by Dick Francis
‘I’ve an uncomfortable feeling I’m being used,’ he said. ‘You know that I’m a sucker for seeing my horses run, the more the merrier, and all that. Well, during the past year I have agreed to be one of the registered owners in a syndicate … you know, sharing the costs with eight or ten other people, though the horses run in my name, and my colours.’
‘Yeah,’ I said nodding. ‘I’ve noticed.’
‘Well … I don’t know all the other people, personally. The syndicates were formed by a chap who does just that – gets people together and sells them a horse. You know?’
I nodded. There had been cases of syndicate-formers buying horses for a smallish sum and selling them to the members of the syndicate for up to four times as much. A healthy little racket, so far legal.
‘Those horses don’t run true to form, Sid,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’ve a nasty feeling that somewhere in the syndicates we’ve got someone fixing the way the horses run. So will you find out for me? Nice and quietly?’
‘I’ll certainly try,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said, with satisfaction. ‘Thought you would. So I brought the names for you, of the people in the syndicates.’ He pulled a folded paper out of his inner pocket. ‘There you are, he said, opening it and pointing. ‘Four horses. The syndicates are all registered with the Jockey Club, everything above board, audited accounts, and so on. It all looks all right on paper, but, frankly, Sid, I’m not happy.’
‘I’ll look into it,’ I promised, and he thanked me profusely, and also genuinely, and moved away, after a minute or two, to talk to Rosemary and George.
Further away, Bobby Unwin, notebook and pencil in evidence, was giving a middle-rank trainer a hard-looking time. His voice floated over, sharp with northern aggression and tinged with an inquisitorial tone caught from tele-interviewers. ‘Can you say, then, that you are perfectly satisfied with the way your horses are running?’ The trainer looked around for escape and shifted from foot to foot. It was amazing, I thought, that he put up with it, even though Bobby Unwin’s printed barbs tended to be worse if he hadn’t the personal pleasure of intimidating his victim face to face. He wrote well, was avidly read, and among most of the racing fraternity was heartily disliked. Between him and me there had been for many years a sort of sparring truce, which in practice had meant a diminution of words like ‘blind’ and ‘cretinous’ to two per paragraph when he was describing any race I’d lost. Since I’d stopped riding I was no longer a target, and in consequence we had developed a perverse satisfaction in talking to each other, like scratching a spot.
Seeing me out of the corner of his eye he presently released the miserable trainer and steered his beaky nose in my direction. Tall, forty, and forever making copy out of having been born in a back-to-back terrace in Bradford: a fighter, come up the hard way, and letting no one ever forget it. We ought to have had much in common, since I too was the product of a dingy back street, but temperament had nothing to do with environment. He tended to meet fate with fury and I with silence, which meant that he talked a lot and I listened.
‘The colour mag’s in my briefcase in the Press room,’ he said. ‘What do you want it for?’
‘Just general interest.’
‘Oh, come off it,’ he said. ‘What are you working on?’
‘And would you,’ I said, ‘give me advance notice of your next scoop?’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Point taken. And I’ll have a bottle of the best vintage bubbly in the members’ bar. After the first race. OK?’
‘And for smoked salmon sandwiches extra, would I acquire some background info that never saw the light of print?’
He grinned nastily and said he didn’t see why not: and in due course, after the first race, he kept his bargain.
‘You can afford it, Sid, lad,’ he said, munching a pink-filled sandwich and laying a protective hand on the gold-foiled bottle standing beside us on the bar counter. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘You went to Newmarket … to George Caspar’s yard … to do this article?’ I indicated the colour magazine, which lay, folded lengthwise, beside the bottle.
‘Yeah. Sure.’
‘So tell me what you didn’t write.’
He stopped in mid-munch. ‘In what area?’
‘What do you privately think of George as a person?’
He spoke round bits of brown bread. ‘I said most of it in that.’ He looked at the magazine. ‘He knows more about when a horse is ready to race and what race to run him in than any other trainer on the Turf. And he’s got as much feeling for people as a block of stone. He knows the name and the breeding back to the flood of every one of the hundred and twenty plus horses in his yard, and he can recognize them walking away from him in a downpour, which is practically impossible, but as for the forty lads he’s got there working for him, he calls them all Tommy, because he doesn’t know tother from which.’
‘Lads come and go,’ I said neutrally.
‘So do horses. It’s in his mind. He doesn’t give a bugger’s damn for people.’
‘Women?’ I suggested.
‘Uses them, poor sods. I bet when he’s at it he’s got his mind on his next day’s runners.’
‘And Rosemary … what does she think about things?’
I poured a refill into his glass, and sipped my own. Bobby finished his sandwich with a gulp and licked the crumbs off his fingers.
‘Rosemary? She’s halfway off her rocker.’
‘She looked all right yesterday at the races,’ I said. ‘And she’s here today, as well.’
‘Yeah, well, she can hold on to the grande dame act in public still, I grant you, but I was in and out of the house for three days, and I’m telling you, mate, the goings-on there had to be heard to be believed.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as Rosemary screaming all over the place that they hadn’t enough security and George telling her to belt up. Rosemary’s got some screwy idea that some of their horses have been got at in the past, and I daresay she’s right at that, because you don’t have a yard that size and that successful that hasn’t had its share of villains trying to alter the odds. But anyway …’ he drank deep and tipped the bottle generously to replenish his supplies, ‘… she seized me by the coat in their hall one day … and that hall’s as big as a fair-sized barn … literally seized me by the coat and said what I should be writing was some stuff about Gleaner and Zingaloo being got at … you remember, those two spanking two-year-olds who never developed … and George came out of his office and said she was neurotic and suffering from the change of life, and right then and there in front of me they had a proper slanging match.’ He took a breath and a mouthful. ‘Funny thing is, in a way I’d say they were fond of each other. As much as he could be fond of anybody.’
I ran my tongue round my teeth and looked only marginally interested, as if my mind was on something else. ‘What did George say about her ideas on Gleaner and Zingaloo?’ I said.
‘He took it for granted I wouldn’t take her seriously, but anyway, he said it was just that she had the heeby-jeebies that someone would nobble Tri-Nitro, and she was getting everything out of proportion. Her age, he said. Women always went very odd, he said, at that age. He said the security round Tri-Nitro was already double what he considered really necessary, because of her nagging, and when the new season began he’d have night patrols with dogs, and such like. Which is now, of course. He told me that Rosemary was quite wrong, anyway, about Gleaner and Zingaloo being got at, but that she’d got this obsession on the subject, and he was ready to humour her to some degree to stop her going completely bonkers. It seems that both of them … the horses, that is … proved to have a heart murmur, which of course accounted for their rotten performances as they matured and grew heavier. So that was that. No story.’ He emptied his glass and refilled it. ‘Well, Sid, mate, what is it you really want to know about George Caspar?’
‘Um,’ I said. ‘Do you think there’s anything he is afraid of?’
‘Anything.’
‘When I was there, I’d say he was about as frightened as a ton of bricks.’
‘He didn’t seem worried?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Or edgy?’
He shrugged. ‘Only with his wife.’
‘How long ago was it, that you went there?’
‘Oh …’ He considered, thinking. ‘After Christmas. Yes … second week in January. We have to do those colour mags such a long time in advance.’
‘You don’t think, then,’ I said slowly, sounding disappointed, ‘that he’d be wanting any extra protection for Tri-Nitro?’
‘Is that what you’re after?’ He gave the leering grin. ‘No dice, then, Sid, mate. Try someone smaller. George has got his whole ruddy yard sewn up tight. For a start, see, it’s one of those old ones enclosed inside a high wall, like a fortress. Then there’s ten-foot high double gates across the entrance, with spikes on top.’
I nodded. ‘Yes … I’ve seen them.’
‘Well, then.’ He shrugged, as if that settled things.
There were closed-circuit televisions in all the bars at Kempton to keep serious drinkers abreast of the races going on outside, and on the nearest of these sets Bobby Unwin and I watched the second race. The horse which won by six lengths was the one trained by George Caspar, and while Bobby was thoughtfully eying the two inches of fizz still left in the bottle, George himself came into the bar. Behind him, in a camel-coloured overcoat, came a substantial man bearing all the stigmata of a satisfied winning owner. Cat-with-the-cream smile, big gestures, have this one on me.
‘Finish the bottle, Bobby,’ I said.
‘Don’t you want any?’
‘It’s yours.’
He made no objections. Poured, drank, and comfortably belched. ‘Better go,’ he said. ‘Got to write up these effing colts in the third. Don’t you go telling my editor I watched the second in the bar, I’d get the sack.’ He didn’t mean it. He saw many a race in the bar. ‘See you, Sid. Thanks for the drink.’
He turned with a nod and made a sure passage to the door, showing not a sign of having dispatched seven eighths of a bottle of champagne within half an hour. Merely laying the foundation, no doubt. His capacity was phenomenal.
I tucked his magazine inside my jacket and made my own way slowly in his wake, thinking about what he’d said. Passing George Caspar I said, ‘Well done,’ in the customary politeness of such occasions, and he nodded briefly and said ‘Sid,’ and, transaction completed, I continued towards the door.
‘Sid … he called after me, his voice rising.
I turned. He beckoned. I went back.
‘Want you to meet Trevor Deansgate,’ he said.
I shook the hand offered: snow-white cuff, gold links, smooth pale skin, faintly moist; well-tended nails, onyx and gold signet ring on little finger.
‘Your winner?’ I said. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Trevor Deansgate?’
‘Apart from that.’
It was the first time I’d seen him at close quarters. There was often, in powerful men, a give-away droop of the eyelids which proclaimed an inner sense of superiority, and he had it. Also dark grey eyes, black controlled hair, and the tight mouth which goes with well-exercised decision-making muscles.
‘Go on, Sid,’ George said into my tiny hesitation. ‘If you know, say. I told Trevor you knew everything.’
I glanced at him, but all that was to be read on his tough weathered countenance was a sort of teasing expectancy. For many people, I knew, my new profession was a kind of game. There seemed to be no harm, on this occasion, of jumping obligingly through his offered hoop.
‘Bookmaker?’ I said tentatively: and to Trevor Deansgate directly, added, ‘Billy Bones?’
‘There you are,’ said George, pleased. ‘I told you so.’
Trevor Deansgate took it philosophically. I didn’t try for a further reaction, which might not have been so friendly. His name at birth was reputed to be Shummuck. Trevor Shummuck from Manchester, who’d been born in a slum with a razor mind and changed his name, accent and chosen company on the way up. As Bobby Unwin might have said, hadn’t we all, and why not?
Trevor Deansgate’s climb to the big league had been all but completed by buying out the old but ailing firm of ‘Billy Bones’, in itself a blanket pseudonym for some brothers called Rubenstein and their uncle Solly. In the past few years ‘Billy Bones’ had become big business. One could scarcely open a sports paper or go to the races without seeing the blinding fluorescent pink advertising, and slogans like ‘Make no Bones about it, Billy’s best’ tended to assault one’s peace on Sundays. If the business was as vigorous as its sales campaign, Trevor Deansgate was doing all right.
We civilly discussed his winner until it was time to adjourn outside to watch the colts.
‘How’s Tri-Nitro?’ I said to George, as we moved towards the door.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘In great heart.’
‘No problems?’
‘None at all.’
We parted outside, and I spent the rest of the afternoon in the usual desultory way, watching the races, talking to people, and thinking unimportant thoughts. I didn’t see Rosemary again, and calculated she was avoiding me, and after the fifth race I decided to go.
A racecourse official at the exit gate stopped me with an air of relief, as if he’d been waiting for me for a shade too long.
‘Note for you, Mr Halley.’
‘Oh? Thanks.’
He gave me an unobtrusive brown envelope. I put it in my pocket and walked on, out to my car. Climbed in. Took out, opened, and read the letter.
Sid.
I’ve been busy all afternoon but I want to see you. Please can you meet me in the tea room? After the last?
Lucas Wainwright
Cursing slightly, I walked back across the car park, through the gate, and along to the restaurant, where lunch had given place to sandwiches and cake. The last race being just finished, the tea customers were trickling in in small thirsty bunches, but there was no sign of Commander Lucas Wainwright, Director of Security to the Jockey Club.
I hung around, and he came in the end, hurrying, anxious, apologizing and harassed.
‘Do you want some tea?’ He was out of breath.
‘Not much.’
‘Never mind. Have some. We can sit here without being interrupted, and there are always too many people in the bar.’ He led the way to a table and gestured to me to sit down.
‘Look, Sid. How do you feel about doing a job for us?’ No waster of time, Commander Wainwright.
‘Does “us” mean the Security Service?’
‘Yes.’
‘Official?’ I said, surprised. The Racecourse Security people knew in moderate detail what I’d recently been doing and had raised no objections, but I hadn’t imagined they actually approved. In some respects, I’d been working in their territory, and stepping on their toes.
Lucas drummed his fingers on the tablecloth.
‘Unofficial,’ he said. ‘My own private show.’
As Lucas Wainwright was himself the top brass of the Security Service, the investigative, policing arm of the Jockey Club, even unofficial requests from him could be considered to be respectably well-founded. Or at least, until proved otherwise.
‘What sort of job?’ I said.
The thought of what sort of job slowed him up for the first time. He hummed and hah’ed and drummed his fingers some more, but finally shaped up to what proved to be a brute of a problem.
‘Look, Sid, this is in strictest confidence.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve no higher authority for approaching you like this.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Never mind. Go on.’
‘As I’ve no authority, I can’t promise you any pay.’
I sighed.
‘All
I could offer is … well … help, if you should ever need it. And if it was within my power to give it, of course.’
‘That could be worth more than pay,’ I said.
He looked relieved. ‘Good. Now … this is very awkward. Very delicate.’ He still hesitated, but at last, with a sigh like a groan, he said I’m asking you to make … er … discreet inquiries into the … er … background … of one of our people.’
There was an instant’s silence. Then I said, ‘Do you mean one of you? One of the Security Service?’
‘I’m afraid that’s right.’
‘Inquiries into exactly what?’ I said.
He looked unhappy. ‘Bribery. Backhanders. That sort of thing.’
‘Um,’ I said. ‘Have I got this straight? You believe one of your chaps may be collecting pay-offs from villains, and you want me to find out?’
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Exactly.’
I thought it over. ‘Why don’t you do the investigating yourselves? Just detail another of your chaps.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But there are difficulties. If I am wrong, I cannot afford to have it known that I was suspicious. It would cause a great, a very great deal of trouble. And if I am right, which I fear I am, we … that is, the Jockey Club … would want to be able to deal with things quietly. A public scandal involving the Security Service would be very damaging to racing.’
I thought he was perhaps putting it a bit high, but he wasn’t.
‘The man in question,’ he said miserably, ‘is Eddy Keith.’ There was another countable silence. In the hierarchy of the Security Service then existing, there was Lucas Wainwright at the top, with two equal deputies one step down. Both of the deputies were retired senior-rank policemen. One of them was ex-Superintendent Eddison Keith.
I had a clear mental picture of him, as I had talked with him often. A big bluff breezy man with a heavy hand for clapping one on the shoulder. More than a trace of Suffolk accent in a naturally loud voice. A large flourishing straw-coloured moustache, fluffy light brown hair through which one could see the pink scalp shining, and fleshy-lidded eyes which seemed always to be twinkling with good humour, and often weren’t.