Outside Chance (4 page)

‘Paying's the only real option,' Ford explained to Ben. ‘We can stall for time and try to set up a dialogue, because of course the more contact
we have with them, the greater the chance that they'll give something away. But realistically, the best chance we have of catching them is at the handover. That's potentially the weak point in any kidnapper's plan.'

‘But if they do manage the pick-up, what then?'

Ford shrugged. ‘We have to hope that they keep their word. After all a horse can't give us any information about where he's been – except forensically, I suppose. And setting him free somewhere has got to be a whole lot easier than digging.'

Truman groaned. ‘It never occurred to me that there'd be any security risk with King. One of the colts, maybe. I mean, two years ago when Pod Pea won the Guineas, I was quite paranoid about security. That horse was worth millions in potential stud fees, but King? Sure he's worth a few grand, and quite a few more if he does win the Gold Cup, but nothing in comparison with a dozen or so others I've got here.'

‘But Mikey says it would be your first Cheltenham Gold Cup,' Ben pointed out. ‘It's the prestige at stake here. It comes down to how much you're willing to pay for the chance of running the favourite in one of the biggest steeplechases in the world.'

‘Damn them to hell!' Truman slammed his fist on the desktop and stood up, pushing his chair back so violently that it rocked and nearly fell over. He stepped round it and went to the window, pulling the edge of the curtain aside so he could look out into the darkness. ‘I've worked so damn hard to get that horse fit for the race,
and now he's spot on. Or was. God knows what state he'll be in when we get him back.'

‘
If
you get him back.' Hancock voiced the fear that was in each of their minds. ‘The precedent isn't good. Think of Shergar.'

‘I don't want to think of bloody Shergar!' Truman responded, with what Ben thought an entirely pardonable flash of temper.

‘Hancock. Can you go and get an update from forensics?' Ford asked quietly. ‘They're working on the lorry and the note,' he told Ben as his colleague left the room. ‘We're not expecting fingerprints, because Rice told us the one he spoke to was wearing plastic gloves, but there may be something else – a hair, perhaps, or clothing fibres. It's unfortunate that the cab has been occupied by upwards of two dozen different people in the last fortnight alone, but all we can do is look for something unusual, something that doesn't fit.'

‘What about the hijack site? Nothing there, I suppose.'

‘It's a popular overnight stop. Rice says it was empty when he drove up – the bogus checkpoint saw to that – but by the time we got someone there the burger van had arrived and half a dozen lorries and commercial travellers had gathered. It was hopeless.'

‘Weren't they taking a bit of a chance? I mean, what if one of your lot had driven by?'

Ford shook his head. ‘They'd probably just have raised a hand. We don't get involved unless we're asked to.'

Ben digested this. ‘And the note?'

‘The usual format: “We will contact you. Do not call the police or you will never see your horse alive again.”'

‘Damn them!' Truman said again. ‘If this is those bloody animal liberation people, I'll see every one of them strung up!'

‘I'll pretend I didn't hear that,' the DI stated quietly.

‘Is there any reason to think it is animal lib?' Ben enquired.

‘Mr Truman has been having a bit of trouble from a local splinter group calling themselves ALSA, which, I'm reliably informed, stands for Action for the Liberation of Sport Animals. They're a fairly small group but well organised. They spend their time protesting about racehorses, greyhounds, animals in circuses, dog shows – you name it. If they had their way, all animals would be returned to the wild. They make a lot of noise but so far that's pretty much all they have done. I have my doubts as to whether they would take on something like this.'

‘They stole those greyhounds a couple of months ago.' Truman was pacing the room now.

‘Yes, but that was a publicity stunt. They handed them in to the RSPCA two days later. There were no threats.'

‘They've sent
me
threatening letters,' the trainer persisted. ‘I lost a horse in the King George on Boxing Day and had a flood of abusive letters. They sent a load more to the owner. It was the last straw for him; said he'd had enough, sold his other horse and quit racing altogether. They wrote to all the papers, even organised a
petition. They can't seem to understand that losing a horse upsets us just as much as it does them – more, really, because they're personal friends to us. Some of the lads are depressed for days, for God's sake. It's not just about the money.'

‘Didn't you lose another one a week or two ago?' Ben remembered. ‘Mikey said something about it.'

‘Yeah, on the gallops. Stress fracture. Just suddenly went, mid-stride. Promising two-year-old, too. Bloody tragedy.'

Taken at face value the words were almost casual, and Ben could see how the man's attitude could be misconstrued by someone on the watch for evidence of brutality.

‘I suppose they picked up on that too?'

‘Oh yes. They don't miss a bloody thing. And Sod's Law made it happen on the gallops nearest the road. I think they're up there most days; they seem to be on a personal crusade against me at the moment. Thing is, even if you could chase them away, you can't tell them from the bloody journalists.'

‘It's a public highway,' Ford reminded him.

‘Yeah. Don't I bloody know it? If it wasn't such a perfect slope I'd shift the gallops somewhere else. It doesn't seem right that you lot can't do something about them.'

‘Well, in future we should be able to do a bit more. New proposals are being put forward to deal with animals' rights activists but I can't promise the problem will go away entirely. It's still got to be policed, and staffing numbers aren't –
as you well know – as high as they might be.'

‘Bloody ridiculous, if you ask me! Don't know what we pay our taxes for.'

There was a tentative knock at the door; at Truman's terse invitation it opened and Bess came in. She was carrying a tray holding a kettle, teabags, a jar of instant coffee, sugar, milk, mugs and spoons, and – especially welcome from Ben's point of view – a large packet of digestive biscuits. Aside from a bag of crisps bought at a petrol station, he hadn't eaten since six o'clock that evening.

‘Thought you could probably do with a drink but I wasn't sure how many were in here, so I brought the makings,' she announced, putting the tray down on the end of Truman's desk. ‘Any news?'

Truman shook his head, coming to sit down. ‘Not yet.'

Bess started to dispense coffee and tea according to preference. Ben eyed her thoughtfully before saying to Truman, ‘You've got, what, forty-odd staff? How do you propose to keep this thing a secret, with countless journalists eager for any snippet of news about the horses?'

‘I don't suppose we shall be able to in the long run, but for now we're going to tell the lads that King's picked up a slight muscle strain and has been sent straight from the racecourse to have some intensive physio. If Mikey and Davy Jackson can hold their tongues for a few days we might just carry it off.'

‘Mikey's pretty good with secrets,' Ben commented, accepting coffee and biscuits from Bess with a grateful smile. She twinkled back at
him in a mildly flirtatious manner, which he knew from previous encounters to be standard issue in her case. It was, however, common knowledge that she was seeing a lot of Rollo Gallagher, Castle Ridge's highly successful stable jockey.

As if drawn by the lure of a hot drink, Hancock reappeared.

Ford raised his eyebrows hopefully but was rewarded by a shake of the head.

‘No. Nothing yet,' he reported. Then to Bess, ‘Tea, please love.'

‘Where did they take the horsebox to unload the horse?' Ben asked. ‘Mikey said it was private land. Do we know who the land belonged to?'

‘Yes, it's up for sale at the moment. Disused brickworks just outside Guildford. Big, locked-up factory building with a huge concrete apron where they used to stack the bricks. Tucked away in the woods it is, down a private back-road. Not much chance that they were seen, especially on a wet day like today. It seems like everything went their way.'

‘Except for Mikey being there to let the others go,' Ben suggested.

‘Yes, but even so, I should think they were well away by the time Ian Rice telephoned Mr Truman to let him know what had happened.'

‘And he immediately phoned you.'

‘Yes, but unfortunately by that time the horsebox was on its way home. If we'd known sooner we'd have stipulated that it should remain at the transfer point until CSI could get there. Still, it couldn't be helped. Rice says he couldn't get a signal.'

‘They seem to have thought of everything,' Ben observed.

‘Mm. As I said, we've located the brickworks but as yet that's yielded no clues, and we found no trace of them
or
the lorry they transferred the horse into: no cigarette butts, no soft ground for tyre tracks; the place looks clean. But if there
is
anything, forensics will find it. It was rather late in the day for roadblocks, but we did cover the major routes for an hour or two. Meantime, we've got people watching ports and airports but, to be honest, without much hope. If that's their game, I should imagine they'll have organised a flight from a private airfield. So there you have it, Mr Copperfield. You know as much as us. Possibly even more, as I haven't had a chance to speak to Mikey myself yet. Talking of which . . .' He drained his coffee mug and slid forward on his seat, preparing to stand up.

‘Thought you were going to put a tracer on my phone,' Truman said.

‘We are.' He looked at his watch. ‘It should be on by now.'

‘Oh. I thought . . .'

Ford smiled and shook his head. ‘No, there's nothing to see. No gadget with dials and tape spools. It's all arranged through the telephone company. All it takes is the proper authorisation.' Ford got to his feet. ‘Come on, Hancock.'

‘But I've only just got my tea,' Hancock protested, pausing in the act of taking a biscuit.

‘Well, swallow it down or bring it with you. I don't mind which, just as long as you come.' He turned to Ben. ‘Here's my number. If you have
any further thoughts on any of this, I'd be glad to hear them.' At the door, with a surly Hancock on his heels, he turned again. ‘I've taken a chance, trusting you. Please don't let me down.' With a wave of the hand he was gone.

In the silence that followed, Ben finished his coffee, studying the card in his hand and wishing all of a sudden that he didn't have to move. The leather chair was comfortable, the room warmed by a top-of-the-range, coal-effect gas fire, and he'd had the sort of day that made the morning seem like a distant memory.

Bess took his empty mug from him, adding it to those already on the tray.

‘Anything else I can do for you, Mr Truman?'

‘No, Bess; thanks. I should get to bed.' Truman had been sat at his desk, chin on hands, staring into space, but as the door closed behind her he straightened and looked directly at Ben.

‘DI Ford seems pretty impressed with you,' he stated. ‘Is he right to be, I wonder?'

It wasn't really a question to which he could give an answer, even if Truman expected one, and Ben wasn't sure he did.

‘I wonder,' the trainer repeated, almost to himself, ‘just how straight
are
you, Ben Copperfield?'

BEN LOOKED STEADILY
at Eddie Truman, his mind racing. He didn't want to compromise himself in any way, but he dearly wanted to know what was behind the trainer's question.

‘I can bend if I have to,' he said slowly. ‘But I have my principles.'

‘Hmm. What would you say if I asked you to work for me?'

‘I'd say I'm freelance. I don't work for any one person or company. That's the way I like it and that's how I intend to keep it.'

‘All right. Let me put it this way. How would it be if I were to commission you to do a little job for me?'

‘What sort of job?' Ben's journalistic instincts were up and running. ‘Why don't you just ask me and find out?'

‘It's . . . ah, a little delicate,' Truman hesitated.

‘Well, when you've made up your mind whether or not to share it with me, you can let me know. Here's my number.' Ben got to his feet
and fished a dog-eared business card out of his jeans pocket. ‘Just at the moment I'm too tired to play guessing games.'

‘No, wait! Time is important. You see, it might just have something to do with the Cajun King business.'

‘And you haven't told Ford?'

‘No. As I said, it's a little delicate.'

‘Ah, let's see . . .' Ben said slowly. ‘There's someone you know who has a grudge against you, and you don't want to tell Ford because whatever you did to upset this person, or persons, wasn't strictly legal. Am I close?'

‘You might be.'

‘And . . . Let me get this right – you want to tell a
journalist
?' Ben shook his head in disbelief. ‘Am I missing the logic here?'

‘Ah, but this particular journalist has a vested interest in not upsetting me,' Truman observed.

There was that threat again. Ben's eyes narrowed. He didn't pretend to misunderstand. It had always been Mikey's dream to become a jockey, but in spite of him being a truly gifted rider, Ben knew it was their father's influence that had secured the apprenticeship with Truman. If Mikey lost this job, his lack of social skills and limited academic ability would make it difficult for him to find another.