Outside Chance

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘An abscess,’ Tamás supplied, leading the horse out of the round-pen. ‘It was lucky that we found it so soon. It was very small. Could have been a piece of grit or even a grass seed under the shoe. It is open now. As long as it is kept clean there should be no more trouble.’

  ‘Can he do the show tonight?’ Nico ran his hands down the affected leg to the hoof.

  ‘I think so. He’s not lame. But no shoe until it has healed.’

  ‘What happened with the horses that got out the other night? Have they all recovered?’ Ben asked. ‘And have you had any more trouble from the group that did it?’

  ‘The horses are fine. Even the one with the gashed shoulder is healing well. We were lucky. There has been no more trouble but there were some people walking in the road with banners when we left the field yesterday; the police moved them on.’ He laughed. ‘When I was a boy, it was always us the police would be moving on, if they could.’

  The vet moved away with the horse, fending off a sneaky nip from the Arab’s ready teeth as he did so, and Ben and Nico followed behind, en route to the stable building and Duka.

  After an enjoyable half-hour spent watching Nico teach the Andalusian to remove a broad-brimmed hat he’d donned for the purpose, Ben left him settling the horse back in his stall and wandered round the rest of the complex.

  He was out of luck with the loose horse herd; they’d been turned out in a field behind the buildings and he couldn’t get closer than fifty feet or more. Even at that distance, though, he could see enough to make him seriously doubt the feasibility of one of them being Cajun King. They were certainly all thoroughbreds but, of the ten, only half were of a similar colour and build, and none of these had either the same markings or the skimpy tail of the horse in the picture Ben carried in his wallet. It seemed he would have to think again but, if the Csikós did have the horse, where on earth could they have hidden it? Or where under the earth? His mind tagged the question on before he could stop it.

  What he’d learned from Nico had given him a little more insight into the background of the ill-fated Stefan Varga but not a lot more. He still had no idea whether Jakob’s state of mind was such that he’d consider putting the family’s livelihood at risk to gain revenge. Also, if Jakob were indeed behind the kidnap, he couldn’t have done it alone; but Nico hadn’t given the impression of someone with anything to hide. There was only one thing that had really struck Ben as odd, and that was Nico’s saying that the car that Stefan had crashed and died in was old. Surely, if he’d been as successful as it seemed, he would have bought or rented himself a newer car when he arrived home. It was almost always the first thing that any young man did when he came into some money, and he saw no reason why Stefan should have been any different.

  ‘Have you come to ride again?’

  Jakob had come up soft-footed and unseen, and Ben jumped, almost guiltily.

  ‘No, not really. Actually, my editor wants to bring the article forward, and my other job is a bit quiet at the moment, so I thought I’d better come and ask a few more questions, check a few details, that sort of thing.’ He was glad that it was at least the partial truth, because Jakob had a rather unsettling way of looking at one sometimes, which made him hesitate to try and bluff through.

  ‘But now you are here …?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, I’m still a bit sore from yesterday.’

  ‘Nico tells me you have a saying, “hair of the dog” – have I said that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. But I don’t think it’s scientifically proven,’ Ben said, smiling. ‘Both Nico and Tamás speak very good English; how does that come about?’

  ‘Tamás spent a year in the USA when he was in study to be a vet, and Nico was in New Zealand, working. What were you thinking about?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Just now. You were standing watching the horses and I spoke to you twice before you answered.’

  ‘I – I’m not sure. Lots of things.’ All at once, Ben was conscious of an overwhelming urge to confide in Jakob. In his presence it seemed inconceivable that he could be a party to any kidnap plot, but he held his tongue, nevertheless; the risk was just too great.

  Jakob shook his head. ‘Forgive me, I should not have asked. Come; Gyorgy will be calling for us and it is a great wrong to keep food waiting.’

  Ben left Romsey mid-afternoon, bound once more for Castle Ridge. After lunch at the catering wagon he’d gone with Jakob to watch Nico working Bajnok, which had been a treat. He was riding him in a building similar to the one housing the horses but devoid of the inner partitioning walls. There was a thick covering of what looked like peat on the floor, and Jakob explained that they were using it to shelter the loose herd at night.

  When they let themselves in through the huge sliding door Nico had warmed the Friesian up and was just starting to put him through his paces. Ben stood in awe as the big black horse and his rider performed. He’d seen countless numbers of riders in his time, and a fairly small percentage of those could – in his opinion – be called horsemen, but Nico went way beyond that. It was as if he and the stallion had some kind of telepathic link.

  Music emanated from a battered ghetto-blaster in the corner by the door, and the horse was moving in time to the rhythm. Try as he might, Ben couldn’t discern any physical form of instruction being passed between them; the horse just appeared to be dancing of his own volition, his neck arched and proud under the cascading black mane, his strong, feathered legs lifting high with perfect cadence as he turned this way and that. When the sound of the CD player died away and Bajnok sank into a graceful bow, Ben couldn’t resist clapping.

  Nico looked across and inclined his head with a slight smile.

  ‘I used to think I was a fair rider but that was something else!’ Ben told Jakob.

  He nodded proudly. ‘It was. I never tire of watching him. He has a true gift.’

  ‘And your son; he was gifted too?’

  ‘He was, but Stefan was still young when he died. Speed was his passion – he lived to race. Maybe if he’d lived longer he would have discovered the joy of what Nico has just shown us; but, even with the pride of a father, I can’t honestly say he would have been as good. Nico is exceptional, but I wouldn’t say it to his face.’

  ‘What’s that, old man?’ Nico was riding over; Bajnok, on a loose rein, looking a completely different horse. He jumped off and started to run the stirrups up.

  ‘I’ll ignore that,’ Jakob said, then, putting a hand on Nico’s arm, ‘May we borrow him for a few minutes?’

  Nico turned his head with a slight frown, then, glancing at Ben, flashed his white teeth and said, ‘Of course.’

  Ben’s initial protests were shot down and before he knew it he was aboard Bajnok and settling into Nico’s deep, well-worn saddle. His leg muscles set up a token protest but, in all honesty, Ben had to admit it wasn’t bad. The horse stood like a rock while Ben adjusted his stirrups and then moved off willingly to command. Having Nico watch him made Ben feel a little inadequate but, after a minute or two, when he’d begun to relax and enjoy the Friesian’s super-comfortable paces, he glanced towards the door and saw him fiddling with the portable hi-fi, apparently disinterested.

  Shortly after, Jakob called out to him to bring Bajnok back to a walk.

  ‘Now, bring him shorter. Use your legs gently and keep hold of his head. That’s it, play with the bit … ever so gentle – good, you have nice hands.’

  Bajnok’s ears flicked back and forth as he tried to work out what his strange rider was asking of him and then, suddenly, Ben heard the music start up again. Instantly, the big black bunched his muscles and drew his head in until his chin was nearly touching his chest. With a sense of wonder Ben sat still as the horse began to dance, lifting his feet extravagantly high in diagonal pairs and holding each stride for a fraction of a second at its zenith, in a kind of partially suspended animation. Up, forward and down, as if he were treading on air. Ben knew the movement was known i
n dressage circles as ‘passage’ but he’d never experienced it before, and, although he was continuing to give the aids that Jakob had instructed, he was well aware that his part in the procedure was negligible.

  Then, when he reached the other side of the building, Bajnok broke into a canter and the spell was broken. Nico turned the music down and, after a couple more circuits, Ben brought the horse to a halt beside them.

  ‘Wow! That was incredible!’ he said. ‘Thank you. He’s a wonderful horse.’

  ‘Of course!’ Nico declared. ‘He’s the best horse in the world. But you did well.’

  ‘Riding by numbers,’ someone muttered, and Ben saw that the door was open a foot or so. Ferenc had been watching too.

  ‘Pay no attention to him. Nico’s right; you did well,’ Jakob said.

  There was a derisive snort and the door closed as Ferenc withdrew.

  It was a shame, Ben reflected as he slowed the Mitsubishi down on the approach to Salisbury, that he couldn’t really pin the horse-knapping on Ferenc, but it had to be said, that if it were to be any of Ciskós, Ferenc and his sister Anna were the least likely suspects, being apparently unrelated to the main family.

  Sampling the troupe’s friendly hospitality once again had made him keener than ever to prove his suspicions right or wrong as soon as possible. In the face of Jakob’s generous investment of time and trouble to help him overcome his fear, he felt little short of a traitor.

  Thus, he was en route once more for Truman’s stables, knowing that the man himself would be out and hoping that Finch might be too, leaving the way clear for a chance to speak to Helen again.

  His luck was in.

  When he called at the house the door was opened by Elizabeth Truman, whose look of mild enquiry hardened to something much less encouraging as she saw who was darkening her doorstep. Remembering the previous night, Ben quickly revised his plans and asked instead whether Bess was around.

  Truman’s wife looked at him in suspicious silence for a moment or two but apparently found nothing sinister in the query; she then volunteered the information that it was the secretary’s afternoon off and suggested that he might try the cottage.

  Ben thanked her, adding, ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to get anyone into trouble.’

  At this, she unbent a little. ‘Well, I suppose you couldn’t have known,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t a happy time, and we have tried very hard to put it behind us. Eddie doesn’t like it spoken of.’

  ‘But realistically, a teenage romance is no great scandal. Why is it still such a big deal?’

  ‘Mr Copperfield, our family business is our affair and ours alone. Just leave it, will you? Please? For all our sakes.’

  What started out as a snub, delivered with cold dignity, ended as a heartfelt plea, and Ben wished he could give her the assurance she craved. But the more he was warned off the subject, the more determined he became to get to the root of it.

  Bess was indeed at the cottage. She invited Ben into the kitchen where a slim young man with wavy brown hair and a pleasant smile was lounging in the old armchair. Putting two and two together, Ben guessed that this must be Rollo Gallagher, the Castle Ridge stable jockey who, Truman had told him, was at present suspended from racing. No one else was around.

  ‘Oh, have you met Rollo?’ Bess asked.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Ben said. ‘Hi.’

  The jockey touched the brim of an imaginary cap and returned the greeting, not moving from his relaxed position.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you. I was wondering if Helen’s around this afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, I think she’s up at the bungalow. Why?’

  ‘I just wanted to have a word with her,’ Ben said casually.

  Bess raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You’re living dangerously. I heard about last night,’ she paused. ‘Look, I don’t want to interfere, but I’d be careful if I were you. Without being disloyal to the Guvnor, he’s not a man you’d want to cross.’

  ‘I’ve heard a couple of stories. Are you telling me they’re true?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what you’ve heard exactly. Look, I really shouldn’t be talking like this – he is my boss … ’

  ‘The truth is,’ Rollo cut in, ‘the man’s an egomaniac who’ll bulldoze anyone who stands in his way.’

  Ben glanced at him thoughtfully. He wasn’t sure if the jockey was privy to the whole Cajun King business yet.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,’ Bess protested. ‘I know he can be a bit heavy-handed but he’s not all bad.’

  Rollo shook his head. ‘You’re OK as long as you’re useful to him, but if you’re not careful he’ll pick you up, suck you dry and then spit you out.’

  ‘But you’re happy to work for him?’ Ben quizzed.

  ‘Work is work. His ambitions happen to fall in line with mine at the moment, but that doesn’t mean I don’t watch my back,’ Rollo told him. ‘And if you’re set on rocking the boat, I’d advise you to do the same.’

  ‘Thanks. Er – just one thing – is Ray Finch likely to be about?’

  ‘No. He’s gone with the Guvnor. You’ve got a clear field.’

  The yard was a hive of activity when Ben passed through it. Looking at his watch he saw it was half past four, time for the afternoon shift: grooming, skipping out and feeding.

  The Truman–Finch’s bungalow was long, low and painted white. The strip of garden that ran along the front of it was planted with winter pansies and clumps of wallflowers; the path was weed-free and the door was glossily red. All in all, it seemed the epitome of domestic bliss, but Ben had a feeling that life behind its model façade might not be the proverbial bed of roses. Helen never looked particularly happy and, from what he’d seen, her husband had a surly, discontented streak. Together, they didn’t give the appearance of a couple for whom each made the other complete.

  Helen opened the door wearing a lilac velour tracksuit and regarded her uninvited visitor with a look of undisguised hostility.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ve nothing more to say.’

  ‘You mean you’re not allowed to. Look, tell me what happened. I know his name was Stefan Varga; he came from Hungary, didn’t he?’

  Helen opened her mouth then shut it again, as if changing her mind.

  ‘And I know your father had him thrown out of the country. Come on. Fill in the gaps, it could be important.’

  ‘You think you know such a lot – you don’t know anything! Just leave me alone.’ She stepped back and tried to shut the door in Ben’s face, but he swiftly put his foot against the bottom of it. ‘Look, you’ll get me into trouble.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t be the first, would I?’

  Her face paled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your jockey friend … This air of tragedy – this family rift, it has to be over something more than a teenage crush. He got you pregnant, didn’t he?’

  She didn’t answer, but the look on her face was reply enough.

  ‘What happened to the baby? Was it adopted? Or did you have an abortion?’

  Helen stared, her face a mirror for what was obviously a maelstrom of emotions. Eventually she seemed to decide on honesty.

  ‘Yes. I had an abortion.’

  ‘And no doubt you were told it was for the best?’

  Helen’s cheeks became suffused with a much healthier pink.

  ‘My father only wanted what was best for me. I was just sixteen; too young to bring up a child.’

  ‘Oh, he’s taught you well,’ Ben said, nodding. ‘But I sense you’ve never quite accepted it, have you?’

  ‘This is none of your fucking business! What are you going to do? Write a story on us? Dad’ll crucify you if you do. Your career will be finished. Over. And you’ll be lucky if that’s all! If you don’t take your foot out of the door, I’ll tell Dad that you came here asking questions.’

  ‘And I’ll tell him you invited me to
.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘I would, too.’

  ‘He wouldn’t believe you,’ she said, but with a measure of doubt.

  ‘Shall we try him?’

  ‘You’re an interfering bastard!’

  ‘And you’re a bad-tempered bitch,’ he countered, without heat.

  That silenced her. She eyed him with loathing. ‘Look, you’ve got what you wanted. Why don’t you just go?’

  ‘Yep. I think I will. And don’t worry – I won’t tell your father if you don’t.’ He started to turn away, then stopped. ‘Tell me, did you ever hear from Stefan again?’

  She shook her head. ‘Dad used to check the post. If he did write, I never got the letters.’

  Ben didn’t think anything would be gained by telling her that Stefan had perished in a car crash, so he merely nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, anyway.’

  As he moved his foot the door was slammed shut, but not before Eddie Truman’s elder daughter had spat at him like a brat from a city slum.

  Ben shook his head as he moved away, thinking of the impeccable manners of Stefan’s father. Eddie Truman had thought the couple ill-matched – how right he had been.

  12

  BEN LEFT THE bungalow in a pensive mood and almost walked right past Fliss without seeing her.

  ‘Penny for ’em,’ she joked. ‘Though I guess, in this day and age, they’re probably more like two pounds fifty! What did you want with my sweet sister?’

  ‘There seems to be a distinct lack of familial affection amongst you Trumans,’ Ben observed. ‘Whatever happened to sisterly love?’

  ‘She’s nine years older than me. When we were young, all I ever was to her was a nuisance. We were never the right age to go out together, or talk about boys, or go shopping – you know, all the girly things that forge bonds. Quite apart from that she’s been a miserable cow for as long as I can remember!’

  ‘So you don’t remember the family scandal?’

  ‘Scandal?’

  ‘Yeah, you know. Your sister and the jockey.’