Outside Chance (43 page)

Gradually the voices around him rose to a steady hum once more, and Ben saw Fliss take her father's arm and rub it consolingly.

Truman wasn't in a mood to be consoled, however. He was still watching the TV, which
showed the runners filing wearily back, caked in mud from head to hoof; the jockeys, goggles now discarded, looked out from pink-circled eyes. Rice, dressed smartly for the occasion, led the Castle Ridge horse in with an expression of resigned disappointment, in sharp contrast to the exultation that surrounded the big grey just in front. As the wave of applause followed the winner, Rollo leaned forward to pat King's steaming neck and gave a brief smile and a nod, no doubt in response to words of sympathy from one of the many who hurried alongside.

At this point, Truman broke his silence.

‘I'll give him something to fucking smile about!' he exclaimed, his Yorkshire accent very noticeable. ‘If he'd rode the horse the way he was told to, we'd have won that bloody race hands down. Always thinks he knows better, fucking little upstart!'

Slamming his glass down on the table he stormed out of the box, pushing through his guests with scant ceremony and almost colliding with a waiter who was on his way in with extra champagne and glasses.

‘We don't need that now, you imbecile!' he growled, before disappearing from view.

Glancing self-consciously round at the half-embarrassed, half-amused faces left in the box, Fliss put down her champagne glass and followed her father, apologising to the startled waiter on the way.

The repercussions from Cajun King's inability to come up with the goods were felt for several days.

The very public dressing down that Truman gave his jockey in the unsaddling area resulted in Rollo's icy calm but immediate resignation, which in turn left the Castle Ridge trainer with no rider for his runner in the last.

After some frantic enquiries, he passed over Mikey in favour of a more experienced jockey whose horse had been withdrawn; even so, the animal came in a poor fourth, which didn't help the general mood.

In the following days Truman told anybody who cared to listen that his horse's failure had been brought about by a combination of the jockey's poor judgement and the after-effects of its being absent during a crucial stage of its training. Neither of these excuses held much water with anyone in the know, because Rollo's growing reputation spoke for itself and the trainer had, several times in the past, been heard to boast that King was a horse who showed little at home and thrived on minimal preparation. In fact, Truman would have done much better to be content with the general opinion that King and several other hopefuls had, on the day, been beaten by the heavy going and an improving horse.

The only person who benefited from Rollo's departure – in the short term at least – was Mikey, who picked up a good few rides that would never ordinarily have come his way. He made excellent use of them, too, clocking up a number of winners and attracting no little attention, with owners warming to his shy good manners and obvious love of the job.

Beyond checking up on his brother a couple of times, Ben had no reason or wish to visit Castle Ridge in the days after the Cheltenham Festival. Since the return of his horse Truman had been civil but unwelcoming, and Ben was fairly certain the trainer suspected him of knowing more than he was telling about the whole business. Nothing was ever said on either side regarding the visit of Spence and his sidekick, nor was the subject of Lenny Salter brought up again. In fact, had it not been for the existence of Stephen, Ben would have been quite ready to wash his hands of the whole Truman clan.

Stephen, who went by his great aunt's maiden name of Garvey, was still away and, although Ben had been back to see the Csikós a couple of times, he hadn't yet mentioned the boy's existence to Nico. The main reason for this was that he wanted first to get some idea of how Stephen felt about the matter. For himself, if he'd been in that position, he couldn't imagine not wanting to meet his father whatever his race or creed. But there was still that possibility, and he didn't feel it was in any way right to make the decision for him.

There would be time enough, if the boy was keen, to sound Nico out on the prospect, although Ben was pretty sure what his response would be; family was everything to the Csikós.

Another loose end, in Ben's mind, was Lenny Salter, who remained in hospital but was making a good recovery. When he eventually paid him a visit, he almost walked past his bed by mistake. The ex-jockey had had his hair washed and trimmed and his eyes, though dark-circled, were
no longer puffy and bloodshot. Clean-shaven, he looked much nearer his real age, and he appeared to be sharing a joke with a slightly older, dark-haired man with a golden tan.

The sight of Ben had put paid to the laughter, until Lenny had been reassured that his visitor bore him no ill-will for passing his name on to Truman's two thugs.

The tanned man was introduced as Richie Salter, who'd been alerted to his brother's predicament by an anonymous phone call. He was presently making arrangements for Lenny to return to Spain with him when he was discharged from hospital.

‘The phone call. It wasn't you, was it?' Lenny asked, almost shyly.

Ben shook his head. No, it wasn't, but he was happy for him. Privately, he suspected Logan might be behind it.

It turned out to be a day for renewing old acquaintances. On his way home he'd stopped off at his local village shop to pick up dog biscuits for Mouse, and he found himself queuing at the counter behind a familiar shock of pink, frizzed hair.

Della, studded with even more metal than Ben remembered, seemed to be in conversation with the shop owner about the possibility of putting up a poster. Tilting his head to see, Ben was surprised to find that, rather than the expected ALSA campaign propaganda, it advertised an exhibition of paintings.

‘Hello Ben!' Henry Allerton appeared from the other aisle, carrying a loaf of bread and two tins
of baked beans. ‘I'm glad I bumped into you. I have an apology to make.'

‘You do?'

‘Yes.' Allerton deposited his shopping on the counter beside Della's poster. ‘Della told me what really happened that night the hut got trashed, and I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions.'

‘How is Baz these days?' Ben enquired dryly.

‘He's got a court case coming up. That business with the travelling show was nothing to do with me, Ben. I admit we were going to picket them, but I never intended them any harm, as such. Baz was a loose cannon, recruiting troublemakers and making decisions on his own. He was getting out of hand.' Allerton sighed. ‘I've disbanded ALSA for the time being – maybe for good, though I still believe in what it stood for. Della and I have other things on our minds at the moment. She's moved in with me and turned my attic into a studio; I'm going to manage her career, among other things,' he added, putting his arm round her waist.

The pink frizz tipped sideways to rest on his shoulder momentarily before its owner turned to look at Ben.

So they were a couple. A decidedly odd pairing, but that was entirely their business.

Della and he exchanged greetings, Ben reflecting with amusement that the last time he'd met her, he'd thrown her into the nearest hedge. Life was strange.

It was a relief to get home.

Dairy Cottage waited, warm and welcoming, with a wisp of smoke rising from the chimney.

Mike had been gardening in the courtyard and was just packing away his tools in the fading light.

‘All right, Mike?' Ben knew his landlord kept a fairly close eye on the cottage these days, especially when Ben was out.

‘Yeah. Everything's quiet.' He stood up, stretching his back. ‘That's not a dog in the back of your car, is it?'

Ben looked and shook his head. ‘Nah.'

‘Oh, that's all right, then,' Mike said as he turned away.

Inside, with the wood-burner stoked, the kettle on and Mouse fed, Ben was happily contemplating an evening spent with Lisa and a movie on DVD when the telephone rang.

He stretched out along his new sofa to pick the receiver off the coffee table, hoping it wouldn't be Lisa saying she had to work.

‘Yeah, hello?'

‘Ben?' Female, but not Lisa.

‘Speaking.'

‘It's Helen.'

‘Hi. What can I do for you?' This was unexpected.

‘I want to see Stefan. Can you take me? Please.'

The shock temporarily robbed Ben of speech. His mind raced.

‘Ben?'

‘Yeah, I'm here. What d'you mean?'

‘I saw your article – on the Csikós.' She pronounced it wrong. ‘And as soon as I saw that man, Nico, I recognised him. It's Stefan.
My
Stefan – Stephen's father – and I have to see him. You know him. Will you take me?'

‘Whoa, hang on. I'd have to ask him first.'

‘Can you do that?'

‘Yeah, I guess so, if you're sure?'

‘Now?'

‘Well, OK. I suppose so. Give me a minute.'

‘Ben, could we go tonight? Everyone's going to the party, so nobody'll ask questions. I'll say I've got a headache and stay behind.'

Ben remembered Mikey saying something about a party at the local pub to celebrate Ricey's birthday. He hadn't sounded too keen.

‘Surely you're not all going. What about the yard?'

‘Oh, Ray'll be here, but I can handle him, and Vicky's babysitting Lizzie at Dad's. So
please
.'

Ben sighed. It was the last thing he felt like doing but, from the sound of her, Helen might try to do it on her own if he didn't agree to help.

‘OK. I'll try and get hold of him, then ring you back.'

He rang off and sat looking at the handset, then a thought sent him hurrying towards the kitchen and a pile of unopened mail that sat on the dresser, awaiting his attention.

There were two or three magazines amongst it but it didn't take him long to find the right one – it had a lovely cover picture of Nico and Duka, with the words Hungarian Magic printed underneath. Inside it carried the first of two four-page features on the Csikós, plainly credited to Ben Copperfield.

‘Oh, bugger!' he said out loud, then reluctantly called Nico's mobile number. This wasn't at all how he'd hoped to arrange things.

‘Hello?'

‘Nico. Hi. Er . . . I'm not quite sure how to ask you this . . . '

Five minutes later, Ben was back on the phone to Helen.

‘OK, he'll meet us, but they've got an early evening performance tonight and then they're moving on, so he'll be really busy until then. But he says when the others go, he'll wait behind and catch them up later. They've been camped just outside Bath – that's where he'll be.'

‘After the show? OK. What shall I do? Come over to you?'

‘No. I'd better come and pick you up. You'll never find this place in the dark. I'll see you in a couple of hours' time. About half-seven. And Helen; your father hasn't seen the magazine, has he?'

‘No. He's out at the moment but he'll be back for the party.'

‘Good. Look, it's important that he doesn't see it, OK? I'll see you later.'

It was twenty-five past seven when Ben drove into the parking space opposite Mikey's cottage, activating the security light over the gate to the stable yard. The usual cars were there but, as the pub was within walking distance and a fair amount of alcohol would no doubt be consumed, this wasn't surprising. The cottage itself was in darkness, save for a lamp over the door.

Thinking that it wouldn't have hurt Helen to walk down from the bungalow to wait for him, Ben got out of the four-wheel-drive and let
himself into the fenced-off stable complex. It wasn't locked, so presumably Finch knew he was coming. He wondered what Helen had told her husband.

As he passed the lorry park a security light came on, almost blinding him, and when he moved out of its range, walking along the cinder path between the first two stable blocks, his night-sight was absolutely nil.

His hearing was unaffected though, and what he clearly heard as he approached the open centre of the yard itself was a rattling, indrawn breath and a long, low, throaty growl.

THE DOBERMANS!

Ben froze.

Oh, yes, Finch had been expecting him all right. He'd been told that the dogs weren't normally let out until nine but an exception had clearly been made, especially for him.

The snarl had definitely come from somewhere in front of him and, from the sound of it, not very far in front. Ben judged he was about twenty feet from the central yard, and maybe eighty feet of cinder path lay behind him.

No point in running, then. He reckoned he'd make all of ten feet before the dog caught him. He looked sideways at the brick walls that flanked the path.

Smooth, seven or eight feet to the eaves, with windows every fifteen feet or so. Barred windows. No help there.

The Doberman drew in another ragged breath and growled again.

‘All right, lad,' Ben said. ‘Good lad.'

What had Finch said they were called? He pummelled his brain and came up with one name.

‘All right, Kaiser. That'll do, boy.' For good measure, and assuming that the dog's night-sight was way better than his own, Ben tried the hand signal he'd seen Finch use.

The Dobe wasn't impressed. The growling continued unabated.

If only he could see. There was a torch in his glove compartment – why the hell hadn't he brought it with him? If nothing else, he could maybe have shoved it in the dog's jaws instead of his arm or whatever the dog had in mind. There would be a little more light in the open yard, and several doors that might or might not be locked. More possibilities than he had now. And if the alarms were set and he tripped one – well, that would do nicely. He decided to risk moving, very, very, slowly.

Almost sliding his feet along the cinders, Ben began to edge forward.