Tip Off (12 page)

‘He also reminded me where I'd originally met him. It was at one of Gerald Tintern's parties in London.'

‘Really? Tintern knows Dysart?'

‘Yes.' I nodded. ‘And he owns seven percent of Wessex Biotech.'

Matt considered this news. ‘That's fascinating, though I don't think it necessarily takes us anywhere, do you?'

‘No, but it's good to know that one of them has obviously recommended us to the other.'

‘Maybe you just did a good selling job on him then.'

‘Frankly, I can't remember. But anyway, in the meantime I'll see what I can do about setting up a nap for Connor. I'll have to be fairly subtle about it, though. He's pretty sharp, and if he thought I was positively trying to push a tip on to him, he'd have to assume I was backing something else. At least – I would if I were him.'

 

Emma hadn't ridden out at Jane's for the last few days, and I hadn't made any arrangements to see her; I'd been hoping she might have got in touch with me herself. She hadn't, and I guessed I'd have to take the initiative.

When I left the office, I decided in the interests of time and motion to go back to Ivydene House. I took the precaution of phoning first to see if Emma was there.

She was, and sounded pleased that I was on my way over. Her father, she said, was not on good form, and she needed cheering up.

I hoped Lord Tintern would be in a better mood by the time I arrived to ask his help over the running of one of the horses Jane trained for him.

When I saw him, he unbent enough to offer me a drink and let me tell him my plan. After a moment's thought, he nodded his approval and it turned out that he had exactly the horse I was looking for.

Sox O'Dee, one of his promising young chasers, was running in poor company in two days' time at Towcester, despite his trainer's view that the gelding was still feeling sore from a cut received during his last outing.

‘I felt the horse's leg myself,' Tintern said. ‘There's a bit of a scab but he's sound as a bell once he's warmed up.'

‘But will Jane let him run?' I asked.

‘I respect Jane, of course, but she's a perfectionist, and besides she's very protective of her strike rate. But really racing's a sport – you can't only send out horses that you think will win.'

‘On the form, Sox O'Dee should win,' I said.

‘Yes,' Tintern agreed, ‘but he's missed a lot of work, I'm afraid.'

Emma came back into the drawing room, changed and ready to go out. ‘Okay, time's up. I'm hungry.'

‘I don't know why both of you don't just stay and have dinner here,' her father said, almost plaintively.

‘No, thanks,' Emma said with no pretence at deference.

 

‘Why are you taking me to the pub?' she asked, once we were in the car and heading for the gates.

‘Because there's a fifty-fifty chance Connor McDonagh will be there, and your father, God bless him, has just handed me a gift-wrapped, ready-made nap to pass on.'

‘But Sox O'Dee won't win. I heard Jane telling Dad he was mad if he wanted to run him.'

‘I want Connor to tip a horse that's unlikely to win, then if it does, we can be bloody sure somebody's gone out of their way to make certain of it and may even be able to find out how, if it comes from Jane's yard. But I've got to talk to her first. Can you get her on the phone?'

Emma dialled Jane's number, and when the trainer answered gossiped with her for a few minutes before handing her over to me.

‘Jane, hi. I'm glad to hear Emma's riding out again tomorrow, but what I wanted to talk to you about was Sox O'Dee.'

‘What about him?'

‘Is he running on Saturday?'

There was a moment's silence before she answered. ‘Simon, I can tell from the way you've asked that Gerald has already told you he is.'

‘True,' I admitted. ‘But you don't really want him to?'

‘He's had a cut on the outside of his fetlock; been on road work for two weeks. I don't think he's ready for a race. Personally, I don't want to chance it.'

‘But you don't like arguing with Lord T?'

‘No, frankly, I don't. He does it in front of the lads, and it looks awful. I've told him – if the horse breaks down, it's entirely his responsibility.'

‘So he runs?'

‘Yes,' she said, through clenched teeth by the sound of it.

‘And how do you rate his chances?'

‘Slim. I weighed him this morning. He's put on fifteen kilos.'

I put the phone down, pleased that I'd found the tip I needed for Connor McDonagh.

 

No one had seen Connor in the Greyhound for several days.

‘He's on a roll,' the barman said. ‘Taken over where Toby left off.'

‘He's only had six in a row,' I said. ‘That's not unheard of.'

‘Maybe, but everyone's looking for someone to fill Toby's shoes. Connor's just started advertising as the new Toby Brown.'

‘There's no reason why they should expect the same again.'

‘There's no reason why anyone should expect to win the lottery, but it doesn't stop them doing it.'

I accepted that I wasn't going to get my chance to see Connor that night so concentrated on Emma instead.

After we'd eaten at the pub, she came home with me. This time it was an altogether calmer, deeper experience, which was to linger in my mind even more vividly than the first time. In the morning, we found it very hard to get out of bed before we both went to ride out.

Emma went on to do a second lot while I went to see Julia for another hour of torture on her hack; she seemed to be getting more bossy with each visit.

When it was over, my next task was to contrive a way of bumping into Connor McDonagh.

I drove in to Lambourn and from my car phoned his office, which consisted of two rooms above a saddler's shop in the middle of the town.

I'd known Joan, his secretary, for a long time; her father had been head lad in one of the great old yards in the town. She answered the phone and told me I'd just missed Connor. ‘He's popped out to the chemist's. He needs more insulin. His diabetes seems to have got worse since this blasted line went mad,' she told me confidentially. ‘And since he stopped riding out, he's been putting on a lot more weight.'

I thanked her and parked in the middle of the village. I got out and walked quickly towards the chemist. I'd almost reached it when Connor came out.

He was about fifty and had floated around the Lambourn Valley as long as I'd known it. There was a rumour that on his first visit to the Cheltenham Festival, in 1982, he'd had five thousand on the Irish-trained For Auction to win a quarter of a million pounds on the Champion Hurdle.

He'd bought himself a small house in the village, ridden a few amateur races and established his reputation as a pundit to the point where he'd started writing regularly for the racing papers. He had consistently been one of the top tipsters in the country, and was presumed to follow his own most judicious selections since he'd recently bought himself a much larger establishment outside the village. Like Toby Brown, he had within the last year opened his own premium telephone tipping line.

He was a handsome man in the classic Irish mould: wavy black hair, square craggy features, strong colour and bright blue eyes. But, by contrast, he had a rather melancholy air due, I guessed, to the onset of his medical condition.

He was walking from the chemist's shop, taking a plastic pill bottle from a bag he was carrying. When he saw me, he quickly shoved it back.

‘Hello, Si,' he said.

‘Hello, Connor. Joan said I'd find you here. She said the diabetes is causing you more problems than normal.'

We discussed his health as we walked back towards the village square.

‘What did you want me for?' he asked when he reached my car.

‘I couldn't get through to your line and wanted to know what your tip was today. You seem to be on a bit of a run.'

‘Yes,' he agreed. ‘You could say that. I've tipped Ferguson's horse in the opener at Devon. They say it's taken to jumping like the proverbial duck.'

‘Thanks, Con. I'll give you one for tomorrow.'

He glanced at me sharply. ‘What's that?'

‘Sox O'Dee at Towcester.'

‘How do you know? Have you ridden him?'

‘Jane wouldn't let me ride one of her good horses,' I laughed.

Connor, oblivious to my feelings, nodded his agreement. ‘What does she say about him?'

‘You know Jane – nothing, but I can tell she's bullish from the way she was grinning after he worked yesterday.'

A glad light in the Irishman's eye told me he was nibbling at the bait. ‘Is that so?' he said. ‘Will you have a quick bevvy?' He nodded towards a gloomy little pub across the road.

‘No, I must be going. I've got too much to do.'

As Connor walked back to his office, it occurred to me with a jolt that if Toby were behind him, Connor wouldn't have any part in the selection of the naps. And even if he did publicly select Sox O'Dee, I wouldn't know that Toby might not have gone for the gelding anyway. After all, he was the form horse in the field. Then again, Toby might have spoken to his mother about it.

All I could hope was that Sox O'Dee was the day's nap, and it won. If it did, it would give a strong sign that somehow the race had been fixed. There was a lot of ‘ifs' in the plan, but I drove back to the office feeling that I was doing something constructive at last.

 

I phoned Connor's line as soon as it opened next morning and heard a string of rambling prognostications on the 3.20 at Towcester before I reached the real purpose of the call which was the day's nap: Sox O'Dee. While I listened, it crossed my mind that there was one distinct similarity between Toby's tipping line and Connor's – both of them offered only one selection each day. Where most tipping services gave at least three to improve their chances of finding a winner, Toby and Connor had always relied on quality.

 

I put the phone down and drove straight to Wetherdown where I was told that Sox was already on his way to the races with two other runners. I called Matt from the car and arranged to pick him up from Henley.

‘Well done,' he said mildly as he got into the car. ‘I hope the bloody animal wins.'

‘You haven't backed it, have you?'

‘Just a little; for interest. I backed Connor's nap yesterday and it scrambled home at two to one, which was okay.'

‘You know, if the race is run straight, Sox O'Dee simply cannot win,' I said. ‘Jane says he's only three-quarters fit.'

Matt nodded. ‘Of course I know that. I'm betting that Connor's into the same game as Toby. I thought three to one that he was pretty good odds.'

I laughed. ‘You could be right!'

 

Lord Tintern was in the stand talking to some friends. He looked relaxed and confident. Blissful ignorance was often an asset where horses were concerned and he was a lucky owner, there was no doubt about that. Maybe Sox O'Dee had more talent than Jane thought. It would be typical of Gerald Tintern's good fortune if that turned out to be the case.

 

I ignored the earlier races and went to have a look at Sox O'Dee before he ran.

There was nothing very conspicuous about me hanging around the open boxes behind the main parade ring. There were always punters who liked to go there to see the trainers with their horses before a race, hoping they might be able to read something from the expressions on their faces or the horses' behaviour. Ten minutes there could be worth more than an hour with the form book.

Sox O'Dee was a big brown gelding whom Gerald had bought after he'd won a good point-to-point in Ireland. Sally, who had looked after him since he'd been at Jane's, was leading him around until her travelling head lad arrived with the saddle. Jane, I knew, had stayed behind to avoid a confrontation with the owner.

The gelding looked calm enough and, if I was honest, in fairly good shape, but even I detected a hint of stiffness as he was first led out and started to walk around the small tarmacked oval in front of the boxes.

I'd arranged for Larry Johnson, one of our ex-squaddies, to take the photographs that day, and my eyes didn't leave Sox O'Dee as I followed the horses filing into the main paddock ten minutes later. From the corner of my eye, I saw Lord Tintern stroll casually into the centre of the ring and exchange a few words with Jane's head lad and Mike Jackson, the jockey.

The horse itself was moving well enough now. The wound on the outside of its fetlock, which Jane had mentioned, was barely visible as Sally led him past me, just a few yards away.

Mike Jackson mounted up with the other eleven jockeys in the race and they filed through the crowd.

I had made up my mind to watch the race from the lawn in front of the members' stand. Everyone has their favourite place for watching races. Some prefer being in the middle of the course, where they can feel more part of the action. Others like to put themselves close to one of the more challenging fences in a chase, and others only believe they are getting their money's worth if they are on top of the most expensive stand.

I felt that my spot on the rails, ten yards short of the winning post, offered the best all-round view. I knew that I'd also be able to watch the whole race from several angles on videotape afterwards, courtesy of RTS.

With my binoculars glued to my face, I followed the runners down to the start. Sox O'Dee put in a sharp buck as he swung wide of the main circle towards the small group of onlookers who liked to be down at the start, where Larry Johnson was positioned.