Taking the Fall

by A. P. McCoy

  ‘Do you take anything seriously? I mean the broadcasting company. We’ve got one or two good leads.’

  ‘And I thought,’ Duncan said, ‘that it was my charm that got you to have lunch with me today. What a sad world it is when people have to use each other.’ He turned and raised his glass to the old couple who were still staring at them from the next table. ‘I said it’s a sad world!’ They looked away quickly.

  Earlier in the season three jockeys had been banned from racing for their part in race-fixing. Lay-betting had recently grown in popularity: the practice of betting a horse to lose rather than backing it to win. This had been standard spreading practice for bookies since time immemorial, whenever they feared a result that might break them; but the recent interest had developed beyond the bookies. The three banned jockeys had been found guilty of not trying hard enough to win; ‘failing to ensure a horse is ridden on its merits’ was the exact phrase.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Mandy said, reminding him of who was using whom, ‘that tape won’t do you much good. It doesn’t show anything more than a bit of argy-bargy. Difficult to prove anything, if that’s what you want it for.’

  ‘It’s just a souvenir. So let me get this straight. You want me to report on my colleagues in the workplace. To spy on them for you. Just because you are beautiful. Just because you’re smart and witty. Just because you know that men admire you.’

  ‘That’s about it. And because I’m in television. Is that all you’re going to eat?’

  They talked a little longer, and when Mandy said she needed to hurry away to a meeting, Duncan called for the bill. Mandy was strong on paying her share. ‘I like to go Dutch.’

  ‘No. This one is on me. Off you go and I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Well. Next time I’m paying.’

  They shook hands, all rather formal. ‘One thing,’ Duncan said. ‘Saddle sausage. I’ll get you for that.’

  She smiled and moistened her lips with her tongue. Then she turned and left. Duncan watched her go. Mandy Gleeson, he thought, you were sent to me by heaven. He told the waiter he would take care of the bill at the hotel front desk. He did so by giving them Duke Cadogan’s code word.

  ‘Oh, and you can cancel the room,’ he told the receptionist. ‘I won’t be needing it.’

  Roisin made all the travel arrangements and they flew together to Punchestown for their last meeting of the year. It was the first time Duncan had ever ridden in Ireland. Punchestown was one of the great traditional Irish courses for National Hunt racing. Petie was a little jumpy himself, even without a horse. He was on his home turf and he wanted to do well. He’d brought just three horses over, but one of them was to be ridden by an old friend to whom he’d promised the ride.

  Duncan rode a disappointing unplaced in his first race, a handicap steeplechase over two miles, his mount blowing up two furlongs from home. But he scraped home first in the valuable fixture race of the day on Cantabulous, much fancied by the punters at 2–1. Petie’s other horse was placed, so although it wasn’t a gala day for them, he was content.

  Kerry turned up out of the blue and Duncan was overjoyed to see him. Kerry couldn’t wait to get the plaster off his foot, and though he loved his family in Ireland, he said they were driving him crazy and he’d been glad to get away for a few hours. Duncan meanwhile introduced him to Petie and Roisin.

  Petie had seen Kerry race in the past. He knew he was a damn good jockey, though he was shrewd enough in his evaluation to see that, good as he was, he wasn’t quite on a par with Duncan. He needed another jockey in the frame, and maybe he calculated that having Duncan’s buddy at the stables might be a cementing move. ‘I’ll be running more horses in different meetings come the new year,’ he told Kerry. ‘Let me know when you’re back on your feet.’

  ‘Be glad to,’ Kerry said. ‘Be very glad to.’

  ‘How do you like my silks?’ Roisin asked him.

  ‘I like them well enough,’ said Kerry.

  Maybe Kerry held her gaze a moment too long, but Petie shook his head. Duncan had to fight back a smirk. You’re a condemned man, he thought.

  He got a chance to spend an hour or so alone with Kerry before leaving Ireland. They got on to the subject of Petie Quinn’s money. Duncan had rung Kerry, and Kerry had a cousin who knew someone who knew someone and he’d found out what he could. ‘What can I tell you, Duncan? He’s a strong Irish nationalist, but then so am I. So is every Irish Catholic from here to Malin Head, so what does that tell you? Nothing in a pint pot. He might have been connected when he was much younger, that’s all I could uncover. You have to be very careful who you ask, you know. Nobody likes those kind of questions these days.’

  ‘That’s good enough, Kerry. I appreciate it. Hey, that Roisin is a good-looking filly, isn’t she?’

  ‘Is she? I can’t say I noticed.’

  On the morning of New Year’s Eve, Duncan was woken by a hammering on his door and the ringing of his bell. Whoever it was rang so persistently that the battery in the doorbell faded. Duncan eventually answered the door with a towel round his waist.

  Lorna brushed past him. ‘Why won’t you answer your phone? Have you got someone else in here?’

  ‘Cup of tea, Lorna?’

  ‘No. Yes. I must have rung a hundred times. Why haven’t you answered?’

  ‘I’ve been away. Riding horses. It’s what I do.’

  ‘Liar! It either rings out or it’s off the hook for ever.’ Lorna went into his bedroom and immediately opened the wardrobe doors.

  ‘She’s in the bathroom, if you must know.’

  Lorna checked out the bathroom but found it empty.

  ‘Listen, Lorna. I told you. I was threatened by your dad’s thugs. If I see you again, there are a couple of thick-necked Brummies who are going to break my bones one by one and make me watch Aston Villa on Saturday afternoons. I’ve been missing you badly. You don’t need to look under the bed: I don’t have another girlfriend. I want to see you, but I can’t.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. It’s all fine.’

  ‘Fine? What do you mean, it’s fine?’ Duncan knew perfectly well it would be fine. Cadogan was the sort of father who had given Lorna everything she’d asked for not because he loved her but because it was easier to get rid of her that way. He wouldn’t know how to deal with a shrieking teenager on heat. ‘How is it fine?’

  She kicked off her shoes and took off her coat. ‘I talked him round.’

  ‘And just how did you talk him round?’

  ‘I got his porn tapes out and showed them to his girlfriend. Then while they were shouting at each other I got his suits out of his wardrobe. He likes tailored Savile Row suits. So I laid them all out on the gravel driveway and I drove that yellow thingy car we borrowed—’

  ‘The Lamborghini? You can’t drive.’

  ‘Yes, that one . . . No, I can’t drive, but I can make it go forward and back, so I drove it over all of his suits and then I smashed the car into a tree and went back into the garage to get another one but he came out and stopped me so I tore my clothes off and went into the kitchen and the cook was in there with a defrosting bird – I think it was a pheasant – so I smeared the blood all over me and got the cook’s knife and went back out—’

  ‘Stop. I get the idea.’

  ‘Well anyway, now I’m allowed to see you after all and you’re invited to our New Year’s Eve party at the house.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  If she was joking about these exploits, she didn’t say.

  ‘Party starts at eight.’ She unbuckled her belt and stepped out of her jeans and knickers. Then she peeled off her turtleneck sweater, letting her large pink breasts swing free. ‘Now fuck me.’

  About a week after they found the nylon fishing line tied to one of their horses, an unfounded rumour swept the country’s racing stables that strangles had got into Charlie’s yard. Strangles was a highly infectious contagious disease caused by bacteria and spread to other horses by d
irect contact or contaminated food, water or equipment. It was a trainer’s nightmare and isolation was the immediate next step.

  There was no case of strangles at Charlie’s yard. There wasn’t even anything that looked like strangles. There was just a rumour, no more. But it was a very effectively placed rumour. Charlie had to field a lot of worried telephone calls. He also went to great expense to get a vet to give the yard a clean bill of health. He spent a long time returning the calls of everyone who had spoken to him about the matter, reassuring them and asking them to chase the rumour backwards by thinking about who had passed on the gossip. Of course, the lines of rumour were never forensic. But Charlie knew exactly where it would have started.

  A couple of weeks after all that upset, a top jockey who had been riding successfully on a freelance basis for Charlie for almost a year suddenly announced that he wouldn’t be riding for him any longer. No reason. No explanation. Yes, he was very sorry; no, Charlie hadn’t done anything wrong, he just couldn’t ride for him any more; sorry.

  The owners stayed loyal to him. He lost only one horse during that period, and that was because of the strangles rumour. Of course he told as many people as he could what was going on. He had a word with George McEwan, the owner who’d brought him a dozen horses from Osborne’s yard, triggering these issues in the first place.

  ‘You want to go to the police?’ McEwan said. He knew the Chief Constable for the county.

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Well then, you’ve just got to tough it out. It’ll pass. The bastards are smarting now but they’ll get over it.’

  They didn’t get over it. They were still gunning for him. Charlie found himself summoned to an informal meeting of the Jockey Club subcommittee on insider information. This committee had been given a special commission to look into the problem of ‘passing information for reward’, and Charlie was asked to help with their inquiry. It took him two minutes to realise he was being implicated. He demanded to know on what evidence and because of whose testimony he’d been brought before the committee. He was outraged to find that they would not divulge names or reveal sources. Charlie pointed out that that meant that anyone with a grudge could simply point the finger at someone. He was told that the committee listened only to witnesses of integrity. Perhaps foolishly, Charlie got up and walked out. It was either that or say something he might regret. He subsequently received notification that although he was not being cautioned, he was under scrutiny.

  On the surface, Charlie seemed to take it all in his stride. He was going to tough it out. He was not one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but the young Duncan knew how heavily it was weighing on him. Then, one afternoon at Newbury, it all came unglued.

  Charlie had a much-fancied horse called Captain Pugwash, which was going well in the third race when one of William Osborne’s jockeys stole his line while approaching a jump. Captain Pugwash landed badly and his jockey pulled him up before the next fence. Osborne’s horse won the race. Afterwards Charlie was inspecting Captain Pugwash and he looked up to see Osborne in the winning enclosure, smirking at him. The sight of Osborne’s grinning face was too much.

  Charlie strode into the enclosure with his left hand held out in front of him. It looked as though he was offering to shake the hand of the winning trainer. Osborne, still smirking, accepted the handshake, but Charlie used the grip to pull Osborne’s face on to his bunched fist. Charlie was no lightweight. The slap of knuckle on cheekbone could be heard across the paddock. Osborne fell at his winning horse’s feet like a sack of wet sand. No one said anything, but plenty of people had seen what happened.

  By contrast, no one had ever seen the veiled threats Osborne had made; nor the faked sore shins; nor the effect of the rumours of strangles; nor the trumped-up charges and the summons before the Jockey Club. All they saw was an old guy, purple in the face, who had lost it and attacked William Osborne, one of the leading trainers in the country.

  Charlie left Newbury race track that day knowing that if he hadn’t he would have been escorted off the grounds. Reports were made, and although Osborne chose not to press charges through the criminal courts, he did ask the Jockey Club to make its own investigations. The slow-grinding machinery of the Jockey Club went into action and Charlie was given a date on which he would have to appear before its disciplinary committee.

  Privately he got a lot of support. A large number of people in the race game had been heartened to hear that Osborne had got his chops busted. One or two people who’d actually witnessed the blow called Charlie to tell him how much they’d enjoyed the spectacle. Charlie said little. He got his head down and prepared for some major races that were coming up.

  Duncan lay with Lorna in the afterglow of sex, thinking about two things. One was how much actual weight loss was incurred through sex. The second was what to do about being invited to Duke Cadogan’s New Year’s Eve party.

  He was being invited into the dragon’s lair. That was, if Lorna was to be believed. He expressed his doubts and by way of response she picked up his phone and dialled a number. ‘Can I speak to Daddy, please?’ she said when she got an answer. ‘Tell him it’s urgent.’

  She sat cross-legged on the bed, nude, pink, still perspiring. She held Duncan’s gaze as she spoke. ‘Daddy, he’s with me right now. He doesn’t believe he’s invited to the party tonight. What? You can hardly blame him after you had your goons threaten him, can you? No, I don’t care about that: you’re going to have to tell him yourself. Tell him he’s invited. And welcome.’ She held the telephone receiver out for Duncan to take.

  Duncan shook his head, but Lorna waggled the receiver at him until he took it. When she let go of the phone, she took Duncan’s cock in her hand.

  ‘Claymore?’

  ‘Yes,’ Duncan said.

  ‘You’d better get yourself here tonight. I don’t want any more breakages.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘It’s black tie. You know what that is, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right then. Put the silly bitch back on.’

  Duncan handed the phone back to Lorna. She had a short conversation with her father, all the while stroking Duncan’s fattening cock. When she replaced the receiver on the cradle, she said, ‘Believe me now?’

  ‘This party? Will it be any good?’

  ‘It’ll be hideous. But you’ll be there.’

  Duncan wasn’t sure he would be. He was planning to call round to see Charlie. He didn’t want his dad to be alone on New Year’s Eve, even though Charlie had told him he’d be fine and that he wanted Duncan to go out and enjoy himself. Not that New Year’s Eve at the Cadogans’ would be much of a knees-up. Most of the racing fraternity had meetings the next day to think about.

  ‘What about this black tie business?’ Duncan said. ‘I’ve no suit.’

  ‘We’ll go into town this afternoon,’ Lorna said. ‘Daddy has an account. And you would look so sexy in a tuxedo.’

  9

  When Duncan pulled up at the Cadogan mansion at about eight thirty that evening, all the house lights were ablaze and he had to park his beat-up Capri next to some pretty fancy wheels. It looked like there were quite a few well-heeled guests. Two men in Crombie-style overcoats stood at the doorway, their breath rising in the cold evening air. Duncan recognised the bald-headed man from the pair who had tried to intimidate him while walking the course at Wetherby.

  Baldy said something to his colleague from behind the back of his hand. Duncan passed them by without a word. No greeting, and no eye contact. He just walked in. Once inside, he heard music coming from deeper within the house and a formal butler addressed him as ‘sir’ and took his coat. At least the butler didn’t know who he was, he thought.

  Or who he wasn’t.

  He was led through to a crowded giant lounge with crystal chandeliers and a roaring log fire. All the men wore tuxedos and the women were mostly wearing long dresses. Duncan wasn’t intimidated by the formality, but he didn’t buy into it. Ther
e was an air of fancy dress about the party, as if the guests were acting, pretending to be old aristocracy or something. He recognised quite a few faces from the racing world, but not so many he would describe as friendly. Cadogan was extending his vice-like grip into racing. He’d bought his way in and continued to buy upwards, whether it was horses, contacts or influence. There were two or three other racing dynasties around who could challenge him, but not everyone had his financial firepower.

  Lorna spotted Duncan and raced to his side. She was wearing a low-cut shimmering oyster-grey dress with strappy sandals that made her slightly taller than him. ‘Champagne for you, I think?’ There were staff dressed like French maids bearing silver salvers. She beckoned one across and took a glass for each of them. ‘Let me introduce you to some people.’

  It was the kind of party where you got the feeling that those present didn’t really have much affection for each other. Perhaps they were there to cement relationships or make connections. Duncan fell into light conversation with a man who described himself as a ‘stress analyst’. Duncan thought he meant the kind of stress he was himself feeling at being at a party thrown by one of the men he most hated in the entire world; but in fact he meant things like metal fatigue. While the man was talking about ductile metals, Duncan looked over and saw Sandy Sanderson, along with his wife, on the other side of the room.

  Near the fireplace with its crackling logs was a man he didn’t recognise but who seemed to be holding court. His hair was cut almost Teddy boy style, short at the sides and with a bit of a quiff on top. He’d already loosened his dicky bow from his collar and was in the middle of telling a story to two men and a glamorous blonde. What struck Duncan as odd was that a fourth man stood just behind the storyteller, glancing around nervously and fingering his collar occasionally. He flexed his shoulders like a nightclub bouncer. He’s a minder, Duncan thought.

  Duncan tried to eavesdrop while pretending to listen to the man talking about ductile metals, but Lorna was already moving him on.