Outside Chance

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘Well, it’s a bloody nuisance. There’s been a development, but I can’t tell you over the phone.’

  Ben hesitated. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he began, and then caught sight of Lisa shaking her head and mouthing, ‘You go.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said into the receiver, then, covering the mouthpiece with his hand, ‘What about our coffee?’

  She wrinkled her nose and shook her head again. ‘Doesn’t matter, I’ve got stuff I should do, anyway.’

  ‘You sure?’

  She nodded, and he moved his hand. ‘OK. I’ll be with you around half-eleven.’

  ‘Make it eleven. Ford’s here,’ Truman said, and put the phone down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ben said, looking apologetically at Lisa. ‘Technically, the guy’s my boss at the moment, but it won’t be for long; it’s kind of a special case. Anyway, I’ll make it up to you with double coffee and cakes next time.’

  ‘Great! Then I really will get fat!’ Lisa finished her toast and licked marmalade off her fingers. ‘You’ve always said you’d never work for anyone again.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s a special case. I can’t really tell you at the moment, but I will one day.’

  ‘Ooh, a secret assignment!’ she said dramatically. ‘OK, I can wait. Oh, by the way, one of your editors – Taylor, would it be? – rang yesterday evening. Wanted you to get back to him, so I said I’d pass the message on. You seem to be in demand.’

  Ben groaned. ‘OK, thanks. That’s the one I’m doing the Csikós article for. You really ought to come and see one of their performances. It’s not like anything you’ve ever seen before.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like to. Look, I hate to sound like your mother or something, but if you’re meeting this Eddie guy at eleven, you’d better get a wriggle on; it’s half-ten already.’

  Ben did hurry but he was still ten minutes late as he turned into the drive of Castle Ridge House. Thinking over the information he’d gleaned the day before, he was of the strong opinion that Lenny Salter’s present whereabouts would bear looking into, and to that end he’d rung Logan once again. Unfortunately, Logan’s mobile was either switched off or out of range, because the phone company’s answering service cut in immediately, inviting him to leave a message – which he did. He’d also thought about ringing his editor before leaving the cottage, but that was as far as it got. In his experience calls from editors were rarely good news, and usually ran along the lines of: ‘That piece you’re doing for us … We’d like it twice as long as we agreed, and a week earlier. Oh, and by the way, the boss says sorry but there’s no extra money in the kitty.’

  Lisa saw him on his way with every appearance of equanimity, but he couldn’t help feeling a little guilty and made a mental note to make it up to her one day soon. However loose the basis of their relationship, it was hardly fair to keep walking out on Lisa and to expect her to go on accepting it with such good grace. She would be away until Sunday now, she’d told him, and he was ashamed to admit, even if only to himself, that he was glad to be a completely free agent for at least the next couple of days. He was going to be busy and it would be easier if he didn’t have the feeling at the back of his mind that he was neglecting her.

  On the sweep of gravel in front of Truman’s house stood an impressive array of vehicles. Glancing at the number-plates Ben could see that the Rolls and the Range Rover were Eddie Truman’s, the Mercedes convertible was elder daughter Helen’s, and the smaller, chunky four-wheel-drive belonged to Fliss. Parked beside these was a black Audi saloon with an everyday registration, which had presumably brought DI Ford.

  Ben parked his own mud-splattered vehicle between the Rolls and the Merc with a secret smile, and headed for the house, hoping – without much optimism – that Ford hadn’t been accompanied on this occasion by DS Hancock.

  As he prepared to press the polished bronze bell, one half of the front door opened and Bess looked out.

  ‘Hi Ben. They’re in the study. Go on through. I’m just getting more coffee.’

  ‘What, no butler?’ Ben asked, stepping past her.

  ‘It’s his day off,’ she replied, smiling.

  ‘So, what’s happened, d’you know?’

  ‘Well we had another email, but I’d better let them tell you. Go on through.’

  When Ben rapped on the door of Truman’s study and let himself in he came face to face with Hancock, who was on his way out.

  The DS greeted Ben with a sneer.

  ‘Ah, here comes our intrepid crusading journalist. No need to worry now, then – Ben Copperfield’s on the case.’

  Over Hancock’s shoulder Ben could see not only Ford and Eddie Truman, but also Truman’s wife, two daughters and son-in-law.

  ‘Give it a rest, Sergeant,’ Ford said wearily, nodding a greeting at Ben, who sidestepped Hancock without a glance.

  ‘Morning, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, now you are here, come on in and sit down,’ Truman said testily. As Ben went closer he could see the strain on the trainer’s face; the fresh development was obviously not for the better.

  He crossed to an empty chair and sat in it, acknowledging a muted greeting from Fliss as he did so and finding the leather already warm, probably from Hancock’s recent occupancy. Sitting on a window seat, Truman’s wife, Elizabeth, looked pale and anxious; opposite Ben, Helen and her husband shared the small leather settee. She was staring at the floor, her habitual sulky expression more pronounced even than usual, and only glanced up momentarily as Ben came in. Ray Finch nodded but seemed absorbed in circling one of the deep upholstery buttons with a forefinger. They might have been next to each other, but their body language put them miles apart.

  On the other side of the room the door closed behind Hancock.

  ‘Right, now we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, can we return to the matter in hand?’ Truman enquired. ‘Tomorrow. I’m still not happy about trying to trick them, you know, Ford.’

  ‘I thought you’d decided to pay up,’ Ben said.

  ‘Yes, yes, we have,’ the trainer replied. ‘But they’ve added another condition. They want Helen to drive the car to the drop-off point.’

  ‘And I’m not bloody doing it!’ his daughter stated.

  ‘I’d do it, if it was me they wanted,’ Fliss put in. A gleam of sunlight lit one side of her head, accentuating the rich copper of her hair. She wore very little make-up, as far as Ben could see, and her fresh-faced vitality was in sharp contrast to her older sister’s air of jaded depression.

  ‘Well, it’s not you they want,’ Helen pointed out. ‘So you can’t play the heroine, can you?’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t start bickering over it,’ Truman cut in, forestalling Fliss’s retort. ‘Neither of you is going, so let that be an end to it.’

  Ben frowned. ‘Why do they want Helen to do it? Did they give a reason?’

  Truman shook his head but it was Ford who answered. ‘No. Maybe they think Mr Truman will be less likely to try anything if she’s involved. What we’ll do is use a WPC instead and hope that – if they watch the drop at all – they’ll see a woman and not look any closer.’

  ‘But do you think they’ll really believe he hasn’t involved your lot?’

  ‘Some don’t, you know,’ Ford said. ‘Some people follow the kidnappers’ instructions to the letter and we only find out about it afterwards, when it’s all over, for better or worse, and they want us to catch the culprits. Makes our job ten times harder.’

  ‘So what’s the plan for tomorrow?’

  Before Ford could answer Truman cut in with mingled frustration and annoyance.

  ‘Dah! You’re wasting your time. He won’t tell you.’

  ‘Not won’t; can’t,’ the DI said evenly. ‘We can make contingency plans but, until we see which way the wind’s blowing, we can’t really decide which will be our best bet.’

  ‘What’s to say they’ll keep their side of the bargain?’ Finch spoke up suddenly. ‘What if they take the money
, keep the horse and ask for more? What’s to stop them doing that?’

  ‘Well, theoretically, nothing,’ Ford said. ‘But, in practice, I would have thought very few people would pay again once the trust had been broken. And of course, as I’ve said before, picking up the ransom is the most dangerous part for the kidnappers, so why would they choose to do it twice? Why not just ask for more initially, if they think they can get it?’

  The door opened and Bess came in.

  During the momentary lull in the debate as coffee was handed round, Ford caught Ben’s eye. ‘My colleagues in Wincanton tell me you’ve been busy, Ben. Brawling outside a pub, wasn’t it?’ he commented, with the suspicion of a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Something like that. It got me the chance of the inside angle on ALSA, though. I had a guided tour of their HQ.’

  ‘Henry Allerton?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The lad I helped out turned out to be his nephew. I earned his undying gratitude. Well, it lasted a day or two, at any rate.’

  ‘Best of a bad bunch, Henry,’ Ford remarked. ‘Find out anything interesting?’

  ‘Not really. But one of them did let slip something about a project or campaign. They clearly didn’t want to talk about it, so I, er … went back for another look round later, on my own.’

  ‘And finding the door open you took a look inside?’ Ford suggested.

  ‘Well, in a manner of speaking,’ Ben said with half a smile. ‘Didn’t find anything useful, though, and I nearly got caught by a couple of the group: Baz and Della. And then, as luck would have it, I ran into my friend Baz again a couple of nights ago. He was involved in a raid on a travelling horse circus I’ve been doing an article on, and what’s more they caught him. Haven’t heard any more.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Sussex and see whether they’re bringing charges,’ Ford said. ‘We’ve not seen or heard anything of ALSA that leads us to believe they have anything major on the go, and if they’re still carrying out these kinds of nuisance raids, it seems unlikely they do have anything very important going on. As a matter of fact, the word is that the whole organisation is beginning to lose its way a little. Their number of supporters certainly seems to have dropped over the past few months.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, with drop-outs like Baz and Della involved. It’s just the image that any bona fide organisation would strive to avoid. Those two look like your typical serial protesters. Roads; new housing; save the whales; you name it and I bet they’re there.’

  ‘Having established that ALSA haven’t got my horse, can we return to the problem in hand?’ Truman asked impatiently. ‘What assurance have I got that these bastards won’t just take my money and bugger off without giving King back?’

  ‘None at all,’ Ford told him. ‘But I should think it’s unlikely. After all, one would assume they wouldn’t want to keep the horse, and letting it loose somewhere would be easier than trying to dispose of a creature that size.’

  ‘And it couldn’t tell us where it had been,’ Ben added, earning a lowering glance from Truman.

  ‘Oh, they’ve got to give him back! It would be so unfair!’ Fliss said with a touch of desperation, as if it were only now hitting home that they could lose the horse for ever.

  ‘Well, I’d better be getting back to the yard,’ Finch said, draining his mug and standing up. ‘Got runners to get ready for this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, Ben, I’m afraid you’ll have to make your own way to Wincanton this afternoon,’ Truman said. ‘I’ve got a meeting with my bank manager. Wretched man’s kicking up a fuss about my wanting to withdraw so much cash in a hurry. No one would think it was my money, the way he’s carrying on. He needn’t expect my custom in future, that’s all I can say.’

  Looking at him, Ben could see that it wasn’t just an empty threat. He really would take his business elsewhere. Truman definitely wasn’t a man to cross, even in a small way.

  ‘Ben can come to Wincanton with me,’ Fliss suggested. ‘There’s no point in taking more cars than we need to. Or you could probably hitch a ride in the lorry, if you’d rather – but you’ll have to hurry, they’ll be going any minute now.’

  She couldn’t know it, but there were very few things Ben would have liked less than going in the horsebox. On the other hand, he wasn’t at all sure he should go with Fliss either, judging from the speculative frown on her father’s face.

  ‘Or I could drive you?’ he offered, careful not to catch Truman’s eye.

  ‘You told me you weren’t a chauvinist,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘And I’m not. But I like to think I’m a gentleman,’ he countered. ‘OK, thanks, I’m quite happy for you to drive.’

  Fliss drove well if with a little too much aggression, possibly engendered by her feminist ideals. In an attempt to relax her, Ben asked about the stable routine on racing days and, her mind successfully diverted, she did indeed begin to drive more temperately.

  ‘The travelling head lad – that’s Ian Rice – is responsible for the horses once they’ve left the yard,’ Fliss said. ‘It’s up to him to make sure they reach the racecourse safely and on time. Ideally that’s three hours before the first one is due to run. Gives them time to settle, get over the journey, etc. He has to make sure each horse is accompanied by its passport and flu vac certificate, and get it signed into the stables. He also has to declare the runners at least three quarters of an hour before the race and take all the gear to the valet, you know – jockeys’ silks, weights, saddle and suchlike.’

  ‘Where do the valets come from?’

  ‘All over the place. They follow the racing. You get about half a dozen valets at each race meeting. They basically look after the jockeys. We see them all regularly and know some of them quite well.

  ‘Anyway, about an hour before the race we have to start to get our runners ready; twenty minutes before the off we take them to the saddling area and tack up. They’re walked round the pre-parade ring and then when they’re saddled they go through to the parade ring, which is where the jockeys get legged up, and then it’s all down to them.’

  ‘What do you do about feeding on race days?’

  ‘The horses get an early feed and some hay, but nothing in the lorry and obviously not at the course. We remove their water buckets three to four hours before the race and just offer them a little drink in the stables, but not too much. As you know, a horse with a stomach full of water isn’t going to run its best.’

  ‘What about shoeing? They have special aluminium ones, don’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re called racing plates –’ She broke off abruptly and leaned on the horn, earning an ‘up yours!’ gesture from the driver who had just skimmed across her bows. ‘Moron!’

  ‘He did have the right of way,’ Ben pointed out mildly.

  ‘Well, he should have indicated. What am I supposed to do, read his mind?’

  ‘No. You’re supposed to drive as if everyone else on the road is an idiot, because half of them are. Go on about the shoes.’

  She cast him a look of annoyance but continued nonetheless. ‘Plates. They’re put on a day or two before a race, depending on when the farrier’s at the yard. I remember we had one old horse that used to start getting excited as soon as his racing plates were put on. I swear he could tell the difference.’

  ‘And how long do they stay on?’

  ‘Well, if the horse is running again within the week we leave them on, but otherwise, next time the farrier comes he takes them off.’

  ‘So what’s the routine after the race?’ Ben was genuinely interested, and he never knew when such information might come in useful on a future assignment.

  ‘They’re unsaddled – in the winners enclosure if we’re lucky – then offered a drink, hosed down, scraped, covered with a cooler – you know, like a string vest – and walked for half to three quarters of an hour. They need to be cooled down and settled before the journey home. It’s always at least an hour after our last runner before we se
t off. Then, of course, they all have to be fed and checked over when they get home. If it’s one of the northern tracks or an evening meeting it can sometimes be nearly midnight by the time we finish for the day, and we’ve been up since half-four. Plus, Rice still has all the coolers and sheets and jockeys’ silks to wash. It’s bloody hard work.’

  ‘But worth it when you get a winner.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Fliss said warmly. ‘Always worth it, because of the horses.’

  ‘Do the lads get a bonus when their horse wins?’

  ‘Theoretically, but what we do is pool all the bonuses and split the money between all the lads at the end of the season. It’s much fairer that way.’

  ‘So has Mikey really got a chance today?’ Ben asked, as they joined the end of a slowly moving queue of cars on the approach to the racecourse entrance.

  ‘Yeah, he has, actually. As I said yesterday, Axesmith is a really strong contender. Rollo would have been riding him if he hadn’t got himself suspended, but I don’t see why Mikey shouldn’t make as good a job of it. He seems to get on with the horse really well.’

  Once they’d entered the racecourse itself, Fliss and Ben went their separate ways; Fliss to oversee the care of the Castle Ridge runners and Ben to wander with the crowds, place a token bet or two and enjoy the early spring sunshine.

  As the first of the Castle Ridge horses was brought into the parade ring by its lad, Ben saw Fliss standing in the grassy centre area talking to the horse’s owners. She’d changed before they set out. Gone were the trendy hipster jeans and branded sweatshirt that she’d worn at home, to be replaced by boots, a suede skirt and a sophisticated, tailored leather jacket worn over a cream jumper. The effect was perfect: she looked elegant, mature and far older than her twenty-two years. Judging by the look in the eyes of the middle-aged male owner to whom she was talking, he had no complaints about her father’s replacement either.

  Mikey came out presently, his expression serious and a little shy, but a few words and a smile from Fliss won an answering smile, and by the time he was legged up into the tiny saddle he was looking far more relaxed.