Chapter 8
I arrived at Tom's yard at ten-thirty, when I reckoned I would find Jamie Brown, the head lad, in the office sorting out the race entries and declarations with Tom's assistant trainer. When the governor falls ill or, much more unusually, is languishing in prison on a murder charge, it becomes the responsibility of the assistant trainer and head lad to run the yard in his absence and to try and keep the winners coming. Tom had a large and on the whole fairly loyal bunch of owners, although they were unlikely to want to let their own financial interests suffer because of their trainer's present difficulties. I had heard that several horses had already been removed from the yard and no doubt many more would follow if the flow of winners dried up.
Unfortunately a virus had hit the yard at the end of March and since Tom's arrest, a number of the runners had struggled in towards the rear of the field and returned home to their boxes with runny noses. It was beginning to look as though even if, or rather when, Tom was acquitted, he was going to have plenty on his hands rebuilding his professional reputation,
I found Jamie alone in the office wading unhappily through a pile of entry forms. He was in his late forties, his wrinkled and weather-beaten face bearing testimony to a lifetime spent on the gallops. He loved horses and hated human beings, and his least favoured species was the lesser spotted female jockey. He made no attempt to stand up as I walked into the room and went on working as if I didn't exist. I tried the humble approach.
'Good morning, Mr Brown. I'm very sorry to disturb you, I really am, but it's very important. It's about Mr Radcliffe.' He still didn't move or look up, preferring to growl from behind the form book he was holding upright in his right hand.
'Haven't you caused enough trouble already, Miss? Do the police know that you're here, snooping around?'
'No, why should they? There's no law against it, unless you mean I'm not allowed to talk to you because of that statement you've given them.'
That succeeded in upsetting him. He shoved aside the entry forms, put down his book and glowered at me. 'Look here, all I told the police is what I heard in the yard that morning the day after the Gold Cup. I never thought I would get the governor into trouble, 'cos if I had I would've kept quiet. It was what
'Mr Brown, I didn't kill my husband. Nor did Tom Radcliffe. But at the moment nobody seems to care about the truth. Do you know where I can contact Michael Corcoran?'
'Corcoran? Don't know and frankly don't care. I can't see how he could help you. He walked out of here without so much as a by your leave, after all we'd done for him.' Jamie Brown shook his head as if despairing of the whole of the human race.
'Did he tell anyone where he was going?'
Brown gave me a contemptuous look. 'You don't know so much about racing, do you? Stable lads come and go, it's not as if they were well paid. For all I know at this very moment he could be working for some other trainer who hasn't got round to registering him.'
'Come on, Mr Brown, have you really no idea? Surely he told some of the other lads where he was going or what his plans were?'
He shook his head. 'I don't interest myself in stable gossip. As far as I'm concerned he didn't turn up on Monday morning to do his two and that was his lot. I'm hard pressed enough as it is.'
'Would you mind if I had a chat with one or two of the lads to see if they know anything?'
'Yes I would. I don't want you going round asking questions, upsetting my staff. He'll turn up somewhere, they always do.' He returned to his entries, making it clear he regarded the interview as over. I could see I would make no further progress and wandered back into the yard in the hope of finding a lad or girl who might be able to help me. There was no one in sight so I decided to say hello to Mrs Drummond.
I nervously rang the bell to the house in anticipation of one her more frosty receptions. To my surprise, she welcomed me with open arms and invited me in for coffee. Knowing her affection for Tom, I decided to take her into my confidence and tell her about Edward's blackmailing and how Corcoran was one of his victims. Then and there she offered to phone his parents in Ireland to see if they had any news. After a little difficulty getting through, she eventually spoke to Corcoran's mother. Mrs Corcoran had not heard from her son for two months, but that in itself was not unusual. She explained that he wasn't much of a writer and every now and again would phone home, normally when one of his half dozen brothers or sisters had a birthday. She promised to let Mrs Drummond know as soon as she heard anything.
The call over, Mrs Drummond offered to pursue her own enquiries among the lads in the yard and we arranged that she would telephone either me or Amy at work in London as soon as she heard or discovered anything. Frankly I wasn't optimistic and was beginning to suspect that Corcoran had no wish to have his present whereabouts discovered.
Having drawn a blank, I headed to Kempton Park and the day's principal race meeting, to see if George Musgrave was to be found taking bets on the rails. It was the first time for as long as I could remember that I had been to a racecourse without having a ride booked and it was a curious sensation wandering round the members' enclosure, rubbing shoulders with the punters and being just another spectator. Of course, jockeys are not allowed to bet, at least officially, and I certainly couldn't afford any approach I might make to Musgrave being misinterpreted.
Weekday meetings draw surprisingly large crowds and the six race card had no shortage of runners to keep them interested. It was an ideal setting for the bookies and I would have been surprised if Musgrave was not on hand to try and relieve the public of their readies. My instinct was right. I watched the first race from the stands, although for most of the eight fences my binoculars were trained on the sleek, immaculately groomed figure of my late husband's bookmaker. Positioned about six down on the rails, he was a tall, thin-faced man with a thick crop of brown hair, and his complexion bore the healthy remnants of a tan, no doubt from a recent cruise in the Caribbean. Appearing confident and assured in his well-cut dark blue cashmere coat he could easily have been mistaken for a stockbroker or merchant banker. The only give-away was the pair of tinted glasses he put on every now and again to look at the prices on the boards of the bookmakers standing in rows behind him. Beside him, also on the other side of the rails, stood his clerk, his head buried in a ledger recording the day's bets. Too smooth by half, was my first impression of Musgrave and I began to work out the right way to approach him. I decided that the best tactic would be to wait and see if he left his position to go and have a drink or whatever and then to follow him in the hope that a suitable opportunity would arise.
In the meantime, I amused myself watching him in action. The third race on the card was a handicap hurdle and it was attracting a good deal of betting. Eamon Brennan was on the 2-1 favourite and judging from the action in the ring, and the odds on offer from the bookies at the top of the rails, the horse was a warm order at that price. Standing only two yards away from Musgrave I heard him lay three separate punters' bets of two and a half thousand to win five thousand and he seemed prepared to take as much as any of the other bookies wished to unload. Either he had nerves of steel or he knew something they didn't. To cap it all, only one minute before the off he started offering 9-4 and was nearly submerged in the flood of takers. Once the race was under way he perched himself on the rail that divides the members from Tattersalls enclosure and fixed his binoculars on Brennan's mount.
You had to hand it to the Irishman, he really knew how to ride – it takes a real artist to lose when the world thinks you're trying like hell to win. Coming with a well-timed run to join the leader going over the last he managed for a moment to take the lead and a roar went up from his backers. Just then his opponent rallied and to all those screaming encouragement in the stands Eamon was pulling out all the stops in an attempt to win, flourishing his whip like a man whose own mortgage depended on it. Of course it didn't, and his heroic efforts just failed in what was called as a photo finish but to the trained eye was going to amount to a short-head defeat. Musgrave put down his binoculars and winked at his clerk. A perfect result for the book and no doubt for Eamon a packet of readies in prospect substantially in excess of the winning percentage he had sacrificed.
George didn't take a lot of interest in the next race and made no attempt to offer competitive odds. He was content to take the occasional bet from his credit customers and once the runners were off, he left his position and walked briskly through the gate that led to the members' entrance and on towards the ground floor bar below the stands. I followed him and waited until he had placed his order, then walked up to the bar beside him and asked the
