by Gene
It didn't vary in any significant detail from the account Simon had first given her, nor from his signed witness statement. He'd arrived, strung out, shortly after half-past eight. Pete, who was in a larky mood, had mucked him around. First he'd pretended he didn't have any drugs to sell, then he'd told Filthy he wasn't dealing in wraps and piffling amounts any more.
Filthy had got fed up and made to leave, thinking of other sources he could try. Pete had then announced he was only joking and of course he could sort Filthy out. He'd gone on to boast that he was about to expand his operations. Filthy, having heard this before, said Oh yeah? and Pete had picked a plastic carrier-bag off the table and dumped it in Filthy's lap, saying Take a look at that, then. Inside was the money, three bricks of new-looking banknotes bundled together with rubber bands.
`Don't ask me how much there was,' said Barrable. `There was red notes and there was brown and there was a lot. That's all l know.' `Did you ask him how much?'
`Course I did but he went all coy. He said, "Enough to get me on the Orient Express." What he meant was, get him in with these East Europeans he was always on about. That's how he talked about them. The drugs come through Turkey, see.'
Filthy lit another cigarette from the butt of his first. Ì reckon he was about to tell me how much was in the bag when Mandy came in. She went ballistic when she saw me holding the money. She yanked it off me and 112
screamed at Pete, had a real go at him. First I thought it was because he'd let me see it but it was because he'd told her he'd put it in a safe place and he hadn't.'
`Did you put this in your statement?' Jane couldn't remember this particular detail.
`Maybe not. I'll add it if you like. Anyhow, he calmed her down, said he'd stash it right away and she turned the telly on, well fed up. Pete gave me some stuff and I thought it was time I split, so I did.'
`He didn't say where he was going to put the money, did he?' Barrable shook his head.
Òr where he'd got it from?'
`He just said he'd had a slice of luck.' `Where do you think he might have got it?'
Filthy stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back in his seat. `Haven't got a clue,' he said. `Tell you what though, it's not my idea of luck.' Jane nodded. She couldn't agree more.
`Got anything for me yet, Dave?'
Pippa was tired of asking this question. It was nearly a week since his arrival and so far Dave Prescott had made no pronouncement whatsoever.
If it wasn't for Jamie, who so badly needed a friend, she'd have told him to get lost.
No, she wouldn't, she corrected herself, because she'd grown to rather like Dave on her own account. There was something comforting about his good-natured presence, despite his off-putting appearance. And though he'd not yet delivered the goods for which he'd been hired, he had his other uses. On his second day Pippa had caught him on the phone in the office and assumed he was making a call on his own behalf. It turned out that he'd been answering calls while the office was unattended and had compiled a neat list of messages for her to respond to.
After that, he'd put in a couple of hours every morning, manning the phone and sorting the paperwork. He was remarkably organised. `What's so strange about it?' he responded when she'd said as much. Ì administered the East-West Cross-Country Run for six years. We had runners from all over the world and raised a mint for charity. Your little outfit here's a breeze compared to that.'
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Pippa might have taken offence had he not accompanied this remark with a wink and answered the phone before she could open her mouth. But this morning he'd taken a seat on the other side of the desk and produced a sheet of crumpled paper covered in the tidy handwriting she was becoming accustomed to. And in response to her regular enquiry, he'd nodded and tapped his notes.
Àt first,' he began, Ì thought you were a bit of a fruitcake. Horses and humans run differently, as I'm sure you've observed. There's the matter of travelling on four legs rather than two. And horses can't talk either, so there's a communication problem right there. However, you seem an intelligent woman so I thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt.'
`Thank you,' she said. It seemed appropriate.
Ì've had a good look at what you get up to here. I'm thinking of it like the sort of training camp you get in East Africa where, say, the top Kenyan runners get together for months. I've been trying to put the differences between horses and humans out of my mind and concentrate on the similarities. So what you've got are a collection of elite athletes living side by side, training together every day, all with the aim of winning races.
Òne thing strikes me straight off. Your horses have got it pretty easy.
There's these teams of body slaves pampering them day and night, feeding and grooming and fussing around them. And when they're actually asked to put in a bit of effort, what do they actually do? Not much, as far as I can tell. You trot them up onto the gallops, get them to run around for an hour and then it's back home for tea and biscuits and another round of pampering. It's not exactly a heavy workload, is it? If these were athletes they'd be doing a hundred miles a week at least. I mean,' he continued, emphasising his point by prodding the desk top with a long bony finger, ìt can't be right that a four-legged animal weighing almost half a ton is doing less work than a ten-stone human being. Have you ever considered taking them out twice a day?'
Pippa sighed. He had a point. Ì know what you're saying, Dave, but it's the cost. The lads finish at lunchtime and they're off till four. If they stay all afternoon I'll have to pay them more and I'm on a tight enough budget as it is.'
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The runner appeared to take her point, which was encouraging. Despite her natural scepticism she was hoping that he might be able to help.
`How about,' he said, ìnstead of the lads spending their time doing evening stables, they ride out instead. I know at this time of year it's probably too dark but maybe they could start earlier. Whichever way you look at it, your horses have got to do more work.'
Pippa nodded in agreement. She knew that what Dave was saying made sense, but there was more to training horses than giving them physical tasks. In her experience there was a fine line between how much you could work a horse and how much you could get it to eat. If you overworked them they nearly always went off their food and once that happened you were in trouble.
Some trainers maintained that you needed to train horses to eat before you could train them to gallop. Once the animals were eating fourteen to eighteen pounds a day of solid food like oats and nuts you could train them hard, knowing that if their intake dropped a couple of pounds they'd still be getting a sufficient amount to survive on.
Pippa explained this to Dave. `People tend to forget that thoroughbreds have been bred and trained to race for centuries. They're highly strung animals, prone to fretting. You can't exactly say to them, "You've got a race coming up so you'll have to put in some extra work".'
Dave listened closely, nodding his large hairless head from time to time.
`Why don't you let me write out a training programme for a few of your more moderate animals. I'll aim to gradually increase their speed and endurance work. I bet I can talk four of your lads into helping and I'll get them all out twice a day.'
The prospect of trying something new appealed to Pippa. She also fancied that Dave was the kind of fellow who could persuade her lads to have a shot at something different. Provided she kept an eye on what he was up to, what did she have to lose?
ÒK,' she said, `let's give it a go.'
He held out his hand and she took it, her fingers disappearing into his firm warm grasp.
`Tell you what,' he added with a grin, ìf it's a complete fiasco, we can always blame Jamie.'
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She knew she could work with someone who made her laugh.
The last time Jamie had visited Carlisle racecourse he'd arrived by helicopter. Having triumphed in two races at Ripon, he was just in time to boot home the winner in the last. H
e couldn't remember how he left the course but he'd ended up at a party in town and had a clear recollection of nursing a hangover in the back of a taxi the next morning all the way home to Yorkshire.
Today, accompanied by Dave, he'd arrived at a more sedate pace in the Ridgemoor horsebox, with Adolf and Feeding Frenzy, a six-year-old novice chaser, in the back. He was down to ride both of them. In his slow progression from Flat tearaway to professional jump jockey, this was a big day.
Apart from the race at Haydock, Jamie had so far restricted his riding to schooling with Ros and riding out on Pippa's and, sometimes, Toby's horses. Pippa had been urging him to ring Bertie Brooks to see if his former agent would find him some rides but Jamie had been putting it off.
Among the many things his accident had smashed was his self-confidence.
He wanted to be sure he had the skills to be a jump jockey before he offered himself for hire. Also, the thought nagged at him: if Bertie wanted to continue representing him, why hadn't he been in touch? He'd have heard by now that Jamie was out of prison. He suspected that these days, Bertie didn't want to know.
The offer to ride Feeding Frenzy had come from another trainer in the Ridgemoor area, Ferdy Gates. Ferdy ran a small operation often referred to as `Gates' All-sorts', in that no one could predict what variety of performer would emerge from his dilapidated yard. He was as likely to pop up with a two-year-old sprinter as an old warhorse having a tilt at his umpteenth Grand National.
Jamie had once ridden a supposedly red-hot filly for him in a Guineas trial in which the horse had turned in a distinctly lukewarm performance, despite Jamie's best efforts. Ferdy had been cheerful enough about it and said he didn't blame Jamie but he'd never offered him another ride - until now. Jamie couldn't work out who'd put him up to it, though he suspected Malcolm. One of Mal's clients had a horse with Ferdy and, despite his 116
brother-in-law's denials, Jamie had his suspicions. It was typical of Malcolm to avoid taking credit.
Malcolm was amongst the gang of connections assembled in the parade ring to see Beaufort Bonanza off on the second instalment of his racing life. Jamie recognised Barney Beaufort surrounded by a crew of beaming businessmen and hoped that this time they'd all be spared the death-or-glory speechifying. But this time Toby was present and Beaufort appeared happy to cede the top-dog role to the trainer, nodding his head in agreement as the Colonel briefed Jamie on the race ahead.
In reality, Jamie had already received his briefing from Ros an hour earlier when he and Dave had looked Adolf over in his box.
She'd delivered her advice in customarily no-nonsense fashion. `Whatever you do,' she'd said, `don't let him take a pull. He went off like a train last time and died. If you let him do it again, we'll all deserve to be out of a job.'
`He'll be all right,' Jamie said. `He's a different horse to last time.' Ìn my experience, young man, horses don't change that quickly. He may be good as gold at home but out here in a race, first time over hurdles, he might forget everything he's learnt. It's your job to make him remember - OK?'
`Don't worry. I'll keep him covered.'
`Good.' But she'd given him a long, hard stare before striding off. Dave had been watching their exchange with interest and he rolled his eyes as she disappeared. He waited till she'd turned out of sight before he said slyly, `She likes you.'
`What?'
The tall man chuckled. Àttractive, too.'
`She's old enough to be my mother,' Jamie protested. But it was true, Ros was a classy-looking woman. It made her all the more intimidating. Dave's words were in Jamie's head now as Ros appeared out of the crowd and, for a moment, took hold of Adolf's bridle. `Remember what we discussed,'
she murmured.
He nodded, aware of her dark brown eyes boring into his. `Good luck then,' she said as he set off down to the start.
Carlisle is a small tight track with plenty of ups and downs. With a strong wind blowing in from the Irish Sea and some low winter sunshine playing 117
peekaboo behind the scudding clouds there was plenty for horse and rider to contend with. Especially for a highly strung novice like Adolf on his first run over hurdles. At least, throughout the two miles one furlong of the race ahead, there were only six obstacles to contend with. In Jamie's opinion, that would be more than enough.
As they joined the group of hurdlers massing at the start, he could see the sense in Ros's words. Adolf did not feel like the same horse as the one he regularly rode out at Ridgemoor. That old jittery mood was back - `buzzy'
was the term Ros used - and he could feel the animal twitching with nerves beneath him, desperate to be off.
When the tape rose Adolf was out of his blocks like Linford Christie. No, you don't, thought Jamie and jerked the reins back hard. It slowed the horse down but Jamie had to fight to keep him under control as the other runners caught them up. It was the start of a battle as Jamie strove to put the brakes on and Adolf tried to follow his instincts to bolt wildly into the blue.
Jamie held the upper hand as the first hurdle loomed. This was a moment of danger, Adolf's trouble being the urge to run out of control after a jump.
They soared over the obstacle and, as they hit the ground, he was pulling harder than ever, threatening to yank Jamie's arms out of their sockets.
Cursing, he tugged hard at the horse's mouth, commanding him to slow down. Adolf faltered and other runners flew past, the first horse obviously leading his jockey the same kind of merry dance as Jamie's mount. He tucked in behind this leading group and at once Adolf began to settle. That was more like it. The key to the race, Jamie knew, was to keep his horse back in the pack, out of sight of a clear road ahead - keeping him covered, just like he'd promised.
The Beaufort Holidays group weren't party to the race tactics that Jamie was trying to impose on their runner. Nevertheless, they were mightily encouraged by events so far.
`He's in the lead!' shrieked one of the guests' wives. Òh no!' she moaned a second later as Beaufort Bonanza was overtaken by the pack. `Thank God for that,' muttered Malcolm in Beverley's ear. She didn't reply but from the pressure of her leg on his he knew she'd heard. He'd managed to position himself behind her in the group massed on the Grandstand balcony. While 118
everyone's attention was focused on the course, he insinuated his hand beneath her short jacket to gently circle the small of her back through her silk blouse. She wore yet another of her fetching suits, this one in pale apricot. He wondered what particular items of exotic lingerie might lie beneath.
There had been protracted debate ahead of Adolf's latest outing, with Barney demanding a new test of the horse's prowess as soon as possible and Toby wanting just the opposite. As far as the Colonel was concerned, Adolf's Haydock showing had clearly demonstrated that he needed a lot more work before being turned loose on the racecourse for a second time.
Inevitably this difference of opinion had led to Malcolm and Beverley convening several urgent meetings to put their respective masters' points of view. As far as Malcolm was concerned the argument could have continued even longer, considering that it was conducted between the sheets in Beverley's pink boudoir.
In the end, naturally, Beaufort's view had prevailed - he was paying, after all - and Toby had found this modest novice hurdle race on one of the north's most appealing small courses. What's more, the Colonel had agreed to Malcolm's suggestion that he lend his own presence to the occasion, and he was currently elbow to elbow with Barney giving him his authoritative reading of the race.
Malcolm's hand slid round to the inflowing curve of Beverley's waist where it was stopped by the pressure of her fingers.
`Bonanza looks full of running,' said one of the party, as he tracked the horses through binoculars on the far side of the course.
Malcolm could pick out the scarlet-and-white Beaufort colours tucked in behind the leading group - most satisfactory. Everything, in fact, was turning out well this time, in contrast to Adolf's first outing.
He
put his lips to Beverley's ear. Ìf he wins I'm whisking you off tonight for a celebration. No arguments.'
He knew just where to whisk her to, as well. A small hotel overlooking Coniston Water where the beds were wide and soft and the service was discreet.
She squeezed his fingers in response. That had to mean yes, didn't it?
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He turned his attention back to the race.
Jamie was beginning to feel confident - a long-forgotten feeling in a horse race. It had been a fight all the way round the circuit, with Adolf testing his strength and concentration with every yard they travelled. Not least of Jamie's problems was the difficulty of piloting a big, strapping animal who had a tendency to jump to the left, round a tight right-handed course. But he was managing it. All those hours in the paddock practising close control under Ros's keen eye were paying off.
So far Jamie had succeeded in keeping Adolf out of sight of open ground.
Since the first hurdle Jamie had kept him tucked a couple of lengths behind the leading group, tracking a solid black horse called Jericho. He kept Adolf in line as they came out of the final bend and into the home straight. Adolf took the next two hurdles in his stride. Just one obstacle lay ahead. Once they'd cleared it, Jamie would shift the horse out into the open and give him his head. The way they were travelling, in a powerful rhythm across the ground, he was sure Adolf had the beating of the horses in front. The others had made all the running and he could see they were beginning to flag.
Familiar emotions came flooding back, giving him a rush he'd doubted he'd ever feel again. He was going to win this race!
And he would have done, he was sure, if Jericho, immediately ahead, hadn't completely mistimed his jump at the last and sprawled across the turf in a tangle of limbs.