Taking the Fall (13 page)

About a week after they found the nylon fishing line tied to one of their horses, an unfounded rumour swept the country’s racing stables that strangles had got into Charlie’s yard. Strangles was a highly infectious contagious disease caused by bacteria and spread to other horses by direct contact or contaminated food, water or equipment. It was a trainer’s nightmare and isolation was the immediate next step.

There was no case of strangles at Charlie’s yard. There wasn’t even anything that looked like strangles. There was just a rumour, no more. But it was a very effectively placed rumour. Charlie had to field a lot of worried telephone calls. He also went to great expense to get a vet to give the yard a clean bill of health. He spent a long time returning the calls of everyone who had spoken to him about the matter, reassuring them and asking them to chase the rumour backwards by thinking about who had passed on the gossip. Of course, the lines of rumour were never forensic. But Charlie knew exactly where it would have started.

A couple of weeks after all that upset, a top jockey who had been riding successfully on a freelance basis for Charlie for almost a year suddenly announced that he wouldn’t be riding for him any longer. No reason. No explanation. Yes, he was very sorry; no, Charlie hadn’t done anything wrong, he just couldn’t ride for him any more; sorry.

The owners stayed loyal to him. He lost only one horse during that period, and that was because of the strangles rumour. Of course he told as many people as he could what was going on. He had a word with George McEwan, the owner who’d brought him a dozen horses from Osborne’s yard, triggering these issues in the first place.

‘You want to go to the police?’ McEwan said. He knew the Chief Constable for the county.

‘Naw.’

‘Well then, you’ve just got to tough it out. It’ll pass. The bastards are smarting now but they’ll get over it.’

They didn’t get over it. They were still gunning for him. Charlie found himself summoned to an informal meeting of the Jockey Club subcommittee on insider information. This committee had been given a special commission to look into the problem of ‘passing information for reward’, and Charlie was asked to help with their inquiry. It took him two minutes to realise he was being implicated. He demanded to know on what evidence and because of whose testimony he’d been brought before the committee. He was outraged to find that they would not divulge names or reveal sources. Charlie pointed out that that meant that anyone with a grudge could simply point the finger at someone. He was told that the committee listened only to witnesses of integrity. Perhaps foolishly, Charlie got up and walked out. It was either that or say something he might regret. He subsequently received notification that although he was not being cautioned, he was under scrutiny.

On the surface, Charlie seemed to take it all in his stride. He was going to tough it out. He was not one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but the young Duncan knew how heavily it was weighing on him. Then, one afternoon at Newbury, it all came unglued.

Charlie had a much-fancied horse called Captain Pugwash, which was going well in the third race when one of William Osborne’s jockeys stole his line while approaching a jump. Captain Pugwash landed badly and his jockey pulled him up before the next fence. Osborne’s horse won the race. Afterwards Charlie was inspecting Captain Pugwash and he looked up to see Osborne in the winning enclosure, smirking at him. The sight of Osborne’s grinning face was too much.

Charlie strode into the enclosure with his left hand held out in front of him. It looked as though he was offering to shake the hand of the winning trainer. Osborne, still smirking, accepted the handshake, but Charlie used the grip to pull Osborne’s face on to his bunched fist. Charlie was no lightweight. The slap of knuckle on cheekbone could be heard across the paddock. Osborne fell at his winning horse’s feet like a sack of wet sand. No one said anything, but plenty of people had seen what happened.

By contrast, no one had ever seen the veiled threats Osborne had made; nor the faked sore shins; nor the effect of the rumours of strangles; nor the trumped-up charges and the summons before the Jockey Club. All they saw was an old guy, purple in the face, who had lost it and attacked William Osborne, one of the leading trainers in the country.

Charlie left Newbury race track that day knowing that if he hadn’t he would have been escorted off the grounds. Reports were made, and although Osborne chose not to press charges through the criminal courts, he did ask the Jockey Club to make its own investigations. The slow-grinding machinery of the Jockey Club went into action and Charlie was given a date on which he would have to appear before its disciplinary committee.

Privately he got a lot of support. A large number of people in the race game had been heartened to hear that Osborne had got his chops busted. One or two people who’d actually witnessed the blow called Charlie to tell him how much they’d enjoyed the spectacle. Charlie said little. He got his head down and prepared for some major races that were coming up.

Duncan lay with Lorna in the afterglow of sex, thinking about two things. One was how much actual weight loss was incurred through sex. The second was what to do about being invited to Duke Cadogan’s New Year’s Eve party.

He was being invited into the dragon’s lair. That was, if Lorna was to be believed. He expressed his doubts and by way of response she picked up his phone and dialled a number. ‘Can I speak to Daddy, please?’ she said when she got an answer. ‘Tell him it’s urgent.’

She sat cross-legged on the bed, nude, pink, still perspiring. She held Duncan’s gaze as she spoke. ‘Daddy, he’s with me right now. He doesn’t believe he’s invited to the party tonight. What? You can hardly blame him after you had your goons threaten him, can you? No, I don’t care about that: you’re going to have to tell him yourself. Tell him he’s invited. And welcome.’ She held the telephone receiver out for Duncan to take.

Duncan shook his head, but Lorna waggled the receiver at him until he took it. When she let go of the phone, she took Duncan’s cock in her hand.

‘Claymore?’

‘Yes,’ Duncan said.

‘You’d better get yourself here tonight. I don’t want any more breakages.’

‘Okay.’

‘It’s black tie. You know what that is, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right then. Put the silly bitch back on.’

Duncan handed the phone back to Lorna. She had a short conversation with her father, all the while stroking Duncan’s fattening cock. When she replaced the receiver on the cradle, she said, ‘Believe me now?’

‘This party? Will it be any good?’

‘It’ll be hideous. But you’ll be there.’

Duncan wasn’t sure he would be. He was planning to call round to see Charlie. He didn’t want his dad to be alone on New Year’s Eve, even though Charlie had told him he’d be fine and that he wanted Duncan to go out and enjoy himself. Not that New Year’s Eve at the Cadogans’ would be much of a knees-up. Most of the racing fraternity had meetings the next day to think about.

‘What about this black tie business?’ Duncan said. ‘I’ve no suit.’

‘We’ll go into town this afternoon,’ Lorna said. ‘Daddy has an account. And you would look so sexy in a tuxedo.’

9

W
hen Duncan pulled up at the Cadogan mansion at about eight thirty that evening, all the house lights were ablaze and he had to park his beat-up Capri next to some pretty fancy wheels. It looked like there were quite a few well-heeled guests. Two men in Crombie-style overcoats stood at the doorway, their breath rising in the cold evening air. Duncan recognised the bald-headed man from the pair who had tried to intimidate him while walking the course at Wetherby.

Baldy said something to his colleague from behind the back of his hand. Duncan passed them by without a word. No greeting, and no eye contact. He just walked in. Once inside, he heard music coming from deeper within the house and a formal butler addressed him as ‘sir’ and took his coat. At least the butler didn’t know who he was, he thought.

Or who he wasn’t
.

He was led through to a crowded giant lounge with crystal chandeliers and a roaring log fire. All the men wore tuxedos and the women were mostly wearing long dresses. Duncan wasn’t intimidated by the formality, but he didn’t buy into it. There was an air of fancy dress about the party, as if the guests were acting, pretending to be old aristocracy or something. He recognised quite a few faces from the racing world, but not so many he would describe as friendly. Cadogan was extending his vice-like grip into racing. He’d bought his way in and continued to buy upwards, whether it was horses, contacts or influence. There were two or three other racing dynasties around who could challenge him, but not everyone had his financial firepower.

Lorna spotted Duncan and raced to his side. She was wearing a low-cut shimmering oyster-grey dress with strappy sandals that made her slightly taller than him. ‘Champagne for you, I think?’ There were staff dressed like French maids bearing silver salvers. She beckoned one across and took a glass for each of them. ‘Let me introduce you to some people.’

It was the kind of party where you got the feeling that those present didn’t really have much affection for each other. Perhaps they were there to cement relationships or make connections. Duncan fell into light conversation with a man who described himself as a ‘stress analyst’. Duncan thought he meant the kind of stress he was himself feeling at being at a party thrown by one of the men he most hated in the entire world; but in fact he meant things like metal fatigue. While the man was talking about ductile metals, Duncan looked over and saw Sandy Sanderson, along with his wife, on the other side of the room.

Near the fireplace with its crackling logs was a man he didn’t recognise but who seemed to be holding court. His hair was cut almost Teddy boy style, short at the sides and with a bit of a quiff on top. He’d already loosened his dicky bow from his collar and was in the middle of telling a story to two men and a glamorous blonde. What struck Duncan as odd was that a fourth man stood just behind the storyteller, glancing around nervously and fingering his collar occasionally. He flexed his shoulders like a nightclub bouncer.
He’s a minder
, Duncan thought.

Duncan tried to eavesdrop while pretending to listen to the man talking about ductile metals, but Lorna was already moving him on.

‘Who is that man?’ he asked before she had a chance to make another exciting introduction.

‘Oh, him. George Pleasance. He has people beaten up.’

‘What?’

‘If you want someone beaten up, he’s the man you go to.’

‘Nice company your father keeps.’

‘Oh, right. Yes. But he’s also good if you want drugs.’

‘I don’t do drugs,’ Duncan said firmly.

‘Do you want to meet Shirley Devon? The singer?’

He was introduced to Shirley, who had had some pop chart success in the 1960s but whose star had waned. She was fun but was already well on her way to getting drunk. Duncan laughed with Shirley and Lorna, and fell easily into conversation with others. But he had to fight to keep his eyes from George Pleasance.

He knew a little bit about Pleasance. He was in the import business, and what he imported mostly came from Colombia. It was rumoured that he’d made his first fortune by importing cotton shirts. Thousands of them, each one starched with a white powder that had been dissolved in a giant vat through which the shirts were passed. At the end of the journey and safely through customs, the shirts were rinsed in another giant vat. The water in the vat was then condensed off, leaving a nice pile of top-grade Colombian marching powder. This was only a rumour, of course, and similarly Duncan had heard he had an interest in racing. He just hadn’t known that he was a friend of Cadogan’s.

It raised the question of what a rich, posh figure like Cadogan would be doing in the company of a man like George Pleasance.

Lorna stepped away for a while and Duncan was still thinking about George Pleasance when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Sanderson’s wife, Christie.

‘Surprised to see you here,’ she said.

‘Really? Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’d imagine you would have somewhere much more fun to go on New Year’s Eve. Young jockey like you.’

She was stunning. She wore a white Grecian goddess dress with gold trim, gathered to slender criss-cross straps exposing the sweeping tanned curve of her lovely back and the cup of her breasts.

‘Does that mean you’re not having fun yourself?’

She ignored his question. ‘I just thought I’d tell you that you offended me. Passing me your telephone number like that. It’s vulgar.’

‘I apologise.’

‘You’re lucky I didn’t tell my husband.’

‘I am.’

‘I might still tell him.’

‘If you must do that,’ Duncan said, ‘here he is right now.’

Sanderson came up behind her, champagne in hand for himself and his wife. He looked a little sour. Christie took the glass and said, ‘Sandy, this young man seems to think he can take what’s yours. But I said he’s going to have to show a lot more winning form before he can be Champion Jockey.’

‘Claymore,’ Sanderson scowled. ‘I see you’re trying to get your feet under the table.’

‘What’s that?’ Christie said.

‘He’s not up to getting his rides through merit, so he’s tupping Duke’s daughter.’

‘Is that what I’m doing?’

‘I’d say so.’

Duncan looked round for Lorna and called her over. She hurried to his side. ‘What was that you were saying?’ Duncan said to Sanderson.

‘Come on,’ Sanderson said to his wife, already turning away. ‘Let’s find some people worth talking to.’

Christie turned to go, but not before focusing on Duncan for a moment. Then she smiled at Lorna and followed her husband.

‘He’s the top jockey. Champion,’ Lorna said.

‘Oh yes, he is.’

More guests arrived, amongst them a man Duncan had never met but whom he felt he knew well. It was William Osborne.
Christ
, Duncan thought,
all three of them here under one roof.