Silk Chaser

by Peter Klein

  ‘Figures,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

  Kate helped herself to another sandwich.

  ‘Addictive, aren’t they?’

  ‘I’m converted,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘My shout for another round. Here, read these while I buy us another plate. It might explain.’

  I opened the envelope Kate had left me and pulled out six photocopied articles from various UK publications. She had them sorted in chronological date order. Three were from the daily city newspapers, two from specialist racing formguides and the other was some local suburban paper at Newmarket. I started reading the first article which was from seven years ago.

  WINNING STAR SYNDICATOR ON RAPE CHARGE

  Albrights solicitors representing Horse Syndicator, Kagan Hall, said their client would vigorously defend a charge of rape brought against him by an eighteen-year-old woman. The woman, a former stablehand, alleged the sexual assault took place on her seventeenth birthday last year at a party held at her employer’s stables. Hall is a director of the successful racehorse syndication company Winning Star.

  There were several more articles like the first one, short on detail and long on ‘alleged’ this and thats. But the one that caught my eye appeared to have been written a couple of months after the rape charge was first mentioned. It was written by one of the sex, sport and scandal racing guides, so I don’t know how much of it was fact.

  SYNDICATOR’S STAR HAS FALLEN

  It will come as no surprise to readers of The Tout that racehorse syndicator, Winning Star, has wound up its business. As first reported by this paper, sales of shares in racehorses by investors slowed to a trickle as news of director Kagan Hall’s pending rape charges first came to light. There have been whispers of overdue bills from several auction houses both in the UK and abroad as buyers shy away from the adverse publicity attributed to Hall and his syndicate.

  The charges against Hall appear likely to be dropped, although this is yet to be officially confirmed by police. This follows the disappearance of the plaintiff, Sonia Lockwood, whose untimely vanishing act has effectively ended the case against Hall. Despite a wide-ranging search, police have found no clues as to her whereabouts.

  It does appear the unwanted publicity has impacted severely on Winning Star’s business. Neither Hall nor his solicitors were available for comment last night, however it is believed that Hall intends taking an extended vacation abroad. Co-director Paul Mead was asked if going into business with Hall as a partner had been a mistake. ‘No comment,’ was his reply.

  ‘Have his actions ruined what was once a thriving business?’

  ‘No comment.’

  It is understood that arrangements have been made with two rival syndication companies to take over the management of Winning Star’s horses. Investors will be notified by the administrators as soon as possible.

  Kate came back with another plate of crab sandwiches as I finished reading. One of them was already gone, a little gap missing from the neatly arranged pile.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Kate, sporting a guilty smile. ‘Had to have a nibble while I waited in the queue to pay.’

  ‘Told you they were good.’ I helped myself to one of the remaining sandwiches, which were fast disappearing in Kate’s hands.

  ‘That’s interesting what you found out about Hall.’

  Kate gave her mouth a dab with the serviette and wriggled into a more comfortable position on her stool. ‘Yeah well, it’s certainly a background he’d probably not want to advertise. But it depends on where you’re coming from,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Like, last night you hinted that Hall might be a possible strapper killer suspect. I mean, okay, it’s interesting about his past in the UK, the dropped rape charge and his failed business over there. And your observations about him groping some stablegirl at the sales is all very well, but . . .’

  ‘It would have been a lot more than that if I hadn’t happened along. Trust me.’

  ‘I’m not disputing what you saw. It’s just that you’d need a lot more to implicate him with any of the strapper killings. Do you have anything else that ties him in?’

  ‘Hell, I don’t know. He’s at the races every Saturday. He’s out to get his hand on every bit of skirt at the track that he can. He’s been up on a rape charge before.’

  ‘Alleged rape charge. A case that’s gone nowhere.’

  ‘Only because the girl conveniently disappeared.’

  Kate frowned and considered, conceded the point. ‘Perhaps a little too conveniently.’

  ‘I’d say it’s more than just a coincidence,’ I said. ‘The girl disappeared shortly before the trial. The case collapsed and the police had no choice but to let Hall walk.’

  ‘Okay, I agree. His form in the UK and your observations of him over here don’t exactly make him look an angel.’

  ‘Another thing; I remember seeing Hall at the races ogling the third strapper who was killed. He was standing outside her stall. Melissa Jordan, who won the strapper’s prize.’

  ‘Can you put him anywhere near her later that night when she was killed?’

  I gave Kate a blank look.

  ‘What about the others who were killed, was he anywhere near them?’

  ‘I don’t know, Kate. It’s not as if I’ve asked him or been tailing him around.’

  ‘Punter, don’t take this the wrong way. I’m just trying to put the same slant on it as the police would. I mean, I don’t want to appear cynical, but despite the connection we think we’re making between Hall and the missing Sonia and the strapper killings, all you’ve really got is a randy con who goes to the races every Saturday. That description could fit a lot of blokes.’

  ‘Could be me.’

  ‘Exactly. You never miss a meeting. Probably watched every one of those strappers parade in the mounting yard. In fact I saw you watching Melissa Jordan leading her horse around.’

  ‘It must be me.’

  ‘Yep. You were there. Can you account for your actions the night Melissa Jordan was killed?’

  ‘No, I went home, had an early one.’

  ‘You got any witnesses?’

  ‘Tell me you’re winding me up?’

  She put a hand on my arm and smiled. ‘I’m just demonstrating how easy it is to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘So you don’t think it’s worth digging up any more about him?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. What I’ve got is a boss, something you wouldn’t know about, who actually decides what my priorities are. I can’t just go off on a tangent and investigate some story that takes my fancy. It’s got to have legs, be newsworthy.’

  ‘If it ties in with the strapper killings it would make the headlines.’

  ‘Yeah, but all you’ve got at the moment is a suspect in your mind. You need a lot more facts before I could take it any further. You know what I’d do, I’d hand it over as a quiet tip to police and let them decide what to make of him.’

  ‘I was actually thinking of passing it on to Beering,’ I said.

  Kate nodded. ‘Do it. It’s a good idea. Let him and the police check him out. At least that way you’ve done what you can.’

  She took another sip of her squash and frowned as if thinking of something else. ‘Have you discussed this with anyone else?’

  ‘No. Just you.’

  ‘Not even Maxine?’

  I shook my head. ‘I thought of asking Maxine about Hall, but it’s a tricky one because he’s her client. I can imagine how she’d react if I rocked up and told her that her main client was the strapper killer. “Don’t want to alarm you, sweetie, and this shouldn’t affect your working relationship with him, but Hall’s a killer and you shouldn’t spend time alone with him”.’

  Kate wasn’t as flippant as I was. ‘What if he did turn out to be the killer? Wouldn’t you have wanted to warn her as early as possible?’

  I was late getting to the mounting yard. My meeting with Kate had eaten into my punting time and the
jockeys had already been legged up for the first race and were making their way out. Inside the enclosure, I was taken aback by all the extra security. It was quite noticeable; two armed security guards patrolling the inner sanctum of the lawn area and another standing by the gate to the members’ area. The one by the gate was staring intently at the crowd, as if daring any potential murderer to try their best. The other two stationed inside walked slowly around the ring like huge apes, doing laps next to horses led by female strappers. I don’t know if it made the girls feel any safer, but it certainly made a statement. When the horses went out onto the track and the strappers filed back, the security guards formed a protective cordon around the women and followed them inside to the grandstand.

  Out in the betting ring, most bookmakers were giving threes about one of Dad’s horses, Hideaway Island. Most bookies, that is, except Big Oakie White, who kept her safe at two dollars eighty. The big fella stood on his stand like an old bull walrus, leaning comfortably against the railing, his huge pumpkin face wearing a contented smile.

  ‘Whadda ya know, Punter?’ he asked me.

  ‘I know you’re giving two points under everyone else for the fave.’

  Oakie scanned the ring with his owl-like eyes and grinned. ‘Don’t mean I have to. Don’t mean you have to back her with me, either.’

  ‘True, but I thought we could do some business on account of me backing two horses as savers with you, if you give me the threes.’

  Oakie made a show of worriedly looking at his board and then scanning the ring again before telling me, as he always did, that it was punters like me who were sending him broke. I told him my bets and he called them out to his clerk who printed out three tickets for me as I gave him my cash.

  ‘Thanks, Oakie. Hey, good crowd here today.’

  Oakie nodded slowly and looked away into the public section. ‘Yeah, but not all of ’em here for the betting, though,’ he said, jerking his head towards a couple of guards patrolling the outer ring. ‘Bloody security here today, you reckon they had a royal visit or something going on.’

  Up in the stand, I swept the lawns with my binoculars to bring them into focus and the first person I picked up on was Jim Beering. Hard to miss in his brown suit and hat leaning against the outer course rail. He was facing the grandstand and watching, always watching the crowd for trouble. Drunks, pick pockets, warned-off licensees. Serial killers. Seeing him reminded me to catch up with him later. I didn’t want to see him too early in the day as it would interfere with my punting, so I sent him a text asking if I could meet him by the mounting yard before the main race. From where I was sitting, I could see him pull out his phone and read my message. He replied with a simple ‘OK’ then added, ‘Got a winner?’

  I texted him back, saying ‘Hideaway Island in the first.’

  I could almost imagine him swearing with frustration from the realisation he wouldn’t have time to back it.

  There were only two horses to be loaded into the starting gates and I watched the barrier attendants lead them up and close the gates. Dad’s horse had drawn the extreme outside, but in races down the straight, that’s been an advantage in recent years, as horses on the grandstand side seem to have a faster lane than those on the flat side. When the barriers opened, two packs formed and went their separate ways, one making a beeline for the grandstand rail and the other for the inside fence. Watching them head on, it was impossible to tell who was leading who. I don’t know how the race callers do it; calling straight races must be a nightmare for them. I kept my glasses on Hideaway Island. Her jockey was in a good position running third and close to the leaders in his pack. Over on the rails there were a couple of horses vying for the lead and I still couldn’t tell if they were in front or behind the group on the grandstand side. When they got to the clock tower I knew we were home. The jockey still had a stranglehold on the filly and she’d booted a half length in front. I put my glasses down. Nice feeling, starting the day with a winner.

  Hideaway Island wasn’t the only winner I backed that afternoon. I played the next race as well. It looked a contest between the top two, and that’s exactly how it panned out. No fancy prices, two seventy the pair. I backed both of them and didn’t care which won. Race three was a cup of tea race and race four I couldn’t get the price I wanted about my top pick. I didn’t want to bet against it so I sat the race out. The horse won anyway, despite its price. Race five looked a bit of a gamble; a race restricted to apprentice riders only. They’d made some horse a ridiculously short-priced favourite. I never take the shorts about a horse unless it’s a champion, and I certainly don’t take odds on about some pimply faced apprentice who’s likely to miss the start or get caught wide. I did a quick check of the percentages. If I backed every other runner in the race bar the fave and two no-hopers, I’d win regardless of which horse saluted. Not a bad speculation for a race I hadn’t planned to play. That’s how it worked out, too. The odds-on pop found itself pocketed at the turn; stupid kid was half asleep and should have got out a furlong before he was caught napping. An eight to one chance scored and I was happy to have made wages for the day.

  ‘Fuckin’ kid couldn’t ride the ghost train at Luna Park,’ spat out one disgruntled punter next to me.

  I nodded in commiseration. ‘Should have won by the length of the straight,’ I said. Rule number one, never admit you’ve just won to a punter who’s just done their money. They’ll only be dark on you for bettering them, or worse, put the hard word on you for a bite. With half an hour to go before the main race, I decided I’d have a quick afternoon tea with the gang before my catch-up chat with Beering.

  I thought I must have been one of the first to arrive as I couldn’t see any of the others at our usual spot. But then I saw Ric coming back from the bar with a drink. I bought a squash and joined him at the table where he was sitting.

  ‘Looks like just you and me today, Ric,’ I said, sitting down alongside him.

  ‘Nah, Matt’s floating around somewhere,’ he said. ‘Gone to bet on some no-hoper in Adelaide. But I haven’t seen any of the others yet.’

  I nodded and took a sip of my squash. Laid my Best Bets on the table and placed my binoculars on top of them. Ric was sorting through his formguide, circling numbers here and there, a studious look on his face.

  ‘How’s the battle?’ I asked him.

  He shrugged. ‘Up and down. Be more up if that useless kid hadn’t slaughtered the fave in the last.’

  I laughed and agreed with him.

  ‘How ’bout you?’

  I sighed like a loser. Best policy, I find. ‘It’s a hard game the punt, son.’

  Ric grunted and went back to his form study. We sank into a mini silence; both of us checking our formguides and watching the TV monitors. A couple of minutes went by and I looked at Ric over the top of my glass. Mostly when I’d seen him at the track, he’d been with Matt or the rest of the gang. Alone with him, I felt a little awkward in his company and decided I should probably make more of an effort to get to know him.

  ‘How’s work?’ I asked him.

  ‘Huh? Oh, same old shit, just a different day.’

  ‘I don’t know how you stick at it.’

  Got another grunt by way of response. He looked up at some interstate race playing on the TV.

  ‘You married, Ric, any kids?’

  Shook his head.

  ‘A partner?’

  Another shake.

  ‘You got any hobbies?’

  He looked at me blankly.

  ‘Sorry, wasn’t meaning to pry, but you know, something to pass the time. Like me, I go surfing whenever I get a chance. Or play some snooker every now and then for a bit of fun.’

  ‘Just horseracing.’

  I’m not the world’s greatest conversationalist, but it felt like one-way traffic trying to engage him. He didn’t seem to want to elaborate on anything I asked him and he didn’t seem par ticularly interested in anything I did. I didn’t think he was secretive or rude.
He was just indifferent, didn’t want to connect with me. Still, I persevered to avoid an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘You done any Christmas shopping yet?’

  Parents dead. There was no one he had to buy for.

  ‘Follow the tennis? The Open’s coming up in January.’

  He told me he couldn’t stand tennis. The players all grunted too much.

  In the end, I plain ran out of things to talk about and gave up. Maybe we just didn’t have anything in common. So we fell back to studying our formguides in silence and I was sort of glad when Matt showed up a few minutes later, chattering away as he usually did. Made for easier conversation with the three of us there.

  ‘G’day Matt,’ I said. ‘How’s the wife?’

  ‘She’s great.’

  ‘We ever going to see her at the track someday?’

  ‘You kidding! Drag her away from the malls. This is my Saturday afternoon therapy and shopping’s hers.’

  I laughed. ‘What about your kids? They’d be on Christmas holidays now, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Yeah. The little buggers are at home right through till New Year. ’

  ‘Is that right? Then I reckon schools short-change children now. I can remember we never went back until February.’

  ‘January, February – It’s never soon enough when you’re a parent, trust me,’ he laughed.

  ‘Reckon I’d know to the day,’ said Ric glumly.

  ‘You winning?’

  Matt had bet on some horse at Morphettville which he reckoned they’d have to send out a search party for. Said he’d never backed a slower galloper in all his life. Ric immediately needled him about being stupid enough to back anything in Adelaide in the first place. I left them to it, sniping and point-scoring off each other as usual like an old married couple.

  I went out to my usual place by the mounting yard fence for the next race, looking about for Beering. I spotted him walking over with a hot-dog in his hand. ‘If I knew you were eating that fast food rubbish, I’d have invited you to lunch in the members’,’ I said.

  Beering sniffed good-naturedly. ‘You think I’ve got time to mix with the hoi polloi? Workers like me got to take their meals on the run.’