‘No! I mean, I can drive, thank you.’ She shook her head and pretended to laugh at herself. ‘Look at me. You don’t want to be around me in a crisis.’
‘Okay. Well, drive safely. Whatever the problem is, I’m sure your father is capable of handling it until you get there.’
With a hand on her back, he led her to the front door where he stopped and looked at Ginny again with worried grey eyes.
‘You sure you’re going to be okay?’
Ginny managed a smile. He was being so kind. How could he possibly be mixed up in anything dodgy? It was probably her and Sally G’s crazy imaginations getting caught up in their own whirlwind.
‘I’m sure.’ She leaned up and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry to cancel like this.’
Ginny pulled up in the Ravenhill Stables car park and hurried into the yard. Snapping on the overhead light into the office she headed straight to the cabinet which homed all the recordings of the horses’ races. Tracing a trembling finger along the alphabetically sorted cases, she whipped out Kenya’s Newmarket race from a couple of weeks ago. She fumbled with the remote control to turn on the TV and recorder. She leant against the office desk, gripping the edges with her hands, and watched her horse’s performance on the wall-mounted screen. An iron clasp of fear steadily fastened around her stomach as the recording showed quite plainly in the head-on shot that there had been plenty of room for Damien to ride Kenya between the inside rail and the horse in front of her. He hadn’t needed to wait for Razor Sharpe to move on Samurai Prince on his outside in order to make his challenge. He’d stopped Kenya. He’d stopped the short-priced favourite. The gap was there all along.
Ginny swallowed with difficulty and slithered into a chair, her legs losing all feeling. She took a deep breath, trying to settle with this new revelation, and replayed the race.
Maybe she was jumping the gun a bit here, she thought, grasping at straws. Damien wasn’t the best jockey she’d ever come across. He might honestly have thought the gap wasn’t big enough to squeeze through. She had to find out more before she started pointing fingers. Besides, it was Julien Larocque who had supposedly tipped her off. Why would he want to help her? They did nothing but fight. Why should he care about her if her jockey was fixing races?
Despite her best efforts to clear Mark of any suspicion, a cold memory wormed back into her head. The text message from Damien the night she and Mark had gone to the theatre and Mark’s furious reaction to it. Hadn’t Damien been riding Mark’s horse to victory that night at Lingfield? And his phone call the next morning? He’d been talking about a lot of money, and fair enough, it could’ve been about his work but it could also have been about his horse, Symbolic Band.
She let her head fall back to stare up at the stained ceiling, feeling tears well at the corners of her eyes.
‘No, Mark,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t have done this.’
She had to know, but how could she confront Mark and ask if he was fixing races? The thought made her feel sick. Firstly, he was hardly going to admit it if he was guilty, and if he wasn’t – well, where would that leave them? The fact that she hadn’t trusted him would surely ruin their relationship. The lump in her throat swelled and she gulped her tears down. She had to speak to him. Not to confront him but to see if she could glean some sense from this web of suspicion. There might be a completely reasonable explanation amongst this whole mess.
Taking a deep breath, Ginny decided she would invite him round for dinner at Sally G’s. With this resolution made, the hollow feeling in her stomach tightened as she considered the risks involved. She could almost hear her spirits squelching in her shoes as she crossed the room to switch off the television and locked the door behind her.
Feeling too shaky to drive and in need of some fresh air, Ginny decided to walk back to Sally G’s. She paused in front of Julien’s driveway, her gaze drawn to the lantern illuminating his front door in the fading light and wondered who it was that she should trust: Mark or Julien? One of them was being dishonest, but which one? She couldn’t imagine Julien as being a white knight whereas Mark suited that fantasy perfectly. Yet the evidence so far showed just the opposite.
Was that all he was, she asked herself? Was he really just a fantasy? Standing there, she suddenly remembered that one moment of intimacy she and Julien had shared at the Charity Ball. He had been about to say something to her at the end of their dance but had stopped. If he had been about to tell her that Mark was fixing races, he would have had no reason to want to deceive her. For a moment they had been in tune with one another and not arguing. She could understand if they had been fighting that he might lie and falsely accuse Mark, but the fact that they weren’t made Ginny admit to herself that there might have been some grounds to it. And the comment he had made after Royal Ascot about the wolves outside?
She mentally gave herself a slap across the back of the head. How dense could she possibly be? An ape could have picked up on his hints, they were so heavy. With a frustrated sigh, she walked on home.
Chapter 21
Ginny tried to postpone her task of asking Mark round for a meal and it was only when he rang a couple of days later to see if the “problem at the yard” had been resolved that she issued the invitation.
‘This week?’
‘Well, yes. That’s what I was hoping, anyway.’ She curled and uncurled the telephone cord around her forefinger as she waited for his reply.
‘Ginny, I’d love to, you know I would, but I’m flat out at the moment.’
‘Oh, okay,’ Ginny said, not sure whether to be relieved or not.
‘Look, I’ve got to go up to Sheffield tomorrow for a few days. Why don’t I stop by and take you for a quick bite for lunch before I go?’
‘Okay,’ Ginny said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘That sounds good. What time?’
‘Twelve at the latest. Sorry, it’ll be an early lunch.’
‘No, no, I don’t mind,’ Ginny assured him. ‘Where shall we go? The pub?’
‘I think so,’ Mark said, sounding resigned. He obviously wasn’t a pub dinner sort of person. ‘The Horse & Crow is apparently quite good.’
‘Great!’ she replied, with an attempt at enthusiasm. ‘I’ll meet you there?’
‘Okay, twelve at The Horse & Crow. See you tomorrow.’
Ginny put the phone down, letting out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding in. Her heart thudded in her ears as she realised her plan was about to commence. A restaurant wasn’t ideal since she didn’t want a public scene but if they were there early, there might not be very many diners.
Mark’s sea-green Jaguar was already in residence late the next morning when Ginny crunched into The Horse & Crow’s gravelled car park. She hurried out of her car and across towards the square red-brick building. Mark was talking to the girl behind the bar and they both looked up as the door closed behind Ginny.
‘Ah, Ginny,’ Mark welcomed her. Putting his glass of orange juice down, he took her hands and kissed her lightly on her lips. ‘How are you?’
Nervous as hell, Ginny felt like saying.
‘Good, thanks. You?’
‘All the better for seeing you. Shall we get a table?’
With relief, Ginny saw there was only one other couple seated in the restaurant area, and then made a mental effort to appear normal.
‘How are things at the yard? All crises dealt with?’ Mark asked as they took their seats.
Ginny dismissed the suggestion with a bat of her hand.
‘One of Dad’s favourites got colic. He might have overreacted a bit when he called.’ Ginny prayed Jim would forgive her for using him in her lie.
‘Not Kenya, then?’ Mark grinned.
‘No,’ Ginny said with a reassuring smile. ‘Not Kenya, you’ll be relieved to hear. She’s really bounced out of her last race. A couple of weeks and she’ll be ready for her next start.’ Ginny waited for Mark’s reaction.
‘That’s great news.’ He held up his
menu, grinding Ginny’s probing to a halt. ‘What are you going to have?’
Ginny chose the first thing she saw.
‘Battered calamari, I think.’
‘And to drink?’
She felt ready for a double vodka to make her less jumpy but it was much too early and she wanted all her senses about her.
‘A Coke, please.’
‘Right.’ He made eye contact with the waitress hovering in the corner of the room, beckoning her over. ‘One calamari rings and a chicken and bacon salad. And a Coke and another orange juice, please.’
Their food arrived in record time, and Ginny noticed the frown that crossed Mark’s forehead and she knew he was considering whether or not they had just reheated ready-prepared meals in the microwave. In spite of her nerves, the thought made Ginny smile. As much as she felt out of place in formal restaurants, he seemed to feel the same way in small local pubs.
Microwave-heated or not, Ginny’s food was delicious, perfectly-timed so that the calamari was cooked through but not rubbery.
‘So, anyway,’ Ginny began again, in between mouthfuls. ‘I was thinking we could look at some more Listed races for Kenya.’
‘Hmm,’ Mark moved his head in an undecided gesture. ‘I don’t know. She only just won. It might have taken more out of her than you think. Maybe we should give her a break first before racing her again.’
‘She’ll more than likely go off the boil if we rested her now.’
‘Then we’ll just enter her in a lower class race.’
Ginny chewed, her thoughts whirring. Enter a Listed winner in a race below her own standard? She would surely start favourite. But if they took her off the boil first, there was a fair chance she wouldn’t win. She decided not to argue.
‘Did you have any money on her when she won?’ Ginny tried to keep her tone as casual as possible but couldn’t meet his eye. Instead, she focussed on scooping some tartare sauce onto a calamari ring.
‘A little,’ Mark replied without a flicker of hesitation. ‘Not as much as when she lost, admittedly. But enough to buy some champagne to celebrate.’
Expensive champagne, Ginny thought. If her suspicions were correct, then he would have won a small fortune.
She tried in vain to think of something else to say that wouldn’t draw any misgivings to her line of conversation but which could help her fathom the situation. Her mind was blank. The paranoia that Mark might know what she was thinking stopped her from saying anything more on the subject.
‘So, Sheffield, hey?’ she said at last.
‘Yes.’ Mark paused to finish crunching on a lettuce leaf. ‘There’s a company up there which might be a good investment.’
‘Hope so. How long is it going to take you to get up there?’
‘If we leave here before one, then I’ll probably get there in time to catch the five o’clock traffic.’
Ginny dropped her knife as she was struck with the habitual genuine regard for Mark’s well-being.
‘Oh dear, if you weren’t stopping for lunch you’d miss the traffic.’
‘I would have had to stop for lunch at some point,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘What better place than here?’
She took comfort in his reassuring smile and nodded.
‘You can’t beat The Horse & Crow.’
‘No, you’d probably have the RSPCA on your back if you did.’
Ginny frowned as she dabbed her mouth with a starched green napkin.
‘What?’
‘The horse –’ Mark shook his head with an amused smile. ‘Don’t worry.’
All too soon, they had finished their lunch and Ginny despaired. She needed more time. In a panic she suggested,
‘Dessert?’
Mark chuckled.
‘Are you serious? Dessert at lunchtime? If that’s what you do every day I don’t know how you manage to keep such a beautiful figure.’ He took his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket and looked at the time. ‘I’ve also got to get a move-on. It’s getting a bit late.’
Ginny saw her chance slipping away and she smiled to cover up her disappointment.
‘Of course, sorry. I should have thought.’
‘No, don’t worry. I’ll just go pay.’
Ginny looked at the phone lying on the table as Mark walked over to the other side of the bar to pay. With her heart hammering, she tried to decide whether she had enough time to look at his text messages. It had been over two weeks since their evening in London, but there was still a chance that the one he had received from Damien might still be on it. That message would surely throw some light on her dilemma. She followed him with anxious eyes as he strolled across the restaurant and behind the central brick pillars which separated it from the bar. Still watching him, she snatched up his phone. It was one of those complicated ones that didn’t tell you where the menu was. Throwing him a swift look, she could hear Mark talking to the barmaid again. The animated envelope on the phone’s screen opened and Ginny hastily scrolled down the messages to those of that Saturday night. It was still there. She found Damien’s message and with her pulse thundering, she opened it. She heard Mark winding down his conversation with the barmaid, thanking her for the meal and Ginny grimaced as she waited for the message to open.
cbl
Sent by Damien. 19:04
Hearing Mark’s ever-nearing footsteps on the hard stone floor, she didn’t even allow herself to think what this meant. She cleared the screen and put it back on the table just as Mark appeared from behind the pillars. Giving him an over-bright smile and hoping she didn’t look as guilty as she felt, Ginny saw out of the corner of her eye, the light on the screen was still ablaze. Mark stopped at the table and gave her a curious look. She hoped he hadn’t seen his lit-up phone.
‘Everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Fine, yes,’ she enthused. ‘Thank you for a lovely lunch.’
‘Pleasure. Shall we head?’
‘Yes, let’s.’
Cbl. Ginny threaded the three letters through her mind as she pulled out of the car park. So simply put, but it made bugger all sense to her right then. She needed Sally G to solve her riddles. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, wracking her brain for the translation, as she drove back towards Newmarket.
‘Come on, think!’ she scolded herself. ‘CBL. What’s that in text language? Call Back Later?’
Possibly, but it wouldn’t have explained Mark’s reaction. Ginny tried to think of other similarities but none came to mind. ‘Damien, you bastard, what does it stand for?’
Almost crying with frustration, Ginny pulled into Ravenhill’s driveway still no nearer to cracking the code. The yard was deserted of people and only snorts from its equine inhabitants interrupted the eerie calm. She wandered over to Kenya’s stable where the filly had her head over the door and her ears pricked towards her trainer. Ginny stroked her neck and looked up at the horse’s deep brown inquisitive eyes.
‘Help me out, girl,’ she said, her voice tinged with desperation. ‘What is CBL? Is it someone’s initials? Is it a place?’ A new thread of possibilities sparked in her mind and Ginny inadvertently tightened her grip on Kenya’s mane. The whole text was in lower case. Maybe it wasn’t CBL, maybe it was CB1? ‘A postcode? Cambridge city centre?’
Mark had claimed the text was about work. Perhaps he had asked Damien at some earlier stage the address of some company in Cambridge? Ginny had to admit CB1 was a bit vague. And what was Damien doing messaging Mark when he should have been riding? Jockeys weren’t allowed to use mobiles when on course for corruption reasons. It was a mighty big risk to take just to send a postcode, a half-complete one at that. Maybe he had finished riding for the day; the text had come through just before they left the restaurant at about seven o’clock. Ginny wasn’t sure what time Symbolic Band had run. With a brisk pat of farewell, she jogged over to the office and sat down in front of her computer.
Clicking on a racing website, Ginny punched in Symbolic Band’s name.
<
br /> No entries found.
‘Bugger,’ she muttered. She diverted to the archive racing results and scrolled down to Lingfield’s Saturday night fixture. Ginny felt her heart stop as she read the results. She’d got the name wrong.
18:45 – 1st: Cymbalic Band (5/2 fav)
CB1. She fell back in her seat and stared at the screen in dread as it hit her. Cymbalic Band won.
‘No, Mark,’ she whispered. That message had all but decided the verdict. Damien Woods was fixing races, and Mark was in on it too. He was more than likely the mastermind of it.
How could he have betrayed her like this? He had used her. Tears of hurt pricked her eyes, as she realised that every intimate moment they had shared had been a lie. Even his identity might have been a lie. Who was he really? Mark Rushin or Mark Wolfe? He didn’t feel a scrap of affection for her; she was just an easy target. And it had taken her sworn enemy to tip her off. It was a very subtle way to have warned her, Ginny thought, but if Julien had told her outright she was being taken for a ride, would she have believed him? The answer to that was plain. No. He knew it as well. He had been about to warn her at the Ball but had stopped himself. She sighed, defeated. How could she have been so blinkered? And poor Kenya, Ginny mourned. The filly had so much ability, and such a genuine attitude, it was criminal that someone would want to sacrifice her talent just for their own corrupt benefit. She might as well say goodbye to her now, because she wouldn’t be at Ravenhill Stables for much longer.
Chapter 22
In the few days running up to Mark’s return, Ginny was kept busy sending out horses to various race meetings, but this didn’t improve her outlook on life. Two of her horses had come out of their races lame and were confined to box rest. Libran Charter, Jim’s old favourite, having his fourth start of the season, had again failed to win.
So, when she invited Mark to join her at the stables the next Friday, she wasn’t in the cheeriest of spirits. Mark had suggested they go out for dinner. Ginny had declined, saying she wanted to go over some paperwork with him, which was, in part, the truth, but mainly because she felt more confident on home ground. With evening stables finished and the staff packed off home or to the pub, depending on if you were with Des or with Darragh, Ginny sat in the office awaiting Mark’s arrival. She heard the crunch of gravel from the car park soon after eight o’clock, and she got to her feet. She sat back down again on second thoughts. Her knees were feeling awfully shaky.
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