Declared Dead Page 5

Suddenly Edward groaned, his hands went limp and he slumped down like a dead weight on top of me. I looked over his shoulder to see Freddie standing there, crying, a bronze statuette of a horse and jockey in his right hand. The head of the horse was covered in blood. The boy was hysterical.

  'Mummy, are you all right?' he sobbed.

  With considerable effort, I managed to push Edward off me and onto the floor.

  'Is daddy dead?' Freddie asked, shaking with fear.

  I gazed down at the motionless figure slumped against the side of the sofa. He was still breathing, if in a somewhat laboured fashion, and I felt for his pulse. It was regular. Mild concussion, I reckoned, which would give us about twenty minutes to get out. I reassured Freddie that daddy would soon be all right and rushed him upstairs to help me pack a few things. Five minutes later, we were in my car heading I knew not where, but at least as far away from Edward Pryde as wheels could take us.

  When I'd calmed down, I thought of driving straight over to Tom's but on reflection I decided against it. I couldn't trust his reaction to seeing us in this condition. Instead, two hours later, after driving aimlessly round the country, we pulled up at Ralph Elgar's yard in the Cotswolds.

  I kept looking in the rear-view mirror expecting to see Edward's Jaguar, but there was no sign of it and as soon as I'd pulled up and stopped the engine, Freddie and I darted inside the house.

  Ralph jumped up from his chair as we ran into the kitchen.

  'Whatever's the matter?' he exclaimed.

  I began crying as I blurted out what had just happened, including how Freddie had saved my life.

  By the time I had finished and had drunk a cup of tea, I felt much better.

  'So that's it. I just wondered if we could both stay here for a few days until I can get things sorted out.'

  'You know that you're both welcome to stay as long as you want,' said Ralph. And then added, 'If I were you, I'd call the police.'

  I disagreed. As Freddie and I were both all right, and I had finally had the courage to leave Edward, I decided to let the whole thing resolve itself on its own. Once the police knew, then the press would get to hear about it and the story would be on the racing page of every daily paper in the country.

  Freddie was still in a state of shock, and repeatedly asked if his father would be all right. About an hour after I had put him to bed, he came back downstairs crying, saying that he had had a nightmare, and he spent the rest of the evening asleep in my arms.

  'He'll be a long time forgetting what's gone on today,' said Ralph.

  'I know, and he's going to miss having Edward around, but I certainly won't. My main worry is what will happen when Edward finally comes looking for

  us. It may be that the battle's only just begun.'

  * * *

  During the next two weeks, much to my surprise, Edward made no attempt to contact me. I expected him to turn up at the races and accost me or try to follow me home. I couldn't believe he would give up Freddie that easily. When the boy kept asking me where his father was, I told him that Edward had fully recovered and had gone away on holiday. I thought it was the most likely explanation, although when I had telephoned Mrs Parsons on the Monday after the attack, to say that Freddie would be away for a short while, she told me that our bed had been slept in and there was no sign of any of Edward's clothes missing. We agreed that she would take a paid holiday until Freddie and I returned.

  Not surprisingly, my riding began to suffer amidst the uncertainty of my position. I found it difficult to regain my usual enthusiasm and managed to get beaten at Stratford on a certainty trained by Tom Radcliffe. Coming to the last I was two lengths ahead of my flagging rival and had only to jump it clear to win. Instead of settling my horse down to take it comfortably in his stride, I gave him a kick in the belly and asked for a long one. The stride I'd seen was a lot longer than I thought and the horse brushed the top of the fence and pecked on landing. I fell off him like a bad seven pound claimer and had to walk back to the jockeys' room through a jeering crowd of irate punters.

  Fortunately, Tom was sympathetic, but we both knew that I was to blame. On the way home he asked me about Edward. I hadn't told him about our fight or, for that matter, that I had walked out. I was still anxious not to involve him at this stage if I could help it, fearing what he might do if angered.

  'Do you know that I saw your husband on the Saturday night after the Gold Cup?'

  'No. Whose idea was that?'

  'Mine. I know I promised not to get involved but I couldn't go on letting him behave like that towards you. He's a bully and there's only one thing that kind of person understands.'

  'Where did you meet him?'

  'I phoned him up on the Friday evening and asked him to come for a drink at the Crown and Anchor on the Marlborough Road. I thought I'd choose a pub where no one was likely to recognise either of us.'

  'And so?'

  'It all turned rather nasty. I won't bore you with the details. I must have drunk too much as I woke up in the early hours of the morning in the car park with a splitting headache.'

  'Is that all that happened, Tom?' I asked anxiously, although fearing to probe too far.

  'All you need to know. I wish you'd reconsider your decision, Victoria.'

  'Just be patient, please, that's all I ask.'

  * * *

  Another week went by and there was still no sign of Edward; I began to wonder whether I should report him missing to the police. I decided against it for the time being. I couldn't really pretend to be the caring wife; in fact I wouldn't have minded at all if his disappearance became permanent. It was just the uncertainty that was beginning to unnerve me.

  Everything changed on the Friday, when I received a phone call at Ralph's from Amy Frost. I had kept her informed about everything that had happened and her advice had been to stay put and do nothing. Apparently, if Edward could be shown to have deserted me, it could in time be grounds for a divorce and would be very important in the question of custody. She didn't waste time with any niceties. 'Have you seen today's Sportsman, page seven?' I had to admit I hadn't. Amy loved horse racing and gambling and must have been the only solicitor in London who started her day by reading the racing paper cover to cover. 'Well, you'd better go and get a copy. I'll hang on.' I walked over and picked up the paper off the kitchen table, found the right page and returned to the phone: 'Fire away. What am I meant to be looking for?'

  'Just below tomorrow's racecards. Look at the notice headed "Official Scratching".'

  I found what she was referring to and read it. It couldn't have been more succinct. 'Official Scratching. All Engagements. Mr Pryde (dead).'

  'Amy, do you think this is some kind of a joke?'

  'I don't know. Is there a horse called Mr Pryde?'

  'Not that I'm aware of,' I replied. 'But who the hell would want to put this in, unless…'

  'Unless,' interjected Amy, 'somebody wanted to deliver a very tasteless message.'

  'To declare Edward dead, you mean?'

  'Exactly.'

  * * *

  I ended the conversation with a promise to be in touch if there were any further developments. The announcement in the paper could just be a mischievous trick and I wondered how the Sportsman had been duped into carrying it. I made a mental note to ask James Thackeray when I next saw him, because apart from working on the paper, he was an enthusiastic amateur rider. I also realised that the time had come for me to report Edward missing. After all, the last person to have had any contact with him was Tom Radcliffe, and that was almost three weeks previously. I thought about it for a while, and decided that if something had happened to him, it would look pretty strange if his wife had kept quiet in the meantime.

  I had been booked to ride a horse in the opening race at Hereford, an unreliable no-hoper who regarded each fence as a launching pad to send his jockey into orbit. If still in one piece, I resolved to drive over to Newbury police station later on in the afternoon, and then go on to the
cottage and collect some more clothes.

  I survived the race and reached the police station just after three-thirty. The officer on duty could not have been more charming and sympathetic. He suggested that a constable should come over to the cottage in a couple of hours' time to take down further details and collect a photograph of Edward for circulation. I couldn't very well refuse, and he reassured me that, apparently, disappearing spouses were not at all uncommon and advised me not to become over-concerned. It was arranged that the make, model and number of Edward's car and other details of his description would be logged on the police computer and circulated round the country.

  Feeling that I had at least done something positive, I plucked up the courage to return to the cottage. It was cold and strangely forbidding and I found difficulty in believing that for six years this place had been the family home, and that Freddie had spent the whole of his short life here. It was like reading an old love letter when the affection once felt is at best an unreal and distant memory.

  The cottage was much as I had left it that Friday and that alone created a sinister, depressing atmosphere. To keep myself occupied, I lit the fire and sat down to watch the television and catch up with the racing results until the police arrived. I was still uncertain just how much to tell them about the relationship between Edward and myself. I had no doubt they would pursue that line of questioning, as to the outsider matrimonial discord was the most likely explanation for his disappearance.

  I decided to be economical with the truth. I could see no advantage in coming clean about my involvement in Edward's attempts to clear his gambling debts and, equally, I could see no virtue in exposing him as a blackmailer. It was hardly in Freddie's interest to have his father's evil personality revealed to the public glare, and anyway I had no independent evidence to support it. Nor, I reasoned, would it be fair to name Edward's 'investors' as he called them. Indeed, even if I did, how did I know the authorities would believe me? It would take a pretty brave or foolhardy policeman to go and ask Lord Pryde if he had been paying out hush money to his son! I resolved to play the role of the concerned wife.

  At six o'clock the door bell rang. A uniformed police constable was accompanied by a man of striking good looks, over six feet tall and dressed in a surprisingly well-cut dark grey suit. All in all, he looked a class above the popular image of his profession. I put him in his mid to late thirties and made a note to be extra careful in what I said, for fear that, in the time honoured phrase, it might one day be used in evidence, and even worse, against me. Inspector Wilkinson introduced himself and asked if they could come in. There was no milk in the refrigerator, but five minutes later we were all seated by the fire drinking black coffee, the young constable poised knowingly and breathlessly over his notebook. I was determined to give the impression of being relaxed and in control, and as the Inspector seemed in no rush to begin questioning me, I took the initiative.

  'I'm sure there's really nothing to worry about, but he has been gone for three weeks now, so I thought that it would be only sensible to notify you.'

  Inspector Wilkinson said nothing and just looked at me expectantly. I obliged by going on.

  'He's never gone away like this before; without even a telephone call or a card.'

  He muttered something incomprehensible and then asked: 'You have a son, don't you?'

  'Yes, Frederick. He's five.'

  'Same age as my eldest.' He looked around the room. 'Is he here with you?'

  'No, well, you see we – I mean Freddie and I – we haven't been staying here for the last three weeks. We've been staying with friends.'

  'Trouble between you and your husband?' he enquired, trying to appear sympathetic.

  For some reason I hesitated before replying. 'I'm afraid we had a row.'

  'About anything in particular?'

  'Nothing specific really. You know the kind of thing.'

  He appeared to understand. 'Perhaps he's taken a holiday to collect his thoughts. It does happen, you know, and then he'll come back full of remorse and seeking your forgiveness.'

  I laughed to myself. The only remorse Edward knew was the horse of that name who had won the Triumph Hurdle two years previously.

  The Inspector continued. 'Are any of his clothes missing? I suppose you've checked?'

  'Yes, I did look, but nothing seems to be gone.'

  'And are you sure he hasn't been here at all during the past three weeks? Popped in and out as it were?'

  'I can't be absolutely certain. My daily, Mrs Parsons, has been on holiday. All that's definitely missing is his car.'

  He looked over at the constable's notebook. 'That's a green Jaguar 4.2 registration REF 376X?'

  'Yes, that's it. He loves his car.'

  'Did your husband have any problems you were aware of, at work, say, or any debts perhaps?'

  'He hasn't had a job for some time; we live off my earnings as a jockey and a little private income he has. As for debts, he did tell me he was in a spot of trouble with his bookmaker.'

  'Do you know what sort of trouble?'

  'I think there's quite a lot of money involved,' I answered, playing the innocent. 'We don't discuss that kind of thing, with me being a jockey.'

  'How much is quite a lot? It would help if you were more precise, Mrs Pryde. Are we talking about hundreds or thousands?'

  'Thousands, I'm afraid.'

  The Inspector raised his eyebrows, and I noticed the constable underlining my answer in his notes.

  'Your husband's father is the new Lord Chief Justice, isn't he?'

  'That's right; does that matter?'

  'Obviously, when the son of a very important person disappears, senior police officers have to become involved.'

  'You don't think the IRA are behind this or anything?'

  'Quite frankly, at this stage we don't think anything, nor for that matter do we discount anything. We're just being extra cautious. That's one of the reasons I'm here.'

  'And the other?' I asked suspiciously. His relaxed and confident manner was beginning to unnerve me.

  'Do you know the Melksham area well by any chance?'

  'I know it's the other side of Marlborough and I've picnicked with Freddie on the downs there a couple of times; otherwise I can't claim to know it well. Why?'

  'We've found your husband's car there. On the site of a disused chalk pit, set well back from the main roads. The car's been gutted, burnt out, and it's being examined by forensic experts at the moment.'

  'You're not suggesting Edward was in it?'

  'I'm not suggesting anything. Did he know that area well?'

  'Not that I'm aware of. He came on one of the picnics, I think. When was it discovered? The officer at the station didn't mention anything at all when he fed the information I gave him into the computer.'

  'It was only reported this morning. Your information wouldn't actually have found its way onto the computer until late this afternoon and then we got the word from Swansea.'

  The telephone rang and I answered it. It was for the Inspector. His back straightened and his whole manner became increasingly alert and excited. Whatever he was being told clearly made interesting listening.

  'Really?' he remarked to the caller after five minutes without interrupting. 'In the boot? When will forensic know if they've got anything to go on? Tomorrow. Good. We'll have to tell the Yard and probably Special Branch as well. Any chance of keeping it from the press for the moment? I'll be here for another, say, ten minutes and then I'll come straight on over. We can go on to the site together. Excellent.'

  He put the phone down and turned gravely towards me. I knew something was wrong and that despite his sombre expression he was secretly excited. The adrenalin was running just like any jockey's does before a big race.

  'That was my sergeant at the station. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. They've discovered the charred remains of some human bones in the boot of the car, and a pool of dried blood on the ground nearby. I don't want to di
stress you unnecessarily, Mrs Pryde, but I'm afraid your husband may be dead.'

  I felt I ought to cry and I knew they expected me to, but I just couldn't. For a long time, I'd felt nothing for Edward but hate.

  'Can I get you a glass of water – or something stronger perhaps?' the Inspector asked solicitously.

  I shook my head. 'No, that's all right, thanks.' I decided to feign shock and buried my head in my hands. I then genuinely began to cry, not for myself or for Edward, but for Freddie. He had lost his father and that was a terrible thing, however evil he may have been. I looked up to find Inspector Wilkinson seated opposite me again, analysing my reaction.

  'I know this is difficult for you,' he started. I'm sure I detected a slight hint of cynicism in his voice. 'But can you think of anybody who might have wanted to do away with your husband?'

  I shook my head. In fact I could think of a whole lot of people who would not mourn his passing, all those whose names were in that pocket diary, for a start, including mine. Presumably that had gone up in smoke with him.

  'Think about it, please. Anybody with a grudge, for example. What about this bookmaker he owed money to? Do you know his name?'

  1 shook my head again. 'He never talked about his gambling to me, not in any kind of detail. He regarded it as his own private business, a gentleman's preserve.'

  'I'll need a list of his friends, acquaintances, anybody who might be able to help us piece together his movements during the last two weeks.'

  I knew of course that Tom Radcliffe had met Edward on the Saturday, the day after our fight. There was no point keeping quiet about it as everybody in the pub had probably heard their row, and anyway, Tom was the last person to lay a hand on Edward.

  'He did see a friend of mine, a trainer, the night after we had our row. His name's Tom Radcliffe and his stables are over at Wantage.'

  'Mr Radcliffe? Well, that's a start, I'll have his address, if you don't mind, and we'll go and have a word with him. Anybody else you can think of?'

  'No, nobody.'