The Mandarin Stakes

by Sam O'Brien

  “Fair point.”

  “Hey, maybe I should get him on tape, like that secretary did to Dad?” He shot her a lopsided grin.

  She looked sceptical, arching her brow. “I didn’t hear you say that.”

  Their eyes met and held for a moment. Andrew opened his mouth as if to speak, then he broke away and got two more beers from the kitchen. Jess followed him with her eyes.

  “That’s your third,” she said, taking hers as he plonked himself down. “Looks like you’re staying here tonight.”

  He took a swig. “Yeah, you’re right. Safer that way. Do you mind?”

  “God, no. I’d be pissed off if you drove after three beers.”

  “And I wouldn’t want to incur your wrath!” he said, giving her a sideways smirk.

  She had a twinkle in her eye. “No, you bloody wouldn’t. Cheeky sod!” She flicked the bottle top at him, catching him on the forehead.

  He returned service with a chunk of pizza crust. She caught it and began munching, “Cheers, mate.” She winked.

  They held each other’s gaze for a second. Andrew broke the silence. “Hey, those earrings are new. They look lovely on you…” He narrowed his eyes. “Who got you those?”

  “What? Oh, er, thanks. Yeah, they’re nice, aren’t they?” she said, fondling the pearl adorning her lobe. “I treated myself after winning that race.”

  “They’re classy. They suit you.”

  She blushed and chewed her lip. Andrew looked as if he was about to speak, but he took a sip of beer instead. She stood and began tidying up. “I’m done with this beer, do you want to finish it?”

  “Er, um, no thanks.”

  “I’ll get you a duvet and pillow,” she said.

  Returning, she offered him a toothbrush as well.

  “Thanks, Jess,”

  “G’night.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and disappeared into her room as he prepared his bed.

  The next morning she went to wake him and saw the neatly folded duvet sitting on the empty sofa. A note on the coffee table read: Thanks, Jess. You’re the best. Belated happy Valentines Day! There’s fresh coffee waiting for you in the pot. Call you later.

  She smiled. It was a start.

  * * *

  Terry pulled out of the snarling mess of the M25 and sped away from London. He loved driving the Range Rover. It was a clear evening and the SUV ironed the roads as smooth as a duck pond. Though he was weaving through cars doing nearly eighty, it felt like they were barely out of a trot in the leather and walnut-trimmed interior.

  Finally on the open road, Terry could contain himself no longer. He launched into a torrent of gossip about everything that had happened while Charles had been away, saving the best till last.

  “That blood-throwing vandal must’ve been old George Fellowes. Hell of a mess ‘e made.” He let the remark hang in the air.

  Charles whipped his cold eyes to Terry. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Reckon Andrew must’ve figured it out, too, and gone to have it out with ‘im. John saw old Fellowes leave the Whip and Spurs yesterday in his sodding great car and Andrew stormed out afterwards and sped off like he was in a Grand Prix.”

  “Is this fact, or more of your embellished gossip?”

  “As true as I sit here beside you. John’d recognise that Lotus of his anywhere, same goes for Mrs. Fellowes’ old Bentley. He may drive a bit fast, but he’s a good ‘un that Dixon. Done more about it than the coppers ever will. I expect he told Fellowes where to stick his vandalism. Don’t worry, Fellowes won’t bother us again, I’d say. Andrew has a friend in the Met, too, that’ll keep old Fellowes at bay, don’t you think? Thing is, I can’t figure out for the life of me why he’d want to do it at all.” He glanced at Charles and hastily put his eyes back on the road. Maybe he had said too much.

  Charles’ face was a picture of dark thunder. He curled his hands into fists and shot his gaze out the window. His synapses fired like machine guns. That was a bit close for comfort. Still, what could Fellowes really tell Andrew? Probably nothing without ranting and raving like a lunatic. But Andrew was in my office, and if he saw Piers’ e-mail? What else did he know? And why meet Fellowes, why not tell the police? Who was his friend in the Met?

  Charles took a deep breath and stared at the passing countryside.

  Still, one should not be rash. The breeding season was underway and Andrew was good at running the farm, chasing up contracts, seducing clients and judging foals. For the next five months, he’d be too busy to think about George Fellowes and his ranting and raving. However, it could be useful to set a trap.

  Chapter 20

  Andrew started the day as usual; coverings, rounds of the farm, checking horses. Afterwards, he found himself doing mundane jobs in an effort to avoid the office and Charles. He put down the pitchfork and sighed. He couldn’t postpone it any longer.

  Not for the first time that morning, Jess crept into his thoughts. He tried calling her. Voicemail again. He left a stuttering message, and cursed himself for sounding like a teenager.

  Outside the barn, Andrew swung a leg over his quad and pressed the ignition. Terry came trotting out of the tack room. “Ere he is, our own detective!” he said with a chortle.

  Andrew was lost for words. Startled, he could only manage a confused look.

  Terry winked. “I know you went and kicked old Fellowes’ arse for ‘im.”

  Andrew went pale. His mouth was dry.

  Terry stared at him in mock surprise. “Oh, right you be. Mum’s the word.” He tapped his nose. “Say no more.”

  Andrew cleared his throat and finally spoke. “Terry, what are you on about?”

  “You sound like Charles. C’mon,” he scoffed, “John seen you leaving the pub the other day. Said you had a face like a bag of hammers an’ all.”

  Andrew’s mind was reeling. “You told Charles that?”

  “Course I did! So,” he glanced about and leaned towards Andrew, “you give ‘im a proper dressing down? Did he tell you why he did it? ‘Cause I’ve got to say, I’m buggered if I know.”

  Andrew did his best impression of Charles’ icy glare. “Look, Terry. Please, for once in your life, stop shooting your mouth off about things that don’t concern you. If I’d wanted you to know, I’d have told you. OK?”

  “Alright, alright. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.”

  Andrew gunned the motor and set off for the office, his stomach doing somersaults.

  “Oh, there you are,” said Susan. “Mr. Buckham wants to see you.” She rolled her eyes towards the door and mouthed, “In a foul mood.”

  Andrew didn’t know whether to feel resigned or terrified, and probably looked both. He gritted his teeth and entered the lair.

  Charles looked up from the documents on his desk. “Ah, there you are. I’ve been going over the mare numbers,” he said, smiling. “Slightly up on last year, which is wonderful considering the British foal crop is still in decline. Well done!”

  “Er, um, thanks.” He pulled his face into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Well, it’s partly due to all the continental mares. Thierry came through with nearly sixty this year.”

  “He’ll be counting his commission already, no doubt. Still, good work, Andrew.” He kept his eyes fixed on his manager. “Of course, we’re not up with Irish numbers yet, but it’s a start.”

  Charles’ cordiality wrongfooted Andrew. “Yeah, great. Good,” he said, sitting down. He scanned the desk and noticed a DVD in a clear plastic cover amongst the papers. It was unmarked, apart from an L scrawled on it. He averted his eyes and saw Charles scrutinising him.

  “So,” said Charles. “I wanted to let you know that I expect the Tote deal to be done the week of Ascot. Has anyone been talking about it?”

  Andrew shook his head. “Not a word, as far as I know.” He took a deep breath. “So you’ve really secured simulcast rights in China? With Tote betting?”

  A flicker of anger rippled across Charles�
�� face before he could mask it. “Yes, yes, of course. We’ve got a few details to iron out, but it’s basically done.”

  “That’s brilliant! British racing’ll be in your debt – quite literally!”

  Charles frowned. “Hmm. Indeed.”

  “So, they’ll open up gambling then?”

  “Oh yes, they certainly will. It’ll be restricted to the major cities at first, but once the Princelings realise how much money they’ll make, it’ll spread like cancer.” He cracked a sly grin. “Our cut of the revenue will be massive.”

  Andrew whistled. “British prize money’ll go through the roof.”

  “Indeed. But more importantly, Brockford, your job, and your nice cash bonus, will be safe for the foreseeable future. That’s wonderful news, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, nodding hastily.

  “Again, not a word until it’s signed and sealed.”

  Andrew nodded. Charles picked up the foaling list. “I see we’ve had five Capital Flights hit the ground. Any good ones?”

  Andrew winced. “The birthweights tell the whole story, I’m afraid. Rabbits, the lot of them.”

  “Yes well, can’t be helped. One can’t make silk purses, et cetera. I think we’ll be able to unload him on the Chinese. They’ve a farm almost ready to go in Tianjin; just the place for a Brockford cast-off.”

  Andrew was surprised and curious. “That’s great, but I thought they were dealing with the Irish for all that?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll be able to shove the Irish out the side door.”

  “Seriously? That’s great news. How’ll you manage that?”

  “What the Chinese call guanxi. Contacts. It’s the way it all works out there.”

  “Great. What’s the Tianjin farm like?”

  “Apparently, they’ve made a bit of a pigs ear of it, but we’ll let the Irish deal with that. Once it’s up and running, I’ll send you out there to have a look. You can meet our contact and go through whatever bloodstock they already have. Then we’ll tell them what they need to buy from us.”

  “I’ll get a trip to Beijing?”

  He smiled warmly and cocked a finger at Andrew. “If you play your cards right.”

  “Brilliant. Thank you very much.” Andrew flicked an eye at the Sandhurst photo. “What’s your Chinese contact’s name anyway? He must be well-in there?” He couldn’t help himself but ask.

  The smile vanished from Charles’ face. “We’ll get to all that later. Now, you must tell me all about your meeting with that mad old coot Fellowes. How on earth did you know he was the blood-thrower?”

  Andrew could feel his body temperature rise, his palms were suddenly clammy. He cleared his throat. “Oh, well, I was with His Lordship when he told the police about the car and I remembered seeing Fellowes getting out of it at Towcester races one day last year. Initially, I thought I was putting two and two together and getting five until I called him and he started shouting and abusing me. So, I insisted we meet and he suggested the Whip and Spurs.”

  Charles sat back and twirled his pen. “Really? Well done, you, detective. Did you find out why he did it?”

  Andrew’s eyes flickered as he processed options. “No. I, er, I asked him alright, but he just got angry and called me and you cunts. So I warned him that if he ever came near the place again, I’d make a full report to the police. That seemed to quieten him down. Then I left.”

  “You what?”

  “I left the pub.”

  “And you didn’t grill him on why he did it?”

  “Like I said, I asked him, but he wasn’t making much sense. Kept calling you a bastard. He wasn’t exactly rational.” He shrugged. “I just supposed he’d had business with you that went sour.” Andrew hoped he was convincing enough.

  “Did you now?” The stare was intense and frosty.

  “Well, yes. Look, I know he’s never sent a mare here, but you both have horses in training with Mark Saville. Maybe he’s just jealous?”

  “Jealous? Ah yes, the green-eyed monster.” Charles tossed the pen onto the desk. “That must be it, because for the life of me, I can’t figure it out either. Anyway, forget about the old fool and tell me about this friend you have in the Met.”

  Andrew’s heart skipped a beat. His mind whirred. He remembered mentioning something about it in front of Terry and Susan. Had he mentioned Jess by name? He didn’t know. Bloody Terry.

  “We’ve known each other for ages.”

  “Since when did you hang around with coppers?”

  “We grew up together.”

  “Did you now? What’s this friend’s name?”

  Shit. He would have to tell him. “Jess.”

  “Jess what?”

  “Jess Flint.”

  “She’s a close friend, is she?” he said, winking.

  “No, not like that. In fact, we don’t see each other that much anymore. Our lives are drifting apart.” He didn’t really believe it as he said it, but he was worried that it might be a little bit true.

  “Huh! You look smitten.”

  “What? Er no, she’s just a friend.” But he blushed a deep red. He stood and looked at his watch. “I’d better get cracking, lots to do. Was that all?”

  “Yes, yes. You get on. We’ll go through the foals after lunch. Meet me at barn one, will you?”

  Andrew nodded and left. Back in his own office, he slumped in the chair, took a deep breath, and replayed the conversation in his mind. What was Charles planning? Andrew concluded that he needed to have another root around in his office.

  When the door closed, Charles swivelled his chair and looked at the Sandhurst photo. He turned back to the desk and opened the bottom drawer. He reached to grab the old stallion brochures, but his hand stopped in mid-air. The cuttings folder was not usually on top of everything. He swore and picked up the DVD on his desk. He was about to lock it in the filing cabinet, when he had an idea. He picked up the phone.

  “Hello, Rupe. Is this line secure?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “George fucking Fellowes. The old fool can’t let go or deal with his grief. He’s starting to raise eyebrows.”

  “Oh dear. That won’t do at all.”

  “No. I’m going to need a few bits of kit from you.”

  “Certainly. Fire away, whatever you need. I’ll have Goran drop them down to you.”

  A week later, a white Mercedes van pulled up at the Hall. Charles answered the front door and accepted the small package. “Thank you, Goran,” he said.

  The swarthy, besuited man nodded. Goran moved like a panther as he crossed the gravel and slid into his seat.

  Charles shut the door and spun on his heel, cradling the box.

  Behind him, Jamie was on the stairs, leaning against the bannister. “Who was that, Charlie?”

  Charles pulled a smile onto his face. “Oh, stud affairs. Nothing you need to worry about,” he said, as he made for the east wing.

  In his private sitting room, he opened the sealed package and smiled. Just the job; he would have a practice session, then wait for the right opportunity.

  Chapter 21

  The Great Hall of the People, Beijing - March 15th

  Deep inside the vast concrete structure, Guo Qingling sat with two aides in the Beijing Meeting Hall. It was a small room, perfect for intimate gatherings and in sharp contrast to the enormous auditoriums which dominated the building.

  Guo needed respite from the endless networking, bargaining and speeches of the annual Liang Hui – the twin meetings of the National People’s Congress and the People’s Political Consultative Conference, that took place in the Great Hall.

  He had ordered the room sealed off to allow him time to prepare for the evening’s keynote addresses that would bring the ten-day event to a close. He finished reading the final draft of his speech, sipped jasmine tea, and fished an envelope from the diplomatic pouch on the table beside him.

  The invitation was written on crisp, thick pape
r, headed with the emblem of the British Royal Household. He read the printed text twice and closely inspected the signature. After a minute, Guo dismissed his aides with instructions to fetch Ling Jiao, then he sat back and stared at the gigantic porcelain vase in the corner.

  Soon afterwards, Ling walked in and sat beside him.

  Guo tossed the invitation onto Ling’s lap. “Please,” he said with a smile.

  Ling nodded sagely as he read the text. This was a most interesting development. Ling stifled a smile. “A personal invitation from Her Majesty The Queen. This is a very great honour and a definite indication of how highly the British value trade with China.”

  Guo shrugged. “Perhaps. But I am assuming this is because of your friends, and not necessarily the idea of their government or monarch.”

  Ling nodded reluctantly. “It is a distinct possibility.”

  Guo leaned close and put his hand on Ling’s arm. “I told you what I would allow. If they find that unsatisfactory, then that is their problem. Furthermore, I cannot be seen attending an event at which gambling is a central activity.”

  “My friends,” Ling looked ill as he uttered the word, “know how you feel and the matter is, shall we say, closed. But this,” he tapped the notepaper, “is nonetheless an invitation from one head of state to another who will shortly assume office. Politically, it would be a great insult to refuse. But if you attend, it will put the British in the palm of your hand.” He paused, smiling. “You know, I attended that race meeting once, during my year at their military college. It is nothing like Hong Kong. It is…” He stared at the silk screen by the wall, searching for the right words. “It is a bit like Disneyland for the aristocracy and their horses. For them, it is a celebration of horses, royalty, social uniforms, and the pomp and ceremony that they are so famous for. I assure you, it will be a most interesting day.”

  Guo pursed his lips and sat in silence for a minute. Then he barked into the phone by his chair. Moments later an aide silently appeared at his side. Guo dished out his orders rapidly. The aide scribbled frantically on a pad and nodded like a dashboard ornament.