John Francome - Declared Dead

The next day the papers were full of the news. THE CHALK PIT MURDER screamed one headline; BODY IN THE BOOT another; and even The Times had TOP JUDGE'S SON IN MURDER RIDDLE. I sometimes wondered just how many top judges there were. The Sportsman, true to form, had its own angle on the story: TRAINER'S ARREST RUINS TITLE CHANCES it proclaimed, referring to Tom's attempt to become the season's leading trainer. That particular piece of genius had all the hallmarks of James Thackeray and I decided to give him a call later in the morning. I suspected I would need an ally in the press, particularly the racing one, and there was quite a lot of information he could find out for me.

To start with, I needed to know the name of the bookmaker who had laid Cartwheel so disastrously at Cheltenham, and also how the Sportsman had come to carry the announcement that Mr Pryde was dead. Whoever had put that notice in was either a murderer or a soothsayer, and I knew that Tom Radcliffe was neither.

That morning, Tom was remanded in custody at Newbury Magistrates' Court and, according to Amy, the committal hearing was due to take place the following week. Pressure from on high meant that the trial would probably be heard within a couple of months. I felt angry and impotent but realised that neither emotion would be of much use to Tom in his present predicament.

Accepting Amy's advice, I spent the week at Ralph Elgar's refusing to take any calls. That didn't stop a journalist from one of the tabloids calling at the house and slipping through the letter box a grubby piece of paper on which was scribbled an offer for the exclusive rights to my life story. He had even spelt my surname wrongly. When I didn't reply, it was taken as a signal that the money wasn't enough and – an increased offer soon followed. Fifty thousand pounds, provided I gave full intimate details of my sex life and posed topless! Both letters ended up in the fire.

It was just as well I had decided not to ride for a week, as not one trainer had called wanting my services. Ralph told me bluntly that the gossip on the racetrack was that I'd been having an affair with Tom, and that when Edward refused to give me a divorce, I'd encouraged Tom to murder him. So the wrong person was on trial. Even Ralph was shaken when I admitted that Tom had been my lover. Suddenly it seemed everyone had at least one fond memory of Edward Pryde, whereas I was being written off as too ambitious for my own good. It was at times like these that wives rein in their husbands and no one could afford to be heard, at least in public, to adopt a forgiving attitude towards adultery. After all, that sort of thing could so easily become an epidemic.

I left it to Amy to keep me in touch with the latest developments in the police enquiries. I nurtured the forlorn hope that something at least might come of their questioning of the names in the diary, enough to establish that I wasn't lying and that other people had a motive for wanting Edward dead.

Unfortunately it only took a couple of days before I was relieved of that illusion. According to Amy's information, the police tried to interview Michael Corcoran in Tom's yard but to no avail. It appeared that he had failed to return to the lads' hostel after a day off and had not been heard of since. No one seemed unduly perturbed, as it was fairly common for stable lads to up and leave without any notice and my initial reaction was that Edward's death had given Corcoran the chance to start his life afresh. I can't say I blamed him really.

They had also approached Sir Arthur Drewe and Lord Pryde. According to Amy's source at Scotland Yard, they had both blown a fuse on being questioned, and Pryde had threatened to have Wilkinson kicked out of the force if he persisted in such an offensive and outrageous line of enquiry. Hardly surprising when you think about it: the death of a blackmailer must be a great relief to his victims.

Finally, they had carried out a cursory check on the records of all the major bookmakers, which had revealed only a handful of bets in the name of Edward Pryde. For some reason they had chosen to overlook the fact that, if I was to be believed, he was avoiding off-course betting tax and in such circumstances you would hardly expect the bookmaker concerned to record the wagers in an official ledger.

It was now apparent that I was the only person, other than his lawyers, who was prepared to work for Tom's acquittal and even then I was in the invidious position of being a potential witness for the prosecution. The problem was knowing where to begin. It was no use confronting the individuals named in Edward's diary, as in the absence of any material proof to the contrary they would just deny any knowledge or involvement. What's more, if one of them really was the killer I would be exposing myself to danger and I certainly had no desire to be a member of the honourable company of dead heroes. All this meant I had to tread carefully and cautiously and the only consolation was that I had plenty of time on my hands to do it.

Being a jockey was clearly going to be a part-time occupation for the forseeable future; the ground was beginning to firm up and Ralph had roughed-off most of his horses for the season and spare rides seemed to be few and far between. The only runners he had that week were a couple at Worcester on the Thursday and by happy coincidence one of them was Fainthearted, the horse I had pulled on Edward's orders on that very first occasion all those months ago. I could not waste this opportunity to redeem myself and to justify Ralph's continued support and I therefore decided to defer my sleuthing until after the day's racing was over.

It was the first sunny day of Spring and as Ralph and I drove to the course together we discussed the riding instructions for both the races in which he had runners. Ralph was his usual chatty self, doing his best to keep my mind off the whole business. It was clear that he was very keen on Fainthearted's chances in the first and he reiterated that I was to hold him up for a late run and if possible only hit the front just before the winning post. As an ex flat horse, Fainthearted had the intelligence to pull up as soon as he was ahead and from a jockey's point of view there was nothing more sickening than hitting the front too soon, apparently full of running, and then finding yourself coming to a standstill as if the race was over. This time Ralph wanted no mistakes and, unusually for him, he kept on repeating how he wanted the horse ridden. I just sat back and listened. Judging from his uneasy manner and disregard for the other traffic on the road I was pretty sure that he was going for a major touch and with Fainthearted carrying only ten stone four on his back there was every reason for feeling confident.

Having narrowly missed at least two collisions I was very glad when we arrived unscathed at the course. As we walked into the members' enclosure I noticed several people point at me and then turn away as we drew closer. Even the man on the gate appeared surprised to see me, as if I should be wearing widow's weeds and not racing silks. I hated being the object of such attention and for once was relieved to be the only woman jockey riding that day. As soon as Ralph had gone off to check that the horses had arrived safely at the racecourse's stables, I hurried over to enjoy the solitude of the lady jockeys' changing room. Not for us the luxury of having a valet to help us dress like our male counterparts. With the race only twenty-five minutes away, I started to undress and put on the brown and pink colours of Fainthearted's owner, glancing in the mirror to check that I was presentable. I was surprised at how suddenly I seemed to have aged. My skin had lost its glow; my eyes looked dull and soulless and I thought I could see the first grey hairs in my blonde, bobbed hair. Sighing, I picked up the saddle and went over to the weighing room to weigh out. Ralph's travelling head lad was waiting to take it from me.