Outside Chance (19 page)

‘I think he's had all the chances I feel inclined to give him. I say put the blinkers on and see if that does the trick.'

Hancock, who had temporarily lost his position as centre of the attention, now spoke up. ‘Where are you racing tomorrow? Any tips?'

‘Wincanton,' Finch said. ‘Best tip I can give you is keep your money in your pocket – at least where our runners are concerned. Our regular jockey is suspended.'

‘Oh, I don't know. Axesmith has got a chance,' Fliss responded.

‘Got the halfwit on him,' Finch grunted, and the following silence was deafening.

‘I was telling Ben how well his brother's coming on,' Truman remarked casually.

A swift reddening of his cheeks showed that Finch hadn't made the connection.

‘His brother . . .Yeah, he is. I didn't mean . . . The thing is, he lacks experience.'

‘There's only one way to gain experience,' Ben pointed out with deceptive mildness. ‘And you don't need GCSEs to ride well.'

‘Of course, I know that, but –'

‘Actually, he's really lucky,' Fliss put in. ‘He's a natural. The horses all seem to go well for him. I wish I could ride like that.'

A natural horseman. That's what Jakob had said of Nico. A God-given gift that couldn't be taught. It seemed that what Mikey had missed out on in the academic department he had made up for elsewhere. Ben hadn't seen him ride for ages. Suddenly he was looking forward to his trip to Wincanton the next day.

‘Do you ride, Ben?' Elizabeth's innocent query came out of the blue, and Ben's heart sank as everyone's eyes focused on him.

‘Used to, but not any more,' he said lightly, praying they would leave it at that.

‘Don't you miss it?' Fliss asked earnestly. ‘I can't imagine not riding.'

‘Not really. I guess I'm just too busy.' That was a lie, but it was his only defence against the inevitable follow-on.
I've got a horse you can ride. Dobbin could do with the exercise – you'd be doing me a favour, etc, etc
.

Fliss was still looking thoughtfully at him so he smiled and, after smiling in return, she looked away and the conversation moved on.

BEN SPENT THE
afternoon at Castle Ridge looking round the yard and talking to any of the senior staff that he came across. His first port of call was the cottage adjacent to the yard, to see Mikey. Technically the lads' working hours were seven until midday and then four till six, but Ben was aware that – as with all animal-related jobs – they didn't stop until the work was done. He knew from Mikey that unpaid overtime was a fact of life for all of them.

On this occasion Ben found his brother watching a video in the cottage's small living room, with Ian Rice, Davy Jackson, the lad he'd met the day Cajun King was taken, and five other lads, one of whom sported a huge, seventies-style moustache. That, he decided with amusement, must be Caterpillar, back from his holidays.

Accepting Rice's offer of a guided tour, Ben walked with him to the stables, leaving Mikey and the others to their film.

An eight-foot high, flint-topped perimeter wall
enclosed the stable complex, leaving Truman's house, the cottage and the lads' hostels on the outside. At this time the double gates were open, leading on to a gravel parking area where three maroon and gold horseboxes stood – two large and one smaller – all emblazoned with
Castle Ridge Racing
across the doors and body.

‘I'll show you those later, if you like. But I'll have to get the keys from the office.' Rice shivered theatrically and pulled his fleece closer around his wiry frame. The sun had disappeared completely since lunchtime and the wind was bitter as they walked up the cinder path between two stable blocks.

‘Brr! Brass monkeys, isn't it? Days like this you almost envy the guys with desk jobs.'

‘Really?'

Rice pursed his lips. ‘No, not really. Not for long anyway.' They had entered the yard and turned into the end of the first, American-barn-style stable block, where the horses occupied loose boxes that looked in on a wide central corridor. Hearing their footsteps, several of the horses came to look over their doors. ‘As soon as I see those heads I know I'm in the right job. Aren't they wonderful?'

Ben agreed that they were.

‘So you're writing an article on the Gold Cup runners. That's a bit difficult, isn't it? With King not being here, I mean.' Rice was a good eight inches shorter than Ben and had to look up when he spoke to him.

‘It might be, if they don't get him back. But then, I guess, I'd be able to name my own price
on the story. It's an ill wind, as they say . . .'

‘Do you think we will get him back?'

‘I really don't know,' Ben said frankly. ‘And I don't think the police know either. I shouldn't imagine there's much precedent for horse-napping, except for the notorious Shergar case, of course, and that doesn't inspire much hope. But, on the other hand, if they'd intended killing him, you think they'd have done it straight away.'

‘I suppose so,' Rice said gloomily. ‘The bastards really picked their time well, didn't they? Having a fancied runner in a big race like that makes such a difference to yard morale. Some of the older lads were talking about it the other day; it's going to be a real blow if the old boy doesn't come back. But quite apart from that, I'll miss him. He can be an awkward old sod sometimes, but I'm very fond of him.'

One of the horses stretched out its neck towards them and Rice stopped to rub its forehead.

‘In what way is he awkward?'

‘Oh, he's not bad, really. They all have their habits. It's just that he can't bear to have his ears touched, so we have to kind of buckle his bridle on round him. And he's a devil for treading on your foot, too. If you let your attention wander even for a moment while you're grooming, he'll have you!'

‘Is he really such a hot chance for Cheltenham? Or is it hype?'

‘On past form, there's nothing that can touch him, as long as the going doesn't get too heavy.'

‘So, can you think of anyone who might be involved? Anyone with a grudge? Truman
mentioned one or two ex-employees who weren't exactly happy when they left, but he didn't seem to think any of them were potential kidnappers.'

Rice shook his head. ‘There have been one or two, but the Guv's right. They were mostly just shirkers who were told to get on their bikes.'

‘Anyone else he might have upset?'

‘Quite a few, I expect. He's mellowed a bit lately, but when I first started working for him there were all sorts of rumours flying around.'

‘What kind of rumours?'

‘People said he'd got where he had in business because no one would stand in his way. They said that competitors in the same field just kind of melted away. I'm not saying it's true, but some people said he employed strong-arm men. One guy even described his outfit as “The Yorkshire Mafia”. They said he moved down here to start afresh and get respectable. I wouldn't know.'

‘How long ago was this?' Ben asked. They turned and walked slowly back through the aisle of the stable block, towards the centre of the complex.

‘Oh, donkeys' years. Must be nearly twenty, I suppose. I've only been here about fifteen years but Trent used to work for the previous chap that trained here; then Eddie Truman came along, tore the whole lot down and rebuilt. It can't have been easy, at first, even though he had money – and to spare – because in the racing world you've got to have contacts and he didn't have any, other than as an owner. But he kept plugging away, and now the yard's one of the top ones in the country. Sixth in the rankings last year. Whatever
you say about the Guvnor, he seems to have a genuine talent for the game. He can spot a good horse or jockey way before anyone else can see anything. And I guess he's not a bad boss, really. As long as you don't cross him,' he added.

Ben's ears pricked up. ‘So who crossed him? Who were you thinking of?'

Rice began to look a little uncomfortable. ‘Look, no offence, but this hasn't got anything to do with the Gold Cup, has it? I'm really not sure the Guv'd want me talking about all this.'

‘Truman won't mind. Trust me. I'm not about to do anything to harm his reputation. I've got Mikey to consider.'

‘Yes, I suppose so,' Rice said slowly. ‘Well, I was just thinking of Lenny Salter, the last stable jockey we had before Rollo came. The Guv found out he was on the take – you know, pulling horses – and boy, did he come down on him! The thing was, it turned out he hadn't got anything on him that would stand up in court, and Lenny more or less thumbed his nose as he walked out the door. Eddie was furious. And then, a couple of weeks later, we heard . . .'

He tailed off, leaving Ben to prompt him.

‘You heard . . .?'

‘Look, I think I've said enough.'

‘Oh come on, you can't leave it there!' Ben protested. It occurred to him that this might be another of the matters that Truman would rather the police weren't reminded about.

Rice shook his head. ‘No, I'm sorry. You'll have to ask someone else. The Guv's always treated me fair and I don't like talking behind his back.
After all, it was only talk; he may have had nothing to do with it. A chancer like Lenny probably had all kinds of scams going on.'

Ben sighed, trying to hide his frustration. They had come out into the brick-paved central area now, from which five more covered barn stables radiated. He looked around with interest.

‘OK. Tell me about this place.'

Patently glad to be let off the hook, Rice gave Ben a top-notch tour of the facilities, showing him the forge, where the horses were shod; the veterinary building – where, it was hoped, a vet would one day be in full-time residence; the covered school with its indoor jumping lane; the deeply sanded barn, where the horses could go when they were hot and sticky, to enjoy a good roll and get some dust in their coats; and the horse walkers – three round, rotating metal cages with compartments in which the horses could be steadily exercised at various speeds. An equine swimming pool was under construction and Rice pointed to a site, across the acres of fields outside the wall, where a range of brick outbuildings stood on rising ground next to a copse. There, he said, Truman planned to build a stud to breed future champions.

‘He's got big ideas,' Ben said, impressed.

‘He wants to compete with the Arabs,' Rice said. ‘But he hasn't got a hope. He's rich, but not that rich.'

As they returned to the main area of the yard, a steady trickle of lads was arriving for the second part of their working day. Some chatting and laughing together, some more solitary, they all
headed for the tackroom and reappeared carrying grooming kits. Mikey passed with Caterpillar and Ben asked if they'd enjoyed their film; the response was an enthusiastic affirmative.

‘Time to groom and skip out the boxes,' Rice said. ‘Then it's tack cleaning and evening feeds and we're finished for the day. I'll have to do my two in a minute, but I'll just show you the feedstore and the tackroom area, if you like.'

The tackroom was huge and beautifully organised, with rows and rows of saddles and bridles on racks around the walls and banks of lockers; each, Ben learned, was allocated to an individual horse and contained rugs, blankets and any personal effects of the same. On the wall, a huge whiteboard listed all the horses, divided into the four lots for exercise, with a lad's name beside each; another gave details of runners in the upcoming race meetings, and which lorry was going where with what crew.

Beyond that, and with its own door into the yard, was a square room with a tiled floor and strip-lighting, with a profusion of framed photographs on its whitewashed walls, several cuttings books on tables, and various racing mementoes behind glass in three large display cabinets.

‘Our “Hall of Fame”,' Rice announced, as he held the door for Ben to peer in. ‘Mostly for the benefit of visitors on our open days.'

The feedstore was as well organised as the tackroom, with another whiteboard keeping a note of exactly what each animal was to have in each of three feeds.

Rice explained that the horses were fed by
Truman or Finch at five-thirty a.m., one o'clock, and six p.m., with the exception of the first lot to be exercised, who had their first feed at eight-thirty when they returned from the gallops.

Stacks and stacks of numbered buckets, all scrubbed clean, stood against one wall, while on the other side, huge galvanised steel bins held the grain and performance mixes, and several huge plastic-wrapped bales containing chopped alfalfa waited to be opened.

‘It's nutritious, gives them bulk and stops the greedy ones bolting their feeds,' Rice said, seeing Ben's interest.

Another corner was taken up with red string sacks full of carrots, and a cupboard contained drums, tubs and bottles of supplements.

‘Must cost a fortune in feed bills,' he commented.

‘It does.' Rice named an approximate monthly total that took Ben's breath away. ‘Add to that bedding, shoes, vets' bills, insurance, tack repairs, and staff wages, and you can begin to see where the training fees go. It's not a hobby for the faint-hearted. And you have to remember that for every Cajun King and Pod Pea there are thousands of also-rans, some of whom never win anything much. They all cost the same to keep.' He looked at his watch. ‘Look, I must go and do my two. Why don't you go and have a look at the Hall of Fame – it's quite interesting. Make yourself a coffee if you want, and when I've finished I'll show you the lorries.'

Ben thanked him and, as Rice went off to attend to his allotted two horses, made his way
through to the public room to browse the photographs and newspaper cuttings.

The earliest photographs dated from around twenty years before; just one or two, recording modest wins at local racecourses by horses that were never destined to set the racing world alight. Then as now, Truman had had a mixed yard of flat horses and jumpers, and his success seemed to be split fairly equally between the two until suddenly – and apparently quite out of the blue – some four years after he started training, one of the Castle Ridge horses won the Derby.