‘It looks a bit bland now,’ Kate said as we walked in, ‘but it’s really exciting on sale days, especially for Book One, when there’s not a spare seat to be found. Latecomers have to sit in the gangways.’
The ring itself at the centre was not round but an oval and the whole place was a lot smarter than I had imagined. But I suppose, if you’re going to pay four million guineas for an untested racehorse, you’d want a comfortable seat to sit in as you do it.
‘Never mind that yellow shiny stuff you dig out of the ground,’ Geoffrey said, ‘Frankel was the highest-rated racehorse that has ever been and he was valued at a hundred million pounds, some fourteen times his own weight in gold, when he was retired to stud after an unbeaten fourteen-race career.’
‘Did you sell him here as a yearling?’ I asked.
‘Sadly not. He was bred by his owner, but we have sold some of his progeny.’
And, I thought, prospective buyers would flock to this place to bid on Frankel’s offspring in the hope that lightning would strike the same place twice and they, too, might buy a world-beater that would repay their investment many, many times over in the future. And, in bloodstock terms, the future was never too far away, with champion racehorses usually retiring to stud aged just three or four.
‘The horses come in from the sales paddock and are then walked around while the bidding takes place above them,’ Geoffrey explained. ‘Then, when the auctioneer’s hammer falls, they are led out the other side and back to their box. It then becomes the new owner’s responsibility to collect them from there.’
‘After they’ve paid,’ I said.
‘Oh yes,’ Geoffrey said with a laugh. ‘But they can’t even bid unless they have good credit. We see to that first.’
‘Very wise.’
‘But I can assure you that we consider Sheikh Karim’s credit to be excellent.’
It was a reminder that I wasn’t being shown round by the chairman just for my entertainment. Little did he realise that I didn’t represent the Sheikh’s racing concerns, only his media reputation. But I wasn’t going to say so if Kate hadn’t.
‘Now, will you excuse me, Mr Foster?’ he said. ‘Mrs Williams will complete the tour. I’m afraid I have some meetings I need to attend to.’
‘Of course, Geoffrey,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much for your time.’
We shook hands.
‘I look forward to seeing you at one of our sales,’ he said. ‘Yes, indeed.’
He turned and walked out of the sales ring, no doubt back to his office and his meetings, leaving Kate and me standing there alone.
‘Mrs Williams?’ I said. ‘What’s all that about?’
‘I am Mrs Williams,’ she said. ‘I never reverted to my maiden name when I got divorced.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Laziness, I suppose. Having gone to all the trouble to convert everything to Williams in the first place, I couldn’t be bothered to turn it all back. And I was never that keen on Logan anyway. I was always being told by people to run, after the film, and they called me Loganberry at school. I hated it.’ She paused. ‘Also, it makes getting rid of unwanted men easier if I’m a Mrs.’
‘Does that happen often?’ I asked.
‘Quite often.’
‘You didn’t tell me that you were a Mrs.’
‘That’s because you’re not unwanted.’
I smiled at her. ‘Good. Now, what’s left of the tour?’
‘Nothing much, this is it really. Everything of interest happens in this space. This is where the big bucks get spent. During the sale I stand behind the rostrum over there.’
She pointed at a raised box on the edge of the ring.
‘When the hammer drops, the auctioneer hands me the purchase confirmation form and it’s my job to get the successful bidder’s signature on it before he or she leaves the building. I keep the white top copy and give the yellow one to the buyer as a receipt. But I have to keep my wits about me as some of them seem to bid without moving more than an eyelid, and others hide in the stairways up the back there so no one else can see them.’
‘Why?’
‘God knows. Perhaps they think the price will go higher if someone sees them bidding. And they might be right if it was Sheikh Karim.’
‘Don’t you start,’ I said. ‘I’m embarrassed enough already. Fancy getting the chairman to show me round.’
She laughed. ‘It was his idea, not mine.’
‘But you could have stopped it.’
She looked at me. ‘Now why would I want to do that?’
Kate and I went inside the main administration building to visit the ‘girls at Tatts’, her work colleagues, some of whom I had met in the box at the races.
As we moved from desk to desk, I realised that she was showing me off as her own personal VIP, one who the chairman himself had taken the time to show round. All the girls knew about that, sure enough. And why not, I thought. If Kate had visited Simpson White, I’d have shown her off too.
‘You must come again on a sale day,’ Kate said. ‘The whole place comes alive. Chauffeurs fight for a spot in the car park, the restaurant is booked out for weeks in advance, and the thrill of seeing rich men bidding against each other is electric. I have friends who come every day just to watch. It’s the best theatre in town, and with no admission charge. But what makes it really exciting is that it’s not a game, it’s deadly serious. Fortunes and reputations are made and lost here.’
‘You should be on the marketing team,’ I said with a laugh.
‘I am.’
21
Racing on Friday afternoon at the Rowley Mile course was somehow more methodical and less glamorous than it had been on the previous evening. The weather was not as kind for a start, with threatening dark clouds having replaced the warm sunshine. Hence there were fewer people in the crowd, although today’s gathering gave the air more of being here strictly for the serious business of racing and betting, rather than for drinking and having a good time.
I also thought it was less fun, but that may have had something to do with the fact that Kate wasn’t with me. I had decided that asking her to accompany me today would have been inappropriate, even if she’d been able to get the time off work. I had business of my own to complete, and it might get nasty.
Over breakfast, I’d looked at the hotel copy of the Racing Post. According to the paper, both Ryan and Declan had runners declared here today and Tony was also riding one. Plus I thought it highly likely that Oliver would be here as well. And I had every intention of letting them know that I was here too, and that I was watching them.
As it turned out, however, the first person I saw as I walked towards the entrance was not a Chadwick but Joe, Declan’s travelling head lad.
‘Hi, Joe,’ I said. ‘Nice short journey for you today.’
‘Yes,’ he said, without any amusement. ‘I was meant to be at Newbury but the guv’nor decided he’d go there instead, so I’m now here. Suppose you can’t blame him. This is too bloody close to home.’ We could almost see Declan’s yard from where we were standing. ‘Too many wagging tongues.’
I couldn’t think that it would be much better for him at Newbury but I was just glad that he hadn’t hidden himself away altogether.
‘Thank God Trevor’s back tomorrow.’
‘Trevor?’ I said.
‘The guv’nor’s assistant. Been at his grandmother’s funeral in some godforsaken spot in the Scottish Highlands. Not that we’ve got any runners tomorrow, anyway. Chrissie never made the declarations.’
That had been my fault, I thought, but decided not to say so.
‘Do you have runners every day?’ I asked.
‘Not every day,’ he said, ‘but we usually do on a Saturday during the season. Many owners like their horses running on Saturdays. Makes it easier for them to be there.’
Joe said it in a way that made me think that he didn’t really like the owners getting in the way. I wondered if Mr Reardo
n’s horse had been one of those due to run. That wouldn’t have done anything to placate him either.
So, with Declan out of the equation, that just left the three remaining Chadwick men for me to hassle. There was something they were all hiding. I was sure of it.
It will all come out. I can’t stand the shame.
I decided it was time to confront that directly.
I’d arrived at the racecourse well before the first race so I paid my entrance fee and then wandered around the enclosures getting my bearings.
On the previous evening, for obvious reasons, I hadn’t been properly concentrating on the racing. I hadn’t appreciated, for example, how the horses for each race are brought from the stables to the pre-parade ring before being taken to be saddled in one of the nearby line of saddling boxes. Then they are led into the parade ring proper for the punters to gawp at like contestants in a beauty pageant.
Except these beauties had to run fast rather than simply look good, although Kate had told me that a fit horse was also an attractive horse.
Attractive?
I would have to take her word for it.
As the time for the first race approached, I bought a racecard and checked that I’d remembered correctly that Ryan had a runner. He did. A horse called Momentum, number 8, and, to my surprise, it was also listed to be ridden by Tony Chadwick.
Several horses were already being led around the preparade ring by their grooms but I had no way of knowing which one, if any, was Momentum as they were not yet wearing their numbers and I was clearly no tout, nor Lester Piggott. So I hung around outside the saddling boxes waiting for the trainer to arrive.
However, it was not Ryan but Oliver I saw first, walking towards me with what appeared to be a minuscule saddle over his arm. There was a fractional hesitation in his stride when he spotted me but then he came on over.
‘Hello, Harry,’ he said quite amicably. ‘Having a good time?’
‘Yes, thank you, Oliver,’ I replied. ‘Are you?’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It feels good to be back on a racecourse after the week we’ve had. What with the fire, then Zoe and now Arabella. Never mind annus horribilis, this has definitely been a week to forget.’
I, on the other hand, would remember it fondly, but for a different reason.
‘Where’s Ryan?’ I asked.
‘He’s bringing Momentum over from the stables with the stable lad. This particular horse can be a little skittish so we’re leaving it as late as possible.’
I held up my racecard. ‘I see Tony is down to ride it.’ My voice gave away the surprise I felt.
‘Yes,’ Oliver said slowly. ‘Ryan had declared the jockey before.’
He didn’t have to explain that it was before Tony had told his brother he was a fucking idiot. And I remembered how Ryan had come into the yard office on Wednesday morning when I’d been talking to Janie. He had sent the declarations off without checking the information first, trusting Janie to have got it right. And she would have put Tony down as the rider.
‘Couldn’t Ryan have changed the jockey?’ I asked.
‘He could have done easily up to one o’clock Wednesday afternoon, but he obviously forgot. After that you have to get permission from the stewards, and a family tiff is unlikely to be a good enough reason in their eyes. Anyway, they’re both over it now.’
I wondered if that was true, or was it just Oliver’s wishful thinking. It would be interesting to watch the body language when Ryan had to give his younger brother a leg-up.
Oliver and I stood side by side waiting for Ryan and the horse to arrive and it seemed to me to be too good an opportunity to miss.
‘Why did Ryan break Declan’s nose at Doncaster?’ I asked.
Oliver jumped as if I’d stabbed him with an electric cattle prod.
‘Where did you hear that nonsense?’ he said, trying to force a laugh.
‘Ryan told me.’ I paused while that bit of news sank in, before I hit him with my next question. ‘And, if they hate each other so much, why didn’t Declan press charges?’
Oliver was silent for a moment as he clearly thought what to say.
‘Because it was an accident,’ he stated finally.
‘It didn’t sound like an accident to me,’ I retorted. ‘According to the police report, Ryan punched Declan square in the face. Laid him out proper.’
‘Yes,’ said Oliver, back-pedalling madly. ‘But it was nothing more than a misunderstanding.’
‘Over what?’ I asked.
‘Nothing important,’ Oliver said.
‘So tell me,’ I said.
‘Ah, here they are.’ The relief in Oliver at seeing Momentum and Ryan arriving was palpable and he rushed forward towards them.
Ryan, however, was not so keen to see me, and well might he not be.
‘Hello, Ryan,’ I said. ‘Have you insulted anyone else today? Or maybe you punched them in the face instead.’
Oliver looked at me with horror.
‘Harry,’ he said sharply. ‘That was not called for.’
No, I thought, it probably wasn’t, but I had to do something to get them riled up, to get them to say something they’d regret, to reveal their big secret.
Ryan, however, was calmness personified. He appeared to completely ignore what I’d just said and went about the task of readying Momentum for his race, a task he performed with the speed and ease of someone well practised in the art.
First, off came the horse’s rug, then a thin chamois leather was placed on the horse’s bare back. ‘To prevent slippage,’ Oliver explained. That was followed by a saddle pad, weight cloth, number cloth and then, finally, the tiny saddle, all held in place by a wide girth pulled tight around the horse’s belly and connected to the saddle on each side by substantial buckles.
All the while this was going on further back, Momentum’s head was being held firmly by his stable lad, not that it stopped him trying to tear himself free, and only quick reactions by the lad prevented huge chunks of the poor boy’s hands and arms being bitten off.
Momentum had a small white star in the middle of its forehead and it somehow gave the horse an even more manic look, as if it had three eyes.
Skittish, Oliver had said. I thought that was a rather mild description. In my eyes, the animal was completely off its rocker and I kept well out of reach of both the chomping teeth and the flailing hooves.
Satisfied that all was finally in order, Ryan gave the horse an encouraging slap on its hindquarters and almost got a kick on the knee in return. Ryan then told the unfortunate stable lad to lead him out of the saddling box and into the parade ring, not that the horse was making that an easy task as it constantly tried to pull itself free while, at the same time, kicking out wildly at anything remotely within reach.
Oliver and Ryan followed the horse at a safe distance and, much to Ryan’s obvious annoyance, I tagged along with them.
There were a couple waiting for us on the pristine grass of the parade ring.
‘Hello, you two,’ Oliver called out as we approached. ‘Lovely to see you.’ He kissed the woman on each cheek and shook hands warmly with the man.
‘We couldn’t find you in the pre-parade ring so we came through here,’ the woman said.
‘We brought the horse over late from the stables,’ Oliver explained. ‘I thought it best to keep him away from the others for as long as possible.’ He laughed nervously, clearly hoping that they agreed with him.
The two of them looked at me.
‘Sorry,’ Oliver said. ‘This is Harry Foster. Michelle and Mike Morris.’
The three of us shook hands. Michelle was an attractive blonde with sparkling blue eyes and she was elegantly attired in a figure-hugging double-breasted black coat plus calf-length suede boots. Mike wore a sober suit with a blue tie and had neat short dark hair that was going slightly grey at the temples.
‘They own Momentum,’ Oliver said to me.
‘We don’t just own him,’ Michelle said wit
h a certain degree of pride. ‘We bred him too.’
‘So do you have your own stud farm?’ I asked.
‘Nothing that grand,’ Mike said with a laugh. ‘My business is construction but, as a hobby, Michelle and I keep a few brood mares at the National Stud here in Newmarket. Momentum was one of our foals. We just kept him to race.’
We all watched as the animal in question continued to twist and turn his head in an attempt to break free.
‘Lively, isn’t he?’ Michelle said.
‘Dangerous more like,’ I replied.
‘Oh, no,’ she said with a smile. ‘He’s only playing.’
It didn’t look much like playing to me, I thought, as the horse tried once again to take a chunk out of his hapless groom’s arm.
‘He’s an entire colt,’ Mike said to me. ‘But Oliver thinks we should geld him. Reckons it might calm him down a bit. Michelle is dead against it. His breeding is excellent and she thinks he still might have a future at stud.’
Oliver gave me a sideways look that said no chance, but he was much too diplomatic to say that out loud.
‘We can’t cut our poor baby’s balls off,’ Michelle said in horror. ‘How would you like it?’
Good point, I thought, but I wasn’t trying to bite the hand that fed me.
‘I think we should have a good chance today,’ Oliver said. ‘I believe Momentum is well handicapped in this company.’
My face must have given away the fact that I didn’t understand what he meant.
‘This race is a handicap,’ Oliver explained. ‘So the horses carry different weights according to their ability.’
‘Who decides which is the most able?’ I asked.
‘The official handicapper. Every Thoroughbred racehorse in the world is rated each Tuesday.’
‘What, every horse?’ I asked.
‘Just about. Other than a few young ones that haven’t run enough times.’
‘But that’s amazing.’
‘It certainly is,’ Oliver agreed. ‘There are fourteen thousand racehorses in training in this country alone, never mind the rest of the world. The official rating determines how much weight the horse will carry in a handicap. Take this race, for example. It’s a Class Five handicap over a mile for three-year-old horses with an official rating of less than seventy-five. The top weight has an official rating of seventy-two but Momentum’s is only sixty-three. That’s nine less, hence he carries nine pounds less weight on his back.’
Crisis Page 19
