Ben watched Helen use a damp flannel to wipe the tiny digits. She was going through the motions but he’d clearly rattled her.
He tried again.
‘So where was it he came from? Poland? Czechoslovakia …?’
‘No. Look, I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Was he a lot older than you?’
‘Seven years, but it wasn’t his fault; I told him I was eighteen.’ Helen allowed herself to be drawn.
‘He was due to ride in the Derby, wasn’t he?’
‘On the favourite. It won, too.’
‘Did it, indeed? That must have made him pretty sick.’
‘Oh, it was so unfair! He was absolutely brilliant – everyone said so. He would have been champion jockey one day if …’
‘Helen!’ Unseen by either of them, Elizabeth Truman had come in and was standing just inside the door. Neat and elegant, as usual, her face was as white as her daughter’s had been just a few moments before. ‘You know better than that.’
‘I didn’t tell him anything,’ Helen protested, looking sulkier than ever.
‘You shouldn’t have said anything at all.’
‘He kept asking …’
‘About what? What’s going on?’ Suddenly Helen’s father was there behind Elizabeth and you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.
His wife and daughter exchanged tragic glances of theatrical proportions and then both looked at Ben; Elizabeth imploringly and Helen with a shot of pure venom.
‘I’ve heard tell that you once fired a jockey for getting a little too friendly with Helen,’ Ben stated calmly, taking the bull by the horns. ‘I was just asking her about it.’
‘Why don’t you mind your own bloody business?’ Truman demanded, explosively. ‘That was years ago. Helen knows she was stupid and now she, and the rest of us, just want to be allowed to forget it.’
Ben’s eyes narrowed. ‘I may be working for you at the moment, but that doesn’t give you the right to bawl me out. My business – if you remember – is asking questions. How the hell am I supposed to know what’s taboo?’
In her high chair and temporarily forgotten, the baby began to cry. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Elizabeth put out a hand towards him, as if to stop him saying anything further.
‘No, Ben, please …’ she pleaded.
‘You shut up, woman!’ her husband said dismissively; then, in a quieter tone: ‘Ben, I think we should go into the study.’
Ben inclined his head. ‘OK.’
‘Send Bess or Vicki through with coffee in a minute,’ Truman said over his shoulder to his wife, who nodded, her face pink with humiliation.
Ben gave her a sympathetic smile before following the bulky figure of the trainer into the hall, feeling a little like a first-year student being summoned to the headmaster’s office.
As the door of the study shut behind him, Ben braced himself for the expected tirade, but it didn’t come. Truman lowered himself wearily into one leather armchair and waved him to another before saying, in a fairly matter of fact way, ‘I thought we’d agreed that you would come to me first with anything you found out.’
‘Yes, we did, but I haven’t really found anything; that’s why I was asking.’
‘Well, you can stop asking. There’s nothing in that sordid business that could possibly have anything to do with Cajun King’s disappearance.’
‘What about the jockey? Surely he was a man with a grievance.’
‘He won’t have come back,’ Truman said with certainty.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because he was an illegal immigrant. His papers weren’t in order and I threatened to report him if he didn’t go back to where he came from. I had him watched to make sure he got on his plane. That was, and is, the end of it. And look, I’d be grateful if you didn’t discuss this with Ford. I’ve told him that much, but he doesn’t need to know about what happened with Helen. It’s nobody’s business but ours.’
Ben gave up.
‘OK. So what happened this morning? I gather it didn’t go exactly to plan.’
Truman rubbed his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between index finger and thumb. He looked tired and worried, and Ben partially forgave him his outburst.
‘We don’t know what happened – at least, we know what happened but we don’t know what went wrong. Ford’s WPC drove Helen’s car – she was a fair double for Helen at a distance – and parked in Fordingbridge car park, as we’d been instructed. She had the money in a holdall and both Helen’s mobile phone and mine, because we weren’t sure which they would ring. Anyway, when she’d been there about ten minutes, they called on my mobile, and told her to take the money to Black Gutter car park, which is way out in the New Forest, halfway between Fordingbridge and the motorway junction at Cadnam. She had to leave it in the litter bin there – you know, it’s one of those big square wooden ones. It was an odd choice because it’s a long road across the moors with very few turnings and no cover, and although anyone following would have been spotted right away, so would anyone going to pick the money up. It would have been fairly easy to put someone on their tail.’
‘Unless they came across the forest on horseback or a motorbike,’ Ben suggested. ‘But if you did catch them, surely you’d have to wave goodbye to any chance of getting King back.’
‘Yes. I think Ford was hoping they’d lead us back to where they’ve got the horse,’ Truman said.
‘But Helen says no one came.’
‘No. Hancock and a female officer in plain clothes followed Helen’s car, stopped down the road to photograph the ponies, and then sat in their car for a while, but nobody came. They only stayed there for as long as it took Ford to organise long-distance surveillance from the trees on top of the far hill, then they drove on.’
‘But still no one’s come? Perhaps they’ll wait until dark.’
‘Mm. Maybe. We can only wait and see. Ford has got a couple of cars on hand to follow them, if they do.’ He sighed. ‘Do you know, just at the moment I’d gladly let them have the bloody money, if only they’d give King back.’
‘You wouldn’t feel like that for long, once you had him,’ Ben observed.
‘No, you’re probably right.’ There was a knock on the door and he called out, ‘Come in.’
‘Coffee?’ It was a slim, blonde female whom Ben hadn’t seen before. He assumed it must be the girl who helped Bess in the office.
‘Ah, thanks, Vicki. Put it on the table, would you?’ Truman said.
The girl gave Ben a bright smile and placed the tray on the leather-covered pedestal table beside her employer.
Almost but not quite out of Ben’s line of sight, Truman brought his hand up and rested it on her hip, then squeezed her buttock lightly as she moved away.
Vicki gave no sign that she had even noticed, which Ben could only take to mean that such caresses were commonplace. His sympathy for Elizabeth deepened in direct proportion to his antipathy for Truman.
When the secretary had left the room, shutting the door behind her, the trainer handed Ben a mug, and sat back in his chair once more.
‘Did you see the piece on the back page of the Mail, building the big race up? It was kind of a shock, reading about King as if nothing was wrong. When it’s on your mind twenty-four hours a day, you forget that no one else knows. We’ve spread rumour that he’s away for a few days, receiving treatment for an unspecified back problem, but the tipsters and journalists will start to watch the gallops soon, and how long will we be able to keep his disappearance a secret then? It’s less than two weeks until the race.’
‘Quite frankly, I’m surprised you’ve managed it this long,’ Ben said. ‘And who knows? – it might even be a good thing. With the general public on the lookout, it might spook the kidnappers into letting him go.’
‘Or shooting him,’ Truman said gloomily.
‘There is that. Supposing you do get him back, will he be fit to rac
e? After all, he’s been away for nearly a week already.’
‘Depends where he’s been kept. If he’s been cooped up somewhere, he probably won’t, unless we get him back in the next day or two. But he’s a horse that doesn’t take much work. He’s quite lazy at home and if you overdo it, he gets stale. If he’s been well looked after and has had the run of a paddock, I don’t see why he shouldn’t be all right. I’ve had horses that have been resting injuries until a few days before they ran and have still won their races. A lot depends on character, and his is good.’
There didn’t seem to be a lot more to say on the subject, so Ben commented, ‘You must have been pleased with Mikey’s performance yesterday …’
‘What? Oh, yes, he did well; very well.’
‘I think a few people are starting to sit up and take notice. Fliss said Axesmith went as well as he’s ever done, and he gave that first horse a smashing ride.’
‘You were something of a hero yourself, according to my daughter. Throwing yourself in the path of a runaway horse or something.’
‘It was trotting and I caught its rein,’ Ben said dryly.
‘Oh well; she seemed impressed, at any rate. I think she had you down as one of life’s spectators.’ Truman looked up at Ben from under his gingery brows.
‘Of course. That’s what being a journalist is all about,’ he responded evenly, choosing to ignore the taunt.
Truman looked as though he might pursue the point further but they were interrupted by a knock at the door.
‘Yes?’
The door opened and Bess came in, looking pale and shaken. She held a sheet of A4 paper in her hand, which she hurried forward to give to her employer.
‘This just came; I thought you’d better see it straight away.’
Truman took the sheet and scanned it rapidly.
‘No! Damn it! They can’t do that! We did everything they said. What more could we have done?’ The hand holding the paper began to shake, but whether from fear or rage Ben couldn’t tell.
‘May I see it?’
Truman passed the sheet over and Ben began to read.
It was unmistakably an email print-out from a computer, and the printing occupied only a few lines at the top of the page. Addressed to EddieTruman@Castleridgeracing, and sent from a Hotmail address, it read:
Don’t play tricks on me. I know you were watching. You have risked the life of your horse. Tomorrow the postman will bring you something to remember him by.
It was, predictably, unsigned.
‘The fucking bastards!’ Truman was in full flow now, on his feet and slamming his hand on his desk. ‘When I find out who’s behind this, I’ll personally string them up by their balls and light a fire under them. If they touch that horse …’
‘What do you think they’ll do?’ With her boss almost incoherent with frustrated fury, Bess turned instinctively to Ben, her brown eyes wide with anxiety. ‘You don’t think they’ll … ?’
In all honesty, Ben couldn’t reassure her.
‘I really don’t know, but they have said “risked” rather than “forfeited”, so maybe it’s just another warning.’
‘Give it here!’ Truman said reaching for the email. He read it again, then jabbed his finger at the print. ‘Yes, but they also say I’ll have “something to remember him by”; so how does that fit in with your theory?’
Ben shrugged and shook his head.
‘We can only wait and see. The wording is a little strange, don’t you think? “You have risked the life of your horse” – it’s a funny way of putting it.’
‘Well, I’m glad you find it amusing. What the fuck does it matter if they can’t put a sentence together? That’s hardly the issue here, is it?’
Ben decided to keep his thoughts to himself. Truman was hardly in a mood to listen to half-formed ideas, and he couldn’t even call them that. There was just something that struck an odd note.
‘Shall I call DI Ford?’ Bess asked, cutting through his thoughts.
‘Bloody police!’ Truman spat the words. ‘They ballsed it up. Told me they wouldn’t be seen. Should’ve kept them out of it, like I was supposed to. They’ve done nothing but waste my time from the start!’
‘Yeah, I should call him, Bess,’ Ben said quietly. ‘He ought to be told.’
‘And you’ve done no better!’ The trainer turned his attention to Ben. ‘Just where do you get off, giving orders to my staff, in my own home?’
Ben inclined his head.
‘You want me to go – you just say the word. I’ve got better things to do than hang around here to be your whipping boy!’
He didn’t raise his voice at all, but got through to Truman nonetheless.
The trainer stared hard at Ben for a long moment and then his hackles visibly began to come down.
‘Yes, well maybe I shouldn’t have spoken like that, but you know I’ve got a temper on me. It’s my red hair. You’d best stick around for a bit.’
It was as close to an apology as he was likely to get and Ben saw Bess raise her eyebrows in exaggerated astonishment as she left the room.
‘Well, it doesn’t look as though anyone can do anything until the morning, so I’m for home and a hot bath,’ Ben said, standing up and feeling his inner thigh muscles starting to complain. He had a notion they’d be creating hell by the morning but they were a physical memory of what he’d achieved, and that was more than adequate compensation.
‘No Lisa tonight?’
Mike, Ben’s Geordie landlord, was cleaning the gutters on the front of the cottage when he drove into the yard. In spite of the cold he was only wearing a checked cotton shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to expose his heavily tattooed, beefy forearms. Ben got out of his car and shut the driver’s door behind him, hoping Mouse would keep her head down.
‘No, she’s working.’
‘Cracking girl that,’ Mike rumbled, coming down from the stepladder.
‘Yeah, she is.’ Ben swung his coat over his shoulder and made for the front door, trying to walk normally on legs that refused to co-operate.
Mike gathered the leaves and moss that he’d cleared from the gutter. Picking up the bucket and tools, he watched as Ben unlocked the door.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked. ‘Need any more wood for the burner?’
‘No, I’m OK at the moment, thanks.’
‘OK, well, let me know.’ Mike turned away then paused. ‘Oh – and Ben …’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’ve left your dog in the car.’ With that, Mike clicked his tongue, winked, and went on his way.
‘Son of a bitch!’ Ben said under his breath, and headed back to the Mitsubishi.
After soaking his aching muscles for half an hour in the hottest bath he could bear, Ben wrapped himself in a bathrobe, heated himself a ready-to-eat carbonara in the microwave, found a beer in the fridge and settled in front of the computer.
The strangeness of the wording in the latest email had been niggling at him all the way home, and even disturbed the longed-for, steamy stupor of his bath.
You have risked the life of your horse …
What does it matter if they can’t put a sentence together? Truman had asked, but that was just it; there was nothing wrong with the sentence. In fact, it was put together almost too well – too carefully, as if by someone for whom English was a second language. Remembering what he’d learned about Helen’s youthful fling, Ben found he wanted to know more about this jockey Truman had brought in from abroad. As it seemed that the Truman family were observing a pact of silence, he’d have to look elsewhere for his information.
Waking up the computer he went online, ignored his emails – most of which were certain to be unwanted – and called up his favourite search engine. For a moment, with the cursor winking patiently at him, he didn’t know where to start. He tried Truman+Derby and the machine digested and came up with a bewildering number of results: anything from biographies of President Truman to tourist infor
mation on the city of Derby, taking in the Kentucky Derby, football and a couple of Derby and Truman family trees on the way. There was, naturally, a fair bit on the Epsom Derby too, but the problem was where to begin. Just at the moment he couldn’t even remember the name of the Castle Ridge horse that had won the Derby. Biting his lip he tried again, putting in the stable’s name this time instead of Truman.
That was more productive. This time it offered up the name Massingham, which Ben instantly remembered from the Castle Ridge Hall of Fame.
The first site he tried gave no more than a passing reference to the horse in a list of past Derby winners, but the second was a searchable newspaper archive and, after just a couple more clicks and the reluctant payment of a subscription fee, he found it: an account of Massingham’s winning run in the Epsom Derby. At the top of the page was a photo of the horse and its radiant jockey returning triumphant to the winner’s enclosure, with Eddie Truman, much younger but nevertheless unmistakable, striding proudly at his side. Underneath the picture the caption read:
Massingham takes a last minute jockey change in his stride, as he lifts racing’s most coveted prize.
Ben scanned the accompanying text, looking for some further mention of the jockey change, which he found right at the very bottom of the page.
I imagine that there will be the mother of all parties at Eddie Truman’s Wiltshire yard tonight, for not only is the businessman the trainer of this talented three-year-old, he is also the horse’s owner. But while Truman’s family, friends and staff will be in celebratory mood, spare a thought for Massingham’s previous jockey. Jocked-off the night before the race for what Truman would only describe as unavoidable reasons, your heart has to go out to young Stefan Varga who missed the chance of a lifetime by just a whisker.
Ben stopped reading, and almost stopped breathing.
Stefan Varga.
‘Oh God!’ he muttered. ‘Oh, dear God!’
11
THE PADDED ENVELOPE delivered to Castle Ridge the next morning contained a photograph of Cajun King’s head, a hank of equine mane or tail hair and a note, which read:
This time it’s hair. Next time it will be an ear and then a hoof. Don’t mess with me. Do as you are told.
Outside Chance Page 20