Outside Chance (30 page)

Oh, I bet you're popular with the neighbours, Ben thought, and from the corner of his eye he saw next door's curtain twitch.

His feet crunched over broken glass as he approached the door, and after twice pressing a button that had probably long ceased to have any connection with its bell, Ben gave up and rapped on the woodwork. He had to repeat the exercise before he heard someone coming to the door but eventually it was opened by a shortish man who was supporting himself on elbow crutches. Ben knew from his conversations with Ricey and Fliss that Lenny Salter was only in his early twenties, but the man who stared out at him through puffy, bloodshot eyes, could have been anywhere up to his mid-forties. He looked at least three stone heavier than the Lenny Salter who had saluted the camera from the backs of a variety of winners in the Castle Ridge Hall of Fame and, even though he had never met the man before, Ben felt a degree of shock at seeing the sad figure that he'd become.

‘What the fuck do you want?' Salter asked, pushing long, lank hair out of his eyes and leaning on the edge of the door to keep his balance. He wore a stained and dirty tracksuit bearing the Nike logo, and a pair of equally filthy trainers with their laces trailing.

‘I'm a reporter doing an article called “Life After Racing”,' Ben said, sticking to his rehearsed story, even though it was plainly laughable in the face of such wholesale deterioration. He flashed his press card. ‘And I wondered if I could have a few words . . .'

‘Are you havin' me on?' Salter was understandably incredulous. ‘Is this someone's idea of a fuckin' joke?' He peered past Ben as if expecting to see the culprit lurking round the corner, laughing.

‘No joke,' Ben assured him. ‘Can I just ask a question or two? I needn't come in.'

‘Too bloody right, you won't. And you don't need to ask no questions neither. You wanna know about life after racing – I'll tell you: it fuckin' stinks!'

Ben wasn't about to argue with that. He'd already taken a step backwards when the opening front door had allowed a waft of stale smoky air to escape, and now, as Salter spoke, he was assailed by alcohol fumes. Surreptitiously, he put his left hand in his jacket pocket.

‘Yeah, it fuckin' stinks,' the ex-jockey repeated.

‘You used to ride for Eddie Truman, didn't you? Do you ever see him these days?' Ben gave the embers a bit of a poke.

‘No I bloody don't, and I don't want to neither, 'less it's over the barrel of a sawn-off shotgun! It's his fuckin' fault I'm like this. Him and his fuckin' stuck-up daughter.'

‘Oh? Which one? Helen?'

‘Nah, the skinny one. Caught me trying to kiss her, didn't he? She'd been leading me on, she had, playing hard to get. But she wanted me really.'

Remembering Fliss's reaction when Salter's name had come up, Ben doubted that, but he let it go.

‘Even so,' he said, ‘you must have known what Truman was like with his daughters.'

‘Course I bloody did! But I'd had a bit too much to drink, you know? Just won the King George for him and he'd thrown this big party. Fuckin' bastard watches them girls like a hawk. He lays his hand on my shoulder and tells me to get out, all quiet like; didn't want no fuss. Didn't speak of it again, but a week later he accuses me of bloody cheatin'. Said I'd stopped a horse for money – but I never.'

‘And then what? Did he report you?'

‘Nah. He'd got no fuckin' proof, had he? But he made sure the word got round. Nobody'd bloody touch me.'

‘So what happened?' Ben indicated the crutches.

‘I was down the local one night – had one too many, you know – and, I dunno, I might have said some stuff. But anyway, the next day I was looking for somethin' in my garage and these two geezers come in, shut the door and did me over proper. Took out my bloody kneecaps with a monkey wrench and smashed up my car. Compliments of the Guvnor, they said.'

‘And what did the police say?'

‘I told 'em I'd been mugged,' Salter said. ‘Told 'em it was druggies and they'd taken money from my wallet. Didn't want them bastards comin' back to finish the job.'

‘Is that what they said they'd do?'

‘They said they'd do my elbows, too. Then I'd be stuffed proper.' Salter's skin turned a shade paler at the very memory.

‘Can't something be done about your knees? Surgery, I mean.'

‘Dunno. They tried once but that did sod all. I'm on some waiting list or other.'

‘So what now? Where do you go from here?'

‘Down the fuckin' sewer, most like. I owe money all over the place and the police were round here the other day.'

Ford and Hancock? Ben wondered.

‘So what did they want?'

‘I didn't ask. Wasn't gonna be good news, was it? I kept my head down and they went away again.'

‘Don't you have any family?'

‘Brother. He's out in Spain. A builder.'

‘Can't you sell this place; go out there?' In spite of Salter's uncouth manner and degenerate appearance, Ben felt a degree of sympathy for him. If he hadn't fallen foul of Truman, his life could have been very different.

‘'S not mine, is it? It's rented. Takes all my benefit, too.'

Apart from what you waste on booze and fags, Ben thought.

Belatedly, a thought occurred to Salter. ‘Here, you're not gonna print this, are you? Truman would fuckin' kill me!'

‘Hmm,' Ben made a show of considering the matter and Salter's expression turned to desperation.

‘You can't do it. I'll deny everything.'

‘You can try.' Ben brought his left hand out of his pocket to show the miniature cassette-recorder it held.

Salter stared at the device, his face drained of all vestiges of colour, and then lunged awkwardly
to try and grab it, succeeding only in dropping one of his crutches and having to hang on to the doorpost to keep his balance.

‘No, you bastard, you can't do that! He'll fuckin' kill me!' he said, almost sobbing.

‘Did you really stop those horses?'

‘No, I told you, I didn't! Why would I? I was on the up. I was doing well.'

‘Do you have a passport?'

Salter nodded.

‘OK. Tell you what,' Ben fished in an inside pocket for his chequebook. Clicking his pen on, he rested the book against the wall and wrote down a generous figure. ‘I'll do you a deal. I'll give you this . . .' he showed Salter the cheque, ‘. . . and a week to get out of the country before I go to print. Go and find your brother. How's that?'

Salter peered at the piece of paper then transferred his gaze warily to Ben.

‘What's the catch?'

‘No catch. One condition. You have to speak clearly into this,' he indicated the cassette-recorder, ‘giving your name, the date, and swearing that what you have said is true.'

‘It is.'

‘Well, it shouldn't be a problem then, should it?'

He held the recorder forward and flicked the switch on with his thumb, nodding to Salter as he did so. After a moment's hesitation, the ex-jockey complied.

Ben held out the cheque and Salter took it with alacrity, retreating into his hallway a little,
as if afraid that Ben would suffer a change of heart and try to take it back.

‘Good. Now remember, in a week's time I'm free to go to press if I want, regardless of whether you leave the country or not. But I'd strongly recommend you do. I should imagine things could get quite uncomfortable for you if you stay around here.'

‘Are you gonna bring the bastard down?'

‘I don't know,' Ben said. ‘I hadn't thought about it. But I might . . . I just might.'

By the time Ben returned to Castle Ridge both lorries were back and the lights were on in the yard as the day's runners were settled for the night. After parking by the cottage he walked over to the main house, and was just about to ring the bell when one of the doors was flung open and Fliss stormed out, almost colliding with him.

He caught at her arm.

‘Hey, what's up?'

‘My bloody father!' she said, her eyes flashing in the porch light. ‘And my bloody sister!'

‘What's happened?'

‘Helen must have been watching us – this afternoon, when we were talking – and she told Dad we were all over each other! Can you believe it? We only linked arms, for God's sake! Christ, she's a sad bitch!'

‘And what did your dad say?' Ben didn't really need to ask.

‘Oh, he was quite calm. Said I was too young to know my own mind – how patronising is that? Then he asked if you'd been bothering me! I said
no, of course not; we're just mates. But that wasn't right either. He said you weren't the right sort of company for me, whatever that means. So then I got really mad and said if I want to go out with you I will, and he can't stop me.'

Ben closed his eyes momentarily and groaned, a mental picture of Lenny Salter and his crutches flashing across his mind's eye.

‘That possibly wasn't the smartest thing to say,' he told her.

‘Well, he just made me so angry!' she said. Then, on a curious note, ‘Don't you want to go out with me?'

‘No, I don't – no offence meant – and even if I did want to, I wouldn't. I value my kneecaps too much.'

Her brows drew down sharply.

‘You're talking about Lenny Salter, aren't you? What's he been saying to you? Everybody knows he was mugged. That was nothing to do with my father.'

‘No?'

‘No. You can't say that! He wouldn't . . .Would he?'

‘I'm very nearly sure of it,' Ben replied gravely.

She scanned his face, still frowning, then shook her head decisively.

‘No, you're wrong. He's hot-tempered, but he wouldn't do anything like that. Lenny was a cheat and he probably cheated one person too many, but it wasn't my dad.'

‘OK.' Ben shrugged. ‘Let's hope not. Well, I suppose I'd better go in and face the music.'

‘Do you want me to come back in?'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘To protect me?'

‘No, of course not,' she said crossly. ‘It's just – well, I didn't mean to get you into trouble. I was just so mad, I didn't think.'

‘Yeah. Well, thanks for the offer, but I daresay I'll be OK.'

As the front door was already open, Ben made his own way to Truman's study, where he found a fire crackling in the pseudo-Georgian grate and the trainer pacing the expensive crimson carpet with a cordless phone held to his ear. Relaxing in one of the armchairs with a whisky tumbler in her hand was Helen, looking particularly pleased with herself. Her look of satisfaction intensified as Ben walked in but, forewarned as he was, he merely glanced across indifferently and away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her smug expression fade.

Truman saw Ben come in but seemed in no hurry to conclude his conversation, so Ben strolled over to one of the leather upholstered chairs, sat down and picked up a copy of
Country Life
that was lying on a nearby table. He turned the pages idly, wondering if Helen had taken a chance and told her father of his visit to her bungalow that afternoon. If so, he was in for a double dose of trouble. He wondered, also, where Truman's dogs went when the family were all indoors. He'd never seen them in the house. To him, owning a dog meant they shared the house as well.

Eventually, Truman finished his business and placed the handset on his desk.

‘So, Ben. How's the article coming along?' he
asked, reminding Ben that Helen didn't know of his investigative sideline.

Ben tossed the magazine aside.

‘Yeah, good,' he said. ‘Been questioning your family and staff again; hope you don't mind . . .'

‘Not if they don't,' Truman said with a dismissive shrug.

He clearly hadn't considered the possibility that Ben might have gone against his express wishes and re-opened the subject of Stefan Varga, and Helen evidently hadn't told him. That, then, was one less thing to worry about.

‘You know, your brother put up a very good performance this afternoon,' the trainer said, taking a fat cigar from a beautifully polished walnut box. ‘Very creditable indeed.'

‘Oh, good,' Ben said, surprised.

‘Yes. I think he could really go far, given the backing of a yard like this one. Of course, there are so many things that can influence a career. Unexpected things, one might say.'

Ben became very still, his eyes narrowing.

‘Meaning?'

‘Well, if word were to get around that he were – shall we say – less than honest, for instance . . .' Truman produced a gold lighter and lit his cigar, drawing in a lungful of smoke with obvious enjoyment.

Ben didn't need it spelt out for him. This was a warning: keep away from Fliss, or else. He took a deep breath to quell his rising anger and said, quietly, ‘Are you threatening me? Because I wouldn't recommend it.'

This time it was Truman's eyes that narrowed.
He regarded Ben thoughtfully for a moment, then spoke over his shoulder to Helen.

‘I need to speak to Ben on his own, my dear. Do you mind?'

Even with the query tacked on, there was no mistaking the words for anything other than an order. Looking even more petulant than normal, Helen put her drink down and got to her feet. The look she sent Ben in passing was brimful of loathing, but he had more pressing matters to worry about.

As the door clicked shut behind his eldest daughter, Truman turned his frown on Ben again.

‘I want you to stay away from my daughter,' he stated with no further ado.

Ben raised an eyebrow.

‘Which one in particular?'

‘You know damn well which one!' Truman brandished a finger in Ben's face. ‘Fliss. She says you asked her out.'

‘Then she lied,' Ben replied quietly, his gaze never wavering.