Crossfire (18 page)

I, meanwhile, was crossing my fingers that it would be abandoned.

I had spent more than an hour in the racing tack room on Friday afternoon doing my best to try to ensure that Scientific’s reins would part during his race. My mother had shown me which one of the bridles had the Australian noseband fitted, and I had been dismayed to see its pristine condition. As my mother had said, horses from Kauri House Stables didn’t go to the races with substandard tack.

I had thought that it would be an easy task to bend the leather back and forth a few times inside the nonslip rubber sleeve until it broke, leaving only the rubber holding the reins together. The rubber should then part in the hustle and bustle of the race when the jockey pulled on the reins.

Sadly, I found that it was not as simple as I had thought. The leather was far too new.

I’d looked at where the reins were attached to the metal rings on either side of the bit. The leather was sewn back on itself with multiple stitches of strong thread. I had tested it with all my strength without even an iota of separation. How about if I cut through most of the stitches? But with what? And wouldn’t it show? Wouldn’t Jack be sure to see it when he gathered the tack together?

There were four green first-aid boxes stacked on a shelf in the racing tack room, and I’d opened one, looking for a pair of scissors. I’d found something better. Carefully protected by a transparent plastic sheath had been a surgical scalpel.

With great care I had started to cut through the stitches on the right side of the bridle, the side that would be farthest from the stable lad when he led the horse around the parade ring. I’d been careful to cut only the stitches in the middle, leaving both ends intact so the sabotage was less obvious. In the end I had severed all but a very few stitches at either end. I had no idea if it was enough, but it would have to do.

I hovered nervously around the racing tack-room door as Jack gathered together all the equipment for the day, loading it into a huge wicker basket. I saw as he lifted the bridle with the Australian noseband and placed it in the basket.

There was no shout of discovery, no tut-tutting over the state of the reins.

So far, so good. But the real test would come when he placed the bridle on to Scientific later in the afternoon in the racetrack stables.

I had done my best to disguise the effects of the scalpel. The stiffness of the leather had helped to keep the sides together, and I had been careful not to leave any frayed ends of thread visible. It had been a matter of trying to make the reins appear to be normal and intact while, at the same time, ensuring they were sufficiently weakened to separate during the race. And I had absolutely no idea if I had managed to get the balance right.

 

 

U
nfortunately, the covers had done their job in saving the meeting from the frost, and so my mother drove the three of us to Newbury in her battered old blue Ford, my stepfather sitting next to her in the front while I was in the back behind her, as I had been so often before on the way to and from the races.

Going racing had been such a huge part of my young life that at one time, my knowledge of British geography had been based solely on the locations of the racetracks. By the time I learned to drive when I was seventeen, I had no idea where the big cities might be, but I could unerringly find my way to such places as Market Rasen, Plumpton or Fakenham, and I also knew the best shortcuts to beat the race-day traffic.

Newbury is the most local course to Lambourn, being just fifteen miles away, and is thought of as “home” for most of the village’s trainers, who all have as many runners here as possible, not least because of the low transport costs.

By the time my mother pulled into the trainers’ parking lot it was nearly full, and I noticed with dismay how far I was going to have to walk to get into the racetrack. I was still suffering from excess fluid in the tissues of my leg, and I had promised myself to take things a little easier for a while. So much for my good intentions.

“Hello, Josephine,” called a voice as we stepped out of the car. Ewen Yorke was standing just in front of us, struggling into his sheepskin overcoat.

“Oh, hello, Ewen,” replied my mother without warmth.

“Hiya, Tom,” Julie Yorke called as she climbed out of their top-of-the-range, brand-new white BMW, a fact not lost on my mother, who positively fumed. Now I realized why she had suddenly become so keen on upgrading her old Ford.

For once, Julie was accompanying Ewen to the races, and she was dressed in a thin figure-hugging silk dress with a matching, but equally thin, print-patterned topcoat. Rather inappropriate, I thought, for a cold and dank February afternoon, but it clearly warmed the hearts of several male admirers who walked by with smiles on their faces and sparkles in their eyes.

“Hi, Julie,” I replied with a small wave that brought the same response of recognition from Ewen.

My mother looked across the car at me disapprovingly. I was sure that she would be desperate to discover how it was that I knew them, and be eager for me to enlighten her. But I decided not to. I’d not mentioned to her where I had gone to dinner on Thursday night. I had simply let her assume, incorrectly, that I had gone down to one of the village pubs. She obviously hadn’t suffered under my Sandhurst color sergeant, or she would have known never to assume anything but always to check.

We hung back, putting on our own coats and hats, as the Yorkes made their way across the grass to the entrance. We watched them go.

“If Scientific is not able to win today,” my mother said icily, “I just hope it’s not bloody Newark Hall. I can’t stand that man.”

I looked around quickly to see if anyone had heard her comment.

“If I were you,” I said, forcefully but quietly, “I’d keep my voice down. This parking lot is also used by the stewards.”

 

 

 

W
e made it unchallenged into the racetrack, my mother obtaining a member’s club ticket for me at the gate, just as she always had. But now I was no longer the little boy in a cap that the gateman had let through with a smile, although I felt the same excitement.

However, my excitement today was combined with acute nervousness.

Had I done enough to make Scientific’s reins part? Would the horse and rider be all right? Would I be found out by Jack?

The Game Spirit Steeplechase was the second race on the card, and so anxious was I that I didn’t take the slightest notice of the first. Instead, I stood nervously at the entrance to the pre-parade ring, waiting for the horses to be led in by the stable lads.

To say that I was relieved when Scientific came into the ring was an understatement. I started breathing again. As the horse was walked around and around, I looked closely at his bridle, and it certainly appeared to be the same one that I had tampered with on the previous afternoon.

So far, so good.

I wandered over to the saddling stalls and leaned on a white wooden rail, waiting for Scientific to be brought over by the stable lad, who, I noticed, was Declan, the same young man that I had spoken to in the Kauri Stables tack room.

Presently my mother and stepfather arrived, then Jack appeared, trotting into the saddling stall with the jockey’s minuscule saddle under his arm.

Declan stood in front of the horse, restraining its head using the reins on both sides of the bit. I was again holding my breath. Would he notice the sabotage?

My mother and Jack busied themselves, one on each side of the animal, applying under-saddle pad, weight cloth, number cloth and then the saddle to its back, pulling the girths tight around its belly. Next, Jack threw a heavy red, black and gold horse rug over the whole lot to keep the horse warm against the February chill. With a slap on his neck from Jack, Scientific was sent to the parade ring for inspection by the betting public.

Why, I wondered, did the blackmailer want Scientific to lose?

Was it because he wanted another specific horse to win?

Probably not, I thought.

Before the onset of Internet gambling, the only people who could really gain financially from knowing a horse would definitely lose a race were the bookmakers, who could then offer much better odds on it and rake in the bets, safe in the knowledge that they wouldn’t have to pay out. However, nowadays anyone could act as a bookmaker by “laying” the horse on the Internet, effectively betting that it would lose. It didn’t matter which other horse won, as long as it wasn’t the surefire loser.

So anyone could gain by knowing that Scientific would not win this race. If only I had access to see who was “laying” the horse on the Net. But there would be no chance of that, even if I had been prepared to tell the authorities why I needed it.

I watched absentmindedly as the twelve horses in the race were walked around and around. I had never been a gambler myself and had never really understood the passion and concentration with which some punters would study the runners in the parade ring before making their bets. I had been told over and over again by my mother that how well a horse looks in the paddock can be such a good indicator of how fast it will run on the course, but I personally couldn’t see it.

A racetrack official rang a handbell, and I watched with interest as Declan turned Scientific inwards, waiting for my mother and stepfather to walk over with the horse’s owner and jockey. My mother made great play in removing the rug and checking the girths but without going near the bridle or the reins. Declan stood impassively, holding the horse’s head as my mother tossed the lightweight rider up onto his equally slight saddle.

The jockey placed his feet in the stirrup irons and then gathered the reins, making a knot with the ends to ensure that they didn’t separate. After another brief circuit of the ring, the horses moved down the horse walk towards the racetrack, and the crowd moved as if one, towards the grandstand, in search of a good viewing position. I was amongst them.

“Hello, Tom,” said a voice from behind my shoulder.

I turned around. “Oh, hello.” I kissed Isabella on the cheek. Jackson was with her, and they had the Garraways in tow.

“Fancy a drink?” Jackson said, clapping me on the shoulder.

A drink sounded just the thing to calm my nerves.

“Later,” I said. “I want to watch this race.”

“So do we,” said Jackson with his booming laugh. “Come on up to our box and we can do both.”

I had been trying to spot my mother in the throng of people so I could watch the race with her. I had one last look around, but I couldn’t see her or my stepfather anywhere. It was probably just as well, I thought, as together we would have been a pair of nervous wrecks.

“Thank you, I’d love to,” I said to Jackson, smiling at Isabella.

“Good,” she said, smiling back.

“And thank you both for such a lovely evening on Thursday,” I said. “I meant to bring you round a note.”

“That’s all right, don’t bother,” said Jackson. “It was a pleasure to have you. We all really enjoyed it.” Unsurprisingly, he made no mention of his early departure from supper, nor his untimely row with Alex Reece.

“How’s Alex?” I asked, perhaps unwisely.

“Alex?” he said, looking at me.

“Alex Reece,” I said. “Your accountant.”

“Oh, him,” Jackson said, with a forced smile. “Bloody little weasel needs a good kick up the arse.” He guffawed loudly.

“Really?” I said with mock sincerity. “I’ll be needing an accountant soon myself. I thought I might go and see him. Are you saying I shouldn’t?”

I was playing with him, and he suddenly didn’t like it. The amusement evaporated from his eyes.

“Ask whoever you bloody like,” he said dismissively.

As we climbed the few steps to the entrance to the Berkshire Stand we were joined by the Yorkes.

“Ah, the spy again,” said Ewen, smiling.

I smiled back at him.

I found myself crammed into the lift with my back against the wall and with Julie Yorke standing far too close in front. Ewen would almost certainly have had a fit if he had realized that without any discernible sign to the others, she managed to slide her silk-sheathed firm and rounded buttocks back and forth across my groin in a manner guaranteed to excite.

By the time we arrived at the fourth floor I was glad to be able to pull my overcoat tight around me to save myself from major embarrassment. Julie smiled as I held the door of the box open for her, a seductive inviting smile with an open mouth and her tongue visible between her teeth.

“Come and see me sometime,” she whispered in my ear as she went past.

I reckoned she must be crazy if she thought it was an invitation I was going to accept. Avoidance and evasion were definitely the names of the game here too. Jackson offered me a glass of champagne, and I took it out onto the balcony to watch the horses, and to escape from Julie Yorke.

“Do you think he’ll win?” It was a moment before I realized that Rebecca Garraway was talking to me.

“Sorry?” I said.

“Do you think he’ll win?” she repeated.

“Who?” I asked.

“Newark Hall, of course,” she said. “Our horse.”

I hadn’t realized that the Garraways were Newark Hall’s owners. I looked down at my race card, but it stated that the horse was owned by a company called Budsam Ltd.

“He has a good chance,” I said back to her.

In truth, he had a better chance than she appreciated.

Ewen Yorke was standing to my left, looking through his large racing binoculars towards the two-and-a-half-mile start.

“Oh, hello,” he said without lowering his binoculars. “Seems we have a problem.”

“What problem?” Rebecca Garraway demanded with concern in her voice.

“It’s OK,” Ewen said, while still looking. “It’s not Newark Hall, it’s Scientific. Seems his reins have snapped. He’s running away.”