a couple of minutes with the information - a black BMW What's more he supplied the registration number. Jane reckoned she owed the young detective a drink or two.
Ìf we can spot his vehicle,' she said to Simon, `then at least we'll know he's at the course.'
Simon regarded her sardonically. `There's a few car parks here, you know.
We'd be better off watching the exits. Or the men's bogs.'
Jane ignored him and caught the attention of a passing steward. A few moments later she was hustling Simon past the bookies in the ring, away from the stands. Ahead could be seen lines of cars parked alongside the track.
`That's where the owners and trainers park, apparently. I bet that's where he's put his car.'
They looked across the vista of stationary vehicles. `Bloody hell, Jane!'
Simon cried. `That's him!'
She saw him at the same time - a tall, square-shouldered figure standing at the open door of a black saloon, facing another man across the roof of the car. Jamie Hutchison.
Then her view of the jockey was blocked out by a large bulky man, moving awkwardly, supported by a broad-beamed middle-aged woman.
The pair moved slowly along the path, heading directly towards the BMW
Jane's attention was on Malcolm Priest. `Quick, Simon,' she said, striding forward, `before he gets away.'
Clem's breath whistled and spluttered in his ruined chest, the sound of it deafening in his ears. Surely Hutchison could hear him puffing like a steam train?
He was close now, just the width of a car away. Near enough. His limbs were as heavy as lead and he raised the gun in slow motion.
He held it at arm's length in both hands, like he'd seen in the movies, and aimed at the back of the jockey's head. The gun-sight wobbled in his shaky grasp.
He had to be quick.
He forced his hands to be still.
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`Get in, mate. 1 want to beat the traffic.' Malcolm sounded impatient.
Jamie opened the car door. He supposed he had been yakking on a bit.
There was plenty of time to talk on the journey.
As he ducked to step inside there was an almighty bang in his ear and he pitched forward. A bomb, he thought stupidly.
There were more bangs and the sound of shattering glass. Jamie crouched in the well of the car, his face pressing against the rubber footmat. He was aware of shouts and scuffling close by.
A voice cried, `Police! Don't move!' but he scarcely registered the words.
His attention was fixed straight ahead as he looked through the car and out of the open door on the driver's side. Lying on the ground, his brother-in-law and good friend Malcolm stared sightlessly up at the sky, a wet red hole in his neck.
The train was pulling in, thank God. All Dave had to do was give Pippa a quick peck on the cheek and hop on board, out of her life. Despite what he'd said about keeping in touch, he knew he wouldn't. Best not to, all things considered.
She'd stopped haranguing him five minutes back but she'd refused to go.
Instead she'd accompanied him onto the platform, a hurt and reproachful presence by his side.