by Brian Cain
CHAPTER FOUR
Seventy five, High Holborn, London WC1V 6LS, UK, the main office complex of The British Horseracing Association. Near Covent Garden and at the other end of the scale the infamous Soho district. William Ashby had been head of the organisation for five years, he had been part of it for over forty, he knew Blake personally and had one of his horses embarrassed by a horse called Flaxmead in the Epsom Derby some years ago. Also a member of some of London's most exclusive clubs he was one of the most connected people in the horse racing industry in the UK. His horses continued to be trounced by rockets from the Blake stable, he had a mixed feeling of admiration and hatred for the man. In his late sixties, white hair, high collard white shirts and tweed suits Ashby lived in a world of his own, history had shown one must be extremely discreet and diligent when handling Blake, Blake had his supporters. Ashby often stood at the window cleaning his glasses and looking at the people passing below in the street, he liked looking down on people was one of his favourite pastimes. His popularity in social circles was due to nothing more than his access to interesting information, and he had certain members of his staff tuned to the smallest scrap of information that could be of outstanding value. His direct line to his secretary buzzed, he sat down at his desk and answered it. 'Yes.'
'Beaker is here to see you sir.'
'Ahh send him in.' He put his phone down and the door opened, in walked a small thin young man in his late twenties, sporing a short back and sides haircut, he wore glasses that looked similar in stature to the bottom of burgundy bottles, beaker was a brilliant oxford schooler, mathematics and business strategy was his forte. 'Ah Beaker sit down boy.'
'Thank you sir.' Beaker sat uncomfortably in front of Ashby moving around in his seat prone to poor nerves. They both spoke with broad plum in mouth accents.
'You must have something important or you would not be here.'
'Absolutely sir.'
'Now remember Beaker, you are being considered as business planner for this years Christmas party, you'll have control of the budget what, and you know what that means boy.' Ashby chuckled as he spoke. 'Lot of field work down in Soho finding out where all the action is every lunch time what, he he. Now what is it you wanted to tell me.'
'Well sir, as you know Blake registered a name here few days back.'
'Yes, I already know that man, what was the name now.'
'Taunton Barr.'
'Means nothing to me man, he registers names every week.'
'Well this name has similarities to the suffix Flaxmead.'
'I have told you before not to mention that word in here, damn thing came through here like a cyclone.'
'Sir I think you need listen.'
'You have thirty seconds Beaker.'
'The horse was named after the towns of Flax Burton and Temple Meads for Blake's personnel reasons associated with Hornswa....'
Ashby interrupted. 'You are trying my patience Beaker.'
'Taunton and Barr are places in Somerset, Barr being a small Hamlet within Taunton.'
Ashby sat back in his seat and folded his arm. 'Go on.'
'Trevor Hocking was at Blake's stable today with two other vets, he tells one of our ears in the area after the visit he saw a horse jump a six foot fence.'
'Not unusual man.'
'A foal of six months.'
'Ridiculous.'
'The private investigator that covers Blake's operation was watching from one of his hiding places, he confirms a foal jumped what looked like to be a six foot fence adjacent to the main barn complex. This information was very expensive.'
'Blake knows he's watched, why would be put on such a display in front of everyone.'
'Sir there's only one race a horse like that would be good for.'
'The Grand National.'
'Sir I think Blake is training a horse to enter the Grand National.'
'That's extraordinary, Blake hates the race.'
'Sir your entire business plan for the next ten years revolves around the Grand National, an area Blake's horses are of no risk.'
'Hmmmph, Blake will have to train and run the horse for seven years man before its eligible, we could all be dead by then.'
'Blake isn't that silly sir.'
'What are you suggesting Beaker.'
'Blake is being purposely public, indeed the foal can jump, what if he has another horse that is ready to run. What if he intends to dominate the steeplechase industry, what if the centre of the aristocracy believe in him to say nothing of the public.'
Ashby put his left arm across his chest supporting his right elbow and rubbed his chin with right hand, he played with his high collar. 'Damn the man, he has powerful friends, I wouldn't put it past him. The walls have ears beaker, say nothing. Get someone down to Taunton, go to the pub in Barr if one indeed is there, see what we can find out.'
'Exactly what I was going to suggest sir.'