Declared Dead Read online

  Declared Dead

  John Francome

  James Macgregor

  Victoria Pryde's husband, Edward, has run up huge debts and has been missing for two weeks. When she reads in her racing paper that a horse called Mr Pryde is dead, she hopes it is some sick joke, but then her husband's car is discovered – with the charred remains of a body in the boot.

  The writing partnership of John Francome and James MacGregor got off to a cracking start with Eavesdropper (1986) and Riding High (1987), both bestsellers. The authenticity of the novels is reflected by the backgrounds of the two authors: John Francome has been Champion Jockey seven times and is regarded as the greatest National Hunt jockey ever known. James MacGregor is the pseudonym of a practising barrister, who also has an avid interest in racing.

  'Splendid racing scenes and a tight storyline. Gripping stuff… a must for all racing fans and a fun read for others' John Welcome

  'A thoroughbred stayer… cracking thriller' Independent

  'An entertaining tale of skulduggery in turf and law' The Times

  'A racy thriller about the Sport of Kings' Daily Telegraph

  John Francome, James MacGregor

  Declared Dead

  Copyright © 1988 John Francome and James MacGregor

  Chapter 1

  My hands were shaking so much I could hardly hold onto the reins. Pulling that horse in a seller at Fontwell had been bad enough, but to throw the Gold Cup in front of a crowd of forty thousand enthusiastic racegoers was a desperate and terrifying prospect. I could feel the goose bumps rising on my skin from a mixture of nerves and guilt. I patted Cartwheel on the shoulder and talked to him in a forlorn attempt to calm myself down. I just kept wishing that this whole business was a bad dream from which I would awake any moment, but the bark of the starter, telling us to get in line, brought me sharply back to reality.

  Cartwheel was itching to be off and I had to tug hard on the reins to restrain him. He loved his racing and I wasn't even that confident he would go along with my plans. He was an old hand at jumping these Cheltenham fences and if I kept mistiming my take-offs to get him in close to the bottom of them, he was just as likely to think it was all a game and outwit me by standing off a stride and putting in a long one. That way I would be gaining ground instead of losing it.

  The starter had a quick look across the field to make sure we were all ready and then screamed, 'Right!' as he pulled down on the lever to release the starting tape. Immediately a huge roar of anticipation and excitement went up from the enclosures and grandstands ahead of us. For the first few yards Cartwheel led the way and I let him skip over the first fence as he wished. I had absolutely no intention of doing anything suspicious in front of the packed grandstands – I had chosen the tricky downhill fence on the second circuit for my 'accidental fall'. By the time we reached there I'd make certain we were on the outside and therefore less likely to be galloped on after we had hit the ground. More importantly, we would be out of the full view of the television cameras and most of the spectators.

  If I'd been riding almost any other horse, the chances were, if I tried hard enough, I would be able to get it to fall at one of the twenty-six fences; but Cartwheel had a firmly placed instinct for self-preservation. He was a handsome liver-chestnut who planned to stay that way and liked to handle all the intricacies of take-offs and landings himself. He was never going to be another Arkle or Mill House, but he was as good as anything that had run that season and had been favourite for the Gold Cup since skating home in the King George at Kempton in December.

  If I took a chance that he might just not be good enough on the day, it would be sod's law that he'd win pulling a cart. There was no alternative; I'd just have to fall off him and try and make it look as though I had been unseated.

  I had only ever seen one jockey jump off a horse deliberately before, and that had been at Devon and Exeter when, for some reason, the animal he was riding in a two-mile hurdle race suddenly went off the racecourse and bolted towards a wood. I'd always remember the jockey coming back into the weighing room saying it was the most terrifying and unnatural thing that he had ever done.

  As we jumped each fence on the first circuit, his words echoed in my ears as I mentally went through the motions of what I had to do. The more I thought about it, the more frightened I became and the less confident I was of being able to go through with it, and yet I knew I must.

  For the first time since I had started racing I looked down at the grass speeding by below me and imagined what damage I might do to myself. It was the ultimate irony. Here I was with the chance of realising every jump jockey's dream by winning the Gold Cup and I was committed to throwing it away. I'd be lucky if I ever got another ride after what I was about to do, never mind have a chance like this again.

  At this stage my foremost task was to ensure that we stayed in touch with the leaders for the first part of the race. I had at all costs to avoid alerting any kind of suspicion. As we galloped up the hill and round the top bend towards the second fence, I looked for our principal rivals in the betting. Out front, five lengths clear and blazing the trail, was the grey, Stonepicker. He had already won the Hennessey Gold Cup earlier in the season and was a natural front runner. Just ahead of me and hugging the rail I could see the backside of Eamon Brennan, the champion Irish jockey, aboard Pride of Limerick. The big chestnut, a strapping son of Deep Run, was carrying the hopes of Ireland and, I suspected, most of its ready cash. The Irish had so far enjoyed a bumper festival and had backed their champion as if it was simply a case of putting the money down, returning to the bar, and calling back a few minutes later to collect their winnings.

  Brennan was a brilliant horseman who was not averse to a bit of chicanery if the situation demanded it. His catch phrase of 'nothing personal' as he squeezed you for room on the inside rail, or took your ground before a fence, was a standing joke in the weighing room, although it was not so easy to explain to an irate trainer or owner who had seen his horse's chances apparently blundered away by an incompetent jockey.

  Finally, at least as far as the ante-post betting market was concerned, there was the most dangerous rival of them all – the mare, Melodrama. She was trained in the North of England by Dick Walker, one of the shrewdest men in racing and also one of the most fearless gamblers. When he put his money down, it was strictly on temporary loan. Because of her sex Melodrama was entitled to a five-pound weight allowance and if her last two races were anything to go by, she was as tough as nails and didn't need it. On both occasions, she had been off the bridle a mile from home and looked to have no chance, but the further she went the better she seemed to go. She had all the stamina of a bookie counting his winnings. As for the rest, they were all good-class steeplechasers, but on form none had the beating of the four of us.

  For the first circuit everything went smoothly. Stonepicker was setting a very decent gallop and even though Cartwheel was putting in a string of good jumps, we remained several lengths adrift in the middle of the first chasing pack. We were now only three fences away from the downhill fence and I told myself to keep calm. To anyone watching I was riding an intelligent and sensible race, giving Cartwheel every chance. Nobody would ever realise that I had no intention of getting him to the finishing line. As we passed the stands to start the second and final circuit, everyone in the crowd seemed to be shouting at the top of their voices but Cartwheel appeared wholly unperturbed. A couple of fallers had left us in second place, although I knew that Eamon Brennan and Pride of Limerick were jogging along half a length behind us. There was no sign of Melodrama, although she must have still been with us. When the favourite falls in any race, news of it soon spreads through the field of jockeys; and this was the Gol
d Cup.

  Much too quickly for my liking, we now turned away from the stands and were galloping left-handed towards the tricky fence before the water. This was it. I felt nervous and desperately uncertain. Falling off a horse and making it look like an accident is not quite so simple as some punters seemed to think. The field was beginning to close up behind me and for the first time I caught sight out of the corner of my eye of Melodrama, or rather more accurately of her sheepskin noseband. Her head was already set with determination as she fought to keep up and I had no doubt she was going to be right in there at the finish.

  Three strides away from the fence, I moved my feet back in the stirrups so that only the tips of my toes were touching. I then snatched one final deep breath and held it. 'Here we go!' I thought. 'God! I hope I don't hurt myself.' Just as Cartwheel was about to take off, I put my head down by his shoulder and let myself go limp.

  But then I quickly sat up again: I couldn't do it. I was frightened, but more than anything I knew that I wanted to win, and I was sick of betraying all those people who had placed so much trust in me. This time I was going to win and to hell with the consequences.

  I immediately concentrated hard on setting a good stride and Cartwheel duly obliged but, just as I squeezed my legs against his sides to make him go in and jump, Stonepicker, ahead of us, hit the fence hard and swerved out to the right where we were due to land. Steve Rampton, his jockey, performed a miracle to stay on board, and if he had only been able to keep a tight hold of the reins everything would have been fine. But he couldn't. Stonepicker lost his balance as he hit the ground and crumpled up in front of us, leaving Cartwheel with nowhere to put his feet as he landed. If I now pulled one way and he decided to go the other I would bring him down for certain. I decided to leave him alone and just sit tight as he dodged instinctively to the right. For a split second I thought we had got away with it. Instead I shot up his neck as his back legs became entangled with those of Stonepicker, who lay kicking wildly on the ground. By some miracle we stayed up but were brought almost to a standstill. From going well and not trying in second place we were now desperate to win but out at the back with the no-hopers.

  Within seconds the water jump was upon us and we only just managed to reach the other side. The sight of Brennan's motionless backside, ten lengths ahead, said it all. By the time we reached the next, the third open ditch, we were on an even keel and once we were over I had time to take a breather at last, look up and assess the situation. We were a good fifteen lengths adrift of Melodrama, who had now pulled herself into the lead. She was followed by a couple of others I didn't recognise; then, travelling easiest of all, was Pride of Limerick.

  There was less than a mile and a half to go, and although it wasn't impossible to win from where we were, it was frankly unlikely. At least we had the conditions on our side. The rain, which had started falling on the first day of the festival, two days earlier, had come just in time and the deep mud underfoot put a premium on stamina. Cartwheel was an out and out stayer and could be relied upon to do his best in the last half mile of the race. But were we now too far behind to make use of it? Clearly there was no time for caution and I kicked Cartwheel into the next fence and steered him towards the inside.

  We flew the next three fences before reaching the top of the hill, and began racing left handed towards the long downhill run. He was in top gear how and eating up the ground. Gradually we were beginning to make an impression, and the lead had been cut to about eight lengths as we raced towards the third last. There was no doubt by now which of us was more tired. My legs felt like jelly and my lungs were burning. I desperately wanted Cartwheel to put in a short stride at the next, so that he would take more time to recover and I would be able to snatch a lungful of air. But he had other plans. We stood off the fence a whole stride too soon and landed just as far over the other side, with Cartwheel's neck stretched out, heading for home. His only concern was winning.

  I was now so exhausted that I was little more than a passenger. It was Cartwheel, not me, who forced us between the running rail and another tiring horse in his effort to reach the front and as he galloped up relentlessly towards the second last, every muscle in my body was straining at the effort. I just wished to God that I could summon up the assistance he deserved. He jumped the last two fences with ridiculous ease and then began the long gallop up the famous Cheltenham hill.

  Ahead of us and locked together were Melodrama on the standside and on the inside, being driven along, Pride of Limerick. With fifty yards to go we passed Melodrama, who was rolling in the mud and going nowhere, and drew alongside Pride of Limerick. Brennan was arched over the chestnut with his whip in his left hand, striking him repeatedly. Responding to his jockey's exertions, Pride of Limerick fought like a terrier to match strides with us. As the two horses joined battle I could feel Cartwheel edging towards the chestnut as the strength in his legs began to give out. I couldn't bear losing now. With one last desperate effort Cartwheel forced his head in front as we passed the line.

  The judge would have to call for a photograph but I knew we had done it.

  The stewards had other ideas. We had pulled up and I was accepting the congratulations of my fellow jockeys when the announcement of an enquiry came over the tannoy. I looked quizzically over at the rider of Melodrama to see if he had any idea what it was about; he merely shrugged his shoulders and told me not to worry. That was easier said than done. It would be ironic if, having decided to be honest, I should now lose the race in the stewards' room. Ralph Elgar came running out to me as the lad led us towards the winners' enclosure and I could tell from the worried look on his face that he was none too happy.

  'Do you think you'll keep it?' he asked anxiously, his voice still hoarse from shouting Cartwheel home.

  I felt angry at his lack of confidence. 'What do you mean? I've done nothing wrong.'

  He shook his head ominously. 'I hope you're right. It certainly didn't look too good from where I was watching. Brennan definitely had to stop riding, you know.'

  My heart sank. Cartwheel had beaten Pride of Limerick on merit but it was beginning to look like the loser's jockey may have outwitted me. The outcome would hinge upon the head on film and the mood of the stewards.

  We reached the winners' enclosure to a tumultuous reception – at least the other half of the Cheltenham crowd appeared to have backed us – and as I dismounted I turned to Cartwheel's owner and apologised.

  'I'll have none of that,' replied Angus Knight, beaming with pride and apparently unflustered by the unfolding drama. 'He ran a great race and you gave him a great ride. Now go and make sure you do as well in front of the stewards.'

  I patted Cartwheel on the neck and pulled the

  saddle off before turning and walking across the grass towards the weighing room. Trainers, jockeys and racing journalists shouted congratulations as I passed. I only hoped that they were merited. Just before I reached the steps one of the stipendiary stewards stopped me and told me to come to the stewards' room as soon as I'd weighed in.

  I was terrified. Twenty minutes before, I'd been set on losing the race and now here I was praying that it would not be taken away from me. I had no doubt that Brennan would lie through his teeth if he thought it would give him half a chance of winning the Gold Cup and, to be honest, I was certain I would do the same in his position. The Irishman was already waiting outside the stewards' room when I arrived, his riding silks splattered with mud and his cheeks still flushed from his exertions. He sneered at me malevolently and through the gap in his front teeth hissed the magic words, 'Nothing personal'.

  As soon as the stewards had finished watching the re-run of the race, we were summoned into their presence. The three of them were seated behind a beautiful antique beechwood table, whose four legs were carved like the hind legs of a rearing horse. In the middle sat, Brigadier-General Allsopp and on his right, much to my despair, Sir Arthur Drewe. He was a great friend of my father-in-law – I think they were at sch
ool together – and had gone out of his way to be rude to me ever since I had turned professional. What's more, I'd already stood before him on a

  couple of occasions, and both times I'd lost. He was in his late fifties, with grey hair and a moustache, and his face bore testimony to many years of exposure to the good life, and in particular to vintage port. Unfortunately he had once ridden the winner of a point-to-point, which in his mind had made him an authority on everything connected with racing. The fact was that he could have passed on his entire knowledge in under a minute and replayed it on his video, too. I did not recognise the third member of the triumvirate, who was considerably younger and gave me what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. The stipendiary steward, who was standing beside the table, was the first to speak:

  'This is Pryde, the rider of Cartwheel, and this is Brennan, the rider of Pride of Limerick.' He then formally introduced the stewards to us. I could tell immediately from the acid expression on Drewe's bucolic face that the best I could hope for was a majority decision.

  The Brigadier-General, as chief steward, began by asking each of us to give an account of what happened on the run-in. I went first, but was shaking so much that the words came out hesitantly and without conviction. Brennan, by contrast, had attended more enquiries than he had confessionals, and gave a virtuoso performance of a jockey wronged. He claimed that Cartwheel had crossed him on the run-in to such an extent that he had had to check and stop using his whip.

  'I can honestly say, sir,' he concluded, 'that without that interference I would certainly have won.'

  We then watched a re-run of the race on the video, both side and head on, and when that was over we were asked if we had anything further to say. Fortunately the head-on film had shown that Cartwheel was not the only culprit and I decided that I couldn't let Brennan's comments go unchallenged. Nothing personal, of course.