‘No, on my way home. Fancied a beer.’ The lie rolled off my tongue and tasted sour.
I lowered the level in my glass halfway and waited until their glasses were empty.
‘Have one on me.’ I handed a note to Tony, the lad I recognized. The gesture went down well and they began relaxing, chatting easily. I gave it ten minutes and then dropped a question into the conversation.
‘Which one of you replaced Carl, then?’
Two fingers pointed to the third lad.
‘I got the start.’
‘Live locally, do you?’
‘Nah, come from Strelley.’
I nodded sagely. ‘Too far to travel in.’
‘Yeah, well, Carl lived in. I took his room.’
‘Right.’ I nodded again. ‘Where did he come from, then?’
Tony answered. ‘Up Wellington Street, Newark. Lived with Fred, his dad.’
I didn’t push it any further. ‘Any runners on Sunday?’
‘Dayton Princess is running in the one o’clock.’
The same race as one of my rides for Lord Edgware, as I informed them. And the conversation steered itself smoothly and safely away from the subject of Carl.
I stood them all a further round, cried off having another myself – ‘Sorry, have to drive back’ – and stepped outside into the chill night air.
Once home, I dug out the telephone directory and looked up F. Smith of Wellington Street, Newark. The telephone number Jake had written down had been a landline, not a mobile. Turned out the house was number twenty-nine.
I checked my watch. Just short of eleven o’clock. Too late to go swanning off to Newark tonight, but I intended to run over and take a look at the Smith homestead tomorrow. I might just get lucky and spot Jake Smith going in or out. Actually put a face to a name. Did they still insist on short haircuts in prison? Anyway, for an offence of GBH, it wouldn’t have been a short sentence. He couldn’t disguise prison pallor. A dead giveaway. I should be able to pick him out.
He’d been keeping check on me. Now it was my turn.
‘M’Lord.’ I touched the bright green peak of my silks where they sat covering my crash cap. The equivalent, I suppose, of a latter-day tugging of the forelock. Racing was steeped in tradition. And I wouldn’t have it otherwise. It was somehow a comfort and conveyed a sense of security. A total illusion, of course. Racing was right up there amongst the most dangerous of sports. Which was why it held the fascination it did.
Lord Edgware smiled in acknowledgement and nodded, still deep in conversation with Mike. We were all assembled in the parade ring at Huntingdon races, ready for the off in the first race on the card. The bell rang for mounting and Mike gave me a leg-up on to Joyous Morning, an iron-grey filly belonging to Lord Edgware.
‘I wish you all good luck. I know you’ll do your utmost. That’s why I asked Mr Grantley to put you up.’
‘Thank you, Your Lordship.’ I executed another deferential touch to the cap. ‘Certainly do my best.’
Mr Grantley, trying to hide a grin, slapped the filly on her neck. ‘No instructions. Just build her confidence and get back safely.’
Darren, the lad who looked after Joyous Morning, clicked encouragement and led the way from the parade ring out on to the course.
We cantered steadily down to the start and circled around with the other seven runners. I remembered Tony from Fred Sampson’s stable saying Dayton Princess was running. She wasn’t a no-hoper, but not far from it. The rest of them were mediocre, except for Bright Dawn, a superb bay from a stable down in Lambourn – a long trip which told its own story. She was starting favourite at five-to-four-on, was a strong front runner and would take all the beating. I had to get Joyous Morning tracking her right from the off to stand any chance.
The starter shouted to the jockeys to get into line and the tape flew up. Predictably, Bright Dawn set a blistering pace and the field strung out behind her. I settled Joyous Morning on the outside in third place and ran three-quarters of the race uneventfully holding that position.
However, three fences from home, the horse in front misjudged the take-off, scrambled over, but pecked so badly on landing the jockey was shot off and their chances of winning hit the ground with them.
That left just Bright Dawn out in front, who was going like a train, meeting all the fences brilliantly. She continued to do so and nothing was going to get past her. At the post, she was twelve lengths in front and fully deserved her win. I brought in Joyous Morning in second place, pleased with the filly’s performance and knowing she had enjoyed her race and would do all the better next time.
Lord Edgware was a fair-minded man and happily congratulated us in the second slot in the winners’ enclosure.
‘You handled her beautifully. Just look at her! On her toes, hardly blowing at all – looks like she could go round again.’ He beamed at me and I accepted his praise gratefully. He was one of a breed of owners who had racehorses in training and went racing strictly for the pleasure of it. Winning was a bonus.
With some other owners, it was a ‘win or be damned’ attitude, with the focus on how much the prize money was likely to be. This type nearly always blamed the jockey, had long memories and made their displeasure clear by never putting you up again.
But a jockey is self-employed and needs the riding fee as basic bread and butter. Any winners were a triumph and put jam on top, but that particular sort of jam couldn’t be relied on.
I unbuckled the girth and, with the saddle over my arm, went to weigh in. As I walked across the grass, I spotted Tony, grinning from ear to ear, putting the cooler over Dayton Princess who had actually come in third. I was pleased for him. He’d likely get a cash backhander from the owner with a bit of luck. With the poor wages paid to the stable lads, a little bit extra made a lot of difference.
The second of Lord Edgware’s horses came nowhere but, fortunately, it didn’t dent his intrinsic good humour. He seemed very pleased to have had one come second.
My last ride of the day was on one of Samuel’s horses. Lucifer – a misnomer because he had the sweetest nature – was a massive seventeen-hands gelding with powerful quarters, stayed for ever and never gave up trying. He was a very genuine horse and a joy to ride.
We won by five lengths.
Samuel was higher than high, couldn’t contain his delight.
‘Just wait till Chloe hears about it,’ he chortled. ‘She thinks you walk on water as it is.’
‘Just doing my job.’
‘Oh, no.’ He waggled a forefinger at me. ‘This calls for a bit of a celebration.’
‘Really—’ I began, but he steamrollered me.
‘Chloe would never forgive me if I didn’t show our appreciation.’
‘No need, Samuel,’ Mike backed me up.
‘What? His first full win at Huntingdon! No.’ He looked from one to another of us and then started to grin wickedly and added, ‘And I know just the right celebration.’
‘What are you hatching?’ Mike narrowed his eyes.
Samuel laughed out loud. ‘I’ll tell you guys tomorrow, when we’ve slaughtered eighteen holes at North Shore Golf Club. Now, don’t forget, I’m picking you up at six thirty in the morning.’
NINE
I slapped the alarm off at six o’clock Monday morning. Trotted down to the kitchen, fed Leo and carried a cup of tea back upstairs. Took a swift shower and drank the tea whilst I was getting dressed.
I heaved my golf bag with full set of clubs out to the front gate and was all ready and waiting by six twenty-five.
As promised, Samuel arrived on the dot of six thirty. Mike was already sitting in the passenger seat. Samuel lowered his window.
‘Boot’s undone. Stow your golf things with ours.’
I did so and climbed into the back seat of the car. ‘Morning, Mike.’
‘Hiya, Harry. Seems like we’ve got a good morning for it.’
It was a windless, dry day, just right for a round of golf. I felt my intere
st quicken. North Shore Hotel, with its superb golf course situated right beside the beach and North Sea, was unrivalled. Not only was the golf course a beauty to play on, but the hotel was convivial, with the friendliest of staff and great food.
Samuel was an excellent driver and drove fast. Within an hour and a half, we were turning off the Roman Bank road which led us straight up the incline to the hotel car park beside the beach. We crunched in over the gravel and parked as close as we could to the angled line of buggies parked near the Pro’s shop.
‘OK, lads.’ Samuel rubbed his hands together. ‘First stop, reception, then straight into the dining room. I’ve already arranged to meet Victor in there.’
We walked up the steps and went in through the back door. The dining room was off to our left. Samuel put his head round the door.
‘Victor, hello.’ He lifted a hand. ‘Just on our way to sign in. Be with you in a couple of minutes.’
We walked on down the hall to the reception desk which was manned twenty-four hours a day. It was flanked on the right-hand side by an enormous glass-fronted cabinet that reached from floor to ceiling and housed an impressive array of silver golf trophies.
Gavin was on duty behind the desk. His broad grin lit up the whole entrance hall. I’d never ever seen him without his genuine, thousand-watt smile. I hoped the management paid him a generous salary. His good nature was so much a part of the whole North Shore experience. He welcomed everyone in like an old and much-valued friend.
‘So nice to see you again, gentlemen.’
‘Great to be here, Gavin.’ Samuel waved a hand towards us. ‘You know my friends – Mr Mike Grantley, the racehorse trainer, and Harry Radcliffe, champion jockey, of course.’ Gavin inclined his head and smiled. ‘We’ll all be playing in a party with Mr Victor Maudsley.’
‘Oh, yes, sir, Mr Maudsley arrived a few minutes ago and he’s in the dining room at the moment.’
Samuel nodded. ‘I’ve just spoken to him. We’ll go through and join him if that’s all right.’
‘Perfectly all right, gentlemen. Do enjoy your breakfast.’ Gavin’s smile notched up ever more wattage. ‘We had a lot of onshore wind yesterday, but today’s a great golfing day. It’s lovely and calm.’
We went through to the dining room and were served with huge, delicious bacon-filled baps.
‘Good to see you, Victor,’ I said. ‘How’re things?’ I hadn’t seen him for several months and I didn’t really need to ask. He looked a different man, relaxed and palpably at peace with himself. So very different from when we had met earlier in the year.
‘I’m fine, never better. Good of you all to invite me for a round.’
‘Now, now,’ Samuel said around a mouthful of bacon, ‘we appreciate your company – and your expertise. Help us to raise our game.’
I laughed. ‘With my handicap, I need all the help I can get.’
‘I’m not exactly achieving eagles either,’ put in Mike.
‘You don’t need to – pleasure’s the real name of the game.’ Victor turned to Samuel. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Oh, yes, I definitely would. Whatever’s going off out there,’ Samuel said and waved an expressive hand towards the wide windows overlooking the sea and the outside world. ‘As soon as you get here, life gets better immediately.’
We sat chatting and downing hot coffee until our teeing-off time approached, then went back down the steps to the car park to collect our golf bags from the car and to see the delectable Nikki in the Pro’s shop for our score cards.
The course was eighteen holes. Samuel actually managed to pull off the tricky seventeenth tee shot. He’d played a blinder and sent the ball soaring over a grouping of trees, avoiding the dog-leg and landing on the seventeenth green. Unsurprisingly, Victor and Samuel were clear leaders, with Mike and me trailing a long way behind. We trooped back later, tired yet exhilarated, our lungs rejuvenated by five hours of breathing in the healthy ozones. We’d all enjoyed ourselves immensely and the thought of tackling one of the hotel’s dinners was no hardship at all. And with Samuel driving us all home, it freed Mike and me to enjoy our drinks without risk of overdoing it.
But even as the happy thought occurred to me, another one counteracted it. Today had been a pull back from the graft of normal life, but tomorrow I was going to meet Jake Smith at Southwell races. Even before I’d downed my first pint, that thought was sobering. However, I shrugged it away. That was tomorrow’s problem.
Right now, I followed the others into the bar and joined in the banter with the ever-effervescent Dan, the barman. He, like Gavin, was an indispensable part of the North Shore experience. And today he was in sparkling form, flirting with the ladies, cracking jokes and making sure all the men had swiftly pulled pints. I sighed with satisfaction. It was good to be here, good to meet up with mates again. I was determined to enjoy the rest of the day.
Tomorrow could definitely wait.
I arrived mid-afternoon at Southwell racecourse and went straight into the bar for a drink and a recce. Carrying my beer across to a table, I was accosted by Nathaniel Willoughby, the horse racing artist.
‘Harry, good to see you. But what brings you? It’s a flat meeting.’
‘Hello, Nathaniel,’ I said, cautiously. The last time I’d met him had been at Leicester races, and during that conversation I’d discovered a vital piece of incriminating evidence. Nathaniel hadn’t realized as he chattered on that the information he was telling me held dire results for a friend of his. A very good friend. Now, I was unsure of his reactions. However, I needn’t have concerned myself, as his following words proved.
‘Great blow, you know, about the conviction.’ He jumped right in as though he were reading my mind. ‘I’d never have suspected – well, with some people, you take them as they present themselves. It’s a massive shock to realize they are capable of such violence.’ He shook his head sadly and consoled himself with a large gulp of gin.
‘I’m sorry it had to be me who blew the whistle, Nathaniel.’
‘Oh, crikey no, my dear chap,’ he said and flapped a hand. ‘I understand exactly. You were trying to safeguard your sister. Admirable, really. Besides,’ he downed another mouthful before adding, ‘if it hadn’t all come out, I’d still be involved with … the family.’ He hesitated over the last two words. I didn’t say a thing. No point in embarrassing the man. Like all the rest of us, he’d had the wool pulled cleverly.
Nathaniel was an artist of great skill and, despite my apprehension regarding the upcoming meeting with Jake Smith, an idea entered my mind that certainly wouldn’t have done had I not bumped into him.
‘Nathaniel, could I commission you to paint a portrait for me?’
His face lit up. ‘Work! Oh, yes, I do love being propositioned when it’s not expected.’ He rubbed his hands with relish. ‘So, who is it?’
I smiled. ‘Actually, they’re not here on the earth yet.’
His face sagged. ‘Wha … at?
‘It’s a portrait of a baby. Is that possible?’
‘Ha, I see. Well … yes … well …’ He passed a hand over his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never been asked to do one.’ Then his shaken confidence returned in force. ‘But I’m sure I could.’
I was sure, too. I knew his work. It was good; in fact, it was excellent. ‘I’m sure you could.’
‘So, when is the ETA?’
‘Not sure, sometime in the next four, five months.’
‘Hmmm …’ He nodded. ‘Might be best to leave it until the baby is, say, three months old – that way the features will be a little more formed. And the little one will be able to sit up.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’
There wasn’t much I could give Annabel to celebrate the birth of her first baby. Like the saying goes, what can you give someone who has everything? With Sir Jeffrey’s deep, deep pockets, she didn’t go short in any direction. But a personal, one-off painting of her baby? Well, that was something else.
; ‘I’ll pencil it in my work diary then and give you a bell to finalize the date.’
‘Lovely.’ I fished in my wallet and took out one of my cards. He nodded and pocketed it.
‘Buy you another?’ He drained his glass eagerly.
‘Unfortunately, one’s enough for me.’ I stood up. ‘Need a clear head.’
‘You always were a cautious devil.’ He clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m off for a refill. See you, Harry.’
I went out into the bright sunshine. Cautious? I thought about my upcoming meeting. Nathaniel couldn’t be more wrong.
I walked over to the parade ring and stood at the end of the line of prospective punters, making sure I was as conspicuous as possible.
The eight runners for the four o’clock were parading round, awaiting the arrival of the jockeys from the weighing room. One of the lady trainers – the leading lady – was standing in the centre talking to an owner. Barbara Maguire was acknowledged to be the expert in getting her horses fit to race on sand.
The punters loved Barbara. When they looked at her horses they saw pound signs on four legs.
Barbara looked nothing like a racehorse trainer. She was tiny, a doubtful five feet, with luxurious, flowing, chestnut locks. Her figure was similar to her namesake Barbara Windsor’s. Rumour had it her head stable lad was employed half his time as a minder to see off the many interested males who got too close.
Her husband, Sean, had started their stables in the nineties. Progress had been slow and no doubt tough going with sparse winners. However, after his swift and unexpected death eight years ago, Barbara had focused all her energy on seeing off all the hopeful opposition – both on and off the racecourse. She’d been leading trainer on the All Weather for the last three years whilst remaining an enigma and a challenge to any man trying his luck.
But she had remained faithful to Sean’s memory. It was probably his memory that drove her to make such a success of the stables. She was undeniably one of racing’s characters – I’d known her for years and I admired her tremendously.
Turning to look at the jockeys, who were all streaming out now ready for mounting up in the parade ring, Barbara caught sight of me and flashed her famous smile. I raised a hand a few inches above the top rail that bounded the parade ring.
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