by A. P. McCoy
‘You know exactly what I mean.’
‘I’m sure I don’t.’
‘I mean his Thursday-night number. He told me you had it, in case I ever needed it in emergencies.’
‘Really? I’m sure he didn’t . . . I mean, if he did, I must have forgotten it. Or if he did—’
‘Forget it, you shit.’ Christie hung up.
‘JUST CALL THE TART!’ Osborne screamed when Cadogan had finished.
Of course when Cadogan called Sanderson’s mistress, she had nothing to offer. She’d woken up with Sandy, heard him pottering about making breakfast and heard him leaving the cottage. She’d even heard the Porsche leave the driveway before she’d turned over and gone back to sleep.
No, he hadn’t said anything about going anywhere other than Cheltenham.
No, he hadn’t said anything unusual at all. Where was Sandy right now? she wanted to know.
As did a lot of people.
There was half an hour to go before the Triumph Hurdle. Cadogan and Osborne discussed the matter with the stewards, who were prepared to allow Tim McPhee, one of Osborne’s team, to take Sanderson’s place at the last minute. Nothing needed to be said until the Gold Cup came around, by which time Sanderson might have shown his face.
Duncan only had one ride on Gold Cup day, and that was in the first race. He would have been up against Sanderson, and he was on Lemontree, the horse he’d ridden so well against the Monk a while back. With the news that Sanderson was no longer riding, the odds changed and Lemontree became the favourite.
Petie, though he’d already had a great Festival, was jumpy and mad keen for Lemontree. ‘Where the hell is Roisin? This is her horse, after all.’
‘I’m here, Daddy, standing right behind you, if you’ll only stop working up a sweat.’
‘George, get Duncan up, will you? I don’t know what the matter is with you all this morning. You’re never where I want you. You’re at sixes and sevens.’
‘We’re all right,’ George growled. ‘This is our race.’
‘Get yourself down to the start,’ Petie said a little sharply, ‘and look like you’re ready to ride.’
Duncan said nothing. Maybe after all this time he was managing to curb his lip. He trotted Lemontree off to the start.
At the barn, Sandy Sanderson was beginning to wonder if he’d been abandoned. The three hooded figures seemed to go out, then come back in, then go out again. He’d heard the door creak open another time but wasn’t certain whether there was anyone there.
‘Hello,’ he croaked from behind his gag.
There was no answer.
‘Hello.’
He strained to listen. There was no sound. Then came a slight rustling across the floor. He thought maybe they’d left him and that he could hear a rat moving in the barn. He pulled at his bindings but it was hopeless. Then out of nowhere he felt a piece of straw pushed in his ear.
He roared.
‘What’s the matter with ye, ye wee shite?’ said a voice. He recognised it as the cheerful one.
‘Water,’ said Sanderson. ‘A drink.’
He felt the gag being unbound and a water bottle was put to his lips. He drank and some of the water spilled down his front.
‘Don’t waste it now; that’s all there is.’
‘Where are the others?’ Sanderson said.
‘Others?’
‘There were three of you.’
‘Oh, they’re up at the house.’
‘House?’
‘Yes, up at the big house. Talking with the big boss about what to do with you.’
‘What to do with me?’
‘Yes. They’re discussing it now. With the big boss.’
‘Why me?’ Sanderson pleaded. ‘What the hell has all this got to do with me?’
‘Oh, that’s because of allegations.’
‘Allegations?’
‘Yes. Hints and allegations. And implications. And suggestions. And assertions.’
‘I don’t know what that means!’
‘Sure you do. Making hints. About certain organisations.’
‘Has this got something to do with Claymore?’
‘Who?’
‘Duncan Claymore?’
‘There you go again. I wouldn’t be making any more implications and suggestions and allegations if you know what’s good for you.’
‘I meant nothing by it.’
‘Who is Duncan Claymore?’
‘No one. Nothing. Listen to me. I should talk to your boss.’
‘Oh, why is that now?’
‘I can tell you how to make some money. Either for yourselves or your organisation.’
‘Organisation? Are you saying we’re part of an organisation now, is it?’
‘No no no, that’s not what I meant!’
‘Sounds to me that’s what you meant. What organisation would that be?’
‘No, I don’t know anything about that. I’m sorry I said it. Listen, you can make some money.’
‘How would I do that?’
‘Do you know what a lay bet is?’
‘Of course I know what a lay bet is. D’ye think I’m fuckin’ well thick because I’m Irish? Is that it?’
‘No no no. Please listen. Listen to me.’ Sanderson was almost in tears. ‘You don’t have to hurt me. You could make yourself some good money. Today.’
Duncan caused a slight delay in the off as he got Lemontree to take a last look at the hurdle. The starter circled them and they were off. The Cheltenham roar went up and it was spine-tingling. The opening pace was very fast. Duncan had to nudge Lemontree not to get caught napping. The horse in front took up a two-length lead with the second out wide.
Duncan told himself to be patient; to hang in tight at about third place.
Lemontree jumped nicely, making a little ground at each hurdle but there were still plenty of runners in with a chance. No one slacking. There was still danger on the rail, and it was such a fast race it surely was going to be a test of stamina in the end. The Osborne horse was in front and extended his lead three out. Lemontree leapt like a salmon and at two out the leader began to tire. Have you got it? Duncan asked Lemontree, and the beautiful animal responded by stretching his neck out, and cruising into the lead.
The answer was yes. Duncan felt the thrilling knock of blood in the brain, the surge of adrenalin that always came when he knew victory was possible. The stamina of the creature was astonishing. But it wasn’t over yet. He saw a flash of the Osborne silk over his shoulder, and on the other side a third horse was making a late rally, steaming up behind him. The final hurdle seemed to come up at him with great speed.
The last jump was an exhibition in itself, heart-winning to the crowd. Duncan didn’t even feel the horse touch down. The Osborne horse lost a whole length and he had only the third horse to battle back at the finish. With the crowd roaring him on, Lemontree found another gear. The third horse tired. They romped home with plenty to spare and Duncan not only knew he’d won the Triumph Hurdle, but also that Petie had found himself a horse that was going to be a trailblazer for the next few seasons.
After the hugs and the tears of joy and the weigh-in, Duncan went in search of Lorna. She threw her arms around him.
‘Listen,’ he said to her. ‘I hear Sandy Sanderson went missing. Mention it to your dad that I’m around and willing, will you?’
‘They’ve already settled on another jockey for the Gold Cup.’
‘I know that. I’m not interested in the Gold Cup. There are other races. Like the last one of the day.’
‘Would you jump in Sanderson’s grave as quick?’
‘Yes, if it had a set of stirrups. Just tell him I’m available, will you?’
Kerry wound up the Festival for the Quinn stables riding in the Grade 2 handicap hurdle, coming in a respectable third, but there was enough elation from the previous day to carry over. By then it was plain that there was no Sandy Sanderson for the Gold Cup either, and probably for the rest of the
day. By now it had just become a piece of added intrigue, a media talking point. It took nothing away from the breathtaking excitement of the Gold Cup race itself.
It was, after all, the race everyone had been waiting for, Champion Jockey or no Champion Jockey, its history studded with the legendary names of the racing world, including Arkle, and Golden Miller – who won it five times in a row in the 1930s. It was the pinnacle of jump racing.
And yet it was not the race that interested Duncan the most.
For all its glamour, Duncan was more focused on what was happening in the last race of the day. He watched the Gold Cup event itself along with Kerry and Petie and George and Roisin, but he had to fake his enthusiasm. True, he was very happy to see the grand prize won by the favourite, Canned Heat, from his old Penderton stables. It was one of Tommy’s, sure enough, and his jockey showed balls of steel. Canned Heat was produced to hit the front on the line itself. He was going to have to go and look Tommy in the eye and congratulate the Penderton team. But he still had more important things on his mind.
At last Duncan was sought out by Duke Cadogan. He asked him to meet out by the horse boxes. They found a quiet place.
‘Why all the cloak and dagger?’ Duncan wanted to know.
‘Osborne won’t have anything to do with you,’ Cadogan said smoothly, tipping forward his fedora, ‘but George Pleasance asked me to have a word with you.’
‘Oh?’
‘There might be a place for you on Ra-ho-tep in the last race.’
‘Only if you need me.’ Duncan managed to make it sound as if he didn’t mind whether he did or he didn’t.
Cadogan looked all round, to make sure no one was within earshot. ‘You have to understand this, Duncan. It’s not Ra-ho-tep’s day.’
Duncan blinked.
‘You got it?’
Duncan shrugged.
Cadogan’s eyes bulged wide. He leaned in to Duncan. ‘No, you have to be clear. Today is not Tep’s day.’
‘I get it.’
Cadogan stared at him for a long time. Finally he said, ‘I’ll tell the stewards.’
The Gold Cup had already been run when the figure returned to the barn and removed Sanderson’s blindfold. From behind his balaclava he said, ‘Mr Sanderson of this parish, I’ve done a bit of negotiating on your behalf with the big boss.’
‘I told you there’s big money in it—’
‘Shut it!’
‘Yes. Yes, sir.’
‘We’re going to let you off with your brains and your kneecaps intact if you can follow certain instructions.’
‘Just tell me what to do.’
‘You wait here till dusk. I’ll loosen your bonds. At dusk you slip out of the back of the barn. You can’t go before dusk because you can be seen from the big house, front and back. You can’t be caught; you won’t get a second chance, so don’t risk it. You make your way home. You make up a cock-and-bull story about how someone must have spiked your drink last night. Anything. Say anything. Something about a Chinese syndicate maybe. You know, the sort of thing you’d tell a priest.
‘More important, you don’t say anything about us. It’s clear you know who we are. If you make any references to any organisation, army, provisional, official or otherwise, or if you give any description of us, we’ll come back for you and blow your fucking head off. Now can I be any clearer than that, Mr Sanderson?’
‘No, that’s clear,’ said Sanderson.
‘It’s your lucky day, Mr Sanderson.’
‘Yes. Thank you, sir.’
‘I’ll just loosen your ropes now and I’ll be going back up to the big house. You keep your head down. Like I told you.’
‘Yes, yes.’
Sanderson, grateful to have his arms and legs free, settled down to wait for dusk. He was almost too stiff to move, so he lay back on the old straw. He strained his ears for signs of activity from the house, terrified that someone up there might have a change of mind. A bird settled on the roof of the barn. Beyond that he heard nothing.
After another couple of hours he thought he sensed a change in the light. He crawled towards the rotting wood of the barn wall, where he found a knothole to peer out of. All he could see was open fields. He got up and went to the back of the barn, but there seemed to be no way of escape there. He made a stealthy crawl to the front door. He looked up the overgrown and briar-tangled driveway but couldn’t see the big house.
Finally he inched his way around the front of the barn, careful not to be seen. Only then did he realise that there was no house, big or otherwise. The barn stood alone in acres of open countryside.
The last race of the day was something of a sideshow. Parties were taking place in the bars and in the owners’ bar, where champagne flowed and Buck’s Fizz spilled. New business contacts were already being made, friendships cemented and one or two choice remarks might already be cementing into feuds. The stewards were roundly lambasted, as they were every year, as know-nothing idiots. Duncan glimpsed, up there on the owners’ balcony, the lion-haired figure of George Pleasance, bottle of champagne in one hand and cigar in the other. His face, as ever, was wreathed in generous smiles
But while all that was happening, the Grand Annual Handicap Chase was still to be run. It was a Grade 3 race run over two miles and 110 yards, and for that at least the jockeys and the horses were still sober. It was an odd race in some ways, attracting both professional and amateur jockeys, and the last few years had seen riders come in at 40–1, 20–1 and 16–1. But to confuse the punters it was also a race that plenty of previous winners won. It was a course where form was essential, and Ra-ho-tep had won here previously at 3–1 and on the same heavy ground.
Petie came out to the paddock to wish him luck, even though it wasn’t his formality. Roisin was there too.
‘I don’t know where he goes before a race,’ Petie said to his daughter, ‘but he’s in a zone and you just can’t get there.’
‘Leave him to it, Daddy. In fifteen minutes it will be all over.’
Duncan was just about to mount when something made him look across the crowd. Many people were gazing at him, which was unsurprising since he was favourite to win the race. But there amongst them, leaning on the white-painted rail and gazing at him with a blank expression, was the Monk. What the hell was he doing there? Duncan was legged up into the saddle and walked Ra-ho-tep across to the rail. But the Monk was gone. He scanned the crowd looking for those piercing blue eyes, hard jaw and expressionless face. Maybe he had imagined it.
Trying to shake off the image, he cantered Ra-ho-tep down to the start, where he waited in his silks of scarlet with white star and red chevrons. He was the punters’ even-money favourite. If he could be said to be in the zone, he was absolutely there as his own man. But a huge knot of anxiety was swelling in his stomach. He was still the jockey of the unbroken beam of light. So far he had never willingly taken a fall.
There was a huge line-up. Twenty-eight riders, with late flashes of sunlight touching the silks and throwing shadows along the track. The horses were snorting and blowing with excitement. The sheer number of them had some of them on their toes, skittering, impatient for the off. Then the starter let them go.
They flew into action. Duncan felt Ra-ho-tep pulling at the bit and had to fight to hold him back. The opening pace was too fast. Every single jockey fancied a last-race winner and the whole field was closely bunched.
Two fell at the second fence. It was already a mêlée. Duncan had to steer Ra-ho-tep around the early casualties. It wasn’t until the open ditch that he began to creep forward.
Sometimes Duncan talked to the horses in order to coax himself. Stay calm, stay covered, stay focused. But it was hard for him to stay focused on this race. Many things ran through his head. There was his father’s face as he tried to explain over and over to Charlie what he was doing and why he had to be in the detested colours of Osborne and on Cadogan’s horse. There was Cadogan’s eyes bulging beneath the rim of his fedora as he impress
ed on him the importance of losing. There was George Pleasance’s complacent smile as he slipped into the warm pool in Marbella, and another image of the same man’s face should Duncan win on Ra-ho-tep. Maybe Duncan would be a dead man. But then there was the unreadable lined face of Aaron, the Monk, jockey of integrity. They were all at his shoulder as he eased Ra-ho-tep further up the pack.
Duncan’s broken rib had pained him all afternoon. Something in the gallop of Ra-ho-tep jarred him. He was finding it hard to get his full breath and he felt the horse pulling out of his control. He gritted his teeth and fought back.
He could tell that some of the early front-runners were already shot. As the pack thundered down the hill, it seemed there were lots still with a chance. Ra-ho-tep was still in the mix at three furlongs to go and a single jump. Then he saw Moonlight Serenade, second favourite, turn it on with some style, and it was right then that he knew he either let rip with Ra-ho-tep or took the easy way out, once and for all.
The two horses went together neck and neck up the hill and it seemed to go on for ever. The gradient and the heavy ground were taking their toll, trying to pull the horses back under the earth itself. Moonlight Serenade inched ahead. Duncan, trying to ignore the pain in his ribs, knew that he had to stay with him or it was all over. Part of him wanted it to be in the lap of the gods. He could ease the pain in his ribs. He could make George Pleasance happy. It would all be so easy. No one would ever know.
He was still a length behind Moonlight Serenade, Ra-ho-tep struggling in the heavy ground. He felt it all slipping away. But some instinct, some spark, or perhaps even a flash of pain in his ribs, made him raise his stick and lay it across the muscular flank of his horse. Ra-ho-tep quickened. He seemed to waken and pulled out of the mud, beat the hill and struck clear.
Had he left it too late? The two horses battled it out to the death. The finish line swept up at them. The noise of the crowd and the echoing tannoy was deafening.
Duncan Claymore on Ra-ho-tep won the finale of the Cheltenham Festival in high style.
21
‘All I did was steer him home,’ Duncan said to Mandy Gleeson as he trotted Ra-ho-tep into the winner’s enclosure. ‘He’s a great credit to his trainer.’