The Silver Falcon (22 page)

‘Oh, Richard, of course – I'd love you to go there! It's so beautiful, and so peaceful. I feel so much at home there I can't believe it's only rented. I'm going to try and keep it on after June. I'll tell Mrs Jennings to get a room ready for you; she'll cook and look after you till I come back. If you want to have friends down –'

‘No friends,' he said. ‘I just want to take a break. And see what you like so much about the place. It must be very special.'

‘It is,' she said.

‘Nicer than Beaumont?' He was teasing her, but kindly.

‘Yes,' she said suddenly. ‘Yes, it's even nicer than Beaumont. When do you want to go down?'

‘Tonight. I'll be lonely after you've gone.'

‘You could drive down with me; we could spend the afternoon together. I'm not leaving till about seven. Why don't you do that?'

He shook his head. ‘I can't; I've got some business in London. And I'm going to have a look in Carriers, whatever you say.'

The announcement came over the intercom that they were soon to land. At the airport they separated. Nigel and Tim went off to Lambourn to supervise the Falcon's departure by plane for Paris; Isabel took a hired car to Coolbridge; she was meeting Ryan and the trainer at the airport at seven that evening and the three were flying over together. Richard kissed her goodbye. A man carrying a canvas overnight bag stood on the kerb a few feet away; he wore dark glasses and seemed to be waiting for a taxi. He didn't appear to glance at them, or to watch as Richard helped her into the car and waved it off. Richard went to the No. 1 car park to collect his car, and the man with the canvas bag was allotted a taxi by the warden on duty at the rank. He gave the address of the hotel where Andrew Graham was staying. He looked at his watch. It was 11.58. If the traffic was bad into London, he was going to be late for lunch.

‘He's looking really well,' Tim Ryan said. He and Nigel and Sally Foster were standing at the door of the Silver Falcon's box. Phil, who did the horse, was standing at his head. He was tethered by the usual length of string to a chain attached to the wall; Phil had his fingers hooked into the head collar just the same. He was a man who had grown up with horses on his father's Yorkshire farm. He had a gift for managing the difficult ones; he believed in gentleness, in gaining confidence through patient handling, and he used his voice a lot. The Falcon's ears were flat against his head. A little white showed round his eye as he looked from Phil to the people in the doorway. Phil murmured to him, and patted his neck with his free hand. He had never been afraid of a horse in his life. But he didn't argue when Nigel Foster forbade him to go into the box alone at any time. He always took a young lad with him, and the lad carried a pitchfork pole. He was pleased to hear the racing manager's compliment. It meant he'd be given a handsome tip. Mrs Schriber was a generous owner; the yard knew how well she'd looked after David Long. Not that the little bugger deserved anything after what he'd tried to do. The horse did look well. His iron-grey coat was gleaming with health and there wasn't a spare ounce of fat on him. He got himself fit very easily, and there was never any trouble with his appetite. He licked his manger clean at every feed. He was an ideal horse to train, and they had all put their wages on him to win the big French race. Nigel Foster said, ‘He's in great form. I worked him over a mile last Tuesday; he just eats the ground without being asked any kind of a question. He'll murder them on Sunday.'

‘I'd say so,' Ryan agreed. He spoke to Phil. ‘How's his temper these days? Taken any lumps out of you?'

Phil shook his head. ‘Oh no, sir. Quiet as a lamb he is now – no trouble at all.' The colt rolled his eye at them and tried to swing his quarters. The grip on his headcollar tightened and checked him.

‘Right,' Tim turned away. His manner was unusually curt. Nigel had noticed a difference in him the last couple of days in Dublin. He seemed moody and reserved. There was tension between him and Richard Schriber. Nigel hadn't had the chance to tell Sally about it, but he was sure that Tim had expectations in Isabel's direction and something had gone wrong. She had seemed very intimate with her stepson. Nigel wasn't by any means a prude, but he didn't think much of the idea. And Richard Schriber wasn't his type. Sally would be fascinated. He had already told her about the two-year-old on the phone. She was just as excited as he was.

He glanced at her and smiled. He felt very conscious of his own good fortune. A super wife, some of the best horses in the world, luck running his way, and a probable Derby winner in the yard.

‘Get him rugged up, Phil,' he said. ‘I'll see him boxed up and on his way. You get your stuff together.'

Phil was travelling with the horse; the box was waiting in the yard to take them to London airport and there he would be loaded on a special charter flight to take them to Longchamp. A security man was going with them, as well as the second lad who helped out. The group was in charge of the travelling head lad, whose sole responsibility was transporting the horses from the stables to the racecourse and back.

‘You and Sally go on up,' Nigel suggested. ‘I'll follow on and we'll have some lunch.'

‘Fine,' Tim said. He stepped into the box, and thrust some notes into Phil's hand. ‘Look after him,' he said. For a moment he paused and patted the colt's neck. He saw the murder in the eye and the tension in the quarters. They were very slightly quivering. He had known a soft answer when he heard one. ‘Quiet as a lamb.' He looked at Phil. ‘Watch yourself,' he said. Then he went out with Sally Foster up to the house.

Roy Farrant had called a meeting with Gerry Garvin and Barry Lawrence.

They came to the Hampstead house at six o'clock that evening; the Farrants' Filipino butler showed them into his study and the door was closed. He handed out drinks and cigars and sat down, facing his trainer and the jockey. He had a look about him which Barry recognized. He was after something or someone. Lawrence had been summoned to these meetings before. It would be interesting to see how Gerry Garvin took it. He sucked on his cigar and waited. Roy Farrant looked at Garvin first.

‘We've got a problem,' he said. ‘And I think you both know what it is. Rocket Man didn't win the Two Thousand. Okay, Gerry, I'm not complaining. We've been through it all before – you tell me he needs the extra distance and I believe you. But I've looked at that film every night since the bloody race, and I can't see that he had all that much in hand.'

‘He's improved,' Gerry said. He felt uncomfortable and on the defensive. The horse had been beaten by a length; the victor was one of the less-fancied Derby runners, and Roy had needed a lot of explanations. Personally he was satisfied with the result. The horse needed the race and had enjoyed himself; he was in top condition and ready to go. He had refused Farrant's suggestion to run him in France in the Prix Lupin because he believed the horse might just go over the top before the Derby.

‘He'll be that much better for the race,' Barry Lawrence said. ‘And never mind about watching the film, Roy. I rode the bloody horse and I'm telling you, he could've gone on if I'd pushed him. But Gerry here said not to give him a hard race. You wanted to win the Two Thousand. I could have given him a hiding and he'd have done it. But you might've lost the Derby. You can't have it both ways.'

‘I don't think we're going to have it any way,' Roy Farrant said. ‘That's what I meant by a problem. Answer me this, Barry. Are we going to beat Silver Falcon?'

Lawrence shrugged. ‘I haven't seen him run. All we have is a load of talk from Lambourn and a lot of press crap. I don't know why you go on about it, Roy. He could be the biggest flop since Crowned Prince!'

‘We'll know after the Lupin,' Gerry Garvin said. ‘If he doesn't come good – we've nothing to worry about. If he wins in a canter –' he didn't finish the sentence.

Roy took a long swallow at his drink. It was a very dark Scotch. ‘I don't think it's crap,' he said. ‘I've had some pretty first-hand information about that horse, and I think he'll walk the bloody Lupin. If he does that, whatever you say about Rocket Man, he'll do us at Epsom. And I'm not going to be bloody well done!'

‘I thought,' Gerry Garvin said, ‘you had some kind of deal going with Schriber. What's happened to it?'

‘The same thing that happened to the deal with Long,' Farrant snapped. ‘Nothing. He promised me the horse wouldn't run. I didn't ask how and I didn't want to know. I had one crack at it which went sour, and then I left it with him. The next thing I read is some shit about him getting married to Isabel. So he's out for himself and he's been kidding me along. If we want to stop that horse, we've got to do it ourselves. And I say, don't wait for the Derby. Get him on Sunday!'

Gerry Garvin was holding his drink. He put it down. There was a slight flush round the edge of his collar and the red was creeping up his neck.

‘You were responsible for what happened to Long?'

Farrant glared at him; he made a gesture of contempt. ‘Don't pretend you didn't know. The bloody fool messed it up and got himself clobbered. All right, it was a clumsy job and it went wrong. So forget it. We've got another chance this weekend. I say take it. Stop him.'

Garvin got up. ‘You can count me out,' he said. ‘What you fixed up with Richard Schriber was something depending on his influence with Isabel. Sending a stable lad in to break down a horse and getting him half killed is something else. If you're suggesting anything like that, I'm not having any part of it.'

There was a moment's pause. Barry Lawrence was glancing up at Garvin; his usually impassive face showed interest. Farrant brought his right hand up and waved it slowly, up and down.

‘Sit down, Gerry. Put your bloody moral indignation away; we all know you're a straight man. You don't have to prove it. Just sit down and listen.' Farrant got up and picked up Garvin's glass. ‘I'll fill you up.' He didn't wait for an answer. He turned to the drinks cabinet set into the panelling and poured a large vodka and tonic.

Garvin hesitated; he stared at Farrant's broad back, and Barry Lawrence said very quietly. ‘Sit down. You want to win as much as he does.'

The moment to go was then and not a moment later; Gerry Garvin knew it. What he had just heard meant that he should tell Farrant to remove his horses and walk out. He had promised Susan he wouldn't fall into the trap, no matter what the bait. He had a good name and it was never regained once the rumours got out. He didn't need Farrant's horses; he was successful and very rich in his own right. It wasn't the end of the world if he didn't win the Derby. He sat down and took his glass back from Farrant.

‘Thanks, Roy,' he said. Barry Lawrence got up and helped himself to another cigar. He wasn't eating or drinking anything that night. The following morning he was flying to France to ride one of the French horses in the Prix Lupin.

‘They've got Pierre Jean-Martin riding,' Farrant said. ‘That means they're out to win it; this isn't any training gallop. The security at Longchamp is so tight you couldn't get a mouse in. So it's got to be done on the track. And that's where you come in Gerry.'

Garvin had lost and he didn't try to pretend otherwise.

‘How?' he said. He took refuge in the vodka. He had a hollow feeling in his stomach. ‘I won't do anything unethical.…'

‘All you've got to do is jock off Simpson on your runner and put up Barry instead. Your horse isn't going to win it anyway. So what's the difference.'

‘Mine has a chance,' Barry said. ‘I could lose quite a bit.'

‘You'll lose bloody nothing,' Farrant snarled at him, suddenly angry. He couldn't resist squeezing a stone to see if there was a drop left, greedy little swine. ‘I'll see you all right. I always do. Just take the ride with Garvin. Fuck the French trainer. I'll double what you might have got
if
you'd won. Which you wouldn't!'

‘Fair enough,' Barry said. ‘I'm on. I'll take Gerry's ride.'

‘That's all
you
have to do,' Farrant said to the trainer. ‘Nothing unethical.' There was no attempt to hide his contempt. ‘Just put up Barry. And he'll do the rest. Your owners will be delighted if they think he's picked their horse, and they won't lose anything because they weren't going to win anyway. Okay?'

‘Okay,' Gerry Garvin said. He had decided he was not going home to Newmarket to face his wife. And he wasn't staying to have dinner in that house. He was going to spend the night in London and get very drunk.

‘Not too much of a burden on your conscience?' Farrant jeered.

‘No,' Garvin said. He stood up. ‘I think I'd better get off home,' he said. ‘I won't stay for dinner, Roy. I'll get back and phone the owners and get through to Simpson. He won't be very pleased about it but I'll try and square him. See you at the races, Barry.' He went out. Neither Farrant nor the jockey said anything until they heard the front door close. Lawrence stretched his short legs.

‘Queasy bugger,' he said. ‘I thought he was going to walk off for a minute.'

‘Never,' Farrant jeered. ‘Lot of bloody hooey all that ethical stuff. You find me a crooked gent, and he's the worst of the lot! There's always a first time; he'll do what he's told from now on. We won't have any more trouble with him. I've got some champagne on ice; sure you won't have a glass?'

‘Just a half,' Barry said. He waited while Farrant went out of the room. Champagne wouldn't sweeten him, but money would. And if Roy wanted him to take on the Falcon with Jean-Martin up, then he was going to have to pay. He thought back to their first business association. He preferred to use those terms to describe the founding of Farrant's fortune and the first major payment into his own bank account. Twelve years ago. He was a young jockey, making a name for himself but with all the way still to go. He'd never been in trouble, never been up before the stewards or done any dirty riding. Until that night when Farrant met him in the same Barnsley pub; they had been friends for two years and both were prospering. But Farrant needed capital to expand. He had sold his ironmonger's shop and bought three more. He was being pressed by the bank to repay their loan. He had talked it out with Lawrence who was sympathetic. And then he made the proposition. The horse he was riding at Lingfield two days later was said to be a sure thing. Farrant said very simply to Barry that all he wanted was for that horse to
lose
. There would be a thousand pounds in it for him if it did. It sounded very easy. Just pull the horse. Any experienced jockey knew how to keep the reins at the crucial moment instead of letting them out a couple of inches as a signal to the horse to cruise ahead. And a sprint was so fast and over so quickly that it would be very difficult indeed to see anything from the stands. All he had to do was check his horse's stride and he'd never get it back in time to hit the front. He hadn't asked questions. He'd just said, ‘Okay, leave it to me.' Next day he came in fourth, and told the trainer and the disappointed owner that the horse hadn't seemed to like the ground. Farrant paid him a thousand pounds in cash two days later. They both got drunk, and that was when Farrant told him about the friend. An Italian who owned a laundry business. A lunatic, ready to gamble his shirt. And Roy had given him Lawrence's horse as a certainty. He'd been going to Italy the day before the race and there was no ante-post betting. He'd given Roy 10000 pounds to bet on the horse for him. And all Roy had done was put the money in his own pocket. It was so simple it was genius. Barry had gazed at him in awe. Ten grand, just for doing nothing. Nothing but have the horse stopped. And there was nothing the Italian could do about it. The bet had gone sour. That was the end of it. But it wasn't the end. Four days later Barry saw an item in the
Sporting Life
. It reported the suicide of a certain Pietro Lambarzini; owner of a chain of laundries in Barnsley, he had been a heavy punter and sometime owner. He had left a note saying he'd plunged on a favourite to extricate himself from serious financial difficulties and the horse had lost. He had shot himself.