by Joe McNally
Mave reached to the shelf in front of her and passed me a black, beaten-up laptop. ‘Digging is for manual labourers. Here’s your shovel.’
Smiling, I took it. ‘It’s got more dents and scratches than a shovel,’ I said, ‘what’ve you been doing with it?’
‘Chewing it. It is the coder’s equivalent of chewing a pencil.’
‘Mave, you never chewed anything that wasn’t fried.’ I opened the laptop, she nodded toward it. ‘That qualifies,’ she said.
I gave her my quizzical look. She stopped typing and turned to me, ‘Chips.’
16
I reached Dil’s as dawn broke. He had three horses for me to school before our breakfast meeting. I parked by the big paddock and walked round past Arnie’s cottage. Arnie was the head lad, so he qualified for a place of his own. The other grooms shared a hostel, which had recently been upgraded at Vita’s insistence. She was certainly putting Dil through the financial wringer. Maybe that’s why he’d returned to betting big.
As I passed Arnie’s cottage, I heard the front door open, and I turned to bid him good morning.
It was Prim.
She closed the door. ‘Morning, Eddie.’
‘Morning…Prim.’ It was an auto response. My brain was working through the possibilities. Arnie was sixty-seven. Prim was the boss’s mistress. Or had been. Even for revenge, she would not be sleeping with the head lad. My face must have shown her every turn of the tumblers as my mind tried to unlock the puzzle. She said, ‘I’m living here now.’
‘Since when?’ It was more surprise than curiosity that prompted me.
‘Since Vita Brodie decided that, contrary to the age-old protests of Mister Lennon and Mister McCartney, money can indeed buy you love.’
‘Dil slung you out?’
Her nose wrinkled and her lovely mouth half-frowned then half-smiled, ‘That’s not quite the way he put it. When we got back from Uttoxeter, Dil managed to persuade me it was actually a very good idea.’
Her dark hair was drawn up tightly in a bun. Prim had the most elegant neck. She had been born in Spain and, looking at her, I was often reminded of that framed print you used to see everywhere of the Flamenco dancer in the red dress. The whites of her eyes shone. I said, ‘You serious?’
‘Dil says that once the business is secure, he’ll move her on.’
‘Vita, and all her horses?’
She nodded, and blinked once, then held my gaze with a professional smile. I said nothing, but Prim read me again and said, ‘I’ll be forty next week, Eddie. You’d be amazed at what women my age can believe.’
‘And you’d be amazed at what women your age deserve. And it isn’t Dil Grant. And I’ll happily tell him to his face he’s a fool.’
She raised a finger, ‘Ah, you’d be in trouble there…Dil assures me often he is nobody’s fool.’
‘But you don’t believe him.’
‘He isn’t nobody’s fool. He’s my fool.’
I leant forward and kissed her softly on each cheek, then I nodded toward the main house, ‘Is he in the kitchen?’
‘I believe so.’
‘And Vita’s there?’
She nodded slowly, those sparkling eyes still looking assured and patient. I said, ‘Keep torturing her with the thigh boots and the tight two-piece.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve promised trousers and loose jumpers until she’s gone.’
I shook my head, smiling, ‘Pick a line you won’t cross, Prim, or he’ll have you in a Nun’s habit.’
‘He has,’ she said softly, as I turned away, ‘several times.’
We sat at the table below Dil’s ceiling light, the long shade hanging by chains, like those you see in pool halls. The harshness the glow cast on Vita drew my eyes to the tiny wrinkles that the collagen treatment had failed to fill. Her brow and cheeks had the smoothness of a well-prepared corpse.
She spooned marmalade onto brown toast, raising her eyes to look at me as she did so, ‘What do you think, Eddie? Why have they picked on us?’ Vita had been born in Stirling, Scotland, the only child of a man with a global biscuit business. “Shortbread!” Vita would have corrected me as I’d heard her do to an elderly trainer in the winner’s enclosure one day.
The Stirling Shortbread brand, castle, kilted piper and all, had been sold by her before the grass had regrown on her father’s grave. She’d lived most of her life in London, but spent a lot of time in New York. She was a pedigree woman with a mongrel, mid-Atlantic accent.
I said, ‘I wish I knew why they picked on us, Vita.’
Dil said, ‘We shouldn’t rule out coincidence. Not yet. I know we’re two from three, but let’s see who’s next.’
Vita said, ‘I’d rather catch whoever is doing it before there is a next.’
I said. ‘It’s how as much as who, I think. If we can find out how, we can check each horse before the start. Then the who doesn’t matter so much.’
Dil said, ‘It might not matter for the future, but this guy’s deprived us of prize money…well, of the chance of prize money, not to mention a couple more winners on the stats table.’
I said, ‘And, not to mention either, the services of your stable jockey for two weeks. Or indeed, from a purely personal viewpoint but I hope you don’t mind me raising it, of almost killing me.’
Vita smiled and bit into her toast. I let her chew long enough to be able to speak then said, ‘You have horses at Pimlico, don’t you?’
‘I do. A dozen.’
‘You come across any incidents over there of jockeys using buzzers?’
Vita said, ‘I heard that at Ruidoso Downs at one time so many were using them it sounded like a full blown orchestra. But we know this is not buzzers, right? Buzzers are used by jockeys.’
I said, ‘But what if someone fitted one under the girth or the saddle just before the race and it was set off remotely?’
She broke toast with both hands, and raised her eyebrows.
Dil said, ‘I thought that was off the list? Vogel wasn’t on duty yesterday.’
I said, ‘It doesn’t have to be just one of the starting team.’
‘Who is Vogel?’ Vita said.
I told her.
‘Sounds like small fry,’ she said.
’They could be working for somebody big,’ I said.
Dil said. ‘You seem pretty fixed on this, Eddie?’
‘It’s all I’ve got. Other than jolting the horse with a major shock, I can’t think how else they’re doing it.’
Vita said, ‘Could someone be shooting them?’
‘That was my first thought,’ I said.
‘And?’
‘And I got talked out of it by Mac who reckoned it was impossible unless they knew the exact position of the horse at the time they wanted to make the shot. If their target is buried in the pack, the betting coup’s buried with it.’
She propped her chin on her hand, elbow on table, ‘But what if the jockey was in on it? Present company excepted, of course. They’re trialling things with us, then, when the cash is down, they’re bribing the jockey?’
I said, ‘I don’t know Vince McCrory well, but I can’t see him risking his life for a few quid.’
Dil broke in, ‘But how much risk was involved if he knew it was coming? Didn’t you say you were amazed how he stayed on when the horse jinked? Maybe he steered it round the hurdle to make sure of disqualification.’
I reran the incident in my mind…’That wasn’t steering, Dil, he jinked, I’m sure of it.’
They both looked at me the same way, a way that said, are you really sure? I said. ‘I’ve asked Mac to get me the patrol films for each race. I’ll watch Vince again a few times. I’ll watch them all.’
‘When will you have them?’ Vita asked.
‘Pretty soon. They’re online. He’s sending me a link.’
She said, ‘Why don’t you call him and get it now and we can all watch it?’
I glanced at Dil. Vita said, ’Six eyes are better than tw
o.’
I picked up my phone and walked outside to get a signal. Prim crossed the yard. She turned and smiled at me, seeming confident again of her place in Dil’s world. But in the room I’d just left there was no doubting who’d been in charge.
Mac answered, ‘Eddie, good morning. What can I do for you?’
17
Dil put his laptop on the kitchen table, adjusting the lid until Vita was happy with the angle. She said to me, ‘Can you see that okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘Right, Dil, let’s play the first one.’
It was the official patrol film from Bangor. Every race is filmed from different angles for what Mac calls ‘integrity purposes’. In the old days, there were stories of jockeys at fogbound country courses pulling up on the far side and rejoining the race when the runners came around again.
I watched myself on board Montego Moon as we circled at the start, and was surprised to find a nervous lump in my throat. This was my first viewing of the race that could have killed me.
‘Watch Vogel,’ I said, as the assistant starter moved toward me. Smiling, he looked up at me as he felt the girth, twanged it then slapped Montego Moon’s rump and turned away.
‘Rewind that,’ Vita said.
We watched it six times. Vogel took no more time with my girth check than with the others, except for two where he notched the girths up.
The film moved to where we lined up to start. Vita said, ‘Spot the difference?’
We looked at her. She smiled, still watching the screen, ‘Just pause it, Dil, will you?’ she said, and turned to us, ‘What was different about Montego Moon?’
‘With Vogel?’ Dil asked.
She nodded. He shrugged. I’d noticed nothing and felt it best not to ask for another replay. I said, ‘Go on.’
Vita said, ‘Ours was the only horse he slapped on the rump.’
We ran it once more. She was right. Vita looked at me, no sense of superiority about her, just a keenness to move on, and we watched the rest of the race.
Seeing myself flying from the saddle as the mare ran straight into that fence stopped my breath. I held it involuntarily until I saw my head hit the ground…the air trickled from me as I realized how lucky I’d been to survive.
She reached to pause it. ‘You okay?’ she asked.
I nodded.
We watched the Cheltenham footage. Vogel spent no more time on Spalpeen than on any other that did not need a girth adjustment. Spalpeen was one of four who got a slap on the rump from him.
The film showed Spalpeen being switched to the inside going down the hill, offering a rifle shot to anyone on the infield who was skilled enough. But the manoeuvre McCrory had made was far from unusual. The inside was the shortest route.
McCarthy had included the aerial footage from the blimp, and while the side-on film had been inconclusive, the overhead shots left no doubt in my mind that Spalpeen jinked before the hurdle. ’No way did Vince steer him,’ I said.
The Uttoxeter clip showed nothing out of the ordinary in the girth check, unless you count the fact that Bernard Jeffries gave every horse a soft rump slap before walking away. We watched the manner in which Kingdom Come veered to avoid facing any more jumps, and it seemed more controlled than Spalpeen’s move, less of a sudden jink. I said, ‘That looked more like I steered than that McCrory steered.’
‘But you didn’t, obviously?’ Vita said.
‘Nope. He went sideways. I fell off.’
We watched it twice more. Dil said, ‘Well, exact same behaviour each time. Went from moving easy and relaxed to off the wall, like the hounds of hell were after them.’
Vita nodded slowly.
I said, ‘They weren’t exactly the same.’
They looked at me. I said, ‘Montego Moon didn’t veer off. She ran straight into that fence. Blind.’
Vita tilted her head to look at the ceiling while she considered, ‘You’re right. When you say blind, do you think the mare was literally blinded somehow and that’s what panicked her?’
‘No, not literally, though you’re making me wonder, now.’
Dil said, ‘Maybe she really was in what they call a blind panic. She’s in a race, her eyesight goes, her blood’s up, she can hear everything around her galloping. Would she stop or would she panic because she couldn’t see?’
‘How would they blind her in the middle of a race?’ I asked.
Dil shrugged. Vita uncrossed her arms and said, ‘Let me see that Cheltenham start again.’
After several attempts to freeze frame Vogel as he raised his left hand to slap Spalpeen, Vita got what she wanted, ‘There!’ she yelled, leaning forward and pointing at the screen. Dil hit the pause button. ‘That glint. Is that a ring?’
‘On his finger?’ Dil asked then seemed suitably embarrassed when he saw how Vita looked at him. She turned to me, ‘Can you ask your friend McCarthy if his guys can get a good quality blow up of that frame?’
‘I can ask. You think there’s something on the ring?’
‘I’m thinking it could have a tiny spike on the inside which might have been dipped in something. Let’s have a look at the other two starts again.’
No ring glint was obvious at Bangor or Uttoxeter, both dull and overcast days. I went outside again and tried Mac’s number: voicemail.
Vita asked when he’d be likely to return my call. ‘No knowing,’ I said. She was excited.
I couldn’t go with this blind theory, but she was getting fixed on it and I’d learnt enough about her in the past hour to know arguing was pointless.
I took my leave and set off for Stratford where I had two mounts booked. On the drive, images of Vita shuffled in my mind like a playing card set full of queens with different facial expressions.
The gathering energy from her as we’d watched those films had flushed Dil out onto the margins. Her interest in me had been like a prosecutor’s concentration on a witness.
Her money had brought her all the worldly things, and it had given her a servant in Dil, and the satisfaction of depriving Prim Romanic of a man she cared about. Vita’s joy with each ‘purchase’ hadn’t lasted and now, bizarrely, the attacks on her horses were giving her pleasure in her attempt to solve the mystery.
18
After a luckless day at Stratford, I drove north to see Ben Searcey in Liverpool. He was waiting in the pub we’d met in last time. I settled in an old chair as Ben got soft drinks from the bar.
When he’d sat back down, Ben said, ‘You’re getting good at escaping from these runaway horses. I watched that Uttoxeter race again before I came out…slick dismount.’
I smiled, ‘If they start awarding points for it, maybe I’ll win something this season.’
‘What’s the news?’
I told him what had happened. He said, ’So Vogel’s still in the picture?’
‘Long shot, a very long shot, but Vita Brodie’s getting quite attached to it, so I think you might be back on Vogel’s case soon.’
‘But you think it’s a waste of time?’
I sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of a long day, ‘I think Vita’s wicked stepmother fantasies are taking over. A silver ring dipped in some kind of potion that blinds a horse at a certain point then unblinds it.’
‘Unblinds? Good word, Eddie,’ he chuckled.
‘I wish I could unblind Vita, but she’s just getting started. And I haven’t a bloody clue myself, so it’s not as though I can come up with an alternative.’
‘Well, maybe the best we can do is rule Vogel out?’
‘Might not be easy. Whatever you come up with in Vogel’s favour, I suspect Vita will find a way of objecting.’
‘We can only try,’ he said, smiling as he raised his glass toward me. I toasted his optimism, ‘How is Alice doing?’ I said.
‘At a wee bit of a loss, if I’m honest.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing, that’s the problem. Young DJ has not been around since I called Bruno Guta.’
>
‘Quick worker.’
‘And effective.’
‘What’s the gossip in Deadwood?’
‘If anybody knows, nobody’s saying. Word is that DJ just disappeared. His “troops” as he calls them, are claiming he’s away on some kind of special mission.’
‘To a toilet somewhere, shitting himself, I’d think after meeting a proper pro.’
Ben smiled, ‘I’d like to have been there, to see his face.’
‘Alice must be pleased. Did you tell her about Bruno?’
‘Not yet, but I’m thinking maybe I’d better. She’s kind of lost her focus without DJ around.’
I thought again of Vita Brodie. ‘Is it humans that are strange, or just women?’ I said.
‘Men are too simple. We’re all still cavemen at heart,’ Ben sipped his orange drink and settled back, ’Looking at it Darwin’s way, I’d say men clumped their way straight up an evolutionary set of rock stairs, lifting their big feet only when they had to whereas your woman, well, she’s kind of glided up a smooth, silky ramp, all twists and turns, seeing the signs well in advance and changing course as necessary.’
Half-smiling, I looked at him, ‘You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?’
He sat forward and put down his glass, ’Since I got sober, I probably have. I very probably have. Alice, my wife that is, was a clever woman, and she tried all she knew to get me to stop drinking. Alice, my daughter, was even cleverer than her mother, she realized from very young that I was a lost cause entirely and didn’t waste her time on me.’
‘You mentioned she jumped ship when her mother went to America, what actually happened? How did she get out of going?’
‘She jumped ship. Literally. She read her mother as skilfully as she read me and made sure she didn’t give her the faintest idea that she wanted to stay here. Colin, Alice’s man, had this romantic vision of a new life, starting with a long voyage. They all got on at Southampton and, not long before the ship sailed, Alice quietly got back off again.’