The Silver Falcon (15 page)

He was on his way to the Farrants' house in St John's Wood. They had invited him to dinner. Whenever he saw that house, three massive storeys of brick and stucco, with a car port for eight and a swimming pool under glass that was Olympic size, he kept thinking of the first time he met Roy in Barnsley, when he lived in two rooms above his first ironmonger's shop, and he, Barry, was a skinny, semi-literate apprentice jockey to a moderate Yorkshire trainer with a mixed yard of flat and jumpers. He hadn't got tuppence to put together in those days. He struck up a conversation with Farrant in the pub round the corner, during a holiday spent with his family, liking the look of the big fellow sitting with a pint at the counter. There was one thing Barry Lawrence had always known, although he couldn't have expressed it properly in words. He wasn't going to work behind some lousy counter or in some rotten factory, working his guts out to end up like his father. With nothing. He had a way with horses. His first year of apprenticeship had taught him that. And his governor was teaching him to ride. That clinched it. As soon as he got up on one of the big thoroughbreds, his ego swelled and a sense of profound self-confidence came over him. He was a different human being, perched on the horse's withers, flat cap tilted a little over one eye. He was Barry Lawrence, riding the favourite in the Derby, with a million people crammed into Epsom watching him. It was always the same dream, the Derby. He never wanted to be a National Hunt jockey. There was no money in it. Just broken bones and cracked heads, and fuck-all at the end of it. The fools could go jumping. He was small enough and light enough to ride the Flat horses. And he loved them. He loved the good ones, and genuinely hated the bad.

He had talked about horses to Roy Farrant that night in the pub, making his one half pint of bitter last and last, until Farrant insisted on buying him another. And that was the beginning. The beginning of their ill-assorted friendship and of Roy Farrant's interest in racing which culminated in buying Rocket Man as a yearling at the Hialeah Sales for 118000 guineas because his pedigree made him a Derby prospect. It was one hell of a giant's leap, from the ironmonger's shop in the dingy Barnsley street to Farrant Enterprises Ltd. But Barry Lawrence had helped him make it. He grinned as he drew into the sweeping drive in front of the house. Even if they didn't like each other, they could never afford to fall out. He parked alongside a big grey Rolls Corniche and went up to the house. His cigar was already in his mouth. It wasn't just part of his champion jockey act. It helped to reduce his appetite. He might be asked to lunch but he wouldn't eat more than a token. The Flat season had begun and he was in full training. Two glasses of champagne, a maximum of 500 calories in the meal, and no water. He had learned to cope with thirst, to take pills to make him pee to the point of dehydration, more pills to quell his hunger, to sit and sweat in steam baths till he was sick and dizzy. But if Lawrence was riding, he always made the weight. He was fit and on time, and had a cheering word for the owners and a joke for the press. He was a very popular figure with the public. His fellow jockeys didn't trust him and there were trainers who went into seizures at the mention of his name. Barry Lawrence. He walked into the crowded sitting room and everyone looked round. There must have been nearly twenty people there. He saw Patsy coming towards him, swaying in pink silk trousers and top, a ruby and diamond pendant as big as a coffee saucer bouncing round her navel. She kissed him, and he smelled her strong, expensive scent.

‘Hello, Barry – nice to see you –' She always said the same thing, giving her bright smile to everyone. She seemed genuinely pleased to see him; he wondered if it was real good nature or plumbless stupidity that didn't bear him any grudge for turning her away. Not that it mattered.

Farrant came up to him, slapped him on the back, put a glass of champagne in his hand. He knew most of the faces. Racing associates, a press lord, the inevitable fringe models, a man whose name he remembered seeing in last week's edition of
Private Eye
in connection with a dubious merchant bank. The usual group. The Garvins, Dick Shipley from Newmarket, who had been leading Flat trainer two years before. He had run Nigel Foster very close. They were the two best in the game. People often said they wondered why Roy didn't send his Derby hope to Shipley instead of the less experienced Garvin. But Barry knew. Shipley didn't play games. And he didn't take orders from anyone. He would tell an owner when to bet but that was all. Lawrence knew Shipley had expected to get Rocket Man; he was sharp enough to know why it had been sent to Garvin as a two-year-old. He had two Derby hopefuls in his yard, and Roy didn't want any competition. Garvin would break his neck to win the race. And he would look the other way when Shipley wouldn't. Barry paused. The man talking to Dick Shipley had turned round. He saw that it was Richard Schriber. The trainer was hailing him and he had to go over.

‘Hello, Barry – saw you had a nice winner at Chantilly the other day.'

‘Yes,' Lawrence answered. ‘Nice filly. Went like a bird.'

‘Hello Barry,' Richard Schriber said. He always made the jockey feel uncomfortable. He didn't really fit in with the Farrant clique, and Lawrence didn't know why. He was a heavy gambler, went strong on the booze and the birds, but there was something about him which set Lawrence's teeth on edge. He felt that Schriber was laughing at him and at all of them. Even Roy. He didn't like him; he saw one of the model girls smiling at him and gladly turned away.

Shipley glanced after him. ‘The trouble with him is he gets better and better. And the little bugger knows it. Do you know he rang me up the other day and
told
me he was going to ride Askara in the Oaks? He'd fixed it with the owners!'

‘And what did you say?' Richard asked.

‘I told him I'd pick my own pilot, thank you, and I told the owners the same. They weren't best pleased but I'm damned if I'm going to have that little monkey going behind my back and booking himself on my horses. Pity is, I think he'd do her very well. He's got a great touch with difficult fillies and she's a right bitch.'

Richard smiled. ‘Then I shouldn't be proud, pal. Winning is all in this game. Put him up. Excuse me – I have to grab Roy.'

Farrant walked into a corner of the living room with him. There were huge red velvet sofas round the walls. The room reminded Richard of a luxurious hotel lounge, with glaring incongruities like an exquisite Sisley painting over the fireplace, outraged by some of Patsy's forays into Harrods gift department on the mantelpiece. She had a weakness for winsome china.

‘I'm glad you invited yourself over –' Farrant said. ‘What's the news?'

‘About what?' Richard lit a cigarette.

‘Don't play bloody games,' Farrant said angrily. ‘You know what about – the Falcon! What's happening?'

‘Nothing much so far as I know,' Richard answered. ‘He's down with Nigel Foster and according to Isabel they're delighted with him. By the way –' he stubbed out his cigarette and glanced up at Farrant. ‘I saw something in the paper last night about a lad in Foster's yard getting injured by a horse. Just a paragraph. Have you heard anything about it?'

‘No.' Roy's face was blank. Too blank. ‘Not a word. Why should I?'

‘The rumour is,' Richard went on, still very casual, ‘that the lad was trying to cripple a horse when he got kicked. And that horse was the Silver Falcon. You wouldn't be taking things into your own hands by any chance?'

Farrant's face turned red. He swung round towards Richard. ‘I haven't seen anything coming from you! You gave me a lot of stuff in Barbados about stopping that horse running in the Derby, and he's been here a month, training on, with nothing but reports about how good he is, coming out. There was a whole column about him in the
Life
yesterday! What have you done, Richard – nothing!'

‘And that's exactly what I will do, unless you lay off. All you've done is get Foster's yard crawling with security guards and dogs.'

‘You've got the perfect set-up,' Farrant said. ‘You're her stepson, you can go anywhere. If I give you some stuff, you could get at that horse.…'

Richard stood up. ‘Nothing,' he said slowly, ‘is going to happen to the horse.'

Farrant started to say something, and then changed his mind.

‘I'm not staying,' Richard said. ‘I just dropped by to tell you that either you let me handle this my way or you can count me out. One more bullyboy trick and you're on your own!' He turned and walked away.

There were three dozen red roses delivered to Isabel's suite that afternoon. She had tried to call Richard the evening before to tell him about Coolbridge, but there had been no reply, and she had accepted an invitation from friends of Charles to dine with them. The next morning she drove down to Oxford to lunch with her parents; it was a duty visit, and it depressed her. She had said goodbye to them with relief and known it was mutual.

The sitting room was full of the flowers; the card was on a silver salver on the table.

‘Sorry about the house hunting. Money has its disadvantages, I had to see my accountant. I'll call for you at eight tonight. Richard.'

She put the card on the mantelpiece instead of tearing it up. She felt suddenly confident again; the uneasiness associated with her visit to her parents disappeared. She had missed seeing Richard for the past two days. If she had had another date for dinner that evening, she would have cancelled it.

He took her to dinner at Marks, the most exclusive and fashionable dining club in London. Isabel had chosen a new dress to wear; she liked the simplicity of Yves St Laurent clothes and she was slim enough to wear them. She felt guilty about buying so expensively, but now, irrationally she was glad. She chose a long cream dress in wild silk, and she was ready ten minutes before he was due to arrive. They didn't say much. Richard kissed her on the cheek and took her arm going down in the lift. He helped her into a red BMW which the Savoy doorman was watching over, and drove her to Charles Street.

‘I hope no one's taken you here,' he said. ‘I want this to be my surprise. It's the best place to eat in London.'

They drank champagne in the first-floor room in front of an open fire which was burning against a slight spring chill in the evening, surrounded by nineteenth-century pictures and bronzes, assembled with impeccable taste. The effect was deliberately casual; it was a splendid country house room, where at any moment the host would walk in.

‘Do you like it?' Richard asked her. They were side by side on a sprawling deep sofa.

‘Yes,' she looked at him. ‘It's perfect. I want to tell you about my new house, Richard. I'm moving in the day after tomorrow.'

‘Where is it? Not too far from London, I hope. You know what Dr Johnson said – he who is tired of London is tired of Life –'

‘I am getting tired of it,' she admitted. ‘This is a lovely place; and it's not far, about an hour I think. William and Mary with a gorgeous old-fashioned garden. Tim said we could give a fabulous party there after the Derby.'

‘Good old Tim. He keeps his eye on the main chance, doesn't he – I suppose it's next door to Epsom?'

‘Well,' Isabel said, ‘it's very close.'

He laughed. ‘I missed you,' he said.

Isabel looked at him. ‘I missed you too,' she said. He reached across and took her hand. She wore Charles's engagement ring; it was a big pear-shaped diamond, surrounded by baguette sapphires.

‘You have beautiful hands,' he said. ‘That's too big and vulgar; it doesn't suit you.' Isabel didn't answer; he went on holding her hand. She couldn't draw it away. The head-waiter Luigi approached them; he was an urbane and charming Italian, who knew every member by name. He gave Isabel an admiring look; he seemed to know Richard very well. He advised them what to choose. The room had filled up since their arrival; there was a group of older men with beautifully dressed women in their early forties, a young couple sitting
tête à tête
in a corner near the window, and a man with a smart brunette drinking bourbon sours, and saying very little to each other. He was undistinguished-looking, with slicked-down brown hair and glasses, wearing a light-weight American suit. The woman with him was English and looked bored. Richard signalled Manuel, the barman, from the outside bar.

‘We'll have another drink,' he said. ‘Then we'll go downstairs. I've asked Luigi for a table in the end room. I hope you're hungry?'

‘Fairly.' Isabel withdrew her hand and laid it on her lap. The huge ring flashed in the soft lighting. Vulgar. He was right, but she wished he hadn't said it. The remark was like a signal, something for which she had been waiting.

‘Richard,' she said quietly. ‘Tell me something.' Manuel set down two glasses in front of them; whisky for him and champagne for her. Richard picked up his glass.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Go ahead.'

‘Why do you hate your father so much?'

He didn't answer; he sipped his drink, put it down, offered her a cigarette and lit one for himself. Then he smiled.

‘I shouldn't have said that about the ring. I'm sorry.'

‘I want to know,' Isabel persisted. ‘Charles wouldn't discuss it; he wouldn't talk about you or your mother. I didn't want to pry. The ring is typical, and it keeps coming up in one form or another. Every time I mention his name I can feel it. Please Richard, tell me what happened.'

He turned round to her till they were face to face. Blue eyes, she thought suddenly, can be very cold.

‘You really want to know all about us? You want to know about Charles Schriber and my mother and me – all right Isabel. But don't blame me if you don't like it. Let's go downstairs. They'll send the drinks to the table.'