John Francome - Declared Dead

'On its back in a field somewhere off the Combe Hardy and Charlton Bywater road. If you collect me first we can go and find it together. Please don't be long.' I told him where I was again, according to the sign in the telephone box, and then rang Amy. She at least had no trouble believing me.

'The police won't,' she warned, corroborating my own instinct. 'It stands to reason. Everyone who drives off the road blames it on some other lunatic.'

She was right. By the time Ralph had picked me up and we had located the car, the police were already on the scene. From the local bobby's very first question, when he asked how I could explain the skid marks up on the road, I knew that my account would be treated with ridicule. I saw no point in telling him about the final incident after the crash and confined myself to an account of how I had been followed and forced off the road by a driver I couldn't identify in a car whose number plates I never noticed and whose make remained a mystery to me. I gave Ralph a dirty look when he tried to interrupt. The bobby's last question left me in no doubt about the way his methodical mind was working.

'Had you had anything to drink last night with your meal, Madam?' I admitted that I had drunk about half a bottle of wine in the course of the evening. The knowing way the officer shook his head made me wonder whether I was going to be charged with driving under the influence as well as with sundry other road traffic offences.

Ralph drove me home and I was having a much needed bath when Mrs Drummond called. I rushed downstairs to take the call, convinced that my luck had changed and that Corcoran had turned up.

'He's in Ireland,' announced Mrs Drummond.

'You're a marvel,' I chortled. 'How did you find out?'

'I talked to a couple of the lads, who said that they were not surprised when he failed to return that weekend, as he had been talking about clearing off once he had sorted out a problem over here.'

I wondered whether that was a euphemism for disposing of my husband.

'And then by chance,' Mrs Drummond continued, 'I got a call last night from the man himself, asking to speak to Mr Radcliffe about his holiday money and unpaid wages. He obviously hadn't heard about the murder. He was pretty reluctant to talk when I said Mr Radcliffe was unavailable and all he'd tell me was that he was in County Limerick looking for work in a racing stable and wanted to be left alone. I could hardly hear him, he talked in such a quiet voice. I'm sorry, dear, he refused to be more specific or even give a forwarding address. There's always his mother, I suppose.'

I hid my disappointment, thanked Mrs Drummond profusely for her help and told her not to hesitate to contact me again if there was any more news. I was still determined to locate and talk to Corcoran, yet wondered what realistic chance I had of finding him in Southern Ireland. That was one place in the world where if you wanted to disappear no one held it in the least bit against you.

I had bruised my back quite badly in the crash and Ralph insisted on calling in his own doctor to examine me. Having given my body the once over and made the usual knowing noises, he declared that I had sprained my spinal ligaments and ordered me to lie on my back for the next three days. I started to protest until Ralph reminded me, in a friendly yet firm way, that I was his retained jockey and if I wanted to remain that way he expected me to make every effort to stay fit. I was, he said, entitled to do what I liked in my spare time but so long as I wanted to go on riding the horses in his yard he would give the commands when it came to my fitness. And the first command was to do what the doctor ordered.

I realised Ralph was right. I had no desire to give up being a jockey and anyway it was the only way I knew to make a decent living. Edward's estate had only one asset, the cottage, and that had been left to Freddie. I hardly expected to be remembered in his will, whatever his legal obligations to me as his wife, but at least he had ensured that it stayed in the family.

Being bedridden didn't mean that I was helpless. There was always the telephone, and letters to write. My first call was to James Thackeray. I had thought of leaking the details of my crash to the racing press and trying to enlist their help in tracking my attacker, but on reflection thought better of it. Apart from the real risk of having my tale greeted with the same incredulity as the police had displayed, I wanted to attract as little publicity as possible to my extremely amateur sleuthing. I said nothing to James about what had happened and limited myself to asking him a couple more favours.

The first concerned Corcoran. I was still determined to locate him, and apart from travelling over to Ireland and physically combing the countryside, I decided the best approach was to make an appeal to his wallet or that of someone who now knew where he was. Accordingly I read over to James the following notice for inclusion in the next seven issues of the Sportsman:

MICHAEL CORCORAN

Formerly employed in Tom Radcliffe's yard at Wantage and now believed to be working or seeking employment in stables in Ireland. Would the above or anyone knowing of his whereabouts contact Amy Frost at Messrs Arthurs, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn, London. Substantial reward payable. All replies treated in strictest confidence.

I didn't know what I meant by substantial, or for that matter where I was going to find the money to pay even a modest reward. I hoped I could deal with that particular problem as and when the occasion arose. James said he would make sure the notice would be given a prominent position in the classified section of the paper.

The second favour concerned Musgrave. When I encountered him at Kempton Park, I had accused him of being behind Brennan's efforts to stop me winning at Worcester. I was convinced that he had been responsible for Fainthearted drifting out in the betting – knowing I wouldn't win allowed him to offer generous odds – and once again I was hoping that James's contacts in the betting world would help me find out if I was right. He agreed on one condition.

'What's that?' I asked good-humouredly, expecting another request for an exclusive interview.

'I think it's time you let me in on this one, Victoria. My keen nose for scandal smells a juicy tale of corruption and skulduggery and I want to be in on it. What precisely is the low-down on Musgrave?'

I didn't bother to argue. Even if Musgrave had nothing to do with Edward's death, I was certain to obtain a more sympathetic hearing at the Jockey Club on my appeal if I could prove a direct link between Brennan's riding and the odds offered by a crooked bookmaker. I told James about my suspicions over the running of the Worcester race and how I was certain that Brennan and Musgrave were in each other's pockets. Brennan's performance at Kempton the day before had only confirmed my theory. James was cock-a-hoop at the prospect of a scandal.

'I like this a lot,' he announced as soon as I had finished. 'I can see it already splashed across the front page of the Sportsman:

"TOP JOCKEY AND BOOKIE IN BETS PROBE."

Yes, this could be very good indeed.'

'Hold on. Don't forget yours truly. I want you to make it clear that I was the innocent party at Worcester and that Ralph was utterly blameless. That's even more important than clearing me.'

'I won't let you down. I'll get cracking straight away, checking out all the races over the past six months when Brennan has been riding the likely favourite. Whenever it's drifted in the market and then been beaten, we'll find out if Musgrave was responsible for the odds going out.'

'It's not just horses ridden by Brennan, don't forget. At Worcester he was on one of the less fancied runners, and devoted his energies to stopping me winning on the favourite.'