Declared Dead

'I'll call you if I have any problems,' James added.

As soon as the door was closed, James produced from his pocket a list of the races which he thought had been fixed. The first entry confirmed our suspicions – a race at Chepstow in December, where Musgrave had taken over fifteen thousand pounds of bets on the favourite at prices starting at 6-4 and going out to 5-2. The more money he took, the longer the odds he offered. The same approach could be seen on five other occasions and when it came to the Gold Cup, James whistled in disbelief at the size and number of wagers Musgrave had taken. The only difference was that on this occasion the wrong horse, Cartwheel, had won, and James calculated his losses to be over three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. All the big bookmakers had used him to lay off the bets that they themselves had taken on the same horse at a shorter price and the result was that he had taken a hammering.

I stood guard in front of the door as James photographed all the incriminating entries. He was on the last one when there was a knock on the door and the manager asked if he could come in.

'Hold on,' James shouted as he hid his camera. I moved away to the side and opened the door.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, but I've just had Mr Musgrave on the line from Aintree. He's not best pleased that you've arrived without giving him notice and wants to take it up with Head Office after racing. He's asked me if you would leave your names and those of your superiors.'

I looked imploringly at James who, for the first time that I had known him, was lost for words. His lips were moving, yet no sound was coming out.

'Of course,' I said, taking the initiative. 'I'm sorry Mr Musgrave has taken exception but we're just doing our job. He's nothing to hide, I hope.'

The manager visibly paled. 'Oh no, nothing of the sort. It's just that…'

'Anyway my name is Dawn Lunn and my colleague here is Dick Lear. Our boss is Roddy Owen. Unless there's anything else, we've still got quite a lot to go through.'

The manager took the hint and left, whereupon James miraculously recovered his powers of speech.

'Dawn Lunn, Dick Lear, Roddy Owen; where the hell did you dream them up?'

'I'm sorry. There you were, sitting like a lemon and all I could think of were the names of racehorses who'd won the Gold Cup. Dawn Lunn came from Dawn Run and Dick Lear is a cannibalisation of The Dikler.'

'And Roddy Owen?'

'I thought you knew your racing. He won the Gold Cup in 1958.'

'Well you fooled old misery guts there, but I'm not so sure the joke will be lost on Musgrave…'

'Who cares? He might guess it was me, but he's no idea about your involvement and by the time he finds out it'll be too late. Come on, finish off taking the photographs and then I want to look at something.'

Five minutes later, I was seated at the desk studying the credit ledger for off-course bets struck by clients whose surname began with a P. There was not a single reference to Edward Pryde, or any Pryde for that matter, yet I knew full well that he had lost more than a hundred thousand pounds to Musgrave in off-course bets. I asked James to double check for me and he agreed that Edward's name was missing.

'What's it all mean, Victoria?' he asked, when he had finished his scrutiny.

'I'll tell you later. It's time we were on our way.'

We bid the manager goodbye, made a speedy, albeit dignified, exit and hailed the first passing cab.

'The Sportsman's offices in Fleet Street,' said James to the driver and, feeling extremely pleased with ourselves, we headed off to present the editor with our coup.

Chapter 12

I had never been into a newspaper's offices before and my image of them was based entirely on what I had seen in the movies and on the television. In fact, the real thing wasn't that far different except that I didn't spot anyone running around frantically shouting 'Hold the front page' and the atmosphere generally appeared a good deal more relaxed than I had expected. The editorial department of the Sportsman was situated on the third floor and consisted of a long open-plan room with offices housing senior staff on the right-hand side. James's desk was over in the far corner and apart from the odd knowing wink and glib comment as we walked over to it, our arrival attracted little attention. Tomorrow was, of course, the National and that was one of the major events in the calendar for any racing paper. There were the usual selections to be made and special features to be put together on the personalities, both human and equine, that made it such a memorable day for racing. James, of course, was hoping to change all that and persuade the editor that the cosy copy which traditionally dominated that day's paper should be surrendered to his sensational expose of Musgrave and Brennan.

On the way over in the taxi, he had warned me that it would be an uphill struggle. His first task on arriving was to send the roll of film he had taken at Musgrave's office downstairs to the laboratory to be developed. He then sat me down at his desk, fetched a cup of black coffee in a paper cup (they had run out of milk), threw me a couple of racing magazines and disappeared into the editor's office. This was a bit more like it, I thought, the cut and thrust of investigative journalism. He was gone a good half hour before he returned, looking dishevelled and angry. I could tell he had been arguing and I feared the worst.

'Sometimes I wonder,' he said, throwing his notes on the desk, 'whether this is a serious newspaper or merely a Boy's Own for horse lovers. You'd think he'd jump at a story like this.'

'He?'

'Carlton Williams, the editor.'

'Do you mean he's not going to print it?' I asked, not trying to hide my astonishment. It had never occurred to me that they might not publish it.

'It's not that bad. I think I've persuaded him that it's a better front page lead than PIN MONEY TO BE THE HOUSEWIFE'S FRIEND.' (Pin Money was the ante-post favourite for the race.) 'He's now phoning the lawyers to see what they think and knowing that bunch they'll be seeing problems here there and everywhere. I can hear it already: 'How can you prove this, Mr Thackeray? How do you know Victoria Pryde is telling the truth? How did you obtain entry to Musgrave's offices? What! By posing as government officers? Did you know that you were committing a criminal offence? Have you put these allegations to Mr Musgrave and Mr Brennan?' '

'Will they kill it?'

'Probably not. Old Carlton actually hates lawyers – I think his brother-in-law is a solicitor – and at the end of the day he prefers to act on instinct. Just feels he has to go through the ritual of consultation to keep the proprietor happy. Shit, look at the time! Do you mind if I start writing the copy and then we can go through it together? I think we ought to have a photograph of you to adorn it and I'll just call up the picture library to get one of Brennan and Musgrave as well, if we're lucky.'

An hour later, after a lot of cussing and swearing and discarding of paper, James ripped the final sheet triumphantly from his typewriter and handed the completed copy over to me for approval. He certainly hadn't pulled any punches and on seeing it in cold print I could understand why the lawyers might be anxious.

'It's very good,' I said. 'Do you think you'll get away with it?'

'It's not just very good, it's brilliant. This, Victoria, is the racing scandal of the year and tomorrow is the perfect day to lead with it. Can you imagine what a sensation it will create? Ah, here comes that film back.'

A young gum-chewing messenger dropped a brown envelope on James's desk. It was full of the photographs taken at Musgrave's offices. They had come out beautifully and all the relevant entries from his ledgers and field sheets were clearly legible. James studied them intently for ten minutes or so.

'Good, aren't they? Wonderful things, these miniature cameras. I think we'll use the entries for the Worcester race – that should help you before the disciplinary committee – the ones at Chepstow in December when 1 reckon he made at least twenty thousand pounds, thanks to Brennan, and finally Cartwheel's race at Cheltenham. It's getting a bit late if this is going to be tomorrow's lead. Oh damn! I've just seen the lawyers arrive. You can always spot them by the sadistic gleam in their eyes – as if they were going to judge a thumb-screwing contest. Excuse me while I go and stand up for myself.'

I had run out of form books and newspapers to read by the time James returned. The broad grin on his face spoke for itself.

'Do you want the good news or the bad news?'

'The good news.'