‘And I’m sure all of us have,’ Tally said. ‘So far we’ve had a wonderful time and the racing tomorrow will be totally different to anything you’ve seen before. It will blow you away. Please excuse the jockey’s mean-spiritedness.’ She turned to me. ‘It’s really only jealousy.’
‘Don’t apologize for him, Tally. He’s a grown man. If he chooses to act like an idiot, that’s his affair.’
We opted for a further round of drinks and settled back, people-watching and simply soaking up the happy, relaxed atmosphere. A beautiful piece of piano playing – Chopin – had just begun. It was the perfect build-up to the evening’s party.
When the piece ended, Tally excused herself and took Lady Branshawe to see their two horses at evening stables. Georgia said she’d prefer to see the special racing preparations being carried out on the following morning. I wouldn’t have minded doing both stable visits, but it would be churlish to leave Georgia by herself.
I’d left my mobile switched on after I’d rung Mike to let him know the name and telephone number of the hotel, so I wasn’t expecting a call but the phone rang just as we’d said goodbye to the other two. The strains of ‘The Great Escape’ contrasted sharply with the classical piece we’d just heard. It was Nathaniel Willoughby, the horse artist.
‘Harry, how’re you doing?’
‘Doing great. You were quite right: it’s a fabulous place.’
‘Glad you’re having a good time. But the reason I’ve rung is that I’ve just been scrolling down the pictures on my phone and I’ve found one I think you’d find interesting.’
I looked across the table at Georgia. I knew I needed to choose my words carefully. No way did I want to involve her.
‘What’s the subject?’
‘It’s one that somebody took when I was over in Switzerland before and it shows me with that er … that certain person I was telling you about. You remember, the broken fingers …?’
‘Ha, yes.’ I did remember. It was one of the reasons I’d decided to come here. ‘Could you send it to my phone, Nathaniel?’
‘Yes, I’ll do it now, OK?’
‘Thanks.’
Georgia, sitting opposite me, was trying not to listen. I slid the phone back inside my jacket pocket. I’d look at it in private later. The photo was going to prove invaluable in trying to spot Jackson Fellows. No point in looking for someone with two bandaged fingers; by now they would be completely healed. My best chance would be to study the photo and fix his face in my mind and see if I could find him during the racing tomorrow.
Nathaniel had said that Jackson came to watch the snow racing every year. No doubt he’d be one of the many pressed up to the barriers at the side of the lake tomorrow. But thinking of the thousands who would be doing just that, my optimism took a hit. I was going to need a big helping of luck.
Earlier, having gone to our separate rooms to freshen up and change for the evening’s entertainment, we were now dressed in our best and ready to party. Leaving the hotel at around seven o’clock, we came outside on to the frozen lake.
There was a band playing some popular music in the massive marquee and an area of the polished floor had been cleared to accommodate dancing. Chandeliers and spinning, glittering globes hung from the roof lighting in the interior while, outside, darkness had fallen and the temperature had dipped steeply.
However, inside the marquee we were kept comfortably warm by hot-air fan heaters. We were surrounded on all sides – and underneath – by temperatures well below zero. Yet we were unaware of the coldness. It was truly amazing, a successful feat on the part of the management. It was also a good job, given the off-the-shoulder Grecian dress Georgia had chosen to wear.
We’d managed to stake a claim for a table for four and proceeded to load our plates from the tempting buffet laid out. It included all the normal types of cooked meats, fish and, of course, cheeses, plus roasted venison and German sausages … the smells were delicious, the choice endless. Whatever your preference or dietary needs, it was catered for – in abundance and variety. We were being spoilt.
‘Can you indulge?’ asked Georgia, teasing, a twinkle in her eye.
‘Oh, I’m sure he can.’ Lady Branshawe popped an elaborate concoction of hot runny cheese into her mouth. ‘You can’t ride right now, can you, Harry, so why not indulge yourself?’
‘Yes, go on, Harry, make a beast of yourself for once.’
I faced the three females, the sisterhood all ganging up on me, smiling gleefully. ‘Whoa, I’m outnumbered here.’
No sooner had I said it than a tap on my shoulder gave a lie to my words.
‘Hello, everyone.’ Clive Unwin, the trainer from Leicestershire, part of a group of four men, had arrived behind me.
‘Hello, Clive. Thought you might be here,’ Tally said.
‘Oh yes, and looking forward to seeing the racing, the same as you. I think we all know each other, but won’t you introduce your young friend?’ He beamed at Georgia. ‘Of course, I know Lady Branshawe. And everybody knows Harry,’ he said, laughing.
I did the honours and introduced Georgia to the four men: in addition to Clive Unwin, there was Edward Frame, a businessman from Lincolnshire, whom I’d first met at North Shore Hotel at Skegness in what had started out as a celebration but degenerated into horrific circumstances; Nigel Garton, Victor Maudsley’s son-in-law; and, rather unexpectedly, Philip Caxton, the solicitor from York.
‘We’re part of the syndicate,’ explained Edward. He named one of the horses that would be running tomorrow.
‘I didn’t know you were interested in horseracing,’ I said to Caxton. I’d not seen him since the funeral business.
‘Oh, yes, have been for years. Never owned one outright, though, you understand,’ he said. ‘I expect I own half a leg.’ He laughed. His involvement in racing probably explained why Dunston had chosen him when looking for a suitable solicitor. ‘Seemed a number of us chose this year to come over and watch.’
Unwin took over the reins of the conversation. ‘Philip Caxton’s my solicitor, actually. I engaged him straight off the ark.’ He bellowed with laughter. ‘These three chaps are part of the “Win or Bust” syndicate – twelve in it altogether, been going for years. Obviously, some come and go, but this trio all keep going, thank God. However, this is the first year we’ve had a horse that’s running on snow. So, here we are!’ He rubbed his hands together with exuberant anticipation.
‘And we’re hyped as hell,’ Edward agreed.
‘What about you, Mr Garton?’
‘Oh, do call me Nigel, Harry,’ he said, with the so-smooth ‘I’m your best friend’ approach of the vote-seeking politician. ‘As I’m sure you know, my father-in-law was a trainer before he retired, so it’s rubbed off, I guess.’
I certainly did remember Victor Maudsley – with mixed feelings. I’d ridden for him many times, years ago, when Victor had been actively training. But after his retirement from racing, our paths had crossed in unbelievable ways. Ways that were prompted by my being asked to ghostwrite the biography of his wife, Elspeth, who had taken over the running of Unicorn stables.
I wanted to forget about that time in my life – a very bad time, which had all ended in tears … and death.
Nigel was married to Paula, Victor’s only daughter.
‘You’re an MP, I believe?’
‘That’s correct, Lady Branshawe, but a junior one.’
‘I’m sure that’s only for now. Head for the top. Even if you don’t actually hit the moon, you’re sure to end up on a star.’
‘Very kind of you to say so.’ Garton smirked at her words.
But it was true: he had ambitions for the top, had a thrusting personality. The phrase ‘win or bust’ could also be applied to his approach to life and other people.
But seeing the four men together, disparate in their choice of careers, yet united in their interest, it proved the point that racing did indeed hold an attraction for people from all social strata.
> ‘Do let me get you all a drink,’ Nigel urged, beaming round at us.
I cynically thought he no doubt had an eye on possible future votes. I knew he spent a good deal of time down in London while his wife, Paula, and their three exuberant sons – hell-on-wheels on skateboards – lived in Lincolnshire.
It was a situation I myself couldn’t envisage. If I could still claim Annabel as my wife – which obviously I couldn’t – I wouldn’t want to spend three-quarters of my life living apart from her. I did that now – and found it hell.
‘How did you travel over?’ Edward asked, accepting his beer. ‘We caught a plane to Zurich and then came on by train.’
‘I coerced them into flying with me,’ Lady Branshawe said, laughing. ‘All my fault, I’m afraid.’
‘No point in having empty seats, I suppose,’ Caxton said. But I caught the barely concealed touch of envy in his expression.
‘Lady Branshawe was very generous in asking us,’ Tally put in.
But Lady Branshawe waved away her words. ‘Nothing is ever a free ride. I had the pleasure of good company – and am still enjoying it.’
‘’Course, we sent the horse overland by transporter,’ said Clive.
‘Did you get to see your horses, Tally? Have they settled in?’ asked Georgia, sipping her wine.
‘They have, plated up, rugged up and eating up. You and Harry could have come with us. It seems very relaxed – no rigid rules.’
Tally turned to me. ‘You must both come tomorrow.’
‘We will.’
‘I particularly want to see the special racing plates,’ Georgia said.
The drinks and conversation continued to flow on racing matters, and every now and again, I cast an eye around the marquee looking for the face that matched the one in the photograph Nathaniel had sent me. But as the band finally finished playing at the end of a convivial enjoyable evening, and the party drew to a close, I was no further forward in finding him.
‘Brrrr …’ Georgia gave a little shiver and rubbed her hand up and down her bare shoulder. ‘Getting cold suddenly.’
And it was.
Tally laughed. ‘I remember what happens. Don’t forget, I’ve been here before.’
‘What happens?’ Lady Branshawe queried.
‘It’s a slight hint. They turn off the heating. Meaning it’s about time the guests trotted off. Bearing in mind that we’re actually sitting on top of sixty centimetres of solid ice, it would be impossible to stay here without some warmth.’
‘Better than calling time,’ Edward chortled, as we all stood up to leave. ‘You’re quite right, Georgia, it is getting cold.’ He looked pointedly at her flimsy dress. ‘And I’ve got a jacket on …’
I slid Georgia’s stole around her bare shoulders and we all walked out over the ice back to the welcome warmth of our respective hotels.
We said goodnight to Tally and Lady Branshawe as the lift stopped at the first floor inside the Koselig Hotel. They stepped out and walked away.
Now it just left the two of us. The lift rose to the second floor. Without speaking, we stepped out and walked down the thick carpet to number 203. Georgia stopped, turned to face me.
‘Coming in?’ I invited, saying the words lightly, leaving the decision entirely to her.
She was standing very close. Her perfume drifted in the warm air, filling my nostrils, a delightful exotic musk. The warmth and the perfume together were acting as an aphrodisiac. I hadn’t shared a bed with a woman for a long time – far too long. I reached out and placed my palm against her cheek.
‘I’d like you to.’
‘Would you, Harry?’ She stared into my eyes.
‘Yes. You know I would.’
She continued to stare, her questioning gaze penetrating deep inside me.
‘But you would much rather it was Annabel.’
It wasn’t a question.
‘Georgia—’
‘No, Harry. What that man said – it was true, wasn’t it?’
I let my hand drop away from her soft cheek.
‘Georgia, Annabel’s not here. You are.’
As soon as I said the words, I knew they were wrong, clumsy, cruel. And I hadn’t meant it to sound so insensitive.
She flinched, drew away. ‘I’d prefer to sleep in my own room – if you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind. I’d really like to spend the night with you, Georgia.’
‘Hmm …’ She smiled thinly. ‘But I’m not going to, Harry. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Before I could reply, she’d taken a few steps further down the corridor, opened door number 204 and disappeared inside. I watched the door close behind her and cursed myself for being a crass, hurtful prat.
And the words I’d said to Tally earlier now came back to taunt me.
Rawlson wasn’t the only idiot around here.
TWENTY-ONE
If you arrived with your eyes closed, you would still know, straight away, there were horses here. Just inside the racecourse stables – surprisingly, they were located in an area that was difficult to find – I briefly closed my eyes, took a deep breath. The smell was one of my favourites, had been since childhood. It was like coming home: the comforting, familiar smell of warm horseflesh, exacerbated by the small, enclosed space within the stables.
Outside, the temperature was reading minus ten degrees; it was a cold one today and smells seemed reduced.
But inside, near the horses, which were powerhouses of warm energy, the smell was heightened. Mixing with the inevitable ammonia, it was pungent.
Apart from the distinctive smell, the stables were also filled with conversation and noise. Horses whinnied and struck out, catching the sides of their boxes; head collars and bridles were shaken and rattled. And overall the urgent pounding of the farrier’s hammer added to the build-up of the tension in the air and excited anticipation. It was a bustling, busy place.
‘You’re doing your “Bisto Kid” thing again, Harry,’ Tally teased, as she threaded her way between the farrier and a number of stable lads and proud owners.
‘Guess I’m an addict.’
‘A horse nut,’ Lady Branshawe quipped, keeping a straight face.
‘Pity we haven’t got any to offer them,’ said Georgia.
I followed the three women down the central concrete walkway between the boxes. Lady Branshawe’s horses were at the far end in two facing boxes. They both swung quarters over and came up to put inquiring heads over the half-doors. As we approached, they whickered softly. Georgia clicked to them and pulled their ears gently.
‘You’re going to win for me, aren’t you, my lovelies?’ Lady Branshawe took off her glove and stroked the white blaze running down the bay’s face. The big softie allowed his long-lashed eyelids to close gently over intelligent eyes.
Tally and I exchanged glances. There was a subtle difference in the way the two women reacted to the big animals and how we did. For us, we respected and had affection – and sometimes, if we didn’t watch it, deep affection – for the horses. But to us, they weren’t pets. Horses were an essential part of our working life; without slightly distancing our emotions, it wouldn’t be possible to operate.
Racing was a tough business. Always, at the start of a race, you would set off on a sound eager horse, but if disaster struck partway down the course, you could find yourself ending the race alone. It was a gutting experience to lose a horse, but it happened. Allow too much emotion, and you were done for. So it was like a personal insurance – a damn fine tightrope you tried to walk. And I’d be the first to admit, seeing those screens go round a faller gave me a sock in the solar plexus every time. And sometimes, just sometimes, if it was fatal, I cried.
However, it was the stable lads whose emotions took the worst hit. A good stable lad loved his horse, really loved it. Lived, ate, slept and breathed his horse – or, in actual fact, his four, even five horses these days. ‘Do your two’ had been the norm years ago, before life speeded up. But the struggle
to find enough stable staff, coupled with the struggle to find sufficient finances, had killed that off. Now it was how many could a lad cope with? And the number started with four, which was a tough life – usually a young person’s life – not a pace an older worker could keep up. And for a stable lad to take his horse to the racecourse, full of hope for winning the ‘best turned-out’ prize or, even better, a placing or – if God was in his heaven – a winner, only to see that horse come down and not get up again, it practically killed him off, too.
And that nail would be knocked in ever harder with every turn of the empty horsebox wheels, all the way back home, where he would then be faced with looking at an empty stable.
A farrier emerged from the next box to Tally’s, heavily muscled and wearing a stout leather apron. Despite the coldness outside, his red face was bathed in sweat. We gathered around the open door to watch. He proceeded to remove a loose shoe from the hoof before replacing it with the special snow-racing one. These shoes were made with three deep bars, one to the front and one each at the sides. The farrier looked sideways and up, smiling at Georgia’s keenly eager face, answering her queries, pleased to be the recipient of her interest. He pointed to the edges of the three bars.
‘Very sharp – need to get a grip, see? But they can be dangerous. A horse can strike and cut himself, or another, with these plates.’
‘But you couldn’t race a horse here without them, could you?’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Watch the races and you will see they’re necessary.’
He finished lightly paring the hoof and hammered the last plate into place.
I took a quick glance at my watch. It was already ten fifteen. The first race was due off at eleven forty-five.
‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it? But do you think we should get back and have some coffee?’ Lady Branshawe asked.
‘Would you like coffee, Georgia?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, please. It’s been great watching the race preparations. Can’t wait to see the actual racing.’
‘Me, too.’ I smiled at her.
Dead Heat Page 15
