Straight

by Dick Francis

  If I went on riding until solvency dawned I might be the oldest jump jockey in history ...

  Again the telephone interrupted the daydreams, and I’d barely made a start on the letters.

  It was a man with a long order for cabochons and beads. I hopped to the door and yelled for June to pick up the phone and to put the order on the computer, and Alfie came along to complain we were running out of heavy-duty binding tape and to ask why we’d ever needed Jason. Tina did his work in half the time without the swear words.

  Annette almost with gaiety vacuumed everywhere, though I thought I would soon ask Tina to do it instead. Lily came with downcast eyes to ask meekly if she could have a title also. Stockroom Manager? she suggested.

  “Done!” I said with sincere pleasure; and before the day was out we had a Shipment Manager (Alfie) and an Enabling Manager (Tina), and it seemed to me that such a spirit had been released there that the enterprise was now flying. Whether the euphoria would last or not was next week’s problem.

  I telephoned Maarten-Pagnier in Antwerp and discussed the transit of twelve teardrops, eight stars and five fakes.

  “Our customer has paid us for the diamonds,” I said. “I’d like to be able to tell him when we could get them to him.”

  “Do you want them sent direct to him, monsieur?”

  “No. Here to us. We’ll pass them on.” I asked if he would insure them for the journey and send them by Euro-Securo; no need to trouble his partner again personally as we did not dispute that five of the stones sent to him had been cubic zirconia. The real stones had been returned to us, I said.

  “I rejoice for you, monsieur. And shall we expect a further consignment for cutting? Monsieur Franklin intended it.”

  “Not at the moment, I regret.”

  “Very well, monsieur. At any time, we are at your service.”

  After that I asked Annette if she could find Prospero Jenks to tell him his diamonds would be coming. She ran him to earth in one of his workrooms and appeared in my doorway saying he wanted to speak to me personally.

  With inner reluctance I picked up the receiver. “Hello, Pross,” I said.

  “Truce, then?” he asked.

  “We’ve banked the check. You’ll get the diamonds.”

  “When?”

  “When they get here from Antwerp. Friday, maybe.”

  “Thanks.” He sounded fervently pleased. Then he said with hesitation, “You’ve got some light blue topaz, each fifteen carats or more, emerald cut, glittering like water ... can I have it? Five or six big stones, Grev said. I’ll take them all.”

  “Give it time,” I said, and God, I thought, what unholy nerve.

  “Yes, well, but you and I need each other,” he protested.

  “Symbiosis?” I said.

  “What? Yes.”

  It had done Greville no harm in the trade, I’d gathered, to be known as the chief supplier of Prospero Jenks. His firm still needed the cachet as much as the cash. I’d taken the money once. Could I afford pride?

  “If you try to steal from me one more time,” I said, “I not only stop trading with you, I make sure everyone knows why. Everyone from Hatton Garden to Pelikanstraat.”

  “Derek!” He sounded hurt, but the threat was a dire one.

  “You can have the topaz,” I said. “We have a new gemologist who’s not Greville, I grant you, but who knows what you buy. We’ll still tell you what special stones we’ve imported. You can tell us what you need. We’ll take it step by step.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t!” He sounded extremely relieved. “I thought you’d never forgive me the wallet. Your face ...”

  “I don’t forgive it. Or forget. But after wars, enemies trade.” It always happened, I thought, though cynics might mock. Mutual benefit was the most powerful of bridge-builders, even if the heart remained bitter. “We’ll see how we go,” I said again.

  “If you find the other diamonds,” he said hopefully, “I still want them.” Like a little boy in trouble, I thought, trying to charm his way out.

  Disconnecting, I ruefully smiled. I’d made the same inner compromise that Greville had, to do business with the treacherous child, but not to trust him. To supply the genius in him, and look to my back.

  June came winging in and I asked her to go along to the vault to look at the light blue, large stone topaz, which I well remembered. “Get to know it while it’s still here. I’ve sold it to Prospero Jenks.”

  “But I don’t go into the vault,” she said.

  “You do now. You’ll go in there every day from now on at spare moments to learn the look and feel of the faceted stones, like I have. Topaz is slippery, for instance. Learn the chemical formulas, learn the cuts and the weights, get to know them so that if you’re offered unusual faceted stones anywhere in the world you can check them against your knowledge for probability.”

  Her mouth opened.

  “You’re going to buy the raw materials for Prospero Jenks’s museum pieces,” I said. “You’ve got to learn fast.”

  Her eyes stretched wide as well, and she vanished.

  With Annette I finished the letters.

  At four o’clock I answered the telephone yet again, and found myself talking to Phil Urquhart, whose voice sounded strained.

  “I’ve just phoned the lab for the results of Dozen Roses’ tests.” He paused. “I don’t think I believe this.”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Do you know what a metabolite is?”

  “Only vaguely.”

  “What, then?” he said.

  “The result of metabolism, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” he said. “It’s what’s left after some substance or other has broken down in the body.”

  “So what?”

  “So,” he said reasonably, “if you find a particular metabolite in the urine, it means a particular substance was earlier present in the body. Is that clear?”

  “Like viruses produce special antibodies, so the presence of the antibodies proves the existence of the viruses?”

  “Exactly,” he said, apparently relieved I understood. “Well, the lab found a metabolite in Dozen Roses’ urine. A metabolite known as benzyl ecognine.”

  “Go on,” I urged, as he paused. “What is it the metabolite of?”

  “Cocaine,” he said.

  I sat in stunned disbelieving silence.

  “Derek?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Racehorses aren’t routinely tested for cocaine because it isn’t a stimulant. Normally a racehorse could be full of cocaine and no one would know.”

  “If it isn’t a stimulant,” I said, loosening my tongue, “why give it to them?”

  “If you believed it was a stimulant, you might. Knowing it wouldn’t be tested for.”

  “How could you believe it?”

  “It’s one of the drugs that potentiates adrenaline. I particularly asked the lab to test for all drugs like that because of what you said about the adrenaline yourself. What happens with a normal adrenaline surge is that after a while an enzyme comes along to control it. Cocaine blocks out that enzyme, so the adrenaline goes roaring round the body for much longer. When the cocaine decays, its chief metabolic product is benzyl ecognine, which is what the lab found in its gas chromatograph analyzer this afternoon.”

  “There were some cases in America ...” I said vaguely.

  “It’s still not part of a regulation dope test even there.”

  “But my God,” I said blankly, “Nicholas Loder must have known.”

  “Almost certainly, I should think. You’d have to administer the cocaine very soon before the race, because its effect is short lived. One hour, an hour and a half at most. It’s difficult to tell, with a horse. There’s no data. And although the metabolite would appear in the blood and the urine soon after that, the metabolite itself would be detectable for probably not much longer than forty-eight hours, but with a horse, that’s still a guess. We took the sample from
Dozen Roses on Monday evening about fifty-two hours after he’d raced. The lab said the metabolite was definitely present, but they could make no estimate of how much cocaine had been assimilated. They told me all this very very carefully. They have much more experience with humans. They say in humans the rush from cocaine is fast, lasts about forty minutes and brings little post-exhilaration depression.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  “In horses,” he went on, “they think it would probably induce skittishness at once.”

  “I thought back to Dozen Roses’ behavior both at York and on the TV tapes. He’d certainly woken up dramatically between saddling box and starting gate.

  “But,” Phil added, “they say that at the most it might give more stamina, but not much more speed. It wouldn’t make the horse go faster, but just make the adrenaline push last longer.”

  That might be enough sometimes, I thought. Sometimes you could feel horses “die” under you near the finish, not from lack of ability, but from lack of perseverance, of fight. Some horses were content to be second. In them, uninhibited adrenaline might perhaps tip the balance.

  Caffeine, which had the same potentiating effect, was a prohibited substance in racing.

  “Why don’t they test for cocaine?” I asked.

  “Heaven knows,” Phil said. “Perhaps because enough to wind up a horse would cost the doper too much to be practicable. I mean ... more than one could be sure of winning back on a bet. But cocaine’s getting cheaper, I’m told. There’s more and more of it around.”

  “I don’t know much about drugs,” I said.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Not my scene.”

  “Do you know what they’d call you in America?”

  “What?”

  “Straight,” he said.

  “I thought that meant heterosexual.”

  He laughed. “That too. You’re straight through and through.”

  “Phil,” I said, “what do I do?”

  He sobered abruptly. “God knows. My job ends with passing on the facts. The moral decisions are yours. All I can tell you is that some time before Monday evening Dozen Roses took cocaine into his bloodstream.”

  “Via a baster?” I said.

  After a short silence he said, “We can’t be sure of that.”

  “We can’t be sure he didn’t.”

  “Did I understand right, that Harley Ostermeyer picked up the tube of the baster and gave it to you?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “I still have it, but like I told you, it’s clean.”

  “It might look clean,” he said slowly, “but if cocaine was blown up it in powder form, there may be particles clinging.”

  I thought back to before the race at York.

  “When Martha Ostermeyer picked up the blue bulb end and gave it back to Rollway,” I said, “she was brushing her fingers together afterwards. She seemed to be getting rid of dust from her gloves.”

  “Oh glory,” Phil said.

  I sighed and said, “If I give the tube to you, can you get it tested without anyone knowing where it came from?”

  “Sure. Like the urine, it’ll be anonymous. I’ll get the lab to do another rush job, if you want. It costs a bit more, though.”

  “Get it done, Phil,” I said. “I can’t really decide anything unless I know for sure.”

  “Right. Are you coming back here soon?”

  “Greville’s business takes so much time. I’ll be back at the weekend, but I think I’ll send the tube to you by carrier, to be quicker. You should get it tomorrow mornring.”

  “Right,” he said. “We might get a result late tomorrow. Friday at the latest.”

  “Good, and er ... don’t mention it to Milo.”

  “No, but why not?”

  “He told Nicholas Loder we tested Dozen Roses for tranquilizers and Nicholas Loder was on my phone hitting the roof.”

  “Oh God.”

  “I don’t want him knowing about tests for cocaine. I mean, neither Milo nor Nicholas Loder.”

  “You may be sure,” Phil said seriously, “they won’t learn it from me.”

  It was the worst dilemma of all, I thought, replacing the receiver.

  Was cocaine a stimulant or was it not? The racing authorities didn’t think so: didn’t test for it. If I believed it didn’t affect speed then it was all right to sell Dozen Roses to the Ostermeyers. If I thought he wouldn’t have got the race at York without help, then it wasn’t all right.

  Saxony Franklin needed the Ostermeyers’ money.

  The worst result would be that, if I banked the money and Dozen Roses never won again and Martha and Harley ever found out I knew the horse had been given cocaine, I could say goodbye to any future Gold Cups or Grand Nationals on Datepalm. They wouldn’t forgive the unforgivable.

  Dozen Roses had seemed to me to run gamely at York and to battle to the end. I was no longer sure. I wondered now if he’d won all his four races spaced out, as the orthopedist would have described it; as high as a kite.

  At the best, if I simply kept quiet, banked the money and rode Dozen Roses to a couple of respectable victories, no one would ever know. Or I could inform the Ostermeyers privately, which would upset them.

  There would be precious little point in proving to the world that Dozen Roses had been given cocaine (and of course I could do it by calling for a further analysis of the urine sample taken by the officials at York) because if cocaine weren’t a specifically banned substance, neither was it a normal nutrient. Nothing that was not a normal nutrient was supposed to be given to thoroughbreds racing in Britain.

  If I disclosed the cocaine, would Dozen Roses be disqualified for his win at York? If he were, would Nicholas Loder lose his license to train?

  If I caused so much trouble, I would be finished in racing. Whistle-blowers were regularly fired from their jobs.

  My advice to myself seemed to be, take the money, keep quiet, hope for the best.

  Coward, I thought. Maybe stupid as well.

  My thoughts made me sweat.

  19

  June, her hands full of pretty pink beads from the stockroom, said, “What do we do about more rhodochrosite? We’re running out and the suppliers in Hong Kong aren’t reliable anymore. I was reading in a trade magazine that a man in Germany has some of good quality. What do you think?”

  “What would Greville have done?” I asked.

  Annette said regretfully, “He’d have gone to Germany to see. He’d never start buying from a new source without knowing who he was trading with.”

  I said to June, “Make an appointment, say who we are, and book an airline ticket.”

  They both simultaneously said, “But ...” and stopped.

  I said mildly, “You never know whether a horse is going to be a winner until you race it. June’s going down to the starting gate.”

  June blushed and went away. Annette shook her head doubtfully.

  “I wouldn’t know rhodochrosite from granite,” I said. “June does. She knows its price, knows what sells. I’ll trust that knowledge until she proves me wrong.”

  “She’s too young to make decisions,” Annette objected.

  “Decisions are easier when you’re young.”

  Isn’t that the truth, I thought wryly, rehearing my own words. At June’s age I’d been full of certainties. At June’s age, what would I have done about cocaine-positive urine tests? I didn’t know. Impossible to go back.

  I said I would be off for the day and would see them all in the morning. Dilemmas could be shelved, I thought. The evening was Clarissa’s.

  Brad, I saw, down in the yard, had been reading the Racing Post, which had the same photograph as the Daily Sensation. He pointed to the picture when I eased in beside him, and I nodded.

  “That’s your head,” he said.

  “mum.”

  “Bloody hell,” he said.

  I smiled. “It seems a long time ago.”

  He drove to Greville’s house an
d came in with me while I went upstairs and put the baster tube into an envelope and then into a Jiffy bag brought from the office for the purpose and addressed it to Phil Urquhart.

  To Brad, downstairs again, I said, “The Euro-Securo couriers’ main office is in Oxford Street not very far from the Selfridge Hotel. This is the actual address....” I gave it to him. “Do you think you can find it?”

  “Yerss.” He was again affronted.

  “I phoned them from the office. They’re expecting this. You don’t need to pay, they’re sending the bill. Just get a receipt. OK?”

  “Yerss.”

  “Then pick up my friend from the Selfridge Hotel and bring her here. She’ll phone for you, so leave it switched on.”

  “Yerss.”

  “Then go on home, if you like.”

  He gave me a glowering look but all he said was, “Same time tomorrow?”

  “If you’re not bored.”

  He gave me a totally unexpected grin. Unnerving, almost, to see that gloom-ridden face break up.

  “Best time o’ my life,” he said, and departed, leaving me literally gasping.

  In bemusement, I went along to the little sitting room and tidied up a bit more of the mess. If Brad enjoyed waiting for hours reading improbable magazines it was all right by me, but I no longer felt in imminent danger of assault or death, and I could drive my car myself if I cared to, and Brad’s days as bodyguard/chauffeur were numbered. He must realize it, I thought: he’d clung on to the job several times.

  By that Wednesday evening there was rapid improvement also in the ankle. Bones, as I understood it, always grew new soft tissue at the site of a fracture, as if to stick the pieces together with glue. After eight or nine days, the soft tissue began to harden, the bone getting progressively stronger from then on, and it was in that phase that I’d by then arrived. I laid one of the crutches aside in the sitting room and used the other like a walking stick, and put my left toe down to the carpet for balance if not to bear my full weight.

  Distalgesic, I decided, was a thing of the past. I’d drink wine for dinner with Clarissa.