by Sam O'Brien
“Touché.”
They burst out laughing.
“Where’s Beatrice?” asked Jess.
“Gone.”
“She find someone with money and a title?”
He sighed. “They all do in the end.”
“You’re after the wrong type. What happened to that French chick? What was her name? You liked her.”
His face drained of colour. “Elodie. I thought she liked me, too, but apparently not enough. When her father realised it was getting serious, he forbade her to see me. Said I was beneath her. I guess she agreed with him, or she didn’t want to lose her trust fund.” He shrugged.
Jess punched him playfully on the arm. “Fuck ‘em, Andrew. Stuck-up cows. You don’t need that kind of shit.”
He sighed. “Anyway, I’m off home tonight. I haven’t seen my parents since September.”
“You’d better hide your dad’s golf clubs,” she said, grinning.
Andrew chuckled.
“Seriously, though, it did look bad. How can he afford to play anyway?”
“Remember a few years ago when the club built the new driving range and the extension to the clubhouse?”
Jess shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Well, he paid for it. All of it. In return, they gave him life membership including green fees, and named the bar after him. Doesn’t cost him a penny to play there.” He paused, smirking. “They’ve renamed the bar, though.”
“I bet they have,” Jess took a sip of her vodka. “How’s your mum doing?”
Andrew let out a long breath. “OK, I suppose.”
“She still drinking?”
“Oh yes, but for different reasons,” he said peeling the label from his beer.
“What?”
“She used to drink to kill time between parties,” he said, without looking up. “Now she does it to stay numb.”
Jess looked concerned. “You should get her treatment.”
“Mmm. She’s a functioning alcoholic; socially acceptable. Truth is, I don’t really know what to do,” he stared blankly at his bottle.
They looked into each other’s eyes and shared a moment of silence.
“How’re your parents,” he said, eventually.
“Oh, Dad’s in good form. Driving Mum dotty, moaning about the state of Britain today, crime rate, etc. He wishes he was serving with me, you know!”
Andrew smiled. “He’s a long time out of uniform.”
“Try telling him that.”
“He must be proud of you.”
“Yeah.” She beamed.
“When’s your next bike race?”
“Next month. This is my last drink.” She rattled the ice in her glass. “Hardcore training from now till victory.” She leaned in towards him, still smiling. “Even if the weather’s shit for the race, I’m going to kick their arses!”
Andrew could see she felt the same about cycling as he had about race riding. “I bet you will!”
She cocked her head to one side. “You still miss it? Riding, I mean.”
“All the time.” He glanced out the window at the runners clacking over a flight of hurdles.
“I suppose it’s not quite the same being a salesman instead of a horseman,” she teased.
Andrew looked shocked. “Cheeky cow! I am not a salesman. I, I–” He stopped abruptly. “Well, I suppose I am, most of the time. It’s what my job seems to have turned into, without my even noticing. I love being on the farm and around horses, but…” His voice trailed off.
“You were happier when you were riding and training. Now it’s like you don’t have time for life any more.”
“I’ve been pretty busy lately, I suppose.”
“Lately? Ever since you started at Brockford, more like. I don’t get it; what’s it all for? When does it ever stop? How many horses do you need to sell?”
His eyes widened. “Well, I’m paying for Mum and Dad’s house and other expenses. My wage won’t cover that, so I need whatever commission Charles throws my way. I can’t just stop.” He finished his beer and smiled. “God, Jess, you coppers. I swear you can read my mind.”
She flashed him a mischievous grin. “I was able to do that before I joined the Force.”
He nodded in amused agreement. “You know, I’ve been thinking lately – about the horse business. Despite the crash a few years ago, it occurs to me we’re still breeding too much rubbish.” He explained about Capital Flight and the sales. She listened intently. “But the income keeps Brockford going and my parents with a roof over their heads.”
“You could be right, too much of anything’s never a good thing. I mean, there’s too many people in this country, not enough jobs or money to go around, and the crime rate only goes up.” She cocked a finger at him. “Look, can’t you talk to your horse friends about the over-breeding thing?”
He shook his head despondently. “For all the horse people I know, they’re little more than contacts or acquaintances. No real friends. If I was to mention it, they’d laugh at me. Charles would probably fire me… Or at least waterboard me into submission!” They both laughed, but the smile slipped away from Andrew’s face.
“Charles’d say I’m like Catherine Fellowes. She spoke seriously a few years ago, just before the crash, about restricting stallion books through legislation; some kind of animal breed protection law. She was also on about cutting the fixture list, having a blank day each week to make life easier for trainers and staff. Everyone went mad about it. Especially the bookies. Poor woman was killed by a mugger shortly after that.”
“Oh yes,” said Jess. “I remember. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Her policeman’s mind was ticking over. “With all the turmoil in the banks and what have you. Her family was famous for dodging taxes.”
“She’d have been a good woman for racing.”
“Her great-grandfather invented the trust fund.”
“Really?”
“I’m telling you. Look it up.”
“How do you know that?”
“I do read, you know.”
“Not just a pretty face then?”
Jess shot him a sarcastic grin. “You should read more than the Racing Post.”
“I do!”
They grinned at each other. She arched her brow and rattled her glass. “One for the road?”
“Alright then. What’ll it be? A shot of EPO? Did you cycle here?”
“Cheeky fucker. Do I look that bedraggled?” She ran a hand over her hair.
“Not at all. You look lovely.” He flashed her a smile as he got up. She almost blushed.
Andrew got the drinks and was turning away from the bar when a tall, thin, well-dressed man pushed into him. The beer fell out of his hand and shattered on the stone floor.
“Oi, steady on there,” said Andrew, vaguely recognising the man.
The man was in his fifties and looked pale and haggard. He stared at Andrew with a look of pure hatred. “Wake up, cunt,” he muttered, dragging his finger across his throat. “Or I’ll get you and all of them.”
“Now look here. What the bloody hell…”
The man turned on his heel and marched out into the crowd. Andrew rushed over to Jess. “Did you see that?”
She turned her attention away from the fifth race and gave Andrew a blank look.
“Some old guy. He knocked my drink over, called me the ‘c’ word, and threatened me.”
Her eyes went wide. “You’re joking?”
“He was–” He looked out at the people. “Nah, he’s gone.”
“D’ you know him?”
“I’ve a feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I just can’t place it.” He stared into space. “You know, I was accosted at the sales too, and Charles’ car was vandalised.” He told her all about it. “It’s got to be the same guy, right?”
“Very weird,” she said. A mocking smile appeared. “D’you want to fill out a report?”
“Ha, bloody ha!” They both smiled.
�
�Go on then, get yourself another beer.”
He returned with a beer and said, “I nearly forgot. There’s more. Wait till you hear this!” He told her about Billy Malone.
She listened, intent on every detail. “Bloody hell, never a dull moment in your world is there? You’d swear you worked the beat in Lambeth. Who’d you reckon did it then?”
“Everyone says he has enemies all over the place – he’s ripped off half of Europe. But,” he paused, screwing up his face.
“What?”
“I can’t help but think it had something to do with selling Lord Fowler’s fillies. The timing’s a bit convenient and Charles was a bit weird about it. So was Billy, when I called him.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I’m just getting paranoid.”
She twirled the ice in her glass. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Racing’s cleaner than it used to be, Jess, but with some of these new owners… I mean, ex-Soviet agents and Georgian billionaires. Who knows how they made their money?”
“It’s not just them. That Rupert Calcott’s a dodgy fucker. Private security? Huh! Gun-toting Psychos ‘r’ Us. And he’s a mate of your posh boss. Thick as thieves, my Dad’d say.”
“I agree about Calcott, he sends a shiver up my spine, but Charles isn’t all that bad underneath that army veneer. Despite what my looney assailant thinks.”
She smirked. “What, so you’re his mate now, are you?”
“No, but he’s under a lot of pressure. Got to keep the cash rolling into Brockford.”
“Pressure does strange things to people.”
“Yeah, I suppose. But assault or murder?” Andrew dismissed the thought, but his stomach was doing somersaults. He found himself thinking of the photographs behind Charles’ desk. The SAS weren’t out in the desert on a camping trip. Rupert Calcott was probably capable of anything.
Andrew downed his beer and stared out at the racecourse.
They stayed on their stools talking until the place cleared out after the last race. Andrew racked his brains, but could not quite remember where he had seen that man before.
Chapter 12
Chequers - January 18th, 2012
Charles shared the backseat of Piers’ Bentley. Their driver stopped at the police checkpoint and handed the invitations, identification and security passes to the officer.
The policeman tapped on the window. Piers lowered it and arched his brow at the uniformed man. The officer glanced at them and returned his eyes to the documents, while his partner ticked them off the list. The boot and the undercarriage were checked and they were ushered up the long driveway.
Chequers was alive with activity. Over one hundred and fifty had been invited to the diplomatic reception, and there were nearly as many police on duty.
Credentials were shown again at the front door and guests were given glasses of champagne and shown to the Long Gallery.
The huge room buzzed with conversation and the antiques were almost obscured by the throng. Clusters of Chinese stood around being chatted up by politicians and captains of industry, with teams of interpreters speaking rapidly.
Charles skimmed the room and caught sight of Eddie at the far end beside the Chinese Vice President, introducing those who queued up to meet the next leader of the Chinese dragon. Eddie was flanked by an aide, and to the right of the Vice President stood Ling, whispering into his ear.
Charles nudged Piers. “Target acquired.”
Piers nodded. “He’s aged well.”
Charles smirked.
They slid through the room and joined the queue, passing their glasses to a roving waiter. Charles straightened his tie and caught Eddie’s eye when they were near the Chinese delegation.
Eddie acknowledged with an almost imperceptible twitch of his mouth.
Charles almost stood to attention when he came level with Eddie.
“Good to see you. Glad you could make it,” said the Prime Minister, shaking his hand. Then he turned to face the Chinese. “Vice President Guo, may I present the Honourable Charles Buckham, one of Britain’s leading horsemen and an advisor to several fledgling horseracing nations. Charles, Vice President Guo Qingling.”
Charles grabbed Guo by the hand and shook vigorously. Guo looked surprised, he forced an uncomfortable grin onto his face.
“It is an honour to meet you, sir,” said Charles. “I have always been a great admirer of your wonderful country.”
“Thank you very much,” said Guo, in impeccable English, bowing from the neck.
“Last year I sold some horses to Hong Kong. What a great racing state it is! Do you plan to bring quality horseracing to the mainland in the near future?”
Guo kept smiling and cocked his head to one side, fixing his gaze on Charles. “That is a possibility, but we will have to be very careful how we handle the matter. Thank you for your interest.”
“If there’s anything I can ever do for you in that respect, please let me know.”
“Thank you, thank you,” said Guo, nodding.
Realising his time was up, Charles moved onto Ling. Piers briefly shook Guo’s hand.
“Ling! My dear chap, it’s been far too long! How on earth are you?” said Charles extending a hand with a sparkle in his eyes.
Ling had an immaculate navy suit covering his thin frame. His short hair was carefully parted and oiled, exactly as it had been during their Sandhurst days and his healthy complexion was that of a man ten years younger. Ling’s face was a picture of astonishment. “Oh, I do not know quite what to say,” he said in clipped tones, sprouting a nervous, toothy grin. “I am surprised to see you here, Charles Buckham.”
“Do you remember me?” asked Piers, offering his own hand.
Ling shook it. “Indeed I do, Piers.” He smiled at Piers with genuine warmth. “I remember with great fondness our late-night discussions about ancient military tactics. How are you?”
“Never better, Ling. When we heard you were coming over, we told Eddie that we just had to see you again.”
“That’s right,” said Charles.
“Eddie?” said Ling, frowning.
“Oh, of course,” said Charles. “Edward; Prime Minister Brookson. He’s an old friend – I thought you’d have met him at Brockford, during your Sandhurst days?”
“No, I never did.” Ling glanced over Piers’ shoulder.
“Right, I can see you’re busy, Ling, but I’d love to sit down and chat about the future of Chinese horseracing,” said Charles, hurriedly. “What if we come out to Beijing next month? Sort of sightseeing, fact-finding mission. Could we impose ourselves on your hospitality? For old time’s sake?”
Ling’s eyelids flickered for an instant. “You would be more than welcome. Both of you. I will not be so busy next month and will be able to show you around personally.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Charles. “How should we contact you when we arrive?”
Ling produced a card from his pocket and placed it in Charles’ palm. “This is my private e-mail. You can send me your itinerary, and I will arrange hotels and everything else.”
“Gosh, thank you very, very much,” said Charles.
“Looking forward to it already,” said Piers, as they moved on and left Ling in the clutches of a high street clothing magnate.
“That was easy,” Charles murmured as they weaved their way through the crowd.
“Absolutely.”
“We’ll bring Rupe there with us. It’ll be good to get boots on the ground. If all goes well, we’ll have it sewn up by summertime. One way or another.”
* * *
Later that night, Guo Qingling and Ling Jiao sat in the back of their limousine, partitioned from the driver by soundproof glass.
“Who were those two men that were so pleased to see you?” asked Guo.
“I was at The Royal Military Academy Sandhurst with them. They are self-serving, though they pretend to be leaders. It is clear they want something to do with Chinese horseracing.” He pa
used. “If Prime Minister Brookson is so friendly with them, I would question his integrity.”
Guo gave his successor a sideways glance. “Do you think any world leader has complete integrity in this day and age?”
Ling smiled and flicked his eyes at the road ahead.
“You should invite them to China. Then you may learn of their intentions sooner rather than later, and on home soil,” said Guo.
“Oh, they have already invited themselves. They will visit next month.”
Guo grinned. “Even better.”
Ling nodded in agreement and suppressed his toothy smile.
Chapter 13
Brockford Hall Stud - February 4th
Andrew finished the last of the stallion nomination contracts. He rose from his desk, rubbed his eyes and picked up a stack of envelopes. Crossing reception, he arched his brow at Susan. “These are for posting to clients and agents, I’ve e-mailed the rest. Some from my own account, some from Charles’.”
“Brilliant!” she grinned.
“Coffee?”
“Oh, yes please.”
He returned with two cups. “I’ll update the status list as they get signed and returned. Then we’ll check that against the daily covering list.”
“Perfect,” she said with a smile. “Your system makes life so much easier. Even the most laid back of breeders know that their mares won’t get covered without a signed contract.”
“I should hope so, too!”
“It’s just so much more civilised than all the last-minute panicking, phoning and searching.”
Andrew nodded, sipped his coffee, and flicked through the news magazines on the table.
The front door opened and Charles entered, whistling. He grabbed his post from Susan’s desk and mumbled, “Andrew, those magazines are just propaganda.”
“Not if you read between the lines,” he replied nonchalantly, without looking up.
Charles shot him a sideways glance. “You should be reading about pedigrees, not current affairs,” he said, disappearing into his office.
Andrew sighed. Charles loved pedigrees, ratings and printed facts, because he didn’t really understand horses. In contrast, Andrew found pedigrees a bit boring. He was able to absorb and dissect them, but he could never understand how some people got so excited when discussing them. For Andrew, it was relatively simple: if there was enough black-type, you could reasonably expect a classy performer. If one knew the preferred running distances and historical details of relatives, it would help with training and development, but the real, relevant information was gleaned from observing the horse itself. That was something Charles was unable to grasp; still, it was part of the reason Andrew had a job.