Mount!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘After the things he said at the Gimcrack,’ boomed on Roddy, ‘it’s clear in what contempt he holds racing and all its stakeholders. He had the gall to boast how brilliantly he had done this year, and how he’d almost topped the Leading Sire table with Love Rat, when all the time he’d been cheating other trainers out of fortunes – not to mention the punters.’

  Sam Bridlington looked up from his brief. ‘Classic case of hubris.’

  ‘Hugh who?’ queried Roddy.

  Sally Stonehouse exchanged a quick smile with Sam Bridlington, deciding he was rather attractive. Racing was full of attractive men. Gosh, it was hot – she wished she hadn’t put a thermal vest under her dress, but it had been arctic when she’d left Lancashire.

  ‘Christ, it’s hot in here. Talk about Red Hot Rum,’ grumbled Marti. ‘BRA heating bills must be astronomical.’

  ‘If you don’t win today,’ drawled Rupert, ‘my cheating bill is going to be even more astronomical.’

  ‘Don’t be flip,’ snapped Marti. ‘This is going to be bloody.’

  ‘If Roddy’s wearing his red trousers, the blood won’t show up.’

  All jumped at the knock on the door.

  ‘We’re ready for you, Mr Campbell-Black, if you’re ready for us,’ said Danielle, so they followed her.

  ‘Hi, Clare,’ called out Rupert, as Clare Balding appeared at another door, deeply irritated the enquiry was to be held in camera with the proceedings taped. The press would only learn the outcome at a conference at the end. Allowed to wait upstairs, or outside, most of them repaired to the Red Lion.

  In the Enquiry Room, Rupert, Marti and Gav were ushered to the right of the Panel, with Marti making sure Rupert was next to Sally.

  Opposite them sat the prosecuting BRA lawyer, Norman Thomas, a pink-faced blond young man, with very clean ears. Any witnesses called would sit opposite, under the screens. There were no windows. Tape recorders whirred, picking up Gav’s tummy rumbling like Vesuvius.

  Seeing a maroon leather-bound volume of The Merchant of Venice in Rupert’s hand, Roddy assumed it must be a Bible. Bastard’s going to need it, he thought happily, and didn’t pass on Enid’s message of good luck. How ridiculous was that shocking-pink tie, swarming with black cats!

  Norman Thomas then outlined the evidence against owner/trainer/breeder Rupert Campbell-Black in that New Year’s Dave had been running under false pretences for a year. He then showed films on the black screens, to gasps of admiration, of all the races Dave had won and of Rupert accepting vast trophies on his behalf, scooping up large sums of money illegally, and cheating other owners and punters out of their winnings.

  Gav Latton in particular had allowed the foal’s registration to be submitted with 1 January as the date of foaling in the full knowledge that the actual date was 31 December, and by thus falsifying the date, ensured the colt would not be classified as a yearling until the first of January the following year.

  ‘You filled in this form with intentions that your employer Rupert Campbell-Black would obtain some unjust advantage which he would not otherwise have obtained,’ Norman told Gav. ‘This is a fraudulent, rather than corrupt, practice. I’d like to confirm you didn’t inform Mr Campbell-Black that you had incorrectly registered the foal until December the twelfth, nearly three years later.’

  As a quivering, deathly-white Gavin rose swaying to his feet, Rupert put a steadying hand on his arm.

  ‘Take your time, Mr Latton,’ said Sam Bridlington kindly.

  Gav pulled himself together. ‘Only when I heard Penscombe church bells ringing in the New Year,’ he told the judges without a trace of a stammer, ‘did I appreciate the full tragedy that I had just delivered a December the thirty-first foal. It hadn’t sunk in when I filled in the first form. I knew how much this particular colt meant to Rupert. His dam and his sire were both especial favourites. It was an unbelievably quick birth – four minutes from the waters breaking to the time of foaling. Rupert,’ Gav’s voice broke slightly, colour creeping into his ashen cheeks, ‘has been incredibly good to me. He picked me up from the gutter when my wife left me and I’d been sacked by Cosmo Rannaldini, got me off the drink and was allowing me to ride his best horses. Most importantly, he trusted me enough to leave me in charge of the stud, on a New Year’s night when I might easily have gone back on the booze.

  ‘In a moment of insanity, I wrote out a new certificate and lied blind that the foal was born on January the first. I know it was breaking the rules, but I still feel it’s a wicked rule and criminally unfair, all because a foal is born an hour too early, sabotaging his entire career. Far unluckier than a child born at the end of August who has to go through school a year early, penalized through accident of birth; as unlucky as a younger son, who has to relinquish everything – title, grand house, family fortune – to an elder son.’

  His passion was undeniable. Good boy, thought Rupert. As a younger son, Roddy nodded his head in unwilling agreement.

  ‘You never felt the need to come clean and tell?’ he asked.

  ‘It became far harder. Dave was not just the most brilliant colt from the start, but also the most lovable. We all adored him. I couldn’t bring myself to kill the dream.’ His voice broke, and he paused for a second. ‘But I swear Rupert didn’t know, and I also ordered Celeste not to say anything. It’s entirely my responsibility. I’m so very sorry, but I’ll pay all the money back somehow.’

  ‘Nearly a million, rather a tall order,’ said Norman Thomas acidly.

  ‘Very nice boy,’ murmured Bridlington to Sally.

  ‘Very,’ agreed Sally. Turning, she met Rupert’s eye and he smiled at her. Blushing, she found herself smiling back. He really was absolutely gorgeous.

  The Chairman then announced they would call a Miss Celeste Frithwood, as a witness. It would therefore be fitting for Rupert and Gavin to retire. Marti would stay, so he could relay to them what Celeste had said.

  ‘Little Miss Whistleblow-job,’ muttered Rupert to Gav, as they caught a glimpse of Celeste, dressed by Cosmo and Sauvignon in a grey midi-dress with a white collar. She wore only a touch of make-up, had tied back her red locks with a ribbon, and smiled very sweetly at Roddy, who winked back at her.

  Throughout her interview, Marti harrumphed and sneered, and rattled papers noisily as he wrote down notes, until Sam Bridlington told him to cool it. Norman, the BRA lawyer, charmed by Celeste, took her through the events of the evening.

  ‘Marketa got quite a bit tiddly at the pub, so I offered to stand in for her. I was very new to the job but was worried about Gavin with his drinking problem, being on his own.’

  Now it was Marti’s turn.

  ‘When you whistleblew to another trainer, why did you pick Rupert’s deadliest rival?’

  ‘I’ve always admired Isa Lovell as a caring trainer, and following Rupert’s cruel remarks about my mum’s hero, Jake Lovell, after the Gimcrack dinner, I couldn’t stay silent.’ Celeste noticed Roddy nodding in approval. ‘Gav and Rupert are so close, I cannot believe Rupert didn’t know which day Dave was born. Gav rang Rupert on the night and let him know, and Rupert left a party and came straight home to see the foal. Rupert and Gav had plenty of time to talk while I straightened up the office. We then had a glass or two of bubbly up at the house.’

  ‘If you were so new to the job,’ asked Marti silkily, ‘why unearth the original foaling certificate from the bin?’

  ‘Although I didn’t realize the full implications,’ Celeste didn’t like Marti, ‘nothing added up. Gav filling in one form in ecstasy, then swearing as the New Year bells rang out – such a lovely sound – then scrumpling up the form in panic and filling in another one.’

  ‘Why didn’t you take the first certificate to Rupert, then and there?’

  ‘Gav,’ Celeste’s eyes filled with tears, after all, she wasn’t wearing mascara, ‘threatened me that if I snitched, I’d lose a job I adored. I was so thrilled to work at Penscombe, it’s so hard to get into racing. I was very frightened of
Mr Campbell-Black.’

  ‘I suggest you knew the implications all along, and have been blackmailing Gavin Latton that you’d spill the beans, if he didn’t persuade Rupert not to give you the sack.’

  ‘No, no!’ Celeste started to cry.

  Sam Bridlington, who was dying for a pee, and Sally, who wanted to take off her thermal vest, asked for a ten-minute break.

  As he entered the Gents, Sam heard a familiar soft clipped voice and found Rupert on his mobile: ‘Is that Ladbrokes? Account RC-B1. Hi Joel, I’d like five grand to win on number four, Foxymoron, in the 1.40 at Lingfield, and five grand each way in the 2.30, on number 5, Petruchio. Thanks, Joel.’

  Switching off his mobile, Rupert grinned ironically at Sam. ‘May be my last bet on my own horses, and I’ll need a winner to pay that massive fine you’re no doubt about to impose on me.’

  ‘We’re having a ten-minute break,’ said Sam. ‘You’re next.’

  I like this man, he thought, waiting for Rupert to leave, then getting out his mobile, rang his bookmaker, putting five hundred pounds on Foxymoron and one hundred each way on Petruchio.

  A BRA executive, at a nearby urinal, beetled off to tell the staff.

  36

  A deadpan Rupert faced the Panel. Not by a flicker did he betray the fear inside him.

  We’ll nail him, thought Roddy gleefully.

  Isn’t he heaven, thought Sally, putting a nose bag on the horse she was doodling. I’d water the course for him any time.

  ‘Act contrite,’ murmured Marti.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ idly, Rupert examined a green biro which said Larchmere Dental Practice – where the hell had that come from? – ‘because I didn’t want to know. I raised the odd eyebrow the day/night Dave was born, but didn’t push it. I suppose you could say I held my binoculars to both blind eyes.

  ‘Gav, on the other hand, was only a junior stud hand. He delivered a prize colt under amazing pressure, at phenomenal speed – as he said, four minutes from the waters breaking to the birth – and, probably in a state of shock, filled in the form, not appreciating the consequences until later, by which time, the whole of Penscombe had fallen in love with Dave.’ He smiled at Sally.

  ‘I have to say I agree with Gav that it’s the most stupid, destructive rule in racing, that a wonderhorse, born an hour too early, the best I’ve ever trained, is utterly damned, denied any career as a two-year-old, denied a crack at the Triple Crown, even though he’s favourite for the Guineas and the Derby.

  ‘We need hero horses to pull in the crowds. With this rule, racing is rejecting potential heroes. I’m sorry other owners have been deprived of their winnings and I realize Dave must be disqualified from all his races. Naturally I will pay back all the money and compensate Geoffrey, in particular, for missing the Breeders’ Cup, but I would like to reiterate that Gav only acted out of intense loyalty to me. There is no way I would ever fire him.’

  Shoulders hunched, Gav sat with his head in his hands.

  ‘Is that because, if you had done, it would have drawn attention to his culpability?’ asked Norman Thomas.

  ‘No, because he’s so bloody good at his job.’

  ‘What about the loss to the punters? How will they be paid back?’

  ‘What about all the lucky people who backed Geoffrey to lose?’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent!’ roared Roddy.

  Norman Thomas couldn’t dent Rupert, so another break was called so the Panel could deliberate before making a decision. Sally Stonehouse, who had nipped to the Ladies to whip off her thermal vest in the earlier break, returned to do her face.

  Two secretaries came in. ‘Never seen crowds like it,’ said the first. ‘Chantelle tried to get to the sales, and she was mobbed by press and public, dying from the cold, desperate for any news. I think they’ll lynch this Panel if he loses his licence. Ooh, he is gorgeous, that Gav’s lush too. Oh, sorry, Mrs Stonehouse,’ as Sally came out of the loo.

  Rupert, Marti and Gav returned to Red Rum.

  ‘You did very well,’ Marti told Gav, as Danielle and Fiona entered, carrying plates of sandwiches.

  ‘We’ve got cheese, or egg and cress, or chicken, or ham, with some green pepper and cauliflower to dip in hummus. Tea or coffee, still or sparkling?’

  Rupert would have preferred a quadruple whisky in the Red Lion, but felt it unfair to Gav. Ping came a text from Taggie: ‘Thinking of you, hop its gowing okay. Luv to Gav.’ He showed it to Gav. Ping came a text from Weatherbys. Foxymoron had sauntered up in the 1.40. Did he hear cheering outside?

  Over in the Enquiry Room, deliberations were less harmonious. Roddy, his mouth full of chicken sandwich, brooded over the fact that Rupert had never missed an opportunity to flout his authority or take the piss. ‘Now that we’ve heard all the evidence, Campbell-Black is clearly culpable. I suggest he loses his licence for ten years. We cannot condone cheating.’

  Roddy, however, had irritated both Sally and Sam so much, and Sam had just won a grand on Foxymoron. Switching off his mobile, he cleared his throat. ‘I am reluctant to prosecute Campbell-Black. I know it is our duty to uphold the rules of racing, but this is a prohibitive one, and it is also our duty to popularize it, and Campbell-Black certainly does that. Racing, as he pointed out, does need heroes.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune!’ exploded Roddy. ‘I thought we agreed to ensure integrity in the sport. Sally?’

  ‘I agree with Sam,’ said Sally dreamily. ‘We must encourage Rupert to stay in racing, which would be fatally weakened if he pulled out. I’ve just talked to a couple of girls upstairs, and they say the crowds are growing by the minute despite the bitter cold. No name carries more weight than Campbell-Black.’

  ‘But he cheated, and the BRA must not flinch in bringing justice to bear. We cannot have this black cloud hanging over British racing. We have an example to set other countries.’ Roddy comfort-ate the last chicken sandwich which Sally had had her eye on.

  Sam dipped a piece of green pepper in the bowl of hummus then thought better of it.

  ‘The man’s a bounder,’ Roddy snarled, ‘not nearly as valuable to the sport as the Arabs or Qataris, or the Irish at Coolmore.’

  In Red Rum, Rupert was running through the latest list of Love Rat’s nominations. Several breeders wanted to pull out or pay less.

  ‘Tough tits,’ Rupert emailed back to Pat. ‘Their contracts stand.’

  Danielle was back: ‘The Panel are ready for you, Mr Campbell-Black.’

  As they filed in, Rupert was encouraged to see that Roddy had turned magenta. ‘Looks absolutely hopping,’ he murmured.

  ‘Too fat to hop,’ murmured back Gav, and thought, The only way I can ever pay Rupert back is to turn Quickly into a world-beater.

  ‘The Panel,’ said Sam Bridlington, putting on his spectacles, ‘have appreciated Mr Campbell-Black’s agreement to refund all the prize money won by the colt, following his disqualification. The Panel also bears in mind,’ went on Sam, ‘that after his initial refusal to admit the truth, Mr Latton showed open and honest co-operation. His actions have never been motivated by personal gain, only by loyalty and devotion to the yard and his employer; he takes full responsibility, and has expressed his sincere regret before the Panel for his actions. The entry point for this breach of the rules would be £3,000, and three years. However, the Panel recognize significant facts in mitigation. We therefore disqualify you, Mr Latton, for five months, written reasons to follow. You are not to associate, during this period, with anyone from a racing yard – and anyone in a racing yard who associates with you will endanger their careers. You must leave Penscombe within the next two days.’

  Rupert looked at Marti incredulously.

  Oh Christ, thought Gav numbly. I won’t be here to make sure Quickly has first crack at the Triple Crown.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said a highly gratified Marti.

  ‘Thank you.’ Rupert kissed Sally. ‘I’ll come and race all my horses at your racecourse.’

 
; ‘It’s a majority vote, Roddy,’ warned Sam Bridlington, as they went downstairs for the press conference. ‘I know you’re disappointed at the result but I hope you’re not going to reveal how deeply we were divided.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ muttered Rupert.

  ‘Why aren’t you more grateful?’ said Marti in outrage. ‘You nearly lost your licence for ten years.’

  ‘Instead, I’ve lost the best work rider I’ve ever had.’

  ‘You can have him back in June.’

  As they returned to Red Rum, Danielle and Fiona were full of congratulations, and said to Gav: ‘The time will pass very quickly.’

  ‘Here are your roses, Rupert.’ Fiona had wrapped them in silver foil and soaked tissue paper.

  ‘You keep them, sweetheart.’

  ‘No, no, we both put twenty quid on Foxymoron, and Petruchio.’

  Despite the bitter cold, the crowds were still outside awaiting a result, and they cheered to the top of the Post Office Tower when they heard Rupert had kept his licence.

  37

  Sam Bridlington smiled at Sally Stonehouse. ‘I think we made the right decision.’

  ‘I’m sure we did. Racing would have been a lot drabber.’

  ‘Since the Hon. Rod wolfed all the sandwiches, shall we go and have tea, or something stronger, at the Dorchester?’

  ‘Oh, do let’s. I feel rather emotional.’ Sally discovered she was blowing her nose on her thermal vest.

  Roddy was less amused to receive a call from Enid. ‘Well done, well done, how splendid you all listened to the voice of commonsense and let Rupert keep his licence.’

  His next call came from a fuming Cosmo. ‘You assured me it was in the bag!’

  ‘It was. Mrs Stonehouse and Sam Bridlington changed sides. Campbell-Black smarmed them round, bloody disgrace.’

  ‘It’s disastrous. Changed the whole financial picture,’ said Cosmo evilly, adding that he wasn’t sure now how he could give that two million to Rutminster Racecourse to support Roddy’s development plans.