Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Lyndon Stacey
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Copyright
About the Book
Ben Copperfield is a freelance journalist who specialises in all things equine, so when he is called with the news that the hot favourite for the Cheltenham Gold Cup has been kidnapped, just a few weeks before the race, he wastes no time in following the story up. This could be the racing scoop of a lifetime.
But as the date of the Gold Cup draws ever closer, it is unclear whether the missing horse is still alive. Where could a valuable racehorse be hidden for so long? And what is the secret from the owner’s past that he is keeping from the police? Doggedly chasing the truth, Ben finds himself tested, both physically and psychologically, as he gradually uncovers a tale of prejudice, ambition and heartbreak.
About the Author
Lyndon Stacey is the bestselling author of Cut Throat, Blindfold, Deadfall and Outside Chance. She lives in the Blackmore Vale.
Also by Lyndon Stacey
Cut Throat
Blindfold
Deadfall
Outside Chance
Lyndon Stacey
This one is for Sue, James and all at Hutch and Arrow, for their continued support and enthusiasm. Thanks, guys.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks are due to Peter Maughn, retired travelling head lad to David Elsworth; the staff of Edward and Jose Veterinary Practice in Gillingham, Dorset; Gill Thompson (and the Gals) for racing contacts and advice; Jill Todd for a brilliant job of test-reading; and Inca, my dog, for the countless patient hours of company while I write.
Prologue
The smart, maroon and gold liveried horse-transporter negotiated the roundabout at the bottom of the hill with obvious care and moved out on to the dual carriageway, attacking the gradient with carefully controlled power. In the cab the wiry, weather-beaten, fifty-something driver settled back in his seat and prepared for the long haul, listening tolerantly to his two younger companions arguing in the seating area behind the cab about the outcome of a private bet.
In a lay-by at the top of the hill, three men with peaked caps and fluorescent green tabards over their uniforms lounged against a white Transit van. A row of cones stood waiting, presumably to funnel reluctant motorists into the checkpoint, but at present the men appeared more interested in the contents of the mugs they cradled in their hands. It was February, late afternoon and bitterly cold; the clouds low, grey, and inclined to drizzle. A stream of vehicles swished by on the wet road, their lights reflecting off the surface and their occupants noting the disinterest of the officials with relief.
A phone trilled and one of the men reached into the cab of the van and withdrew a handset. He spoke briefly, nodded, replaced the phone and turned to say something to the others. Their relaxed attitude disappeared in an instant. Mugs were emptied, caps straightened and soon all three were moving to take up new positions: one at the roadside near the end of the lay-by, the other two nearer to the van. One of these picked up a clipboard and his companion held what could have been a torch. They were, it seemed, ready for business.
As the horsebox reached the top of the rise, the driver spotted the waiting men and groaned.
‘Not me, please,’ he begged as he drew closer. ‘Not me. Not me … Ahh, shite!’
The unsmiling official stood back and waved him through the cones, pointing towards his waiting colleagues, and the driver nodded, ‘Yeah, yeah. I know.’
‘What’s happening?’ The two lads in the back, barely more than teenagers, had broken off their argument and one of them appeared between the seats.
‘Checkpoint. Probably Department of friggin’ Transport,’ the driver growled. ‘If we’ve got a light out, I’ll kill that bloody Nigel!’
The lorry rolled to a halt just inches from the man with the clipboard, who had planted himself directly in front of it. He didn’t so much as twitch a muscle.
‘Cold-blooded as a fish!’ the driver muttered, robbed of even that satisfaction. He pressed a button and the window dropped smoothly. ‘Yes, officer?’
‘Immigration,’ the man with the clipboard announced, briefly flashing some documentation. ‘Turn the engine off, please.’
Resignedly he complied, and as the sound of the engine died away, the man with the torch moved to the passenger side where he kept his head averted, apparently inspecting the tyre.
‘What are you carrying?’ The clipboard man had glasses and a dark moustache, which, in combination with the peaked cap, seemed to hide a good deal of his face.
‘Er … Racehorses, maybe?’ the driver suggested, shaking his head in disbelief and indicating the panel of the cab door. It displayed – as did the body of the lorry – the words Castle Ridge Racing in large gold letters.
It seemed that they were the last unlucky travellers of the day. In the mirror the third uniformed man could be seen already gathering up the cones.
‘Come on, mate. We don’t particularly want to be here either. Let’s keep this civilised, shall we?’ The man stepped up on to the footplate and peered inside the cab, where the second lad had now joined his colleagues. ‘Can I have your names?’ His hand, on the framework, was encased in a thin plastic glove.
The driver sighed. ‘Ian Rice; Davy Jackson; Les Curtis,’ he said, indicating himself and the other two in turn. ‘Look, you don’t want to open the back, do you? Only, the horses get upset and … ’
He never finished the sentence.
In one fluid movement, the clipboard man dropped down to the ground, opened the door, and stepped up again.
‘Move across,’ he ordered, and suddenly he had a gun in his hand, the muzzle applying pressure to Rice’s neck, just up under his jaw.
For a moment he appeared uncomprehending and then he gulped and a sheen of sweat formed on his brow.
‘Please … Don’t … ’
On the other side of the cab, the second man had moved with perfect synchronicity and now held a similar weapon to one of the lads’ heads.
‘Just move,’ the first man repeated and, as Rice did so, slipped into the seat beside him and pulled the door shut.
‘Now, into the back. All of you. Slowly; no sudden moves.’
‘All right, lads. Do as he says.’ White-faced and trembling, Rice had nevertheless pulled himself together now.
The lads scrambled across the seat and back through the central doorway, the younger of the two whimpering faintly with fear. Rice followed and the two bogus officials brought up the rear; the one who’d held the clipboard kept his gun on the three, while the other produced lengths of fine nylon cord from his pocket and swiftly and efficiently tied them hand and foot. He then tied their ankles to their wrists, behind them, leaving them as helpless as calves at a branding. A strip of silver duct tape across their mouths ensured silence and, stripping off their tabards and caps, the two men returned to the cab.
Wasting no time, the clipboard man slid into Rice’s vacated seat. Starting the engine he checked the mirror, indicated right, and the lorry moved ponderously forward and out into the traffic, its new driver waving
a hand in thanks to a helpful motorist.
The whole incident had taken less than five minutes. Behind them, the remaining man bundled the cones into the back of the white Transit and set off after the horsebox.
In the deserted lay-by, an empty crisp packet tumbled end over end in the wake of the van and then lay still.
1
THE WHITE HORSE was galloping wildly, mane and tail flying and hooves throwing up chunks of peaty earth. The saddle had slipped right over to one side and it didn’t seem possible that the man who clung desperately to the underside of the animal’s outstretched neck could retain his grip for many moments more.
Those watching held their collective breath. He had to hang on. The pounding, steel-shod hooves made the alternative too horrific. But a further disaster loomed: the horse was running out of space. Ahead, two concrete walls converged to form a corner from which there was no escape, but the horse’s breakneck pace didn’t slacken. Just strides away now, it appeared oblivious to the danger.
Somewhere someone screamed and, almost in the same instant, tragedy was averted. The man, so apparently helpless until now, pulled himself up and over the horse’s withers in one fluid movement, gathered his flapping reins and guided the animal into a perfectly controlled turn.
To the accompaniment of relieved cheers and applause from the thousand or more onlookers, he then proceeded to unstrap the useless saddle and hold it aloft, whilst bringing the beautiful white horse to a flamboyant, plunging halt. The clapping turned into an ovation as the crowd rose to its feet almost as one, and the rider responded with a wide grin, his teeth flashing impossibly white in the spotlight as he acknowledged the admiration.
‘Ladies and gentlemen; Nicolae Bardu!’ the announcer cried with a flourish.
From his position six rows up, near the entrance to the indoor arena, Ben Copperfield relaxed and joined in the general appreciation. No matter that he’d watched all the rehearsals for the show; he still couldn’t help holding his breath and gripping his seat. He could have sworn that Nico left his recovery until later and later every time.
The music struck up once more, signalling the beginning of the finale. The horse and rider made their jaunty exit and Ben slipped out of his seat and found his way up the tiers to the doorway at the back. The strains of Tchaikovsky’s Marche Slave faded as he pulled the door to behind him, and he descended the steps to the warm-up area where the performers were gathering to make their final triumphant entrance.
Nico was there, still full of the arrogant confidence he exhibited throughout his performances. Ben knew that some people found such rampant egotism objectionable, but he had observed it before in other high achievers: dancers, sportsmen, and athletes. They seemed to feed off their audience. They worked ceaselessly behind the scenes to hone their skills but somehow it was as if the very presence of those watching inspired them to reach the peak of their abilities. He had witnessed just a few of the countless hours of practice that went into producing those brief moments of glory and, personally, he felt that a little arrogance was perfectly excusable.
Someone Ben knew only by sight was replacing the saddle on the magnificent white stallion, which stood like a rock, only its proudly arched neck and frothily champing jaws telling of the hyped-up eagerness within. Nico was standing to one side, brushing real or imaginary specks of dust from the short, gold-braided black jacket he had just put on.
‘That was a bit close to the knuckle, you mad bugger!’ Ben approached to within a few feet, taking care not to get in anybody’s way. The horse swung its head to look at him, its big dark eye rimmed with white, and the rich warm smell of it filled Ben’s nostrils. Almost involuntarily, he took a step back.
Nico turned, his fine, arching brows drawn down momentarily, then he broke into a smile as he recognised the speaker.
‘Tomorrow I go closer!’ he promised extravagantly. He seemed in particularly high spirits this evening.
‘Well, I hope you’re insured against causing heart attacks in the audience,’ Ben observed. ‘Mine was going like the clappers, and I knew it was all part of the act! You ought to put a health warning on the tickets!’
Nico laughed delightedly. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet!’ he declared, the Americanism sounding strange in his slightly stilted English. He was, as were all of the troupe, of Hungarian Gypsy origin – which no doubt accounted for his smouldering good looks – and Ben suspected that his grasp of the English language was attributable to a combination of questionable sources, including contact with European tourists and a few too many of American films.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you … The Hungarian Csikós!’
The trio of riders immediately before him in the parade moved forward and, with a wave of his hand, Nico vaulted on to his horse.
‘Later, my friend,’ he called and turned towards the arena, his back straightening and his expression settling once more into one of macho hauteur as he faced the bright lights.
Ben stepped back and watched him go. He’d been following the troupe on and off ever since they had docked, en masse, at Dover three days ago. His job, as a freelance journalist specialising in all things equine, had brought him into the sphere of a number of fascinating people, but he couldn’t remember any who had so instantly captivated him in the way these Gypsy horsemen had done. He had never been a fan of circuses and had accepted the assignment with a measure of reserve. His prejudice, however, melted away within minutes of seeing their first performance, and he was now happily devoting a large proportion of his time to the in-depth article he’d been commissioned to write.
In his pocket, his mobile began ringing with the particular call-tone reserved for family members. He dug it out. The display told him it was his half-brother, Mikey, and he pressed a button to accept the call.
‘Mikey. How ya doin’? Sorry I couldn’t get over to see you this afternoon.’ Just seventeen, Mikey was a conditional jockey – jump racing’s equivalent of an apprentice – and Ben knew he’d been due to ride in a novice hurdle at Sandown Park.
‘I’m at the hospital.’ Never relaxed on the phone, Mikey cut straight to the chase.
The shock jolted Ben.
‘What happened? Did you fall off? Are you all right?’
‘No, I didn’t fall off. It was on the way home, but I’m not supposed to talk about it.’
‘What do you mean? Were you in a road accident or what? Why can’t you talk about it?’
‘The Guvnor said not to. But I just wanted to let you know I’m all right.’
‘But Mikey …’ Ben paused in amused frustration. ‘If you hadn’t rung, I wouldn’t have known anything was wrong anyway.’
‘No … I know … ’
Ben was picking up a strong thread of anxiety in Mikey’s voice. Something had clearly upset him. Fifteen years separated them and sometimes he felt more like Mikey’s father than his half-brother; the more so because Mikey had grown up with certain learning difficulties, resulting in an overall lack of confidence and a childish need for reassurance. It was nearly always to Ben that he turned rather than to their mutual father, bloodstock agent John Copperfield, who, although he had many virtues, could not count patience as one of them.
‘Why did Mr Truman tell you not to ring?’
‘He said not to tell anyone, but I shouldn’t think he meant you, did he?’
Ben’s lips twitched. He most assuredly did mean him. If Eddie Truman had something to hide, the very last person he’d want Mikey to tell was his journalist brother.
‘Which hospital are you in? Would you like me to come over?’ he asked, avoiding the question.
‘We’re going home in a minute. They just checked us over. But we’ve got to wait for Les. He has asthma and the shock made him bad.’
‘So you did have an accident.’
‘No. It was these men … Look, I can’t tell you. I’ll get into trouble.’
Intrigued, Ben made an instant decision. ‘Listen, Mikey; I’ll come to the co
ttage, okay? But I’m in Kent so I’ll be a couple of hours at least. And perhaps it would be best if you didn’t tell Mr Truman you’ve spoken to me. Just to be on the safe side. All right?’
‘Yeah. Maybe. See you later, then.’
Ben switched off, feeling thoughtful, and in due course he excused himself from the post-performance get-together and set off for the Castle Ridge Racing Stables on the Wiltshire–Dorset border. The Csikós were touring and due to move on. When he caught up with them again, it would be in Sussex.
Eddie Truman’s yard stood in an enviable position on the edge of a stretch of chalk downland, which formed beautiful natural gallops for racehorses. Because of the large number of horses he had in training – ninety-five, the last Ben had heard – Truman had a fair number of staff. These included two PAs, a farrier, an odd-job man, an assistant trainer, two head lads, a travelling head lad, a box driver and a fluctuating total of somewhere between twenty-five and thirty stable-lads and lasses. Some of these had digs in the nearby village of Lower Castleton but a number of the lads occupied two former farm-workers’ cottages. Mikey and four others, one of whom was the head lad, shared a cottage just a stone’s throw from the yard itself.
It was in front of this that Ben parked his four-wheel-drive Mitsubishi, just before midnight. He had hesitated outside the high wooden gates at the end of the back drive, wondering if perhaps he was too late and Mikey might have given up on him and gone to bed. Something in his voice, though, had suggested a crisis that would not be solved merely by getting a good night’s rest, so he’d carried on; now the well-lit cottage windows showed that nobody seemed to have sleep on their minds just at the moment. Across the intervening field, a blaze of light at the main house seemed to tell the same story. Ben began to be very interested indeed.
Outside Chance Page 1
