John Francome - Declared Dead

'What do you mean?' I already sounded anxious.

'As I told you, in the absence of a confession or an eye witness, the police case has to be based on circumstantial evidence. You know what I mean, once they prove the body is Edward's, all the clues have to point to Tom as the murderer.'

'But what clues?'

'Hold on a minute, I'm coming to that. Just let me get my notes out. Right. To begin with, the row in the pub was a very acrimonious affair and was overheard by half the saloon bar. Apparently Edward was asking Tom to leave you alone and Tom lost his temper and threatened all sorts of things if Edward didn't treat you better. I gather they very nearly came to blows and both were the worse for drink when they left, just before closing time.'

'But that doesn't prove anything. Tom doesn't mean it when he makes those kinds of threats.'

'You know that, Victoria, but the police don't. Can I continue?'

'I'm sorry.'

'It's all right. I do understand, but if you let me finish with the evidence we can dissect it afterwards. Next comes the forensic stuff. On the track leading to the chalk pit they've discovered four footprints which match the shoes Tom admits wearing the night he met Edward.'

'But he's got the same size feet as half the men in England.'

'I thought you were going to let me finish! And on those shoes they've found traces of chalk which match that found in the pit. Finally, hidden in a disused stable in his yard under a load of machinery they've found a petrol can which they believe was used to set fire to the car and Edward's body.'

'I just don't believe it. The chalk on the shoes is probably the same as you will find near those gallops Tom uses and the petrol can proves nothing. There must be a million discarded petrol cans on farms and in stables.'

'You're probably right but not all their owners have a motive for wanting Edward dead or, for that matter, have petrol stains on the clothing they were wearing the night the victim disappeared.'

'On his clothing! But how?'

'Tom says he must have done it when he filled his car up with petrol on the way to the pub.'

'It's very likely – he's a clumsy bugger.'

'It's just unfortunate I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Victoria, but you've got to accept that Edward's dead and Tom's going to be on trial for his murder in less than two months' time.'

I thanked her for her help and asked if she would attend the committal hearing to keep an eye on the proceedings. I would be elsewhere, at Tom's yard trying to locate the present whereabouts of Michael Corcoran and hoping that he might admit to the police that he was being blackmailed. I took out his letter of confession and clenched it tightly in my hand. Ironically, a spot of blackmail of my own was now called for.

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 you said I thought would interest them.'

'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.