Whip Hand

by Dick Francis

  The trainer from Newmarket who had offered me a ride with his string was there, and repeated his offer.

  ‘Sid, do come. Come this Friday, stay the night with us, and ride work on Saturday morning.’

  There wasn’t much, I reflected, that anyone could give me that I’d rather accept: and besides, Peter Rammileese and his merry men would have a job finding me there.

  ‘Martin … Yes, I’d love to.’

  ‘Great.’ He seemed pleased. ‘Come for evening stables, Friday night.’

  He went on into the weighing room, and I wondered if he would have asked me if he’d known how I’d spent Guineas day.

  Bobby Unwin buttonholed me with inquisitive eyes. ‘Where have you been?’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you at the Guineas.’

  ‘I didn’t go.’

  ‘I thought you’d be bound to, after all your interest in Tri-Nitro.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I reckon you had the smell of something going on, there, Sid. All that interest in the Caspars, and about Gleaner and Zingaloo. Come clean, now, what do you know?’

  ‘Nothing, Bobby.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ He gave me a hard unforgiving stare and steered his beaky nose towards more fruitful copy in the shape of a top trainer enduring a losing streak. I would have trouble persuading him, I thought, if I should ever ask for his help again.

  Rosemary Caspar, walking with a woman friend to whom she was chatting, almost bumped into me before either of us was aware of the other being there. The look in her eyes made Bobby Unwin seem loving.

  ‘Go away,’ she said violently. ‘Why are you here?’

  The woman friend looked very surprised. I stepped out of the way without saying a word, which surprised her still further. Rosemary impatiently twitched her onwards, and I heard her voice rising, But surely, Rosemary, that was Sid Halley …’

  My face felt stiff. It’s too bloody much, I thought. I couldn’t have made their horse win if I’d stayed. I couldn’t… but I might have. I would always think I might have, if I’d tried. If I hadn’t been scared out of my mind.

  ‘Hallo Sid,’ a voice said at my side. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, lovely.’

  Philip Friarly smiled and watched Rosemary’s retreating back. ‘She’s been snapping at everyone since that disaster last week. Poor Rosemary. Takes things so much to heart.’

  ‘You can’t blame her,’ I said. ‘She said it would happen, and no one believed her.’

  ‘Did she tell you?’ he said curiously.

  I nodded.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, in understanding. ‘Galling for you.’

  I took a deep loosening breath and made myself concentrate on something different.

  ‘That horse of yours, today, I said. ‘Are you just giving it a sharpener, running it here on the Flat?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said briefly. ‘And if you ask me how it will run I’ll have to tell you that it depends on who’s giving the orders, and who’s taking them.’

  ‘That’s cynical.’

  ‘Have you found out anything for me?’

  ‘Not very much. It’s why I came here.’ I paused. ‘Do you know the name and address of the person who formed your syndicates?’

  ‘Not offhand,’ he said. ‘I didn’t deal with him myself, do you see? The syndicates were already well advanced when I was asked to join. The horses had already been bought, and most of the shares were sold.’

  ‘They used you,’ I said. ‘Used your name. A respectable front.’

  He nodded unhappily. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Do you know Peter Rammileese?’

  ‘Who?’ He shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He buys and sells horses,’ I said. ‘Lucas Wainwright thinks it was he who formed your syndicates, and he who is operating them, and he’s bad news to the Jockey Club and barred from most racecourses.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ He sounded distressed. ‘If Lucas is looking into them … What do you think I should do, Sid?’

  ‘From your own point of view,’ I said, ‘I think you should sell your shares, or dissolve the syndicates entirely, and get your name out of them as fast as possible.’

  ‘All right, I will. And Sid …next time I’m tempted, I’ll get you to check on the other people in the syndicate. The Security section are supposed to have done these, and look at them!’

  ‘Who’s riding your horse today?’ I said.

  ‘Larry Server.’

  He waited for an opinion, but I didn’t give it. Larry Server was middle ability, middle employed, rode mostly on the Flat and sometimes over hurdles, and was to my mind in the market for unlawful bargains.

  ‘Who chooses the jockey?’ I said. ‘Larry Server doesn’t ride all that often for your horse’s trainer.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I leave all that to the trainer, of course.’

  I made a small grimace.

  ‘Don’t you approve?’ he said.

  ‘If you like,’ I said, ‘I’ll give you a list of jockeys for your jumpers that you can at least trust to be trying to win. Can’t guarantee their ability, but you can’t have everything.’

  ‘Now who’s a cynic?’ He smiled, and said with patent and piercing regret, ‘I wish you were still riding them, Sid.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I said it with a smile, but he saw the flicker I hadn’t managed to keep out of my eyes.

  With a compassion I definitely didn’t want, he said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It was great while it lasted,’ I said light. ‘That’s all that matters.’

  He shook his head, annoyed with himself for his clumsiness.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘if you were glad I’m not still riding them I’d feel a whole lot worse.’

  ‘We had some grand times, didn’t we? Some exceptional days.’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  There could be an understanding between an owner and a jockey, I thought, that was intensely intimate. In the small area where their lives touched, where the speed and the winning were all that mattered, there could be a privately shared joy, like a secret, that endured like cement. I hadn’t felt it often, nor with many of the people I had ridden for, but with Philip Friarly, nearly always.

  A man detached himself from another group near us, and came towards us with a smiling face.

  ‘Philip. Sid. Nice to see you.’

  We made the polite noises back, but with genuine pleasure, as Sir Thomas Ullaston, the reigning Senior Steward, head of the Jockey Club, head, more or less, of the whole racing industry, was a sensible man and a fair and open-minded administrator. A little severe at times, some thought, but it wasn’t a job for a soft man. In the short time since he’d been put in charge of things there had been some good new rules and a clearing out of injustices, and he was as decisive as his predecessor had been weak.

  ‘How’s it going, Sid?’ he said. ‘Caught any good crooks lately?’

  ‘Not lately,’ I said ruefully.

  He smiled to Philip Friarly, ‘Our Sid’s putting the Security section’s nose out of joint, did you know? I had Eddy Keith along in my office on Monday complaining that we give Sid too free a hand, and asking that we shouldn’t let him operate on the racecourse.’

  ‘Eddy Keith?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Sid,’ Sir Thomas said teasingly. ‘I told him that racing owed you a great deal, starting with the saving of Seabury racecourse itself and going right on from there, and that in no way would the Jockey Club ever interfere with you, unless you did something absolutely diabolical, which on past form I can’t see you doing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said faintly.

  ‘And you may take it,’ he said firmly, ‘that that is the official Jockey Club view, as well as my own.’

  ‘Why,’ I said slowly, ‘does Eddy Keith want me stopped?’

  He shrugged. ‘Something about access to the Jockey Club files. Apparently you saw some, and he resented it, I told him he’d h
ave to live with it, because I was certainly not in any way going to put restraints on what I consider a positive force for good in racing.’

  I felt grindingly undeserving of all that, but he gave me no time to protest.

  ‘Why don’t both of you come upstairs for a drink and a sandwich? Come along, Sid, Philip … He turned, gesturing us to follow, leading the way.

  We went up those stairs marked ‘Private’ which on most racecourses lead to the civilized luxuries of the Stewards’ box, and into a carpeted glass-fronted room looking out to the white-railed track. There were several groups of people there already, and a manservant handing around drinks on a tray.

  ‘I expect you know most people,’ Sir Thomas said, hospitably making introductions. ‘Madelaine, my dear … to his wife, ‘… do you know Lord Friarly, and Sid Halley?’ We shook her hand. ‘And oh yes, Sid,’ he said, touching my arm to bring me around face to face with another of his guests …

  ‘Have you met Trevor Deansgate?’

  13

  We stared at each other, probably equally stunned.

  I thought of how he had last seen me, on my back in the straw barn, spilling my guts out with fear. He’ll see it still in my face, I thought. He knows what he’s made of me. I can’t just stand here without moving a muscle … and yet I must.

  My head seemed to be floating somewhere above the rest of my body, and an awful lot of awfulness got condensed into four seconds.

  ‘Do you know each other?’ Sir Thomas said, slightly puzzled.

  Trevor Deansgate said, ‘Yes. We’ve met.’

  There was at least no sneer either in his eyes or his voice. If it hadn’t been impossible, I would have thought that what he looked was wary.

  ‘Drink, Sid?’ said Sir Thomas; and I found the man with the tray at my elbow. I took a tumbler with whisky-coloured contents and tried to stop my fingers trembling.

  Sir Thomas said conversationally, ‘I’ve just been telling Sid how much the Jockey Club appreciates his successes, and it seems to have silenced him completely.’

  Neither Trevor Deansgate nor I said anything. Sir Thomas raised his eyebrows a fraction and tried again. ‘Well, Sid, tell us a good thing for the big race.’

  I dragged my scattered wits back into at least a pretence of life going uneventfully on.

  ‘Oh … Winetaster, I should think.’

  My voice sounded strained, to me, but Sir Thomas seemed not to notice. Trevor Deansgate looked down to the glass in his own well-manicured hand and swivelled the ice cubes round in the golden liquid. Another of the guests spoke to Sir Thomas, and he turned away, and Trevor Deansgate’s gaze came immediately back to my face filled with naked savage threat. His voice, quick and hard, spoke straight from the primitive underbelly, the world of violence and vengeance and no pity at all.

  ‘If you break your assurance, I’ll do what I said.’

  He held my eyes until he was sure I had received the message, and then he too turned away, and I could see the heavy muscles of his shoulders bunching formidably inside his coat.

  ‘Sid,’ Philip Friarly said, appearing once more at my side. ‘Lady Ullaston wants to know … I say, are you feeling all right?’

  I nodded a bit faintly.

  ‘My dear chap, you look frightfully pale.’

  ‘I … er …’ I took a vague grip on things. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Lady Ullaston wants to know …’ He went on at some length, and I listened and answered with a feeling of complete unreality. One could literally be torn apart in spirit while standing with a glass in one’s hand making social chit chat to the Senior Steward’s lady. I couldn’t remember, five minutes later, a word that was said. I couldn’t feel my feet on the carpet. I’m a mess, I thought.

  The afternoon went on. Winetaster got beaten in the big race by a glossy dark filly called Mrs Hillman, and in the race after that Larry Server took Philip Friarly’s syndicate horse to the back of the field, and stayed there. Nothing improved internally, and after the fifth I decided it was pointless staying any longer, since I couldn’t even effectively think.

  Outside the gate there was the usual gaggle of chauffeurs leaning against cars, waiting for their employers; and also, with them, one of the jump jockeys whose licence had been lost through taking bribes from Rammileese.

  I nodded to him, as I passed. ‘Jacksy.’

  ‘Sid.’

  I walked on to the car, and unlocked it, and slung my raceglasses on to the back seat. Got in. Started the engine. Paused for a bit, and reversed all the way back to the gate.

  ‘Jacksy?’ I said. ‘Get in. I’m buying.’

  ‘Buying what?’ He came over and opened the passenger door, and sat in beside me. I fished my wallet out of my rear trouser pocket and tossed it into his lap.

  ‘Take all the money,’ I said. I drove forward through the carpark and out through the distant gate on to the public road.

  ‘But you dropped me quite a lot, not long ago,’ he said.

  I gave him a fleeting sideways smile. ‘Yeah. Well … this is for services about to be rendered.’

  He counted the notes. ‘All of it?’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘I want to know about Peter Rammileese.’

  ‘Oh no.’ He made as if to open the door, but the car by then was going too fast.

  ‘Jacksy,’ I said, ‘no one’s listening but me, and I’m not telling anyone else. Just say how much he paid you and what for, and anything else you can think of.’

  He was silent for a bit. Then he said, ‘It’s more than my life’s worth, Sid. There’s a whisper out that he’s brought two pros down from Glasgow for a special job and anyone who gets in his way just now is liable to be stamped on.’

  ‘Have you seen these pros?’ I said, thinking that I had.

  ‘No. It just come through on the grapevine, like.’

  ‘Does the grapevine know what the special job is?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Anything to do with syndicates?’

  ‘Be your age, Sid. Everything to do with Rammileese is always to do with syndicates. He runs about twenty. Maybe more.’

  Twenty, I thought, frowning. I said, ‘What’s his rate for the job of doing a Larry Server, like today?’

  ‘Sid.’ he protested.

  ‘How does he get someone like Larry Server on to a horse he wouldn’t normally ride?’

  ‘He asks the trainer nicely, with a fistful of dollars.’

  ‘He bribes the trainers?’

  ‘It doesn’t take much, sometimes.’ He looked thoughtful for a while. ‘Don’t you quote me, but there were races run last autumn where Rammileese was behind every horse in the field. He just carved them up as he liked.’

  ‘It’s impossible,’ I said.

  ‘No. All that dry weather we had, remember? Fields of four, five or six runners, sometimes, because the ground was so hard? I know of three races for sure when all the runners were his. The poor sodding bookies didn’t know what had hit them.’

  Jacksy counted the money again. ‘Do you know how much you’ve got here?’ he said.

  ‘Just about.’

  I glanced at him briefly. He was twenty-five, an ex-apprentice grown too heavy for the Flat and known to resent it. Jump jockeys on the whole earned less than the Flat boys, and there were the bruises besides, and it wasn’t everyone who like me found steeplechasing double the fun. Jacksy didn’t; but he could ride pretty well, and I’d raced alongside him often enough to know he wouldn’t put you over the rails for nothing at all. For a consideration, yes, but for nothing, no.

  The money was troubling him. For ten or twenty he would have lied to me easily: but we had a host of shared memories of changing rooms and horses and wet days and mud and falls and trudging back over sodden turf in paper-thin racing boots, and it isn’t so easy, if you’re not a real villain, to rob someone you know as well as that.

  ‘Funny,’ he said, ‘you taking to this detecting lark.’

  ‘Riotous.’ />
  ‘No, straight up. I mean, you don’t come after the lads for little things.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed. Little things like taking bribes. My business, on the whole, was with the people who offered them.

  ‘I kept all the newspapers,’ he said. ‘After that trial.’

  I shook my head resignedly. Too many people in the racing world had kept those papers, and the trial had been a trial for me in more ways than one. Defence counsel had revelled in deeply embarrassing the victim; and the prisoner, charged with causing grievous bodily harm with intent, contrary to section 18 of the Offences Against the Person Act 1861 (or in other words, bopping an ex-jockey’s left hand with a poker), had been rewarded by four years in clink. It would be difficult to say who had enjoyed the proceedings less, the one in the witness box or the one in the dock.

  Jacksy kept up his disconnected remarks, which I gathered were a form of time-filling while he sorted himself out underneath.

  ‘I’ll get my licence back for next season,’ he said.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Seabury’s a good track. I’ll be riding there in August. All the lads think it’s fine the course is still going, even if …’ He glanced at my hand. ‘Well … you couldn’t race with it anyway, could you, as it was?’

  ‘Jacksy,’ I said, exasperated. ‘Will you or won’t you?’

  He flipped through the notes again, and folded them, and put them in his pocket.

  ‘Yes. All right Here’s your wallet.’

  ‘Put it in the glove box.’

  He did that, and looked out of the window. ‘Where are we going?’ he said.

  ‘Anywhere you like.’

  ‘I got a lift to Chester. He’ll have gone without me by now. Can you take me south, like, and I’ll hitch the rest.’

  So I drove towards London, and Jacksy talked.

  ‘Rammileese gave me ten times the regular fee, for riding a loser. Now listen, Sid, you swear this won’t get back to him?’

  ‘Not through me.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I suppose I do trust you.’

  ‘Get on, then.’

  ‘He buys quite good horses. Horses that can win. Then he syndicates them. I reckon sometimes he makes five hundred per cent profit on them, for a start. He bought one I knew of for six thousand and sold ten shares at three thousand each. He’s got two pals who are OK registered owners, and he puts one of them in each syndicate, and they swing it so some fancy figurehead takes a share, so the whole thing looks right.’