by Joe McNally
‘Very funny, Eddie. It’s not you who’s going to be humiliated.’
‘That makes a change, believe me. Call me if you learn anything, especially about Rossington. I’ll be back in Cambridge this evening to see my father.’
‘How is he?’
‘No change. A very long-standing diagnosis.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. Maybe we can meet for breakfast tomorrow.’
‘Call me this evening when you reach Cambridge, and we’ll arrange a time.’
‘Fine.’
Only twenty minutes remained of the visiting period when I reached the hospital, which didn’t dismay me unduly. Father was sitting up, eyes closed but breathing on his own, albeit through lungs that sounded like decayed organ pipes. Mother was in her customary position by the bed, holding his thin jaundiced-looking hand. She looked more contented than when I’d last seen her. We nodded to each other and I gently placed the fruit I’d brought on the bedside cabinet.
I mouthed the words, ‘How is he?’ Mother nodded slowly and it was only when we got outside I learned there had been no change. She’d decided to treat this as positive news. I offered to take her to dinner but she said she’d rather go back to the hotel to be by the telephone. I took her there, and then returned to the stud to spend the night.
Candy thought it unwise for us to be seen having breakfast together. We met in our old reliable lay-by where he told me that the feelers were still out on Rossington, and that it might be midweek before he’d have any news on him.
It was a warm morning. We rolled the windows down and sat looking through the pictures Charlie Harris had sent me. Most of the shots had been taken either in the parade ring before each race or in the winner’s enclosure afterwards. Capshaw’s party in the last race featured in nineteen photos, a mixture from the same general pool in each.
Most of the pics were of the celebrations after the Guterson’s Gloves-sponsored race that the company had won with its own horse, trained by Capshaw. Candy pointed to the smiling face of Bob Guterson. ‘I’ve seen him around.’
‘Bob Guterson. Owned the winner. Got three others in training with Capshaw.’
He nodded, scanned the others then stopped and held one up to the light. ‘See the guy in the corner, grey hair, dark suit?’
The face was indistinct in the background, slightly out of focus. ‘Uhuh?’
‘I think that’s Simeon Prior. What on earth would he be doing with that lot?’
‘Who’s Simeon Prior when he’s at home?’
‘He’s the chairman of one of the biggest sales companies in Europe.’
‘Sales?’
‘Bloodstock sales. An outfit called Triplecrown.’ He squinted closer. ‘Could you get this one blown up?’
‘Sure. Do you think there’s any significance in Prior’s being there?’
‘They’re simply not his type, Capshaw and this Guterson, a rubber-glove-maker.’
I looked again at the picture. ‘Are you sure he is with them? He’s standing well away from the main team.’
Candy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It just seems odd. He seldom goes racing.’
‘You know him well?’
‘Not really, met him a couple of times, said hello.’
‘I’ll get an enlargement done.’
Candy flicked through three more and stopped at one in the parade ring. He smiled and pointed to an attractive blonde woman presenting what I assumed was the prize to the lad for the Best Turned Out Horse in the Guterson’s Gloves race. ‘Know who that is?’ he asked.
She seemed vaguely familiar but I couldn’t name her. ‘Jean Kerman,’ Candy said. ‘Mean Jean.’
Kerman was the vicious gossip columnist who specialized in sports. She’d been the one Spindari had threatened us with. ‘Is that her?’ I asked in surprise.
‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’ Candy said. ‘Doesn’t look poisonous from here.’
‘What the hell’s she doing presenting the prize?’
‘Maybe Mister Guterson had a giant Hooley to celebrate his sponsorship. They normally invite press and celebs, these corporate people.’ Almost every race sponsor has a private box and makes a major day out of it, inviting business contacts and sometimes paying celebrities to mix with guests. The only reason for my suspicion was that Capshaw was in there somewhere. Everyone else in these pictures might well be completely innocent, but Capshaw was in deep.
It was getting hot in the car. We got out and walked to the end of the lay-by then back again. Candy wore an immaculate fawn suit, pale blue shirt and very expensive-looking shoes. Despite his year-round tan, he looked drawn.
‘You’re not looking forward to tomorrow, are you?’ I asked.
‘Not in the least.’
‘It’s for the best.’
‘I know it is.’
‘What’s the plan?’
‘Jidda runs in the first at Windsor. He cost us two point two million, bought on my advice. Wherever he finishes, the Sheikh is going to tell the press he feels he was badly advised, that he paid too much.’
‘Even if he wins easily?’
‘Yes. He’ll do it another two or three times till they’re in no doubt I’m not flavour of the month.’
‘Then the word will spread that you’re on your way out.’
He nodded.
‘It’ll be an interesting experiment in finding out who your friends are.’
‘A very clinical summary, Eddie. I wonder if you’d be quite so nonchalant about it if you were the guinea pig?’
‘Maybe not. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound like nothing at all, but everything will be put right once we catch these people. The Sheikh will tell the press then about the whole plot, won’t he?’
‘I don’t know. I just hope he tells them enough to recover my reputation. What’s left of it.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘One of the easiest used phrases in the English language, usually spoken by those who have no worries themselves.’
I looked across at him as we walked. His face was grim.
43
By the end of the following week, everybody in racing knew Candy was for the chop. The racing media are too protective of their own to break a story like this, but one of the tabloids featured a paragraph about ‘unrest’, as they put it, between the Sheikh and his racing manager, confirming also that Candy had almost three years of a five-year contract to run.
Nothing happened that week to help us. Rossington, the Australian valet, came up cleaner than bones from an acid bath. Using Candy’s private investigators to compile personal histories of suspects had quickly become a lazy habit. I gave Candy the names of all the racecourse officials and the other valets at Stratford that day, and asked for a report on each.
If they came through clean, I wondered how long I’d be able to resist setting Candy’s investigators on my fellow jockeys. Brian’s killer was seldom out of my mind now and unless I accepted that a stranger had somehow gained access to the weighing room, then it had to be someone who knew Brian.
I’d called Mac again and pressed him about Tranter’s alibi with the Steward and the car crash. I wanted to be absolutely certain that he was out of the picture. Mac assured me he’d had word straight from the mouth of the Steward concerned. He could think of no reason why the man in question would simply have concocted that story.
I suggested Tranter might have had something on him. Mac said if he did then it hadn’t affected the Steward’s judgment three days ago when he’d stood Tranter down for what some had thought was a minor offence. Fair point.
That brought me full circle to the conclusion that someone in the weighing room that afternoon killed Brian Kincaid. My mind returned to how nervous Rossington had seemed when I first questioned him, and toward the end of what was probably the worst week of Candy’s life I met him at the lay-by again and prodded him to get a double check done on the Australian. ‘Why do you want another report? We’ve already
done one?’
‘A gut feeling. He was uncomfortable when I was questioning him.’
‘Eddie, he didn’t kill anybody. He has no history of crime or violence. He worked with sheep and horses in Australia. Came from Melbourne racetrack with good references.’
‘Candy, he was nervous!’
‘So maybe he’s been smuggling fucking kangaroos or something! For Christ’s sake, Eddie, gimme a break with these fucking personal profiles! They’re costing more than the horses!’
I shut up for a while to let him cool down. Finally, he said, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to blow like that. It’s been a bad week.’
‘Yeah, my fault. I’m afraid I’m not the most sensitive guy in the world.’
‘Leave Rossington with me, I’ll ask them to have another look.’
‘No, it’s okay. Just get me the name and number of the guy who compiled that profile. Maybe he can tell me something or give me a few of his sources.’
‘It would be best if I had him call you.’
‘Fine, give him my mobile number.’
We walked in silence for a while. ‘I’m going to see Capshaw tonight,’ he said.
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Met him at Sandown yesterday.’
‘Does he know what you have in mind?’
‘I doubt it.’
We got back in the car. Candy sat rigid in the seat for a few seconds then leant forward, elbows on steering wheel, face in his hands.
I said, ‘You’ll be okay, Candy. You’ll pull it off.’
He continued rubbing his eyes and temples, then his hands went down and he sat back, leaning against the headrest and triggering a long sigh. ‘You think everybody finds this sort of stuff as easy as you do, Eddie. Why? Why do you think everybody sees things the same way as you, thinks the same way?’
‘I don’t.’
He turned to me. ‘You do. You ought to listen to yourself sometime, watch yourself performing.’
Performing?
I smiled. ‘You’re performing pretty well yourself this morning, going all prima donna-ish on me. I’m not asking you to play King Lear. Just go to Capshaw’s and be convincing, which means being nervous and hesitant and insecure, all the things you’re feeling anyway. That’s what he’ll expect, not a command performance. ’Cos you look like a movie star it doesn’t mean that’s what everyone expects you to be.’
He sighed again. Then smiled.
‘What time are you seeing him?’ I asked.
‘Seven-thirty.’
‘I’ll be in the royal box, cheering you on.’
The plan was for Candy to approach Capshaw and offer him a three-year contract to train ten of the Sheikh’s horses. Candy would confess he’d fallen out of favour with the Sheikh and that he thought his employer was going to get rid of him soon, but that he still had the power to sign contracts that would have to be honoured or bought off for large amounts.
He’d say that, to take revenge on the Sheikh, he intended to approach five trainers offering this contract based on a fifty-fifty cut from the compensation money when the Sheikh subsequently cancelled. Capshaw was to be the first trainer on his list.
The purpose of the exercise was to flush out the lizards.
We reckoned that if they were still looking for a replacement for Alex Dunn, someone to carry on the sabotage at The Gulf Stud, then they would be sorely tempted to recruit Candy, an embittered member of staff with the power to do untold damage personally or else quietly put someone in place that could do it after he’d gone.
I wanted to see Candy as soon as I could after he left Capshaw’s yard, but he was nervous about meeting twice in one day, especially if it meant coming to the lay-by again. He reluctantly agreed to drive to a derelict farm we both knew within two miles of my parents’ stud. I reminded him to take his Dictaphone to Capshaw’s.
I’d been waiting at the farm since 8.30, parked behind a half-ruined grey stone wall. I stood by the corner of it now, and as twilight fell on the empty fields, I watched the road junction half a mile away. By 9.45, I was getting worried about Candy. Maybe Capshaw had twigged the plan and called in the big guns. But how could he have known? There was no way.
The doubts niggled until I saw a car slow and turn down the track toward the farm, headlights bouncing wildly on the uneven ground. I waited until I was certain it was Candy before stepping out as he nosed along the weed-strewn drive and parked.
As Candy approached I noticed how much more relaxed he seemed. The stiffness and tension of this morning had gone from his limbs and he moved like the natural athlete he was. No frown either. He looked pretty pleased with himself.
I smiled. ‘It went well, obviously.’
His white teeth flashed in the dusk. ‘Hook and line. Sinker maybe tomorrow or the next day.’
‘Brilliant.’
We leant on the bonnet of my car and he replayed the tape on his Dictaphone. At first Capshaw acted dumb about Candy’s troubles with the Sheikh, though I got the impression his reaction was aimed at not embarrassing Candy. When he realized the whole subject was the reason for Candy’s visit, he listened more and talked less. Until, of course, Candy offered him the horses; then he became very animated.
Capshaw cooled as the proposal was revealed. He seemed more interested in having the Sheikh’s horses back than collecting a large compensation payment for breach of contract. I warmed to him for that.
But Candy played it smart and said that although the Sheikh might want out of some of the contracts, he did need to place horses with new trainers and there would be a chance, bearing in mind how well Capshaw had taken the Sheikh’s previous clear-out of his stable, that the Sheikh would let him keep this batch for the full term.
Capshaw began asking about the horses Candy planned to give him, their breeding, cost at the sales, etc. Candy said he couldn’t really give details at this stage but promised that, since Capshaw was the first he’d approached, he’d let him have his pick.
The trainer’s enthusiasm increased a few notches then, and it was some time before he seemed to realize that maybe someone else might have an interest in this, at which point he started cooling off. He asked Candy if he could wait for an answer. It might be tomorrow or maybe in a couple of days. Candy said, of course, don’t worry, no problem, and generally left Capshaw with the impression that there wasn’t a high degree of urgency. But he did say he couldn’t wait longer than a week. Capshaw promised him a call tomorrow.
Candy clicked the tape off and looked at me. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that Mister William Capshaw is not the brightest guy in the world. He seemed far too open. I’d have thought he would have showed some suspicion at least. It only confirms to me that someone else is running things. I just wonder what hold they’ve got over him.’
‘Me too.’
We never got to find out.
44
The call from Capshaw didn’t come. When we heard early on Wednesday morning of his death, the sense of dejection, almost despair, was palpable. I thought Candy was going to quit on the spot. Candy got hold of a copy of the police report, which said Capshaw had received a call just before 10 on Tuesday night, and immediately told his wife he had to go out. He gave no reason but said he’d be home by midnight.
A police patrol found him dead under his car in the early hours of Wednesday, on a straight stretch down by Six Mile Bottom. It seemed he’d been changing a wheel when he’d been hit by a passing vehicle that hadn’t stopped. The impact had shattered his pelvis, severed his spine and driven the jack out of its support, causing the car to collapse and crush Capshaw’s skull.
The police had taken the unusual step of sparing Mrs. Capshaw the ordeal of identifying the body, and had accepted the head lad’s assurance that the corpse was indeed Capshaw’s.
The police were seeking a dark blue vehicle that probably had bull bars fitted at the front, though they did not think it had been a jeep.
We’d gone
through the report back at our derelict farm, standing in the sunshine leaning against Candy’s car. He folded the papers and threw them in disgust through the open window onto the seat. He was angry too about Capshaw’s death. He’d quite liked him.
‘What now?’ he asked.
‘We find out who called Capshaw. Whoever it was must have arranged the rather convenient puncture and equally convenient hit and run.’ Candy stared and I could see he was baffled by my certainty. I said, ‘Between you seeing Capshaw and him getting that call, something happened. Whether he took cold feet and wanted out or Mister Big decided Capshaw had made a big mistake talking to you, who knows, but Capshaw had obviously served his purpose. Whoever the guy is, Capshaw was scared of him, scared enough to go dashing out as soon as he received the call.’
‘So how do we find out who made it?’
‘Why don’t you ask your contact to get hold of the phone records? I’m sure the cops will have requested them already.’
Candy nodded thoughtfully then said, ‘The guy’s hardly going to be stupid enough to call from his own base.’
‘Probably not, but who knows?’
‘What if this Mister Big, as you call him, approaches me direct?’
‘All the better, but I doubt it.’
We stood in silence for a while then Candy said, ‘What if we can’t trace the call?’
I shrugged. ‘Rulers and pencils out and back to the drawing board.’
‘Oh, fine! I feel I’ve been pinned to the drawing board this last week or so, and half my fucking life’s been erased!’
‘No point in giving up now then, is there? Let’s get you sketched in again. We’ll see if we can make a better job of you second time around.’
To his credit, he managed a smile.
The phone records showed the call to Capshaw came from a public telephone in Cambridge. Candy became disheartened. I told him we must press on and try to find out who killed Brian Kincaid at Stratford. The candidates were relatively few and that offered us the best chance of success.
The guy who’d compiled the profile on Ken Rossington called me at Candy’s request, and we talked about his sources and what he’d found out. Rossington’s persona in Australia - reserved, industrious, a private man - sounded quite different from the one he’d adopted when he’d stepped off the plane over a year ago. Unless Qantas had started dishing out personality changes along with the in-flight meals, then Rossington had transformed himself virtually overnight into the ebullient practical joker who now inhabited the weighing room.
