The upshot of it all was that Logan agreed, if the Csikós handed Cajun King over to Ben within the next two days, to say nothing of what he’d learned.
‘But you owe me, big time!’ he warned, when Ben had tried to thank him.
Dairy Cottage sat quietly in the winter sunshine, and Ben got stiffly out of his car to find that Mike had been watching for his return.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Yeah, thanks Mike. Our visitors haven’t been back?’
‘Nope. Not a soul.’
Despite having breakfasted at Logan’s, Ben made himself toast and coffee, lit the wood-burner, and settled down to spend the day working on the Csikós article.
By the time he got up to switch the lights on at dusk, Ben was beginning to feel a little twitchy. It was just too quiet. Why hadn’t Nico called? He’d given him two days but what was the point in delaying? They’d thrashed out the details before he left their camp. All that remained was for Nico to implement them. He prayed the Hungarian hadn’t changed his mind.
At half past six in the evening, when the winter sun was but a memory and the moon was lifting into a sky full of stars, Ben’s phone rang and he picked up the receiver to find one of his London editors on the other end of the line, sounding cautiously euphoric. He told Ben what he’d learned.
‘So I thought I’d give you a ring first, before I did anything else, just to see if you thought there was any chance it might be kosher, he finished.
‘There’s every chance,’ Ben replied, putting excitement in his own voice.
‘So the bugger got it right! The horse is missing?’ he said, alluding to his rival on the paper that had carried the story. ‘So tell me why they’re asking for you to collect the animal and not any one of a hundred other more likely people.’
Ben had been prepared for this question.
‘Maybe because I’m already involved. My brother, Mikey, works for Truman, and he was there when the horse was taken.’
‘And you didn’t think to share this titbit of news with an old chum?’
‘Sworn to silence, I’m afraid. Police business. But you were first on my list for the exclusive.’
‘I should sincerely hope so!’ He took a deep breath. ‘Right; action. First things first: do you know where this Turf Hill place is?’
‘I think so. If you send the photographer here he can follow me.’
‘He’s already on his way. He was in Southampton anyway so he should be with you in twenty. They say the horse will be there at seven. How long will it take you to get there?’
‘All of that,’ Ben said. ‘Better give me your guy’s mobile number and I’ll give him directions.’
‘OK, and meanwhile I’ll call Truman to get his first reaction.’
‘Er – look, could you hold that thought for ten minutes or so? We don’t want him getting to the rendezvous first, do we? You can take it from me he’s a bit of a sod to deal with, and you don’t want him buggering up your big moment, do you? Ten minutes’d just give us a bit of a head start.’
‘Just at the moment, Benjamin, I’d give you just about anything,’ his editor declared.
‘Ah, good. I was just coming to that,’ Ben said with alacrity. ‘Have you got your chequebook handy?’
The return of Cajun King to his rightful owner went more smoothly than Ben could have dared hope.
The photographer followed his instructions to the letter, arriving at the New Forest car park at Turf Hill just seconds after Ben. Together they set off along the gravel track beyond the barrier, with Mouse trotting at their heels.
Ben had jogged the half-mile or so across the open, moonlit moorland, cursed every step of the way by his overweight colleague, who complained that he’d got his equipment to carry as well. But Ben kept going, anxious that no late dog-walker should discover the horse before they did and report it to someone official or, worse still, take it home. It was the one possible flaw in the plan, but it didn’t happen.
Just as the anonymous email had promised, Cajun King – with the dye removed from his white star, and his tail returned to its usual meagre proportions – was waiting in the stout wooden corral into which the New Forest ponies were herded come round-up, or drifting, time.
With the photographer snapping frantically, Ben steeled himself to enter the pen and catch the horse. Happily, in the event, this proved remarkably easy with the benefit of a tip Nico had given him about King’s penchant for Polo mints. Even so, without his recent sessions under Jakob’s calm and patient eye, Ben wasn’t sure he could have pulled it off.
The horse had behaved like a star, doing no more than jiggling beside Ben as they approached the car park once more to find it ablaze with vehicle lights and noise. When they were still fifty yards distant, Truman, Fliss, Rice and Ray Finch hurried out to meet them and the photographer got pictures to build a career on.
In the midst of all the excitement, as the horse was led away to the luxury of the Castle Ridge horsebox, Ben turned and caught Helen’s husband watching him.
The look in his eyes would have curdled milk.
17
IF BEN HAD expected the pace of life to be calmer after Cajun King’s celebrated return to the Castle Ridge fold, he would have been sadly mistaken. Almost before the ink had dried on the first, sensational front-page story he was hot property, and reporters, racing journalists, TV and radio companies and local newspapers all wanted to hear his side of what looked set to be the greatest racing story of the year.
As ‘The Man Who Brought Cajun King In From The Cold’ Ben was the hero of the hour, and the media seemed reluctant to accept his stated opinion that he’d been chosen for the task purely on the basis of his connection with Castle Ridge through his brother and the article he’d been researching.
‘A lot of people are speculating that it was you who brought about Cajun King’s release; are you saying it wasn’t?’
‘It’s a claim I’d love to be able to make but, unfortunately, I can’t,’ Ben told them regretfully.
‘But as the man who famously beat the Jockey Club to the line over the Goodwood betting scam, you surely don’t expect us to believe that you weren’t taken into Truman’s confidence over the disappearance of his top horse?’
‘No, of course not. I was aware of the kidnap, and naturally I did what I could – as did the police – so maybe our investigations frightened the kidnappers into giving the horse up, who knows?’
‘Have you any idea where Cajun King might have been hidden over the past eleven days?’
Ben shrugged. ‘He could have been anywhere, really. That’s what made it so hard. One horse in a field looks much like another from a distance, especially with a rug on. All I can say is that he looks to have been well looked after.’
‘Why do you think the kidnappers chose to return the horse in such a public way?’
‘If I ever meet them I’ll ask them,’ Ben promised.
There was laughter and the questions went on, and by returning non-specific answers, he was able to get through without selling his soul to the devil.
DI Ford was not so easily satisfied.
‘Well, it looks like you’ve done it again,’ he observed, settling himself into one of Truman’s red leather chairs and regarding Ben with a thoughtful eye. ‘The Goodwood Scandal and now this. It would seem that CID has missed out on a star recruit in you.’
From his position, leaning on the mantelpiece, Hancock smirked.
It was the second day after King’s return, and Truman himself was out on the gallops, no doubt watched by dozens of hacks and tipsters eager for a sighting of the equine celebrity of the moment. Ben was alone in the trainer’s study with the two officers.
‘I’m afraid I can’t take the credit for this one, Inspector,’ he said, ignoring Hancock. ‘I think I came up against the same dead ends as you did.’
‘I daresay you did, but it’s not the dead ends I’m interested in, Mr Copperfield. It’s whatever you found out that precip
itated this sudden change of heart from the kidnappers that I’d like to hear about.’
‘You don’t think they just got cold feet, then?’
‘It’s possible, but I have an enquiring mind, Ben – I like to think it’s what got me where I am today – and I find I’m always exploring other possibilities. I find I’m always saying to myself, what if?’
Ben began to feel a little uneasy. The DI was an extremely clever man; Logan had warned him of that.
‘Go on … ’
‘Well, in this instance, I find myself thinking what if Mr Truman – who I secretly suspect of having quite a, shall we say, colourful history – what if he put you on to a lead that he didn’t feel able, for whatever reason, to mention to myself or Hancock here?’
Ben waited.
‘And then, what if this person, or persons, were persuaded – by whatever means – that it would be in their best interests to give the horse up in such a fashion that the motives of all parties could be left discreetly out of the public eye?’
‘That,’ Ben said admiringly, ‘was quite a sentence!’
Ford’s lips twitched.
‘Wasn’t it just?’
‘So, if that was what happened, what would you say the chances were of you ever getting to the bottom of it?’
‘Not good, maybe,’ Ford admitted. ‘But it wouldn’t stop us trying. It wouldn’t be unprecedented for someone to have their collar felt, way down the line, for something they thought they’d got away with.’
Ben was relieved that the DI’s suspicions seemed to be leading him in a direction that would almost certainly not trouble the Csikós but, even so, he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the tone of the conversation.
He shook his head, affecting mild puzzlement.
‘If you’re after some kind of confession, Inspector, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. I’ve certainly had no hand in anything Truman might have engineered. Is it really likely after this?’ He raised a hand to touch his face, which still bore the marks left by Spence and his pal. ‘OK. I’ll admit he did ask me to check out a couple of things for him; a couple of people he felt might hold grievances, but the arrangement wasn’t a success. We have fundamental differences, Mr Truman and I, and I discovered that the more I came to know him the less I liked him. Apparently the feeling was mutual.’
Ford scratched his head for a moment, looking preoccupied, then said, ‘What do you make of this business with the long-lost grandson?’
Ben’s palms started to feel a little sweaty. What was Ford fishing for?
‘In what way?’
‘In any way.’ The DI evidently wasn’t going to help. ‘What do you know?’
‘Much the same as you, I expect.’ He gave Ford a potted version of the sorry tale of Stefan and Helen. ‘Then, when Stephen turned sixteen, he decided to try and track down his dad.’
Ford nodded. ‘That’s about how I have it, though Truman didn’t mention the child when I first spoke to him about Stefan.’
‘Yeah, well, believe it or not, he didn’t know Helen and Elizabeth had conspired against him to stay in contact with the boy. As you can imagine, he wasn’t a happy bunny.’
‘Did you try and track down the jockey?’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t have much luck. Lost the trail after he left the country,’ Ben said casually.
‘That doesn’t surprise me. From what Truman told me, I’ve a strong suspicion that the young man was here on someone else’s passport and, as his description probably fits half the Romany population of Europe, I think the kid’s going to stay fatherless.’
‘He’d have done better to stay grandfatherless, too. Though I guess you can’t blame him for wanting to find his family, whatever it’s like. He seems a nice enough lad.’
‘Mm.’ Ford appeared to be absorbed in squeezing a splinter from the tip of one of his fingers. He spoke without raising his eyes.
‘What do you think of Finch?’
‘I try not to, unless I have to. Why?’
‘He has the look of someone with a secret. Never quite meets the eyes, does Mr Finch.’
‘Well, I’m pretty sure he’s selling the odd tankful of diesel behind pa-in-law’s back, if that’s anything,’ Ben said.
‘Is he now? Well, well. You are a mine of information. Have you mentioned this to Truman?’
‘No, not yet. I thought life was complicated enough.’
Over Ford’s shoulder, Ben could see Hancock scowling.
‘Look, Inspector, is there anything in particular you wanted to ask me? Because, if not, I’ve got a deadline to meet, and I promised Lisa I’d take her to the theatre tonight.’
‘Anything nice?’ Ford switched effortlessly to social matters.
‘Haven’t the foggiest, but she assures me I’ll enjoy it, so who am I to argue?’
‘Well, in that case, I wish you a comfortable seat and a large ice cream in the interval,’ the DI said with a smile. ‘I’ll no doubt see you around, Mr Copperfield. I should imagine you’ve been invited to witness the big race?’
‘Oh, yes – through clenched teeth.’
‘Let’s hope the bloody thing wins!’ Ford said as they shook hands.
It looked as though the day of the Cheltenham Gold Cup was going to be just one more wet and windy day in a wet and windy week, but by mid-morning the heavy grey blanket of cloud had separated in places to allow the March sunshine through. By noon the sky was clear and very blue.
As the weather lifted, so did the spirits of the racegoers, and it was a large and noisy crowd that gathered to witness one of the most important day’s racing in the National Hunt calendar. Smart casuals made of corduroy or tweed were topped off with an assortment of hats, ranging from the stylish to the purely functional and, at ground level, the occasional pair of high heels slipped and slithered through the mud next to the more sensible stout shoes and wellies.
As the start of the big race drew close, long queues formed at the Tote windows and around the bookies on the rails. In view of the heavy going, money was spread fairly evenly amongst three or four of the more fancied runners and favouritism chopped and changed every few minutes.
Truman had hired a large, glass-fronted box alongside the finishing straight and filled it to bursting with family, friends, and owners, very few of whom Ben knew at all. DI Ford was there, apparently at ease and accompanied by a well-rounded, fortyish lady he introduced as his wife. Hancock had either not merited an invitation or had been too busy to take it up. Ben rather suspected the former.
Fliss and Helen were there to act as joint hostesses during their father’s frequent absences; Helen sipped premature champagne, clearly enjoying the occasion, whilst her younger sister just as clearly railed against her enforced role. Ben knew she would far rather be down among the mud and horses.
One person Ben couldn’t see was Elizabeth. When he got the chance he quizzed Fliss over it.
‘Ah,’ she said significantly. ‘Actually she’s packed her bag and gone off for a fortnight’s holiday with Aunty Tilda and Stephen.’
‘I bet that didn’t go down well.’
‘No, you can say that again, but she went anyway. I was never so surprised, and Dad was gobsmacked! I think it must be the first time she’s stood up to him in thirty-five years of marriage. God knows what’ll happen when she gets back.’
If she gets back, Ben thought, but kept it to himself.
Rollo Gallagher put in a mud-splattered appearance between the first couple of races, shaking hands with the owners whose horses he was due to ride and listening solemnly to a series of instructions from Truman, who was splitting his time between paddock, parade ring and box.
Rollo said ‘hi’ to Ben as he passed on his way out.
‘Got your instructions, then?’ Ben observed, low-voiced.
‘Mmm.’
‘And do you follow them?’
‘If it suits me,’ the jockey said. ‘Usually I just listen and nod, and then go out and follow my
instincts. If I win, he pats himself on the back, and if I don’t, I get bawled out for not doing as I’m told. We both know it’s rubbish, but we play the game anyway.’
‘Isn’t Bess here?’ Ben asked.
Rollo jerked his head.
‘Over in Tattersalls with the riff-raff,’ he said with a grin. ‘But she prefers it there, anyway.’
When he’d gone, Ben took a handful of canapés from the heavily laden table at the side of the room and left the overwarm room to follow him down the stairs and out into the fresh, breezy sunshine.
Here, one of the first people he bumped into was Belinda Kepple, who was warming her hands round a large paper cupful of cappuccino, as was her companion: a tall, lean, man with short, iron-grey hair and tanned good-looks.
‘Hi, Belinda.’ He nodded to the man. ‘Dad.’
John Copperfield turned with eyebrows raised.
‘Ben. Well, well. Was that horse I sent along suitable for what your friends wanted?’
‘Yeah, fine. Thanks for that.’ He turned to the trainer. ‘So how’s Rackham’s horse – Tuppenny Tim, isn’t it? I see he’s quite well up in the betting.’
Belinda bent towards him, conspiratorially.
‘Don’t tell anyone, but I’m quietly confident,’ she told him, and the excitement was there in her voice. ‘He’s got the heart of a lion and he’s a complete mudlark! He’ll run on anything, but on this kind of going he’ll stay forever, when all those around him are floundering. You should put a fiver on him. I think he’s got a real chance.’
‘OK. I might just do that. Er … What you said that time – about Mikey – were you serious?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Why? Is he looking to leave Truman?’
‘I think he might be, soon. Even if he doesn’t know it yet. Thanks. I’ll be in touch.’
He moved on, stopping to take advantage of the mid-race lull in business at the Tote and put twenty pounds on Rackham’s horse to win the Gold Cup, and ten pounds each way on Cajun King. Then, lured by the smell, he bought a large cappuccino, adding another for Fliss, who appeared unexpectedly by his side.
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