Tip Off (2 page)

‘If you're still alive, can you come into the office about six?'

If my partner needed to see me that urgently, it would be something important and I needed a distraction from my fall. I dialled, got Matt's answerphone and told it I'd be there.

I drove towards Reading and tried to push the frustrations of the afternoon to the back of my mind. I knew for the rest of the season I'd have to be satisfied with using my meagre riding skills on Baltimore, my other horse.

He was a hunter chaser, also housed with Jane at a friendly discount. He was beginning to look quite businesslike under her regime, and she had agreed that he could run at Ludlow in a fortnight's time. She was, she said, far more worried about my fitness than the horse's. After my performance this afternoon, she'd have good reason to worry about my riding skills, too.

Angrily, I thumped the heels of my hands on the steering wheel. I would bloody well learn to ride properly, if it killed me!

I walked into our company's new, hi-tech offices to be greeted with a dewy smile by Monica, our receptionist-cum-secretary. ‘Bad luck, Simon.'

‘I wish it was just bad luck – more a case of bad jockey, I'm afraid.'

Jason Williams, who was our office manager and did most of the work in the firm, saw me through the window of his own cubby-hole. He came out, grinning.

‘The bad news is you fell off,' he said. ‘The good news is I was too late to get a bet on – so I'm twenty quid up.'

It was this positive attitude of Jason's that had persuaded my partner and me to take him on soon after we had launched our technology protection service.

‘Glad to hear it, but why are you two still here?'

‘Just wrapping up a couple of new contracts,' Jason said happily, thinking of his bonus.

I nodded encouragingly and walked to the closed door on the far side of the reception area.

I found Matt James in his office, sitting at a functional grey steel desk.

At thirty-six, he was a year older than me, but seemed to have ten years' more experience. Cool detachment and good judgement accumulated over fifteen years in the army showed in his ice-blue eyes. He was a private man, tricky to get close to. His ambitions were obscure, his priorities contradictory, and his relationships with women sporadic and secretive.

His antidote to sedentary work consisted of hard, relentless games of squash, in which I'd never beaten him, and long solo treks across the mountains of marginal Britain. Tough, supremely fit, quick-limbed and quick-witted, there was no one I'd rather have had on my side in a crisis.

Two years ago, he and I had set up as partners in a new security company, specialising in the protection of commercial information. We hadn't made our fortune yet, but from a shaky base we were beginning to build a reputation.

Although we'd been friends since our school days at Marlborough, we didn't have a lot in common. Matt had gone on to command tanks in a cavalry regiment and a squadron in the SAS, while I'd gained a 2:2 in history at Durham and spent the next ten years as an insurance broker at Lloyd's.

We also had very different tastes in recreation and women. That was just as well as neither of us was married and he was a good-looking man by any standards. But we had always shared a passionate interest in racing and a keen desire to beat the bookies.

On his face that evening was a grin as large as any I'd seen in the twenty years I'd known him.

‘Either someone's just handed you a monster cheque,' I said, ‘or there's a girl under that desk.'

‘I wish there were,' Matt laughed, and shook his mop of sandy hair, ‘but you were right first time. Tomorrow morning Salmon Leisure Plc will be handing me a substantial cheque.'

‘Toby hasn't done it again?' I asked, incredulous.

Matt nodded. ‘Good old Toby, and not such a bad price today: nine to four. Mind you, it should have been double that but I suppose it came right in as soon as Toby napped it. I wonder how the hell he does it?' Matt shook his head.

‘I should think every bookie in the country's tearing their hair out wondering that.'

Matt had been following Toby's tips for a few months, and over the recent spectacular run of winners had allowed himself to plough back a good proportion of his winnings into each subsequent bet.

His blue eyes gleamed at me across his desk. ‘Anyway, I'm not complaining,' he said with a satisfied grin. ‘But look, I'm sorry, Simon – in my excitement, I forgot to ring and tell you the appointment I made for you has been moved.'

‘Oh,' I said, disappointed. ‘Who's it with?'

‘One of your contacts – Emma's father, in fact. He rang to ask if you could meet him this evening on Jockey Club business.' Matt glanced at me. ‘Why are you looking so surprised?'

Emma Birt was a girl I wanted to see more of. Her father, Lord Tintern, was a senior steward at the Jockey Club. ‘I've been trying to get a toe in that door ever since we started,' I said. ‘The security guys in the Jockey Club guard their territory very jealously. But I've been working on old Tintern for the last few months.' I nodded, pleased with myself. ‘Maybe all my arse-licking has finally paid off. Mind you,' I winced guiltily, ‘our relationship could go sour if Nester stays sound and finds his old form.'

‘You mean, once he's got a decent jockey on board?' Matt's eyes flashed again, sharp to spot and point out a flaw. ‘You know, Simon, on today's showing, I think you must be the worst jockey I've ever seen. It really is time you gave up.'

I was used to Matt's constant jibes. ‘Don't rub it in! I recognise that my partnership with Nester is due for review, but I'm still going to race Baltimore.'

‘God help him,' Matt smiled. ‘Anyway, I suppose I can't expect you to give up the chance of Nester winning the Champion Chase just because it might upset Tintern, so there's not a lot we can do about that. Meanwhile, he rang half an hour ago and changed the appointment to tomorrow, at Portman Square. So you needn't have rushed back.'

‘Too bad,' I said, on reflection glad not to have to see Lord Tintern this evening. ‘Did he say what it was about?'

Matt shook his head. ‘No, and I didn't ask.'

‘I'll have to wait till tomorrow then,' I said philosophically. ‘I was going to go over to Wetherdown, but I don't think I can face Jane yet. At least this'll give you a chance to buy me a drink to celebrate your win.'

‘And the fact that you and Nester are still alive in spite of your pathetic performance!'

 

‘Toby Brown has always thought he was right,' Lord Tintern said with mild disparagement. He paused while he poured us both a hefty measure of ten-year-old Laphroaig.

The bottle and two heavy cut-crystal glasses stood on the polished mahogany surface of an elegant early-Georgian card table. The table stood alone in the middle of a small, panelled meeting room in the Jockey Club premises at Portman Square in the West End of London. ‘He used to work for me, you know, years ago when he first left school. He's my godson, as a matter of fact. I took him on as a favour to his mother, as a sort of trainee racing manager.'

‘Wasn't he any good, then?' I prompted.

Lord Tintern glanced at me down his long, slightly hooked nose. He reminded me of a golden eagle I'd once seen at a falconry centre, gazing disdainfully from high on its perch. I was interested to observe that only three generations away from the keeper of a tiny inn off the Great North Road, Tintern seemed to have acquired all the characteristics of a true aristocrat.

I had the impression that he was going to pounce on me for the audacity of my remark, but he restrained himself. ‘As a matter of fact,' he said, ‘he showed real flair for the job, but he was more interested in running the horses for his own gain than the good of their careers; we pretty soon fell out. I can't say I've given him much thought since then, but, as you know, he's the hottest property in the game now, tipping all these winners. And, I might say, causing a lot of worries.'

‘Tell that to the millions of punters all over the country who are following him.'

‘Quite frankly, Simon, I'm not particularly sorry to see the big bookmakers losing for once. But that's not the point – the fact of the matter is, Toby's up to something. Nobody in the history of horse racing has ever been so successful as a tipster. You and I both know that, no matter how clever you are or how hard you work, there's always an element of luck involved. Toby's found a way to dispense with that, and it means only one thing: he's cheating. The bookies are baying for his blood. They sent a delegation to us over the weekend, and I've been asked to look into it.'

‘Why don't you use your own security people?'

‘Because Toby knows them. We've been on his case for a while now and come up with nothing. I thought maybe a fresh approach would throw up something.'

‘Okay,' I said. But I was still surprised that he'd turned to us. The Jockey Club employed at least two dozen full-time ex-CID men, as well as a handful of retrained old soldiers, to maintain the integrity of British racing. And if it was true that Toby knew them all, it was also true that he knew me, and that I was now in the security business myself.

I was glad this didn't seem to have put Tintern off. I'd been hustling for some Jockey Club business for months, but in the back of my mind I was concerned that my decision to run Nester against Tintern's horse in the Champion Chase hadn't struck home yet; I was sure that sooner or later it would get right up his nose and seriously affect our chances of working together.

So why was he giving me instructions now?

For the moment, I decided just to let things run. A job was a job. ‘I'll let you have a preliminary report by the end of the week,' I said. ‘But you must have considered the possibility that it's no more than just a lucky run?'

Tintern shook his head. ‘Nobody stays lucky that long. He's on his own inside track, and we've got to know how he got there. But,' Tintern hesitated a second, ‘take your time. You know – softly, softly catchee monkey.'

I nodded, thinking what a fatuous maxim that was. Besides, Toby was no monkey. ‘Shall I report to you?'

‘Yes, of course. Anything you need, just ask.'

Once the business end of the conversation was over, we spent a few minutes exchanging racing small talk. Lord Tintern was affable enough and I was careful to avoid anything that might lead to a reference to Nester. The entries for the Queen Mother Champion Chase had been published three weeks before and I couldn't believe he hadn't noticed Nester among them. I guessed he'd be more than a little irritated to see a horse that he had once owned and written off entered in any race, let alone a Championship. Especially as he knew that I'd bought Nester from his daughter for the same token payment she had made to him.

‘By the way,' he was saying, ‘Emma phoned from Florida last Friday. She said she was coming home tonight.'

‘That's great news,' I said, trying to conceal my elation.

‘I should warn you,' he said, looking directly at me, ‘I don't think you'll get much encouragement from her. I imagine she has bigger fish to fry.'

I didn't speak for a second or two and decided, small fish that I was, not to rise to the bait. ‘I'm sure she has,' I said mildly.

‘You know, of course, that I wasn't too happy about her selling that horse to you,' he went on.

I shrugged my shoulders to hide my alarm that he'd decided to raise the subject now. ‘I don't think anyone believed he would recover at the time.'

‘That's not the point. The fact is, I'd virtually given the horse to her – I'd be very unhappy if he suddenly came back to form. However, we mustn't let a bit of sporting rivalry interfere with our professional relationship, must we?' he added, with a sudden gracious smile, holding out a hand to me. ‘Don't take too long getting to the bottom of this business with Toby.'

 

When Toby Brown wasn't staying in his exotically decorated flat in Mayfair, he lived on his own in an exquisite Strawberry Hill Gothic cottage on the edge of his mother's estate at Wetherdown, near East Ilsley.

Besides his tipping service, Toby seemed to have fingers in every racing pie. He had a few horses in training – none, surprisingly, with his mother; he owned several brood mares and youngsters, and he regularly bought and sold foals and yearlings. He also had a newspaper column and regularly appeared on television to air his idiosyncratic views on racing.

Although there was rumoured to be a partner involved in his telephone operation, everyone knew it was all Toby's making. His high profile had ensured that his success was well documented and the line had quickly taken off.

He claimed he'd devised an entirely new formula for picking winners. This took into account more factors influencing the outcome of a race than any rival tipster. He had measured every race-course in the country, made his own going assessments based on times, and even counted the number of strides taken by each horse to cover a furlong.

Business was booming for Toby. When I'd asked him two weeks earlier, he'd arrogantly told me that he netted an average thirty pence every time a punter called in for the day's selection and he was getting around five thousand calls a day, with up to twelve thousand on Saturdays. Not a bad income when you considered the overheads – all he needed was his formbook and a telephone; no office and no staff. I guessed, though, that since his recent run of winners, turnover must have trebled at least.