Taking the Fall (24 page)

In return she told him something that her team of journalists had recently uncovered. ‘Rah-ho-tep,’ she said.

Duncan sat up. Rah-ho-tep was one of Cadogan’s horses. It was running at Cheltenham on Gold Cup day. Not in the Gold Cup itself but in the Grand Annual Handicap Chase, the last race of the day and of the Festival.

‘It’s showing favourite already and it’s being ridden by—’

‘By Sandy Sanderson,’ said Duncan.

‘Correct. Now my information is that George Pleasance – or rather his cronies – are already laundering drugs money by spreading small lay bets against Rah-ho-tep.’

‘He’d have to do that. You can’t lay in huge bets because as soon as the bookies get a whiff they’ll close down. But if he spreads it around the country, and if Rah-ho-tep stays in place as firm favourite, then he’ll get some pretty cool odds.’

‘He’s overseen a massive shipment lately. He’s got a lot of cash to rinse.’

‘If you know this, how come the police don’t?’

‘They will. But our story will break first. After the Gold Cup.’

Duncan nodded, trying to take in the implications. How typical of George Pleasance. He would want to be there on Gold Cup day, larging it. Obviously he would stay away from rigging the trophy title itself, but he would so much want to be there on the day. His vanity was his weak point.

Mandy narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You’re around Cadogan’s place a lot these days,’ she said knowingly. ‘You’ll let me know if you hear anything?’

‘Sure.’

‘Anything at all.’

They finished lunch. After she’d gone, Duncan sat in the restaurant a while. His half-eaten salad lay in front of him. He decided to smoke a cigarette instead of finishing it.

It wasn’t just Mandy Gleeson with whom his relationship was a little fraught. Everyone around the yard was getting keyed up. Petie was becoming more exacting in his demands. Even though the training was going well, he wanted to microcontrol everything. He even bawled out Roisin for saying she wanted to use the toilet at a moment that wasn’t convenient to him.

Duncan thought he’d chosen his moment carefully to broach something, but his timing wasn’t good after all. He mentioned that there was an off chance Cadogan might also want him to ride a race or two at Cheltenham. It wasn’t even necessarily true. Duncan had been hoping to nudge Lorna to help him pick up a ride.

‘No,’ Petie said.

‘I’m not talking about a clash of fixtures. Just if I happen to be free one of the days.’

‘I said no.’

‘We had an agreement. If I was clear, I could ride for who the hell I wanted.’

‘I don’t care about no fuckin’ agreement. I want your head straight and settled on my fuckin’ rides. No distractions. This is Cheltenham we’re talking about. It’s not Toytown Races.’

Petie looked at him with a shining, defiant face. Duncan took a step towards him. They were almost eyeball to eyeball. Duncan was about to speak when he felt a huge paw grab his collar and drag him away.

It was Gypsy George. ‘Come up to my caravan for a spell,’ he said.

‘I want to sort this out.’

George’s arm was round Duncan’s shoulder. It was half friendly uncle, half neck-lock. George marched him out of the stable yard and over to his caravan. The door was propped open, as always, and George led him inside.

‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What are you planning?’

‘What? I’m not planning anything.’

George’s leathery skin seemed to break into a thousand wrinkles. ‘Duncan, did I put you on your first horse?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well fuck yourself, then.’ George was still smiling.

‘All right,’ Duncan said.

‘And how many horses have I seen just before a race?’ George said. ‘Their coat shines. They’re on their toes. Ears pricked up. Maybe ready to take a nip at one of the other horses. Sharp, you might say. But too sharp, you might also say. Using up too much energy. Sure you want them to be ready. Muscled up. Alert. Nice coat. But not too sharp. Not grinding their teeth.’

‘You made your point, George.’

‘I did. And maybe you’ll make yours. But whatever it is you’re planning, you can’t do it on your own.’

‘I have to.’

‘You can’t. You need to get your lieutenants gathered around you. And take them into your trust.’

‘I don’t know ’bout that, George.’

George squinted at him and lowered his voice. ‘Maybe this is other folks’ fight and not just your own. Have you thought of that?’

Duncan looked hard at the older man. They heard footsteps approaching George’s caravan.

‘Knock knock feckin’ knock.’ It was Roisin. ‘Well, Daddy wants to know if there’s any chance of getting any work out of anyone today. And don’t shoot me: I’m just the messenger.’

17

B
ut there were a few less glamorous races to be concerned with before Cheltenham. While Petie was holding back his top horses, he was still intent on bringing on some of his novices and younger horses for next season. These lower-class races were also seen as a chance for Duncan and Kerry to get themselves into peak condition and readiness for Cheltenham.

Hexham in the north-east was set in beautiful surroundings but was one of the more unfashionable tracks, struggling to make itself pay. But with top jockeys and major trainers counting the number of winning races to get their respective trophies they didn’t have too much trouble in attracting big names, even if the cameras were unlikely to show up. There was always bread-and-butter jockey work to be done whenever the bright flags were flying elsewhere. Both Duncan and Kerry were riding at Hexham and they found themselves in the Weighing Room with Duncan’s old friend Sandy Sanderson.

Sanderson was out to mop up a few lower-grade races, including a Class 4 Hurdle for five-year-olds and upwards over two and a half miles, in which he was up against Kerry. As soon as Duncan realised this, he wanted to Kerry to swap, to let him ride against Sanderson. Kerry wasn’t having any of that, and neither was Petie.

Ahead of the race, Kerry was pushing things as far as he could go. ‘I shall have to keep my eye out for that Sandy Sanderson,’ he said in an overloud voice that made all the other jockeys wag their ears.

Sanderson, who was pulling on his boots, just sneered.

‘I mean, wasn’t it you telling me, Duncan, how Sandy likes to cuddle up close and get his boot over your stirrup?’

‘I’m sure I never said that,’ Duncan said.

‘Oh yes. An old trick, that one. What you don’t want is to be squeezed in between him and another horse. Or you’d be
snookered
.’

Duncan looked away. Sanderson glanced up at Kerry.

‘That’d be a good way of putting it, wouldn’t it? Snookered. I mean, like when you’re caught on the snooker table with, say, a pink ball between your white ball and the one you’re trying to pot. Well, you know, one jockey pushing up close so you can’t see a gap there.
Snookered
. That’s what I’d call it, Duncan. Wouldn’t you?’

‘If you like.’

Sanderson stared hard at Kerry. But he said nothing. Then the jockeys were called out to the parade ring.

‘I’ll try not to get snookered!’ Kerry called out cheerily as he pulled his helmet on and went out on to the track.

‘That Kerry speaks in riddles,’ Duncan’s valet said.

‘He does,’ Duncan said. ‘He rides a bit close to the edge, too.’

Whether or not he rode too close to the edge, Kerry won the race. Afterwards he said he might have had Sanderson rattled. Duncan thought not; he thought Sanderson was too much of a pro to be unsettled by Weighing Room banter.

Duncan anyway had his own race to think about. It was the Hexham Silver Bell Novices’ Chase, and he was expecting a winner. It was another Class 4 and there were only six runners in it over a two-mile course. Duncan was even-money favourite on a mare Petie was bringing on for next year called Because I Said So. The opposition was patchy, though there was a mare called In Plain English from his old stables at Penderton that was also well fancied.

He got off to a good start and tucked in, letting one of the less experienced jockeys set a pace he would be unable to keep up. The ground was heavy and they were all going to tire. One of the runners went down at the first fence; Duncan looked behind him and saw the jockey sprawling and his mount running out wide. He recognised the pink cap and white silk of the Penderton stables and he thought,
Well, that’s this one in the pocket
. But the mud was deep and then the leader went crashing into the fourth fence, unseating his jockey.

There was still plenty of time for Duncan to wait out on the inside when disaster struck at the sixth. A jockey in front of him swerved into the fence. The horse jumped clear but went down, and Because I Said So clipped his heels and was brought down also. Duncan thought he felt a crack as he hit the earth, but as he knew there was nothing behind him he was up quickly. Because I Said So was up quickly too, and stood waiting, looking at Duncan as if to say: what the hell happened there?

Duncan was mightily pissed off. That might have been one of his easiest races. He was winded, sure enough, and his breath was short, but he felt okay. Then he pressed his ribs and felt a stinging pain. He thought it possible he might have cracked a rib. The emergency care staff were already running across to him. He knew both of them from two previous falls at the same track: Beverley Fillingham and James Cockerill. They were like old friends.

‘I’m fine,’ he said to James. ‘Go and look at that other fellow.’

He walked over to Because I Said So and took the reins. Then he heard a strange noise.

It was coming from the grandstand. It wasn’t anything like the sound the crowd usually made. You could be a quarter-mile away and you could tell the difference between the crowd roaring in a favourite and the crowd applauding an outsider. This sound wasn’t like either of those two things. It was confusion and hilarity and anxiety all mixed. Then he heard Beverley shouting to him. He was holding his rib and couldn’t understand what she was saying.

‘Go ahead, Duncan!’

‘What’s that?’

‘Get back on! There are no runners.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t stand there discussing it! They’ve all refused ahead of you.’

‘Refused?’

Duncan leapt back up on Because I Said So. He took a steady canter up to the next fence. He had a clear run and was over it easily. Still looking around him in disbelief, he passed one of the horses that had refused and who showed no signs of getting back into the race.

He had nine more fences to clear and he took them steadily. This time the noise from the grandstand switched back to a familiar sound. It was the roar of punters welcoming in the favourite; and the cheers of even those who’d bet against him. He was the only finisher.

He held his hand across his mouth, almost embarrassed by the win, as he walked Because I Said So into the winners’ enclosure. For once in his life he was speechless.
If anyone wants to discuss fixed racing
, he thought,
they can start with this race.

In the winners’ enclosure there was jubilation on his behalf at such an outrageous win. In the Weighing Room afterwards, everyone was laughing and smiling and clapping him on the back. Except for Sandy Sanderson.

Lorna got Duncan invited to join in pigeon shooting on Cadogan’s grounds. They were set up for shooting the clay type and the grey type too. Cadogan was also well stocked and organised for grouse and pheasant shooting and was fond of having his friends over for a session.

It was something George Pleasance enjoyed too, though it was March, and grouse and pheasant shooting was out of season. But then again, cocaine smugglers and horse-race fixers were not always likely to be strict adherents to the rules of rough shooting, and if a pheasant sometimes got confused with a pigeon, the world didn’t end. George Pleasance was pleased to see Duncan there. His way of demonstrating it was to pat him on the cheek with a leathery hand. No mention whatsoever was made of recent racing events.

Duncan didn’t have much in the way of kit, so Lorna had fixed him up in the ‘uniform’. Waxed Barbour coat; green wellingtons; cloth cap. It was impossible to distinguish him from everyone else out shooting that day. Though the truth was, he felt a chump. He felt like someone in disguise.

Lorna, on the other hand, had been born to the sport. She was familiar and handy with swinging the over-and-under double-ejector multi-choke, and she was a pretty good instructor.

‘What did I just say to you, Duncan?’

‘Uh?’

‘This isn’t a toy. I said keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. What did I just say?’

‘You said keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.’

‘So why have you still got your finger on the trigger?’

‘Uh.’

On the clay shoot, he got the hang of things quickly, though she noticed him wince once or twice at the recoil. She asked him about it.

‘Nothing much. I bruised a rib or two in the fall at Hexham.’ The truth was, that ‘bruise’ was hurting like hell. He was sure he’d cracked a couple of ribs. But he wasn’t going to let anyone know in case it might in some way threaten his rides at the Cheltenham Festival.

After a while Lorna asked him if he wanted to go into the woods and try for the real thing. He said he was ready. There was strict protocol to observe in the woods to make sure everyone was safe, especially from beginners like Duncan, but Lorna talked him through it. He liked to see her taking charge. He was softening to her all the time.

A wood pigeon flew up. Duncan aimed and missed. Then a pheasant whirred up out the bush. It was so slow and heavy and noisy in its flight, Duncan didn’t even make the effort to track it.

‘It’s okay,’ Lorna said. ‘They’re out of season.’

‘They’re too easy,’ Duncan said.

‘They are. Wait for a pigeon. They’re a little faster.’

Pretty soon another pigeon flew up, a white collared dove. Duncan aimed and fired. It dropped like a stone into the bush.