Outside Chance (42 page)

‘That,' Ben said admiringly, ‘was quite a sentence!'

Ford's lips twitched.

‘Wasn't it just?'

‘So, if that was what happened, what would you say the chances were of you ever getting to the bottom of it?'

‘Not good, maybe,' Ford admitted. ‘But it wouldn't stop us trying. It wouldn't be unprecedented for someone to have their collar felt, way down the line, for something they thought they'd got away with.'

Ben was relieved that the DI's suspicions seemed to be leading him in a direction that would almost certainly not trouble the Csikós but, even so, he wasn't entirely comfortable with the tone of the conversation.

He shook his head, affecting mild puzzlement.

‘If you're after some kind of confession, Inspector, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. I've certainly had no hand in anything Truman might have engineered. Is it really likely after this?' He raised a hand to touch his face, which still bore the marks left by Spence and his pal. ‘OK. I'll admit he did ask me to check out a couple of things for him; a couple of people he felt might hold grievances, but the arrangement wasn't a success. We have fundamental differences, Mr Truman and I, and I discovered that the more I came to know him the less I liked him. Apparently the feeling was mutual.'

Ford scratched his head for a moment, looking
preoccupied, then said, ‘What do you make of this business with the long-lost grandson?'

Ben's palms started to feel a little sweaty. What was Ford fishing for?

‘In what way?'

‘In any way.' The DI evidently wasn't going to help. ‘What do you know?'

‘Much the same as you, I expect.' He gave Ford a potted version of the sorry tale of Stefan and Helen. ‘Then, when Stephen turned sixteen, he decided to try and track down his dad.'

Ford nodded. ‘That's about how I have it, though Truman didn't mention the child when I first spoke to him about Stefan.'

‘Yeah, well, believe it or not, he didn't know Helen and Elizabeth had conspired against him to stay in contact with the boy. As you can imagine, he wasn't a happy bunny.'

‘Did you try and track down the jockey?'

‘Yeah, but I didn't have much luck. Lost the trail after he left the country,' Ben said casually.

‘That doesn't surprise me. From what Truman told me, I've a strong suspicion that the young man was here on someone else's passport and, as his description probably fits half the Romany population of Europe, I think the kid's going to stay fatherless.'

‘He'd have done better to stay grandfatherless, too. Though I guess you can't blame him for wanting to find his family, whatever it's like. He seems a nice enough lad.'

‘Mm.' Ford appeared to be absorbed in squeezing a splinter from the tip of one of his fingers. He spoke without raising his eyes.

‘What do you think of Finch?'

‘I try not to, unless I have to. Why?'

‘He has the look of someone with a secret. Never quite meets the eyes, does Mr Finch.'

‘Well, I'm pretty sure he's selling the odd tankful of diesel behind pa-in-law's back, if that's anything,' Ben said.

‘Is he now? Well, well. You are a mine of information. Have you mentioned this to Truman?'

‘No, not yet. I thought life was complicated enough.'

Over Ford's shoulder, Ben could see Hancock scowling.

‘Look, Inspector, is there anything in particular you wanted to ask me? Because, if not, I've got a deadline to meet, and I promised Lisa I'd take her to the theatre tonight.'

‘Anything nice?' Ford switched effortlessly to social matters.

‘Haven't the foggiest, but she assures me I'll enjoy it, so who am I to argue?'

‘Well, in that case, I wish you a comfortable seat and a large ice cream in the interval,' the DI said with a smile. ‘I'll no doubt see you around, Mr Copperfield. I should imagine you've been invited to witness the big race?'

‘Oh, yes – through clenched teeth.'

‘Let's hope the bloody thing wins!' Ford said as they shook hands.

It looked as though the day of the Cheltenham Gold Cup was going to be just one more wet and windy day in a wet and windy week, but by mid-morning the heavy grey blanket of cloud had
separated in places to allow the March sunshine through. By noon the sky was clear and very blue.

As the weather lifted, so did the spirits of the racegoers, and it was a large and noisy crowd that gathered to witness one of the most important day's racing in the National Hunt calendar. Smart casuals made of corduroy or tweed were topped off with an assortment of hats, ranging from the stylish to the purely functional and, at ground level, the occasional pair of high heels slipped and slithered through the mud next to the more sensible stout shoes and wellies.

As the start of the big race drew close, long queues formed at the Tote windows and around the bookies on the rails. In view of the heavy going, money was spread fairly evenly amongst three or four of the more fancied runners and favouritism chopped and changed every few minutes.

Truman had hired a large, glass-fronted box alongside the finishing straight and filled it to bursting with family, friends, and owners, very few of whom Ben knew at all. DI Ford was there, apparently at ease and accompanied by a well-rounded, fortyish lady he introduced as his wife. Hancock had either not merited an invitation or had been too busy to take it up. Ben rather suspected the former.

Fliss and Helen were there to act as joint hostesses during their father's frequent absences; Helen sipped premature champagne, clearly enjoying the occasion, whilst her younger sister just as clearly railed against her enforced role. Ben knew she would far rather be down among the mud and horses.

One person Ben couldn't see was Elizabeth. When he got the chance he quizzed Fliss over it.

‘Ah,' she said significantly. ‘Actually she's packed her bag and gone off for a fortnight's holiday with Aunty Tilda and Stephen.'

‘I bet that didn't go down well.'

‘No, you can say that again, but she went anyway. I was never so surprised, and Dad was gobsmacked! I think it must be the first time she's stood up to him in thirty-five years of marriage. God knows what'll happen when she gets back.'

If she gets back, Ben thought, but kept it to himself.

Rollo Gallagher put in a mud-splattered appearance between the first couple of races, shaking hands with the owners whose horses he was due to ride and listening solemnly to a series of instructions from Truman, who was splitting his time between paddock, parade ring and box.

Rollo said ‘hi' to Ben as he passed on his way out.

‘Got your instructions, then?' Ben observed, low-voiced.

‘Mmm.'

‘And do you follow them?'

‘If it suits me,' the jockey said. ‘Usually I just listen and nod, and then go out and follow my instincts. If I win, he pats himself on the back, and if I don't, I get bawled out for not doing as I'm told. We both know it's rubbish, but we play the game anyway.'

‘Isn't Bess here?' Ben asked.

Rollo jerked his head.

‘Over in Tattersalls with the riff-raff,' he said with a grin. ‘But she prefers it there, anyway.'

When he'd gone, Ben took a handful of canapés from the heavily laden table at the side of the room and left the overwarm room to follow him down the stairs and out into the fresh, breezy sunshine.

Here, one of the first people he bumped into was Belinda Kepple, who was warming her hands round a large paper cupful of cappuccino, as was her companion: a tall, lean, man with short, iron-grey hair and tanned good-looks.

‘Hi, Belinda.' He nodded to the man. ‘Dad.'

John Copperfield turned with eyebrows raised.

‘Ben. Well, well. Was that horse I sent along suitable for what your friends wanted?'

‘Yeah, fine. Thanks for that.' He turned to the trainer. ‘So how's Rackham's horse – Tuppenny Tim, isn't it? I see he's quite well up in the betting.'

Belinda bent towards him, conspiratorially.

‘Don't tell anyone, but I'm quietly confident,' she told him, and the excitement was there in her voice. ‘He's got the heart of a lion and he's a complete mudlark! He'll run on anything, but on this kind of going he'll stay forever, when all those around him are floundering. You should put a fiver on him. I think he's got a real chance.'

‘OK. I might just do that. Er . . . What you said that time – about Mikey – were you serious?'

‘Absolutely,' she said. ‘Why? Is he looking to leave Truman?'

‘I think he might be, soon. Even if he doesn't know it yet. Thanks. I'll be in touch.'

He moved on, stopping to take advantage of
the mid-race lull in business at the Tote and put twenty pounds on Rackham's horse to win the Gold Cup, and ten pounds each way on Cajun King. Then, lured by the smell, he bought a large cappuccino, adding another for Fliss, who appeared unexpectedly by his side.

‘I couldn't stand it a moment longer,' she explained, seeing his surprise. She took the coffee, gratefully. ‘All those people who've got no real interest in horses waffling away as if they know it all. I'd much rather be down here, and when I saw you escape . . .' She linked her free arm through his. ‘Did I see you talking to the opposition a while back?'

‘Mmm. The guy with her is my dad.'

‘Oh, I see. Funny, I've never thought of you having a dad.'

Ben laughed.

‘Why ever not? Did you think I'd beamed down from some distant planet one dark night, thirty-odd years ago?'

‘Is that how old you are? Thirty?'

‘Thirty-two, actually. Lisa – my fiancée – is thirty,' he added significantly.

He felt her immediate, miniscule withdrawal.

‘I didn't know she was your fiancée.'

Neither does she, Ben reflected, but kept it to himself.

‘So, where is she then?'

‘Working.'

‘Oh. Nice outfit, by the way.'

‘Thanks. You too.'

‘Did you know you left your leather jacket at the house the other day?'

‘Yeah. I've been meaning to come and fetch it.'

‘I could bring it over if you gave me your address.'

‘You could, couldn't you? I'm sure Lisa would love to meet you.'

Fliss leaned round in front to look at him.

‘Are you really as straight as you make out?'

‘Yep. Boring, isn't it?'

There was silence for a moment, then Fliss said with determined cheerfulness, ‘Well, I suppose we'd better get a wriggle on if we want to see King do his stuff.'

Ben allowed himself to be steered through 180 degrees and marched back the way he'd come, feeling like a traitor with the two betting slips in his pocket.

In the event, the race was a close-run thing.

As the horses rounded the last corner Cajun King was sitting pretty on the shoulder of the leader and looking full of running. Apart from one peck on landing early on – forgivable in the heavy going – he had jumped superbly and given Rollo a wonderful ride; but Ben, with his inside knowledge, couldn't help letting his eyes drift back to fourth place. There, running fairly wide, Rackham's big grey horse was going equally well; his long, honest head bobbing steadily with each ground-covering stride.

Indeed, comparing the two, it had to be said that Tuppenny Tim's rounded action was a lot better suited to the mud than King's flatter, reaching stride.

Then, as they rose to the second last, the other horses fell away and suddenly there were only two of them left in it. Looking over his shoulder, Rollo urged King to greater speed, perhaps recognising the danger and trying to put enough ground between them to take the heart out of his rival.

For a moment it looked as though his tactics had succeeded. As the clamour within Truman's box rose to deafening levels King took the last some four lengths clear but, for the second time in the race, he stumbled on landing. Even though both horse and jockey swiftly recovered their balance, it was clear to all but the most determined optimist that the mistake had knocked the stuffing out of the horse and he was now tiring fast.

If the room had been noisy before, it was now complete bedlam as, stride by stride, Rackham's big-boned grey steadily cut down Cajun King's lead. For a few heart-stopping seconds it looked as though the finishing post would come just in time to save the Castle Ridge horse but, to the accompaniment of a howl of anguish from Truman's box, Tuppenny Tim finally overhauled the exhausted horse two strides before they crossed the line.

All at once there didn't seem to be anything much to say. After one huge gasp of disappointment, Truman's guests, aware of the level of expectation there had been in the Castle Ridge camp, fell quiet, looking at one another and their host with little rueful shrugs. The trainer himself stared at the horses in stunned silence as they
slowed rapidly and turned to come back to the paddock, King executing the sort of low-headed shambling trot that indicated extreme fatigue.

Truman scowled as he saw Rollo give the winning jockey a congratulatory pat on the back. He then turned to look at the television in the corner of the room, as if hoping that the action replay would show a different outcome. Fliss stood beside her father, her green eyes glistening with rising tears, and Ben saw Helen down her champagne and refill her glass, perhaps unwilling to miss out now that celebrations were off the cards.

Across the room, Ford caught Ben's eye and grimaced before putting his glass on a convenient table, collecting his wife and quietly withdrawing.

The replay over, the television screen displayed the official result, putting the seal on the shattered hopes of many of those watching; it wasn't even close enough to merit a photograph.

Ben could imagine the jubilation in the Kepple camp. His own feelings were ambiguous. A tenuous loyalty to the horse itself and genuine sympathy for Fliss's distress battled against the pleasure he felt on Belinda Kepple's behalf and a secret joy that Truman's rampant ambition had suffered a blow. Whichever emotion proved stronger, he felt it probably wasn't the time to jump up and down waving his Tote ticket for twenty pounds to win on Tuppenny Tim.