Tip Off (13 page)

I heard the commentator call out the starting prices as they set off. Sox O'Dee was favourite, not only because he was Connor McDonagh's nap – although that had undoubtedly shortened his price – but also because he was the highest rated horse in the race. Nevertheless, there were two other runners who could have been classified as dangers.

Once the horses had jumped off, Sox O'Dee went straight to the front as he always did. He jumped like an old hand, measuring his fences and keeping his front legs tucked tightly beneath him. Nothing else could match his stride, and as they began the long climb from the bottom of the hill, the other jockeys were scrubbing along to keep in touch. I knew, though, that it was only a matter of time before Sox O'Dee began to tire. I'd seen the hill at Towcester bring horses to a walk.

I took a deep breath and rammed my glasses closer to my eyes. I wondered for a moment what Lord Tintern was thinking as he focused on the horse from somewhere in the stands behind me. I don't remember breathing again until the horses swung into the home run for the last three furlongs, with two fences to jump. Sox O'Dee landed a full eight or nine lengths in front; all he had to do now was to keep standing.

But, suddenly, he was labouring, and two contenders were fast closing the gap behind him. Sox looked as if he were galloping in slow motion and began to wander off a straight line. Mike Jackson gave him a sharp crack with his whip, but the winning post seemed to be moving away from him.

It felt almost cruel to watch but somehow Sox O'Dee found the reserves to hold on, and reached the post with just half a length in hand.

Half a length, though, was more than enough. When you had a bet to win, you didn't have to give the distance as well.

A few strides past the post, he was walking like a dying dog and his jockey jumped off. In the stands behind me there was a huge cheer – more, I guessed, for the money won than Sox O'Dee's effort.

I spotted Lord Tintern going down to collect his prize, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. I pushed my way through the crowd so that I was near enough to speak to him before he reached the winners' enclosure.

‘Well done, Gerald,' I said thoughtfully. ‘What do you make of that?'

‘I'm very glad I insisted that Jane should run him, although I'm not certain we're any the wiser about Toby. I think Sox is just a very brave horse.'

Disappointed as I was, I thought Tintern might be right, but stayed to watch the unsaddling. Sox O'Dee had obviously pushed himself to the limit and the flanks of his loin had become deep, heaving hollows. His eyes were popping out of his head as he cast around anxiously and whinnied a couple of times for some company. His efforts had been beyond the call of duty, and I felt almost guilty to have been a part of it. I turned away and went to find Matt so that we could go home.

The next day was Sunday. The phone next to my bed rang early. Emma groaned and put her head under the duvet.

‘Morning, Mr Jeffries. I think we should meet.' It was Harry Chapman.

‘Your place or mine?' I asked.

‘We'll split the difference. Come and have lunch at Cliveden – on the river at Maidenhead.'

‘I've arranged to have lunch with a friend.'

‘Then bring her along.'

‘Who's paying?' I asked, wondering how he knew my friend was a woman, and worrying at the inevitable cost of eating at one of the smartest hotels in the country.

He laughed. ‘I am, of course. Though, God knows, I'm not feeling very rich this morning. But listen, I'll want a word in private first. Wait in the lobby and when you see a bronze Mercedes driving in, come out and we'll take a turn round the gardens. All right?'

 

It was surprisingly mild for a February day. The sun was shining through a thin layer of high cloud and flashed off the windscreen of Harry Chapman's Mercedes as it cruised down the drive between the towering Wellingtonias and parkland blue cedars, towards the ornate front of Cliveden.

I made sure Emma was comfortably installed near the bar with a glass of champagne before I strolled down the sweep of stone steps towards the formal Italian gardens in front of the house.

The Mercedes swished to a halt and Harry stepped out before his chauffeur had time to open the back door for him. He grinned at me with far more friendliness than he'd shown last time we'd met.

‘Hello, Simon,' he called. ‘Lovely morning, eh?'

‘Super.' I nodded and fell in step beside him as we headed around the side of the building towards the privacy of the wide open lawns at the back.

‘I take it you're still on the case for the Jockey Club,' Harry glanced enquiringly at me, ‘even though Toby Brown's packed it in?'

‘Yes. Their view was that someone else might take over.'

He nodded. ‘They could be right,' he growled. ‘These tipping lines are making us feel very exposed. There isn't a betting firm in the country that isn't looking at the possibility of crashing. It's crazy – one single operator like Toby or this bloody McDonagh and our whole industry is in jeopardy. If it goes on much longer, the only big firms to hold out will be the ones with the highest liquidity – and that could mean selling other major assets too cheap, just to get a quick deal.'

‘So, why don't you just stop taking bets on those races?'

‘We have to take them; none of us is prepared to be the first to cave in. I suppose we all think that sooner or later the naps are going to start losing, and whoever's taken the money on that race will have recouped a sizeable chunk of their earlier losses. Prices have been so short that the amount of money the punters are staking keeps going up.'

‘Would your firm consider selling off other assets to stay in the game, then?' I asked.

Harry stopped and looked at me.

‘What do you mean exactly?'

‘I don't know. Selling your hotels, maybe?' I suggested, remembering what Sara had said.

Harry gave a short laugh. ‘Do you seriously think I'd answer a question like that?'

I shrugged. ‘It's the question the media are going to start asking soon enough, and they'll be speculating about potential buyers.'

I left the thought hanging between us. I wanted to get an idea of just how desperate he was, but he didn't react. Instead he looked straight ahead and carried on walking. The subject was obviously closed. ‘So,' he said, ‘what do you know about Toby and Connor McDonagh?'

I looked at him. ‘Are they connected?'

‘It looks very much like it to me.'

‘Why do you think that?'

‘Come on,' Chapman said sharply. ‘It's obvious they're working together and Connor's taken over from Toby as the front man. We lost a fortune on that horse yesterday.'

‘Connor's had five out of five naps right. That's pretty damn' good,' I said, ‘but it's not unheard of.'

‘The punters already think he's the new Messiah.'

‘And punters, as you well know, are usually wrong.'

‘Your partner had a grand on that horse.'

When Sara had told us that Harry watched every aspect of the business like a hawk, I hadn't realised how close to the truth she'd been. I was amazed that Chapman had bothered to look up an individual punter's account. I was also surprised that Matt had had as much as a thousand pounds on the animal.

‘He told me he'd backed it – I guess he shares your view that Connor has somehow taken over from Toby,' I conceded. ‘But I still don't think there's any connection between Toby and Connor.'

‘Well think again, my friend. There has to be a connection. Toby has stopped what he was doing because his very impressive skill in picking winners has now been bought by private interests. There's nothing illegal in that – just good business practice.'

‘When did that happen?'

‘Last Tuesday; the four big firms sent representatives to a meeting with him at a pokey little place in Half Moon Street where he runs his lines. We had a pretty fair idea of what he was drawing from it, so we doubled the sum and added five grand a week for him to supply his naps to us on an exclusive basis.'

‘Good Lord,' I said, genuinely astonished at the size of the payment, but beside the losses they were incurring it would be insignificant, I conceded. Toby, it seemed, had cleaned up.

‘This agreement,' Chapman emphasised, ‘was on the clear understanding that his tips weren't offered elsewhere.'

‘So I should think. And Toby's quite a sensible chap.'

‘I think he's quite a greedy chap,' Harry said with deceptive lightness, and glanced at his watch. ‘Now, I think it's about time we went in and had a bit of lunch.'

We crossed the lawns and walked through a garden door into the great house. Inside, we made our way through to the front bar where we found Emma talking to a good-looking, expensively dressed girl of about the same age.

Harry Chapman looked at her fondly and turned to me. ‘This is Ingrid, my daughter.'

I'd seen Ingrid's type a thousand times before – a rich man's spoiled daughter, with implausibly blonde hair and dressed in flawless, clearly recognisable designer clothes.

I realised she must still have been in his car while we were walking away from it, and that he'd left her to make her own way into the hotel. I sensed Chapman enjoyed springing little surprises.

Over lunch, it became apparent that Ingrid's only interest was herself. She loathed racing and knew nothing about her father's business, beyond its capacity to finance her wardrobe and provide her with free accommodation.

Harry and I had no chance to talk any further about our mutual interests, and I couldn't wait for lunch to end.

 

‘That's the last time I come on one of your business lunches,' Emma said as we drove away from the hotel.

I laughed and gave her a squeeze as we reached the pair of gates at the end of the long drive. ‘I'm really sorry. Harry on his own would have been fine, but if I'd known he was bringing that hard-bitten, make-up-encrusted piece of St Tropez yacht fodder . . .'

‘You're forgiven,' Emma said with a grin. ‘But I still haven't gathered why he wanted to see you.'

‘Ah-ha. Just a bit of business,' I said mysteriously. ‘Now, do you want to come with me to Wetherdown?'

‘What for?'

‘I owe Jane some money for Baltimore's training fees. And I want to use her mechanical horse.'

‘In other words, you want an excuse to practise your riding?'

‘You're beginning to know me too well.' I grinned. I'd been working away at the exercises Julia had given me, and wanted to see how much fitter I'd become.

Emma sighed. ‘All right, but I'll only stay half an hour and that's it.'

 

The tension at Wetherdown was palpable as we walked in under the arch. It was most obviously visible in the tears of Sox O'Dee's girl, Sally.

She was sitting on a chair in Mick Mulcahy's office in the corner of the yard, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of a soggy Puffa. I looked at Mick.

‘Has the horse died or what?'

‘No. He's not great, though,' Mick said. ‘He had one hell of a race yesterday.'

I nodded. ‘I've never seen a horse so exhausted.'

‘He couldn't have gone a yard further.'

‘Anyway, he won, so what are the tears about?'

‘Ah, well,' Mick said, raising his eyes to the roof. ‘He may have passed the post first but he's liable to have the race taken off him.'

‘But why?' I said with an ominous sinking in my stomach. ‘No one objected; there wasn't any enquiry or anything.'

‘No, but he may not pass the dope test.'

This time my heart gave a few double-time beats. ‘What! You think he was doped?'

‘No, not deliberately, like. But little Miss Florence Nightingale here forgot herself. Instead of Dermosil ointment, she'd been rubbing Dermobian into his cut, and that contains prednisolone which is basically a steroid. Anyway, it's a banned substance as far as the rules of racing are concerned and, just our luck, they chose to test him.'

I didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Professionally, I wanted to know that the horse had somehow been got at with performance-enhancing drugs, though I couldn't see how or where that could have happened.

On the other hand, in these circumstances we could be fairly sure that the horse must test positive; certainly it was more than likely that if the girl had thoughtlessly plastered ointment on the horse's leg, it would show up. Jane would then be fined, and disallowed the race. And, presumably, if any other substance
had
been introduced, that would also show up, and then she'd be in real trouble.

In the meantime, I could understand why Sally was feeling sorry for herself. Mick must have made her feel two inches high.

‘Where is the boss?' I asked.

‘You'll find her back at the house, and not too happy.'

I looked at Emma. ‘Maybe my cheque will cheer her up.'

‘I doubt it,' she said.

 

Jane certainly didn't look happy. We'd let ourselves in through her kitchen door and found her, sitting in her own office, surrounded as always by stacks of newspapers, form books and sales catalogues, with a good measure of undiluted whisky in a glass at her side.

She looked up and tried to force her gloomy face into a smile.

‘Hello, you two.'

‘Hi, Jane. You don't have to put on a happy act for us, you know. Mick's just told us.'