Taking the Fall

by A. P. McCoy

  Roisin had been working exclusively with Gypsy George to bring on a seven-year-old French grey she and George had bought amongst a bunch, called Drap D’Or. He wasn’t exactly a handsome thing, with a wall eye and a tendency to dish. But he had a will of iron and a habit of doing everything he was asked. Duncan, who’d already ridden the old track on day one, was on hand with advice about the going; Kerry had advice about everything; and Petie kept telling her not to risk anything, especially in the tiring stages. Finally George scared everyone into staying away from Roisin, who was a sound jockey in her own right and not in need of an overload of instructions.

  Drap D’Or was quite low down in the bookies’ rankings, with a starting price of twelves. It was an agonising race to watch. Twenty horses ran. Two fell and three more unseated their jockeys before the twelfth fence. Roisin patiently tracked the leaders but blundered at the twentieth fence, just recovering. She seemed to be outpaced and pushed back into third place after the third fence from home, but in this soul-sapping, arduous race with an uphill finish she rode hard, asking the wonderful and ugly Drap D’Or to find something. Drap D’Or answered, rallying on the flat to take a strong lead and make a glorious finish.

  The Quinn camp was ecstatic. Roisin, splattered in mud from head to toe, walked Drap D’Or into the winners’ enclosure talking into Mandy Gleeson’s microphone about what a great big old heart the horse had; but probably every TV viewer was thinking the same thing about this slip of an Irish lass, her face streaked with mud and her eyes flashing inside the outline of where her goggles had been.

  They all waited for Roisin to weigh in, Duncan hugging Petie, Kerry hugging Duncan and Gypsy George smiling but trying to ward off some of this excessive hugging. Then Mike Ruddy joined them, roaring his head off and shouting about how he was going to sign up Roisin and make her a household name.

  Mandy Gleeson meanwhile was calling over to Petie for an interview alongside the winning jockey. Petie did his normal disappearing act, indicating that Gypsy George was the real trainer. Mandy stuck a microphone in front of George and quickly found that his idea of handling the media was to fold his arms and scowl a lot. But luckily it was Roisin the camera wanted, and that day she was the belle of the ball.

  In the next race Kerry brought home a winner in the juvenile handicap hurdle. Two wins for a couple who seemed destined for the marital bed even before the Festival was over. In fact it began to look like such an event might even shape itself round the Festival.

  ‘And a little bird tells me that you and Roisin Quinn may be an item?’ Mandy Gleeson simpered into her microphone.

  ‘I don’t know where you’ve got such an idea!’ Kerry said, lifting his saddle off the winner. ‘And if you say any more, you’ll have her father to deal with.’

  ‘Speaking of Petie Quinn, can you help us get him down here? He seems a little camera shy.’

  ‘No, he loves the camera, he does. Look, there he is now just, shouldering through the crowds. Get him up here.’

  But of course they couldn’t.

  As if not to be outdone, Duncan won the very next race, the Spookair Festival Trophy Chase, also a Grade 1, on his old friend Wellbeing, the gorgeous but misshapen little horse with the heart of a lion that had been one of his earliest rides for Petie. Three in a row for the Quinn stables was almost too much to hope for.

  Duncan was pumped by the roar of the crowd as he streaked through to win by three clear lengths with plenty in hand. The smell of victory was in his nostrils now, and it was as if he’d suddenly remembered his entire reason for being there. From that moment on all he could think about was the next race; and then he would be thinking about the next race after that; and then the next.

  The feature race of the day was the Sparkbet Stayers Hurdle. Three miles. This time around Duncan would have another chance to ride the brave-hearted The Buckler, up against Sanderson on the fancied A La Mode, a French gelding that had won all of his last four outings. But of course Petie hadn’t managed to keep The Buckler’s form a secret either, and Petie’s fine liver chestnut gelding had attracted serious money from the punters and was 3–1.

  Down at the start Duncan looked over at Sanderson, not as a mark of respect or recognition, but just to be sure of where he sat in the pack.

  Then they were off, at a ridiculously sedate pace as no one wanted to go out in front. For a while it was like an afternoon hack for elderly country gentlemen. Someone had to jump in front at the first and Duncan made sure it wasn’t him. In fact he positioned himself at the rear. It was going to be a long slog in the mud, this three-miler, and there was no home for burnouts.

  The Buckler was showing a little frustration at being held way back, but Duncan felt the heavy ground was going to test his stamina so he kept him well covered up. He had a suspicion that the field would thin just after the top of the hill. Someone up ahead had jumped into a three-length lead at the sixth, which would give them a moment of glory for the cameras, but for a race like this they were already spent. They were all still well bunched over the eighth, heavy traffic. Then a little daylight began to appear. Duncan squeezed up. Sanderson, no less crafty, was just ahead of him. But then suddenly at that hurdle there were fallers! Two down. Jockeys sprawling, horses’ legs flailing. Duncan cleared the hurdle and swerved to avoid the mêlée, though the beautifully well-balanced The Buckler hardly seemed fazed.

  Duncan giggled in the saddle. He had no idea where that giggle came from. The tremor of his laugh transmitted through the horse. The Buckler’s ears pricked forward. He was enjoying this as much as Duncan was! The horse that had jumped out to the front was already tiring. It fell away like a rag in the wind as The Buckler surged on. Now it was only him and Sanderson out in front.

  Duncan noticed that A La Mode had a slight drift to the left at every jump. Not that the drift lost any ground for the class horse, but Duncan thought he could use it. Make it pay. There was no way Sanderson was going to use any of his old tricks on him this time around.

  He hit the pedals on The Buckler and took Sanderson on his right at the jump, preventing the other jockey from coming anywhere near him. They landed neck and neck. Sanderson scowled across through his goggles. He was having to urge every last ounce out of his horse. The stick was coming down hard, whereas Duncan knew that The Buckler had more. The Buckler pinged the last hurdle gaining such an advantage that the Cheltenham crowd roared to the heavens.

  A La Mode pressed hard in the run-up to the finishing post. In the last few strides he looked to have caught Duncan. But he just didn’t have enough. The Buckler was home and dry, with the crowd roaring in his ears. It was the sweetest of victories. Vindication. As far as Duncan was concerned, it didn’t matter what happened for the rest of the Festival.

  With the cheers still ringing out, Mandy Gleeson wanted to interview him. He paid tribute to his team and to the wonderful horse and he even said generous things about the way Sandy Sanderson had ridden the race, which he knew would stick right in the older jockey’s craw.

  He got off the horse and sent Gypsy George to drag Petie Quinn forcibly in front of the cameras. Quinn arrived rubbing his hands nervously and looking over his shoulder. ‘Here’s your man,’ Duncan said. ‘Everything is down to this wonderful man. Everything. And you’ll be hearing a lot more of him, too.’

  Petie looked like they’d already heard too much about him.

  ‘Petie!’ said Mandy Gleeson. ‘You’re a hard man to track down! Now I’ve got you, I’m not letting you go. You’ve burst on to the scene here at Cheltenham: Duncan here has just won the impressive World Hurdle; you’re winning everything today and your daughter Roisin won the lady jockeys’ race. Can it get any better?’

  ‘Well, you know,’ Petie said.

  ‘A great Champion Chase Day showing for you, Petie.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Very nice.’

  Gleeson was a pro. ‘But it’s not like you’re an overnight success. You’ve been in the game a while.’

  ‘Yes. For
a while.’

  ‘So what was the best? Seeing The Buckler take this race, or seeing your daughter win?’

  Petie put a finger in his ear as if there was a bit of loose wax rattling around. ‘Both worth celebrating.’

  She also knew when to back out. ‘Well, congratulations to you and your team, Petie, and we’ll let you go and celebrate.’ She turned back to the camera. ‘I’m sure that the name of Petie Quinn is going to turn up again and again at Cheltenham. We still have more races to come, and of course, the climax of tomorrow’s Gold Cup.’

  Mandy Gleeson pulled Duncan aside some time after the day’s races. ‘I’ve got something to tell you. One of our journalists on the team has been in George Pleasance’s pocket.’

  ‘What?’ Duncan said. ‘How long?’

  ‘Nearly a year. No wonder he’s been one jump ahead of anything we could get on him.’

  Duncan made a quick calculation about whether this would affect him and anything he might have told Mandy.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, reading his mind. ‘Anything you might have said to me never went any further.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘We’ve only just found out. We’re trying to think how we might use it to our advantage.’

  ‘Good. Do you think you can keep it like that for another few days?’

  ‘What’s in your mind?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  That same evening, a rather distinguished-looking Chinese gentleman with a permanent smile entered the Ritz. He had just a few thin strands of black hair combed back across his head. His glasses had unusually thick lenses. He seemed to be enjoying a special air of privilege: perhaps it was the company of the extremely nubile young lady, around half his age, on his arm. They dined in lavish style in the restaurant. They ate foie gras and drank champagne.

  At about nine o clock in the evening they finished their dinner and took the lift up to a room.

  Mandy Gleeson, sitting in the lounge and to all intents reading a newspaper, was able to observe this gentleman and his companion. She was also able to establish, without too much difficulty, that his dinner and accommodation for the evening had been placed on the account of Duke Cadogan.

  20

  Sandy Sanderson whistled as he let himself out of his lover’s cottage that Gold Cup morning. It was seven thirty and the day was beautiful. A golden sunlight was breaking through the mist. What was there not to like about the world? He’d left Jeannie sleeping and happy in the cottage that he owned; had his usual race-day breakfast of coffee and one thin slice of toast spread with honey; he was about to get into his sleek black Porsche parked discreetly at the rear of the property. And more than all of this it was Gold Cup day!

  Life didn’t get better than this.

  He’d had nine years as Champion Jockey, and if he swept up a couple of end-of-season races, this would be his tenth. Undisputed champion. He’d taken five more winners at this festival alone, and today he was pretty certain of winning the Gold Cup itself. The challenge was there, of course; it was always there. But he knew he was riding the top horse of the hour for Osborne and Cadogan, and all he had to do was steer her home. There was that detail to take care of in the last race, on Ra-ho-tep, but that was nothing new; and anyway it was the kind of detail that had brought him the Porsche, the cottage hideaway in the Wiltshire hills and the sweet young thing snoozing blissfully upstairs.

  The Cheltenham Festival was the time when he felt most alive, confident that no other jockey could touch him.

  As he dropped the latch on the cottage door and turned to cross the gravel driveway to where his Porsche lurked in the shadows, something made him draw up short. Something unfamiliar. Something not quite right.

  It was a scent on the morning air. Just a tiny whiff. It made him stop.

  He couldn’t quite place the smell. He made his way across the driveway, crunching the gravel as he went. As he reached for the driver’s door, three black-clad figures, all wearing balaclavas, seemed to unfold themselves from the shadows of the black Porsche. Sanderson very nearly shat himself.

  Two of the three held small handguns levelled at him.

  ‘Top o’ the morning to you, Mr Sanderson,’ said one of the figures in a strong Irish brogue.

  Sanderson went to stammer a reply. ‘Say nothing,’ said a second Irish voice, gruff and unfriendly. ‘Get into the back of the car.’

  ‘What can . . .’ Sanderson began

  The gruff figure waved his gun. ‘If you want to get out with your kneecaps intact, you’ll shut your mouth. That’s the last I want to hear from you. Nod if you understand.’

  Sanderson nodded.

  ‘Take his keys,’ said the gruff voice.

  The third figure relieved him of his Porsche keys, and the keys to the house, and opened up the car. Sanderson walked stiffly to the vehicle and made to get into the passenger seat.

  The figure with the more cheerful voice waved his gun. ‘Oh no. It’s the boot for you, laddie.’ Sanderson scowled as the boot was opened. He climbed in. ‘Just as well you’re a wee jockey. Not much room else. Now settle down, ’cos we’re going for a wee fun drive.’

  The boot was closed over Sanderson’s head.

  When the boot was opened again, he shouted, ‘I need to piss!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve taken a pee pill.’

  ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘Please!’

  Sanderson realised he was in some sort of a barn. He thought he could smell cattle, and maybe sheep too, but there was no sign of any livestock. The barn was cobwebby and it looked like it hadn’t been used for farming in a few years, though it still had all the trappings: grain feeders, hay bales, pitchforks, rat traps hanging on hooks. He had a bad feeling. He thought maybe he was about to be tortured. He looked up into the rafters of the barn. An old-style bicycle complete with pannier basket was suspended there, its shape plumped with black cobwebs.

  He’d been disoriented by the drive. In the darkness of the boot he’d tried to identify any familiar sounds in case it would be useful for telling the police later. Now he had a nasty feeling that there might not be any later.

  He was roughly pulled out of the boot by the three figures in balaclavas, who worked in silence. First they let him take a piss in the straw. When he’d finished, they blindfolded him, and tied his arms behind his back. Then they gagged him. After that they pulled off his shoes and socks and tied his ankles together. There was a dragging noise.

  ‘Is it money you are after?’ he shouted through his gag.

  ‘Can’t hear you wit’ that gag on ye,’ said the cheerful one.

  He was pushed backwards and chopped at the back of the knees so that he fell into a chair. He was left there for some time and he thought perhaps the three had gone out of the barn. But after a while he heard them arguing in hushed tones.

  ‘I say we just blow his fuckin’ head off and dump his body up the lane.’

  ‘No,’ said the gruff voice. ‘We stick with the plan. Blow his kneecaps off. That was the agreement.’

  ‘He got a look at you when you put him in the boot. Your mask slipped and now he’s seen your face. He’s a dead man.’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone!’ Sanderson screamed, muffled through his gag. ‘Nothing! I swear to you!’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked one of the men.

  As the first of the six races of day three of the Cheltenham Festival got closer, the rumour swept the racing fraternity that Sandy Sanderson had failed to turn up. It seemed unthinkable: Gold Cup day and no sign of the Champion Jockey. So far the news hadn’t got out to the punters, but because everyone behind the scenes had already been told, it was only a matter of moments before the information leaked out.

  There were a lot of croaky voices around after winners and happy owners and trainers had spent the night lashed to the bar, and so there were a lot of jokes about how Sandy Sanderson had been unable to find his way home; or about h
ow he’d slept in a ditch; or about how he’d been ensnared by one of the cigarette-promotions models or the Guinness girls. Jokes became rumours and rumours became stories. Maybe with this or that jockey the stories might have been credible, too, but not with Sanderson. Whatever he was, he was a pro through and through. He never failed to turn up.

  He was scheduled for three races on the last day, and the first race of the day – the Triumph Hurdle – was one of them. Of course everyone knew that his big race was the fourth, the Gold Cup itself. The fact that he was running in the Grade 3 curtain-closer was seen as a signature farewell to the Festival rather than a major race for him, a little flourish and a swish of the tail. In the same way the opening race was his calling card, an announcement of his intention for the Gold Cup. But right then he looked like weighing in for none of them.

  Cadogan was in the stewards’ office with Osborne, where he’d been allowed access to the telephone to make some calls. The two of them had had a discussion about whether they should first call Christie, knowing perfectly well that Sanderson would have been with his mistress in Wiltshire.

  ‘Just call the tart!’ Osborne had said.

  ‘But I won’t be able to tell Christie I called her first!’ Cadogan complained.

  ‘All right, call Christie first, but get off the blower damned quick and then call his tart.’

  Cadogan went through the motions of speaking to Christie, who knew perfectly well that Cadogan was fully informed about Sandy’s Thursday-night arrangements. She was cool, icy even, but no, she had no idea where the Champion Jockey might be.

  Cadogan was about to hang up, but then Christie cut up rough. ‘Surely,’ she said, ‘you have his number.’

  ‘Number? This is his number, Christie.’