Outside Chance (6 page)

‘Not so bad,' he replied. ‘And you?'

‘Knackered,' came the succinct response. ‘Half my bloody shift has taken a sickie this week. Anyway, what can I do for you?'

‘Well, actually, I wanted to ask a little favour.'

‘Hmm.'

‘Why “Hmm . . .”?'

‘Because – as I recall – the last time you wanted to ask me a “little favour” it involved three weeks' work and two broken fingers on my part!'

‘Ah, but I only asked for info – it was your decision to get involved.'

‘Well, I couldn't leave an amateur bumbling around on his own, could I?' Logan observed provocatively. ‘Anyway, what is it this time?'

‘A little matter of a missing racehorse; do you know about it?'

‘Er . . . Be more specific,' he hedged.

‘Eddie Truman; Cajun King; a lay-by outside Guildford?'

‘Yeah, all right. Just checking. Can't be too careful with you reporters.'

‘I wouldn't do that to you,' Ben protested.

‘So, how did you get on to it so quickly? It's not even common knowledge at the nick.'

Ben explained about Mikey. ‘DI Ford bought my silence with the promise of an exclusive,' he added. ‘And Truman tried to do the same with threats. But then he decided I might be useful to him. If I were to give you a name, would you be honour-bound to pass it on to Ford?'

‘Well, I
should
do . . . '

‘I didn't say
should
, I said
would
,' Ben pointed out.

‘If it were told to me in complete confidence, I'd respect that, unless someone's life depended on it.'

‘OK. Truman put me on to a guy called Cecil Rackham, who used to own the horse. He's a surgeon, I think. Anyway, there's some bad blood between them. I wondered if you could run a check on him. And also on Truman himself, while you're about it.'

‘Oh, you don't want much then?' Logan enquired sarcastically. ‘Actually, I've already run a quick check on Truman.'

‘For Ford?'

‘No. For myself. I was curious. You know, self-made millionaire; rags to riches. They don't usually get there without treading on somebody's toes.'

‘And?'

‘A few well-greased palms here and there. The odd spot of muscling in. Nothing actionable, that I could find. Lately, many good works – including quite large sums of money for underprivileged
and abused youngsters, and a sizeable contribution to the hospital scanner appeal. A veritable pillar of the community. Rumour has it, he's up for a knighthood.'

‘Are you serious?'

‘Strings are being industriously tugged.'

‘Well, well,' said Ben, his mind busy.

‘Look, I'll see what I can do, and be in touch soonest. Must go now, I'm on “obbo” and things are moving.'

‘Thanks, Mark. Speak to you soon.'

A knighthood? That was interesting. No wonder Mikey's boss was keen to avoid any breath of scandal.

The morning was wearing on and, after stoking up the wood-burner, shutting down the dampers and coaxing the reluctant Mouse from her position on the rug in front of it, Ben set off to find Cecil Rackham, blithely putting out of his mind the pile of mail that had wedged under the front door when he let himself in last night, and that now sat on the coffer in the hall.

Cranleigh Place was found without difficulty, after enquiring at the local post office and convenience store, and Dr Rackham answered the gleaming white door in person and in his dressing gown, looking tousled and bleary-eyed. He was carrying a Sunday paper under his arm and, on the hall table behind him, Ben could just see a tray laden with teapot, cups, saucers, toast in a rack and marmalade.

He just managed to avoid glancing at his watch. A late breakfast in bed; very nice. And not quite the behaviour – one would imagine – of a
man involved in the risky business of kidnapping a world-class steeplechaser and holding it to ransom.

‘Dr Rackham? Cecil Rackham?' Ben enquired, with his best apologetic smile. ‘I'm sorry to have called so early on a Sunday, but I wasn't sure when else I'd find you in . . .'

‘Yes, well, what do you want?' Rackham was short and rather plump, with thin, greying hair and moist-looking pale skin. He was quite possibly a very pleasant man but at that moment he looked less than encouraging.

‘I'm a journalist,' Ben announced, showing his press card and noticing Rackham's slight withdrawal. That meant nothing. Almost everyone, except perhaps the most desperate minor celebrities, showed that reaction. ‘Ben Copperfield. I'm doing a feature on the Cheltenham hopefuls, and I wondered if you'd mind saying a few words about Tuppenny Tim's chances in the Gold Cup.'

‘If you were a journalist worth his salt, you'd know that the horse is thought to have little or no chance in the Gold Cup. He's a fifty-to-one outsider.' The door closed a few inches.

‘Ah, but everybody reports on the favourites. I wanted to do an article about the others. After all, there can only be one winner, but there wouldn't be a race at all if it wasn't for the also-rans. People who keep horses for the sheer love of the sport are the real backbone of the industry.' Ben laid it on thickly, mentally gagging on the syrupy words.

‘Well, of course, everybody likes a winner; we
wouldn't do it otherwise,' Rackham said, unbending a little. ‘But, as you say, it's the horses themselves that are important when all's said and done.'

A voice hailed him from the top of the broad sweep of stairs and Rackham pulled the door a little closer, his body blocking Ben's view of the interior almost completely. ‘Look, it's really not the best moment . . .'

‘Of course, I'm sorry. Some other time, maybe? The thing is, I'm on a bit of a deadline here.'

‘This evening, perhaps? I could meet you at the yard. The horses are with Belinda Kepple at Wincanton – but then of course you'd know that. I usually look in at evening stables; six o'clockish. Can you make that?'

‘Certainly. I'll be there. Thank you.'

The voice called again and Ben caught sight of an unmistakably feminine pair of legs descending the stairs before Rackham nodded his dismissal and withdrew, pulling the door smartly shut in his visitor's face.

Ben turned away, smiling to himself. Whoever that had been on the stairs, he was prepared to lay odds it wasn't Mrs Rackham. Those legs and that slightly husky voice had belonged to a female far younger than the doctor, and his demeanour had smacked of someone with a guilty conscience. He wondered if Rackham's wife was away temporarily or for good. Perhaps his sins had finally caught up with him. Either way, Ben reflected, the good doctor wasn't letting her absence get him down.

Deprived of the chance to interview Rackham
immediately, Ben found himself with no excuse not to return to the cottage and make a stab at clearing his daunting backlog of mail. And there was always the bookkeeping to do.

If they were positioned tidily, it was just possible to fit two cars on the small rectangle of gravel in front of Dairy Cottage. However, the cream, 1972 VW Beetle that was occupying this space when Ben got back, was parked diagonally across it. Leaving the Mitsubishi on communal ground, he went across to open his front door and, raising his voice to compete with the strains of
Madame Butterfly
, called out, ‘Lisa?'

‘Ben! I'm in the bath.'

‘You've parked the stegosaurus across both spaces. Where are the keys?'

‘On the hall table,' came the response, to the accompaniment of watery sounds. ‘Sorry.'

Having repositioned the vehicles, Ben returned to the cottage, turned the radio down, made two mugs of coffee and took them into the bathroom.

‘Coffee?'

The large, white-tiled bathroom was foggy with fragrant steam, and Ben crossed to open a window.

‘I'll catch my death!' said a voice from the huge, corner bath, with a theatrical shudder.

‘Nonsense. Fresh air is good for you.' Ben turned to survey the bather fondly.

Up to her chin in bubbles, Lisa Nelson, his girlfriend of eighteen months or so, reached out a frothy hand to accept the mug. On the rounded side of slim, she had shoulder-length, dark blonde hair, blue eyes and good – if unexceptional –
features that were lifted to beauty by her dazzlingly sweet smile.

‘Join me,' she invited.

Ben shook his head. ‘Too cold with the window open,' he said, and then stepped back smartly as she threw her wet sponge at him. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you had a tour this weekend.'

Lisa worked for a company that organised select holidays in the south-west of England, taking in sites of cultural and historical interest. Small groups of wealthy tourists were put up for two or three nights at a time in country house hotels, from where they were collected by guides like her, who showed them the best that the area had to offer. This meant that she was, like Ben, away for days at a time, sometimes returning to the cottage and sometimes to her parental home in Hampshire – whichever was the closer.

‘Yes, I have. I worked all day yesterday and did a garden visit this morning, but this afternoon's trip was scuppered by some protest group making a nuisance of themselves. Management decided to implement Plan B, so my lot joined up with Natasha's group and did Stonehenge instead.' She took a sip of coffee. ‘Actually, I think most of them were quite pleased, but it means finding somewhere else for them later in the week when they should have been going to Stonehenge. Oh, well.'

‘So who was protesting, and where?' Ben asked, only mildly interested.

‘Some animal rights group. We were taking our lot to the open day at Belinda Kepple's stables – you know, the racehorse trainer, just outside
Wincanton. Unfortunately these animal liberation people got to hear about it and apparently they were marching up and down outside the gates, chanting slogans and waving banners. The open day was going ahead but management thought it was an unnecessary risk, besides spoiling the experience somewhat.'

‘You wouldn't happen to know which group it was, would you?'

‘No. Not the foggiest. I was told, but it wasn't one I'd ever heard of.'

‘It wasn't ALSA, by any chance, was it?'

Lisa frowned. ‘It could have been. Something about animals and sport, I think, if that helps. Why? Is it important?'

‘It might be.' Ben finished his coffee. ‘I think I might just go over there and have a look-see.'

‘Good Lord! You must be hard up for news,' Lisa exclaimed. ‘Do you have to go? I've got to go back this evening for the theatre, but I thought we might spend some quality time together this afternoon – if you know what I mean . . .'

‘Sorry. Hold that thought though, I shouldn't be long,' he said, leaning over the edge of the bath to kiss her.

Lisa lifted her face to accommodate him, but at the last moment substituted a large handful of foam, and then squealed as he threatened to duck her.

‘I might not be in the mood later,' she called as he went on his way, wiping soap bubbles from his chin. ‘Especially after you stole my bacon from the fridge!'

By the time Ben got to Wincanton the road outside Belinda Kepple's stables was empty of any protesters. A couple of bright orange, printed leaflets had blown against the hedge, and he picked one up. It was indeed from ALSA, and the content held no great surprises. Full of righteous zeal, it urged the good people of England to lobby their local MPs to ban all forms of sport and entertainment that involved the exploitation of animals. It listed several incidents in which racehorses had had to be destroyed, and preached at length about the cruelty of forcing any creature to work or perform: from circus animals through to greyhounds and riding horses, even sheepdogs. The message ended by calling on all compassionate people to join the crusade and bring some hope to the lives of thousands of helpless creatures.

At the bottom of the leaflet there was also a website address where, it was suggested, monetary donations could be made to help further the cause.

Ben pocketed the note thoughtfully and then looked up to find that he was being watched fairly closely by a burly policeman and his equally burly German Shepherd dog.

‘The fun's over, mate. You might as well go home,' the policeman told him.

‘And the open day?'

‘Cancelled.'

Ben looked back down the road to where the Mitsubishi was parked, at a discreet distance, then back at the dog handler. The German Shepherd licked its lips, eyeing him intently.

‘Bet you were flavour of the month, exploiting one of God's creatures as you do,' he said with amusement, nodding towards the dog.

The policeman had obviously been born without a sense of humour. ‘If you'd just move along please, sir.'

‘You don't happen to know where the group were going when they left here?'

Man and dog took a step forward, the dog looking a little too eager for Ben's liking. He held up a hand. ‘OK, I'm going.'

Back in his car, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment or two. Where would the protesters go after so resounding a victory? Somewhere to celebrate, perhaps? It was just possible, he supposed, that that somewhere might be Wincanton. It was worth a try. Reversing the vehicle into a convenient gateway, he set off back the way he had come.

Ben had only visited Wincanton once before but he struck lucky straight away. He pulled into the car park of the first of its half-dozen or so pubs, backed into one of the few remaining parking spaces, and the first thing he saw was a young lad of not much more than thirteen or fourteen, with a handful of familiar orange leaflets and a collecting box. Ben switched the engine off and sat back in his seat.

On the face of it, it didn't seem likely that he would learn a lot from someone as young as this lad, but there had been times in his journalistic career when a youthful contact had provided a wealth of useful information. People tended not to notice when kids were around. They were easily
overlooked. Many a frank discussion had been overheard by a youngster and repeated, almost verbatim, to Ben's receptive ears.