The Silver Falcon (12 page)

‘I'm fucking,' she giggled, heaving against him. ‘Silly old Roy got pissed tonight. I think you're delicious.' She bit him on the chest. Tim pulled her arms up and held them over her head. He let his full weight come down on her and she was forced to lie still. She managed to caress his legs with her foot.

‘Supposing he's not that pissed?' he said. ‘What happens if he wakes up –?'

She giggled again. Her eyes were bright and she stuck out her tongue at him like a provocative child. ‘He won't. He's pissed as an owl. Don't be so nasty, darling. You're hurting me.…' She giggled again and nipped him on the side of the neck. ‘I love it,' she said. ‘Come on, Timmy, bang me! Bang me hard –'

‘Sorry, sweetheart, anything to please a lady but not this time.' Ryan rolled away from her and got up.

She sat up in bed, her arms above her head; even the angle of her breasts could not excite him. He genuinely wanted to get rid of her.

‘For Christ's sake,' he said. ‘Get back to your own room. He'll wake up and find you gone.'

‘Not with half a bottle of brandy inside him,' she said. ‘Stop worrying, darling Timmy. I know what I'm doing. I never get caught.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' Tim said.

‘He'll be in a filthy mood today,' Patsy said. She pouted at him.

‘He'll take it out on me,' she went on. ‘He thought she was dead, when Richard first called.' Ryan had gone to the door, holding it open; suddenly he slammed it shut.

‘What the hell do you mean?'

‘I told you,' she protested. ‘He got pissed out of his mind tonight. He'll yell at me all day tomorrow. You see!'

‘He thought who was dead,' Tim said very quietly. ‘Isabel?' She shrugged; instinct told her to withdraw.

‘Oh I didn't mean that – he was just disappointed I suppose. After all your horse wouldn't have run against us, would it?'

‘No,' Ryan said. He looked into the vacant eyes and stopped himself from hitting her. ‘No, it wouldn't. Not if anything happened to Isabel.'

He moved away from the naked body lying on the bed. He felt chilled and sickened with himself. What kind of people were these? Big, jovial Roy Farrant with his string of successful horses and his dubious reputation. Racing was full of men like that. Crooks and sharpers, ready to grab an advantage. He could understand those. But not this; not the cold obscenity of that one word. Disappointed. Disappointed that Isabel hadn't drowned out there in the black sea, so his horse could win the Derby. He reached down and pulled Patsy off the bed.

‘Get out,' he said. ‘Go back to your husband. I'm going to sleep.' But he couldn't get back to sleep. Instead he showered and dressed and went down through the silent bungalow. The dirty glasses and ashtrays hadn't been cleared away. There was a staleness in the air. He opened the sliding doors and stepped out onto the terrace. The sun was coming up over the palm trees. A red and purple sky with gold at the centre; the tropical birds were shrilling excitedly in the trees.

Farrant had thought she was dead. His distress over the accident, the anxious offer to help in any way – it had all been an act, masking the murderous disappointment that fate had so nearly intervened on his behalf. If that was how much winning the race meant to him, the sooner he got Isabel off the island the better. He had been completely taken in and so had Isabel. And Richard, who spoke of Farrant as his friend. If it hadn't been for Richard's knowledge of artificial respiration, she would have died on the trip back to the mainland.

He telephoned the airport and found out that there was a British Airways flight to England the following morning. He reserved two seats. He heard them coming out onto the terrace; Farrant's voice was raised, angrily abusing the servants. Tim disappeared into the garden. He couldn't trust himself to meet Farrant face to face. He came back in time to see Richard easing the big white Rolls out of the garage.

‘I'm going to bring Isabel back,' he called. ‘Roy thought this would be more comfortable for her.'

Tim came up and opened the passenger door. He swung himself in beside Richard. ‘Like hell he did,' he snapped. ‘I'm coming with you. I've got something to tell you about your friend.'

It took twenty minutes to get to the hospital. Richard didn't say anything until they were almost there. He drew the big car through the entrance and parked in front of the bungalow buildings.

‘I don't believe Roy really meant it,' he said. ‘She was exaggerating; he'd never want anything to happen to Isabel.'

‘Listen,' Tim said angrily. ‘You're embarrassed because he's a friend of yours. All right, he's pretty sharp and he doesn't much care how he wins, but this is different. A man who wants something that badly might get really rough. I'm not leaving Isabel here; we've got tickets on the Thursday flight and we're going to be on it. You can stay on with the Farrants if you like, but she's getting out of here!'

There was a celebration lunch for Isabel at the villa. Farrant and Patsy, flanked by Gerry and Susan Garvin were waiting to welcome her. Already the incident was in perspective in her mind. She had panicked under water and cracked her head on the hull. If she hadn't been fighting against Richard, they would have swum clear and surfaced in a few seconds.

Tim Ryan was in a curious mood. She noticed that he didn't talk to Farrant; his announcement that he had got them on a flight back to England seemed peremptory. To her surprise Richard supported him.

‘I think Tim's right,' he said at lunch. ‘Isabel ought to get settled in. She's got to look for a house. And she might as well get a check-up in London, just to make sure everything's okay.'

‘What a shame,' Patsy Farrant said. ‘We had some super parties planned for you, didn't we, Roy?'

‘Yes, but it can't be helped. I'd got a barbecue organized for Friday. About twenty people. And Barry Lawrence is flying out.' He mentioned the great jockey and Richard glanced up. ‘Is he riding for you this season?'

‘As much as he rides for anyone,' Farrant shrugged. ‘You know Barry – if he likes the horse he'll ride it, and if he changes his mind the day of the race he'll let you down and ride your biggest bloody rival.'

Tim Ryan looked at him. ‘I wouldn't put that crook up on a donkey,' he said. ‘As for chopping and changing his rides, there's only one man big enough to get away with that, and Lawrence is no Lester Piggott. He'll never come within a hundred miles of him, whatever the gutter press says.' He pushed back his chair. ‘Isabel, I think you ought to lie down before it gets too hot. You've just come out of hospital.'

Isabel hesitated. Tim's attitude was creating an awkward atmosphere. She decided that it was just as well to break up the lunch party. Susan Garvin came to her room with her.

‘Are you really feeling all right?' she said.

‘Yes, I'm fine, thanks. I'm afraid it's all been a big fuss about nothing. I behaved like an idiot.'

Susan came inside and closed the door.

‘What actually happened,' she said. ‘Can't you swim?'

‘Oh – up to a point. I'm not a strong swimmer, and I'm not very keen on the sea anyway. Richard took me underwater and I panicked and hit my head.'

‘I thought you dived off and hit yourself coming up,' Susan Garvin said slowly. She came and sat on the bed. Isabel could see that she wanted to talk and didn't know how to begin. She was frowning.

‘Why did he take you underwater if you're not a good swimmer?'

‘I don't think he realized,' Isabel said.

‘What a bloody stupid thing to do,' Susan Garvin said suddenly. ‘I hope you won't be offended or anything, but I should be a bit careful of Richard if I were you. I've never liked him: I do like you.' She looked at Isabel. ‘You are annoyed, aren't you? I can see it.'

‘I'm fond of Richard,' Isabel said. ‘I don't like innuendos, Mrs Garvin.'

The girl stood up. ‘Then I won't make any. I don't like Roy Farrant either, although he has horses with my husband. They're as thick as thieves those two. Roy punts like a lunatic, so does Richard. And they're not too particular about how they win. Gerry's never done anything crooked and never will, but the other trainers do it, and Barry Lawrence is in it with them. Just be careful, Mrs Schriber. You're not on home ground any more.' She went out and closed the door.

Isabel agreed to give a press conference after she arrived in London. Tim and Richard sat on either side of her in a private room at the Savoy Hotel where Tim had booked them. She posed for photographs, and a reporter from the
Daily Express
put the first questions. Was it true that she had come to England to carry out her husband's dying wish and win the Derby? She said it had been her husband's greatest ambition to win the race and she intended to do what he would have done had he lived. Any questions concerned with the Silver Falcon, she referred to Tim. At the back of the room, a neatly dressed man, with slicked-down brown hair and a smooth, well-barbered face, made notes in a small pad, and watched her carefully.

She wore a dark blue dress and a matching turban; she was tanned from her trip to Barbados and he considered her to be a very attractive woman. The red-haired man beside her interested him even more than she did. He had found out a lot about Richard Schriber apart from what Graham had told him; a big gambler, with a dubious reputation and a circle of unsavoury friends. His name had been linked with a lot of women on the periphery of respectable society. His ultraconservative father couldn't have been very happy with what the New York tabloids made of the famous paternity case and the model girl. It hardly tied in with the image of the aristocratic Southern sportsman and breeder, living in gracious Beaumont in the heart of the Blue grass. MacNeil had got in on a fake press card from the
New York Daily News
. He had no intention of calling himself to the notice of either Isabel or Richard Schriber by asking a question. He was just forming his own impressions. After what Andrew Graham had told him in his office that day, he had decided that the case was too big to be left to a subordinate. He had assigned himself. Someone had asked Isabel about the swimming accident. She paid a handsome tribute to her stepson for saving her life. MacNeil allowed himself a sour grin. He had long lost his capacity to be cynical, for cynicism presupposed some sense of disillusion. He had none left. He believed in all sincerity, that the human race stank. In his twenty years as a high-class private detective, nothing had happened to modify his opinion. MacNeil made notes. They helped him concentrate when he was fitting pieces together in a particular puzzle. And this was a very interesting puzzle which looked as if it would become more complicated as he tried to solve it. He thought of the gentlemanly doctor from Kentucky, and how he had squirmed and sweated when he told the real story of Richard Schriber and his father to MacNeil in New York. He had said it was the real story, but MacNeil didn't believe him. Clients always held something back. He was sure that Andrew Graham was the same as all the rest. He had a man working on it now, ferreting round the sacred precincts of Kentucky society. Turning the horse shit over, as MacNeil privately described it.

He watched Isabel, his eyes narrow. Twenty million dollars on the hoof. He wondered how much she knew about her late husband and his first wife. And his son. Graham had insisted she knew nothing. Charles Schriber had buried his past as effectively as his dead wife. He remembered Graham's suppressed emotion as he came to the climax of the story; in MacNeil's view he was a little too emotional on just one Scotch.

He half listened to the racing manager Ryan talking about the Silver Falcon; he didn't know much about racing and the subject bored him. He concentrated on Richard Schriber. He looked relaxed, sitting at ease beside his absurdly young stepmother. Very good-looking if you could take the colouring, which MacNeil personally disliked. Red-heads smelt like foxes. Someone had told him that years ago when he was a boy and the revulsion stayed with him. A smooth, cool customer; the kind of self-proclaimed shit that would have women flocking to find out if he was as bad as he was supposed to be. It was a technique with whiskers. There was an animal quality about him which MacNeil's trained instincts detected; something coiled and watchful, carefully covered by the lazy arrogance and the reputation of the international playboy with a taste for low life. Graham suspected him of trying to murder Isabel Schriber. MacNeil judged him quite capable of it. The conference was breaking up; Isabel smiled and thanked the press. He could see she had made a good impression. She left the room flanked by Ryan and her stepson. If Richard Schriber was planning another attempt it wouldn't be too soon. She was probably safe enough until she had rented a house. Accidents were always happening in the home. He went out at the tail of the group of reporters and slipped away.

5

Tim Ryan was still asleep when the bedside telephone rang. He was in the habit of waking very early, a habit common to anyone working with horses, but that morning he slept so deeply that the ringing took a full minute to penetrate. He grabbed the receiver; a voice was shouting down the other end.

‘Ryan – Ryan are you there?'

‘Yes, speaking. Who's that –' He was yawning as he spoke. Sunlight was cutting through a gap in the curtains. Christ, he thought, I wonder what time it is –

‘Ryan, this is Nigel Foster. You'd better get down here! There's been a frightful bloody accident –'

Foster. Nigel Foster. He jumped out of bed, holding the telephone. The Silver Falcon's trainer.

‘What's happened,' Tim shouted back. ‘What's happened to the horse?'

‘It's not the horse,' the voice crackled in his ear. ‘I'm not going into details. You just get down here and bring Mrs Schriber with you. And don't delay a bloody minute!' The connection cut off, and Tim stood, still holding the receiver. Nigel Foster was not an hysterical type; he rarely raised his voice or lost control. He had sounded desperate. Accident, A most frightful bloody accident.… His first reaction was relief. Nothing had happened to the Silver Falcon. A dozen different nightmare possibilities had rushed through his mind when Foster first spoke. The horse was dead. Colic. Cast in the box with a broken leg. A heart attack. An accident on the gallops.… For all its speed and strength, the thoroughbred was amazingly fragile. But whatever had happened, the horse was not involved. Good racing man that he was, Tim rated the safety of the Silver Falcon first; but there was no doubt about the shock in Nigel Foster's voice, or the frantic instruction. Get down here and bring Mrs Schriber with you. Tim banged the phone down and dialled reception.