John Francome - Declared Dead

'I suppose you couldn't resist reading it,' he snarled as he snatched it from my hand.

I nodded and countered: 'And I suppose you're not going to tell me what the entries at the back stand for?'

He stared at me for a few seconds before replying. I suspected that too much drink was going to loosen his tongue and prompt an indiscretion or a display of vanity. He never could resist an opportunity to show how clever he was.

'Why not? Since you've become my partner in crime there's precious little you can do about it and after all, married couples aren't meant to have any secrets from each other, are they? Freddie darling, go and play in your bedroom for ten minutes will you, whilst I have a little chat with mummy.'

He beckoned me to sit opposite him by the fire while he fingered through the diary. Without showing the slightest trace of embarrassment or regret he started explaining: 'As you've no doubt already gathered, the last few pages are the most interesting. Each of these initials stands for what I call one of my investors, and the figure against his or her name, the amount of their monthly investment.'

'What do you mean, investors? What, for God's sake, are they investing in?'

He grinned mischievously. 'My silence. A very precious commodity indeed.'

I leant over and grabbed the diary from his hand. It was still open at the relevant pages.

'You mean, you're a blackmailer, and these are your victims? You bastard!'

'Cut out the moralising. I can do without lectures on that front from a crooked jockey. I'm only telling you all this to let you know that we're not the only people who do things they shouldn't.'

I looked down the list, and tried to decipher the initials. 'Who is A.D., who presumably pays you one hundred pounds a month?'

'That, darling, is your favourite steward, Sir Arthur Drewe.'

'Drewe?'

'One and the same. Who'd have believed it of him? For our purposes he has the added advantage of standing at Worcester and Fontwell.'

'I follow. So that's why you were so confident there would be no problems with the stewards in those races. Does that also explain why Drewe was so intent on taking the race from me yesterday?'

'And he very nearly did so. If only those other oafs hadn't been so susceptible to your confounded smile.'

'And what was Sir Arthur's crime?'

'A little bit of indiscreet adultery, spiced with a desire for the odd burst of flagellation. It was just bad luck for Arthur that I know the young lady in question. And of course old Lady Drewe is not an understanding shrew. That's rather a clever rhyme, isn't it?'

I ignored him and looked down the list again. 'And who's M.C., who pays you thirty pounds a month? What's his sin?'

'Ah, M.C. Michael Corcoran.'

'The one who works in Tom Radcliffe's yard?'

'Yes. I don't charge him much because now and again he provides useful information about what's happening there, and I don't just mean about the horses.'

I was speechless. Michael Corcoran had come over to work for Tom Radcliffe when he first started training. A good-looking Irish boy, now in his late twenties, he had failed to make the grade as a jockey and had stayed on as a stable lad. I recovered my composure and resumed my questioning. 'What have you got on Corcoran then? He's a single man, so it can't be adultery. Which of the other ten commandments has he broken?'

'The eighth, as it happens. Do you remember all those years ago when the wages were stolen from Radcliffe's office?'

I remembered it well. About two thousand pounds had gone missing which, at that time, Tom could ill afford. They never caught the culprit, but the police were certain it was an inside job.

'Well…' Edward continued, 'that was Michael's handiwork. He had got himself in bother with the bookies and took the easy way out. He made the mistake of confessing to me as one of Radcliffe's most respectable owners at that time, and asking my advice.'

'And this is how you repaid his trust?'

'Precisely. I told him not to say a word about it to anyone, and he's been indebted to me, literally, ever since.'

'What if he just upped and left one day?'

'I've considered that, and told him if he ever entertained such an idea I'd send an anonymous letter to his mother in Ireland. One thing these Irish boys hate is the idea of family disgrace, you know.'

'And who are these others – E.F., D.T., T.C., A.P.B. What have they done?'

'They're nobody you know. Pillars of society who have committed minor peccadilloes which they would prefer not to be made public. I don't charge them anymore.'

'E.B.?'

'Eamon Brennan. He's my most reliable payer, although after his performance in front of the stewards yesterday, he may have to increase the size of his investment.'

'And his error of judgement?'

'Greed. When he accepted that retainer last year with Rhodes he insisted on a cash payment on top. Only he forgot to tell the Jockey Club about it. Rhodes spilled the beans to me one night when he was in his cups.'

I looked over the list again. One set of initials was particularly faded.

'And G.P. Who's that? Not our local doctor?'

'Much funnier than that, darling. Have a guess.'

I went through in my mind all the racing people we knew and then other acquaintances who might fit into the venal category.

'I give up. What has he or she done that earns you two hundred pounds a month?'

'That's the present figure, but with today's news I think an increase is clearly called for. G.P. stands for Gerald Pryde.'

'What! Your own father? I don't believe it! Nobody could sink to that.'

'Really? I found it pretty easy.'

'And his crime?'

'A touch of professional dishonesty. I was in my last year at Oxford when it happened. My father was then still at the bar, and although very successful and famous, as a criminal lawyer was not earning the big fees you now hear about. Unfortunately he had inherited the Prydes' gambling streak and managed to lose a bundle on the Stock Market. He's too afraid of my mother to go and ask her for a loan so he used another means to find the wherewithal.'

'What other means?'

'Do you remember the Lorenz murder trial?'

I nodded, although I wasn't certain I did.

'My father was conducting Lorenz's defence on legal aid. In fact, Lorenz was as rich as Croesus through his drug and prostitution business, but it wouldn't have done to declare that to the Inland Revenue. My father, in his desperation, agreed to accept an additional ten thousand pounds for acting for him.'

'What's wrong with that?'

'Only that you're supposed to be paid solely by the legal aid fund and any other payment would be regarded as highly improper. Somehow, I don't think he told his clerk about it, let alone the tax man.'

'How did you find out about it?'

"Pure luck. I came across the letter from Lorenz setting out the arrangements in the old man's desk drawer one weekend when I was looking for some spare cash. I thought it was well worth keeping, just in case.'

'And your father goes on paying you?'

'We call it my allowance. I just let him know one day that I was sympathetic to the predicament he had found himself in, and suggested casually that he kept my allowance on. After all, his money will be mine one day anyway.'

I stared at him in disgust and revulsion. He was even baser and more corrupt than I had believed possible. I shuddered at the thought I had once loved him.

'Is that it, then?' I asked, making no attempt to disguise my contempt.

'Not quite. Have a look over the page.'

I turned over to what was the back page of the diary. There was a single entry with only one set of initials, and no figure against them.

Edward grinned.

'Recognise them?'

'How much were you intending to charge me for my investment?'