I shrugged. ‘She’s fine. I’ve seen her a few times. I’m not certain her father thinks I’m good enough for her, but then he’s probably right.’
‘She’s her own woman – that’s what worries Gerald. When her mother died she left Emma the twelve percent of the King George Hotel Group she owned – I think deliberately. So Gerald only owns forty-seven percent himself and he’s paranoid that if Frank doesn’t agree with him on some major corporate decision, Emma might not go along with him either.’
‘Then who owns the other six percent?’ I asked, thinking it might be Jane herself.
‘David Green, my godfather. He was responsible for setting up the legal structure of the deal with Frank and Gerald; and David would always side with Frank.’
I liked the idea of this potentially troublesome factor in Lord Tintern’s business affairs. He was a man who always expected to get his own way; he must have loathed the thought that his own flesh and blood could stop him.
‘But how did Emma manage to hang on to her shares? I should have thought her father would have done everything he could to get them from her when she was a kid.’
‘David wouldn’t let him. He was a great fan of Susan’s.’
‘I’m delighted to hear that Emma’s so independent.’
‘I bet you are,’ Jane replied, taking it the wrong way.
‘I only mean in the sense that she can tell her father to get lost without worrying too much.’
‘I wouldn’t want to tell Gerald Tintern to get lost, even if I was his daughter.’
I came back to my converted coach-house in Streatley to find that Emma had left a message on my answering machine, asking me to rescue her from a bad date later that evening. I decided I couldn’t face driving to London and rang her back to tell her that if she’d known it was a bad date, she shouldn’t have accepted in the first place.
I put the phone down feeling a little guilty, but glad of an early night.
I was just nodding off when the telephone trilled beside my bed. I grabbed it with my eyes still shut and croaked into it.
‘Simon?’ It was Emma. I opened my eyes and blinked at my alarm clock. It was twelve forty-five. ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ The softness in her voice made me tingle.
‘It doesn’t matter. How was your dinner?’
‘I’ve been bored rigid for four hours – that’s how it was.’
‘Sorry to hear it.’ I tried not to sound too smug.
‘Are you riding out tomorrow?’
‘No, it’s Sunday,’ I growled.
‘What do you usually do on a Sunday morning?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On who’s with me.’
‘What if I was with you?’
I groaned. ‘Don’t tease, Emma.’ As I was speaking there was a loud bang on my front door. ‘Hang on,’ I said, startled into waking completely. ‘There’s someone at my front door. Don’t go away – I’ll phone you right back.’
I dragged on a dressing-gown as I stumbled down the stairs. I couldn’t think who might be knocking me up at this time of night; I lived in the middle of nowhere. Warily, I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Standing on the doorstep, a mobile phone wedged between ear and shoulder, and a big grin on her face, was Emma.
Chapter Eight
When I woke, the sun was shining, the birds were making spring noises and, beside me, Emma was still asleep. Her hair was a mass of auburn-gold curls and there was a faint smile on her soft, supremely kissable lips.
I thought happily of the previous night’s activities and was feeling the stirrings of a new erection when Matt phoned. It was nine o’clock and I had my first opportunity to discover that Emma was not naturally a morning person.
She wanted orange juice and coffee, which barely evoked a thank you. I hadn’t yet told her that Matt had rung to say that her father wanted to see us in a couple of hours, and we’d been invited to join him for lunch.
When I did, she groaned. ‘Why does he have to stick his nose into my life? Do you mind if we don’t tell him I was here? I’d much rather he didn’t know.’
‘Why? Do I embarrass you?’
She put her hand on my arm. ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that he always wants to know everything I do, and it really irritates me.’
Two hours later, Matt and I walked into the hall of Lord Tintern’s house, Ivydene. Tintern shook hands with Matt. ‘I gather you were in the Blues before you went off to play dangerous games in Hereford?’
‘Yes, sir, I was.’
‘There are a few ex-warrant officers of yours on the payroll of the Jockey Club,’ Tintern said conversationally. It seemed to occur to him then that he wasn’t being a good host. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, waving an arm towards one of the half dozen doors that gave off the big black and white tiled hall. ‘Come into my study and I’ll organise some coffee.’
We went into the room he’d indicated, while he went off through another door. I wondered who would bring us our refreshments. I supposed Lord Tintern must have staff of some sort; I couldn’t imagine him ironing his own shirts, and Emma had told me he never kept his mistresses long enough to domesticate them.
Matt had other things on his mind. ‘He doesn’t seem that bad,’ he said.
‘He’s got a tongue like a razor sometimes. He doesn’t often use it, but you wait till you cross him.’
Lord Tintern came back into the room. ‘Coffee’ll be here soon,’ he said. ‘It was good of you both to come in at short notice, especially on a Sunday. But I wanted to hear directly from you how your investigations are going.’
I was thinking about the best way to answer his enquiry when Matt started. ‘Frankly, sir,’ he said, ‘we’ve been on the job since Tuesday, and we’re still in the process of gathering facts. Simon has interviewed Toby Brown, and we’ve both visited the offices of Salmon Leisure, but we haven’t got anything fresh to go on yet.’
I saw a twitch of irritation in Tintern’s cheek, quickly dispelled when a woman with dark eyes and Mediterranean colouring carried in a tray of coffee and placed it on a side table.
Tintern looked at her with something like affection. ‘Thanks, Filumena.’
She smiled back and scuttled out.
‘So far,’ Matt went on, ‘we haven’t established any particular connection between Toby Brown and the trainers and jockeys involved. We’ve seen no clear evidence of tampering with any of the nominated horses or any of the other runners.’
He stopped. I looked at Tintern for his reaction.
‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘I’m convinced the answer lies in arrangements with the various stables involved.’
I butted in, ‘Gerald, I just don’t think that’s likely. There are too many people – it would be impossible for Toby to organise it every day.’
For a moment, Tintern abandoned his charm. ‘Well, he’s obviously up to something, and the sooner you find out the better.’
‘Would you be agreeable to us employing listening devices in Brown’s two residences?’ Matt asked.
Tintern gave the question some thought. ‘No. That would be illegal, and the Jockey Club couldn’t condone it.’
‘All right.’ Matt nodded. ‘Then we’ll arrange full surveillance on Toby and report back to you on the people he makes contact with. We’ll also visit the Equine Forensic Laboratory in Newmarket.’
‘Good idea, though you’ll find the security there like Fort Knox,’ Tintern said, and nodded in a way that seemed to terminate the discussion.
At Tintern’s bidding, we moved into the drawing room. As it filled with familiar racing faces, our coffee cups were replaced with chilled dry Martinis.
When Emma came in, she walked straight over to where I stood with Matt. I wondered if, like me, she was still tingling from our recent love-making. From the sparkle in her turquoise eyes, I guessed she was.
She greeted and kissed me as if she hadn’t seen me for days
, whispering in my ear, ‘Thanks for having me.’
‘It was a pleasure.’ I grinned. ‘Come again, whenever you feel like it.’
‘Mmm, I will.’
Matt made a face and moved away.
‘What’s his problem?’ Emma asked.
‘I don’t know. He’s my business partner, not my psychiatric patient.’
When lunch was over, the guests were invited back into the handsome drawing room where our host was preparing to hold court for a few more hours yet.
I found Emma and told her I was leaving; she said she was going to London in the morning and decided to stay. As Matt and I left Ivydene, I was pleasantly appalled by an unfamiliar sense of deprivation that Emma wasn’t with us.
I envied Derek de Morlay. He seemed, at the same age as myself, to have achieved so much more, I thought, as I drove through the gates of the small farm where he had set up his training establishment five years before. It was not grand or picturesque, like Jane Brown’s. He’d had no money to start his enterprise; every penny had been borrowed from the bank. But although the house and stables were modern and simple, a mass of flower-filled pots and baskets made it a pleasure to arrive. At the same time, the tidy yard was always simmering with activity, enthusiasm and plans.
He had told me the previous year that he had already paid back all the money he’d borrowed, and I didn’t doubt him. He was a man for whom there was always too much to do to waste time with bullshit.
One of Derek’s many enviable assets was his wife, Julia. She had been a top event rider before their children began to arrive, and was a widely admired expert in cross-country riding. In the several years I’d known her, I’d never seen her bad-tempered nor heard her say anything unkind about anyone. This refreshing lack of cynicism always attracted me back to Derek’s household where the three children he and Julia had produced were showing signs of possessing a similar charm, as well as marked talent on their ponies.
I had no doubt Nester would do well at Derek’s.
He greeted me with his customary brisk charm, and urged me to hurry up if I didn’t want to be late pulling out.
On the gallops, astride my pride and joy, all other topics were forgotten. As we thundered across the rich lay that covered the tops of the chalk downs, and the sun shafted through a rippled band of cloud over the eastern horizon, I felt that riding Nester that morning was one of the most supreme pleasures I’d ever experienced.
It was only as we pulled up, and I found Julia de Morlay coming up from behind on one of the stable stars, that I was brought back down to earth.
‘Nester’s looking fantastic,’ she said, ‘but do you know, he’d go even better if you rode him properly.’
Her voice was so natural, the sentiment expressed so honestly, I couldn’t be offended; I simply had to accept the truth of what she was saying. I grinned sheepishly at her. ‘Do I really look that bad?’
She nodded with a rueful smile. ‘’Fraid so. And I saw your ride at Fontwell last week. There were a couple of times when you just about got it right . . .’ She stopped. Evidently something in my face told her she’d said enough.
‘It’s okay,’ I prompted her, ‘I can take it. What were you going to say?’
‘It’s not important, but what I was going to suggest was that you had a few lessons. I’d be glad to school you myself.’
What Julia had said made me conscious of two things: that Nester deserved better; and, just possibly, if I really could improve, that I might be able to justify riding him myself in a race again.
I gave her a resigned nod as we wheeled our horses into a walking circle to wait for Derek. ‘Okay, that’s very kind of you. When do we start?’
‘As soon as you like,’ she smiled, relieved that she hadn’t upset me too much.
I came back down from the gallop, exhilarated by my decision and happy about Nester’s state of health and mind.
‘He seems to have settled in well,’ I said to Derek as we ate a swift breakfast of croissants and coffee.
‘Yes,’ the trainer agreed. ‘He’s a super animal to have in the yard. He’s got a lovely nature and the most peculiar way of shoving all his bedding into a corner of his box to lie on.’
‘I know,’ I laughed. ‘Why do you think he’s called Nester?’
Derek slapped the palm of his hand on his forehead. ‘God, am I thick or what?’ he laughed. ‘I must say, I can hardly believe it’s less than two years since he broke down so badly.’
I nodded with a grin. ‘Nor can Gerald Tintern,’ I said, ‘which is why Nester’s here.’
At her suggestion, I had my first lesson with Julia after breakfast that morning.
For an hour she had me on a lunging rein, riding her hack bareback – walking, trotting, cantering and jumping. When I finally dismounted, my legs collapsed beneath me.
Julia grinned. ‘You only think you’ve been gripping with your legs up till now, but after two weeks I’ll let you have your saddle back – then you’ll think you’re glued on.’
For the rest of the day, my legs felt as if there were no bones in them. Every time I had the chance I squeezed a football between my knees, in the way Julia had shown me, to work the muscles on the inside of my legs.
But as I left the yard, hardly able to walk, satisfaction at what I’d already learned vied with guilt at the neglect of my other work.
I vowed to myself that I would spend the next two days, as I’d agreed with Matt, following Toby’s naps. I had to put my foot down to get to Monday’s race in time, the last on the card at Leicester.
Once more there was no surprise at Toby’s winner. I had diligently photographed most of the people round the ring, and snapped the horses going down, but had spotted nothing to suggest any fixing. It occurred to me that on this occasion too the horse had won entirely on its own merits.
When I got back to my car, I made a phone call to the Equine Forensic Laboratory. I pulled out of the Midland course at four-twenty and headed south-east towards Newmarket. A little over an hour later, I was driving along a straight, tree-lined road towards the old red-brick town that had been the headquarters of British racing since the reign of Charles II.
Before I reached the High Street, I stopped to ask how to get to the laboratory, and was directed to a short cul-de-sac beside the heath on the west side of town.
I identified the place from a pair of tall, iron gates with a rearing horse motif centred in each, behind which was a long, overblown cottage-style building, like a rural Tesco’s. I parked and walked down a fine gravel path between beautifully kept lawns and juvenile silver birches.
The entrance was a user-friendly timber and glass porch which opened into an area floored with natural coir and liberally adorned with large potted plants.
A receptionist who looked as if she’d had the same smile pinned to her face since she’d got up that morning, greeted me and asked me how she could help.
‘I wonder if I could have a word with Dr Poulton. I phoned earlier.’
‘Yes, of course, sir. Your name?’
‘Simon Jeffries.’
‘Won’t keep you a moment, Simon.’ She grinned and fluttered her eye-lashes while she pushed buttons on her switch-board.
I speculated on whether I could have been interested in a girl like that – as good-looking as any cat-walk model, though with a healthier figure, long black hair gathered up behind her head, big brown eyes and obviously well-shaped breasts beneath a cream silk blouse. A few weeks ago, I could have overlooked the fixed grin she put on for work and might even have persuaded her to meet me for a drink later, but now, I realised with a jolt, I had no desire to do any such thing.
She interrupted my reverie with the announcement that she was going home now, and Dr Poulton was on his way out to see me.
I sat down to wait and started to flip through the literature about the place that was stacked on a table beside me.
The Equine Forensic Lab took samples from race meetings and a whole cross-s
ection of horse events all around the world, from show-jumping to endurance riding. From English racing alone they received over seven and a half thousand samples a year, of which, on average, a tenth of one percent proved positive – about ten a year. More recently, the Jockey Club had ordered random tests of horses in training, to prevent the use of long-acting performance-enhancing drugs.
It was a sophisticated laboratory that cost over a million pounds a year to run. Dr Philip Poulton was operations manager.
He was a bespectacled, mousy man who shook my hand weakly but welcomed me warmly enough.
‘I had a message from Portman Square that you might be coming.’
I was grudgingly impressed that Tintern had bothered to do that.
‘We’ll go somewhere where we can be a little more private,’ Dr Poulton went on.
He showed me into a small, general purpose room, furnished only with an oak table, chairs, a telephone and a couple of eighteenth-century racing prints.
‘I won’t keep you long,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to check out your standard procedures when samples arrive here.’
‘You mean, from British race-courses?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s very straightforward, really. We’re sent the sample containers and run tests for every known drug that might have been administered. If a sample tests positive for anything, we inform the Jockey Club.’
‘And how do you know which horse’s sample you’re dealing with?’
‘We don’t. Samples are taken from horses chosen arbitrarily after a race – not necessarily the winner. The bottles we get are only marked with a bar-code label; the Jockey Club issue these, and no one else knows which horse or race-course they refer to. We give them the test print-out with the bar-code; they identify the horse.’
Tip Off Page 7
