Outside Chance

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘Yes, but even taking that into account, it seems excessive.’

  ‘I reckon it’s the tractor boys you want to have a word with – they’re forever filling up.’

  ‘Oh, I intend to, believe me, but I think we’ve been too free and easy with this. I’d like you to think about setting up some kind of record book or chart to keep a track of just who has what. See to it, will you?’

  Finch nodded at both of them before mounting and riding back down the valley once more.

  Two by two, the rest of the horses came along the valley bottom and up the slope to pass before Truman’s critical gaze. Every now and then he would call out words of praise or censure, to which the lads would reply, ‘Thanks, Guv,’

  ‘Sorry, Guv,’ or just simply, ‘Guv’.

  Mikey, in his turn, rode his chestnut alongside a powerful bay, keeping it just at the bigger horse’s flank. As he pulled up Truman called out, ‘Well done, Mikey,’ adding for Ben’s benefit, ‘That’s a difficult two-year-old. He did well there.’

  Ben saw the undisguised joy on his half-brother’s face and was glad for him.

  By the time some of the horses had been round again and the exercise session wound to a close, Ben’s feet and hands were frozen and his face felt stiff with cold.

  Stretching their heads and necks down, the horses started to head back to the yard in single file. Once they were a safe distance away Ben let the dogs out of the back of the Range Rover and Truman produced a flask from a rucksack on the back seat.

  ‘I’ve only got one cup,’ he said unscrewing it from the Thermos. ‘Can you manage to drink from the flask?’

  Ben nodded eagerly. Just at that moment he’d have drunk from the dog’s bowl rather than miss the chance of a hot coffee or tea.

  Gradually the feeling of incipient hypothermia began to recede. They sat in the cab of the vehicle and watched the dogs’ antics with amusement. At some point during Mouse’s enforced incarceration with Truman’s pack she had developed a soft spot for the trainer’s bull terrier, Bandy, who was so named because of the shape of his front legs, Truman said. Bandy seemed completely unaware of, or maybe indifferent to, Mouse’s flirtatious advances and while she followed him adoringly, he continued to snuffle around the roots of the hedge, quite oblivious to the honour she was bestowing upon him.

  ‘You’re shameless!’ Ben told her severely, as he put her back in the Range Rover, adding for her ears only, ‘And I don’t think much of your taste, either.’

  ‘If you want to meet the family, you’d better come in for lunch,’ Truman said as he parked the Range Rover on the weedless sweep of gravel in front of his house.

  Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve had more gracious invitations.’

  The trainer gave him a half-smile.

  ‘It’s all these bloody questions. Every time I turn round it’s either Ford or Hancock questioning someone; you don’t feel like you’ve got any private life at all. I know they have to cover all the bases but honestly, it’s not as if anyone in my family has taken the horse. They’re just as devastated as I am. The yard is a family concern.’

  ‘Yes. But Ford doesn’t know them as well as you do. He has to make his own judgements; as do I, if you want me to carry on.’

  Truman took off his cap and scratched his head in a way that Ben was coming to recognise as characteristic.

  ‘Yes, I know; I know. It’s just that this whole damn thing is getting to me. Why can’t the bastards get on with it? Tell me where to leave the money, give King back, and let me get on with training him for the Gold Cup. They’re being so bloody casual about it! You’d think they’d want to get it over with, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps they’re getting cold feet,’ Ben suggested. ‘As Ford said, the pick-up is always the most risky part of a kidnapping, apart from the initial snatch.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t say that. I’ve been spending hours every night picturing a JCB and a hole, with King at the bottom of it.’

  Ben would like to have been able to say something encouraging but the fact was, in all honesty, that it was a picture his mind had also conjured up, more than once.

  ‘Well, I suppose the alternative is that they thought the waiting would soften you up; make you so desperate that you’ll be ready to pay up in full, exactly when and where they choose.’

  ‘Well, it’s worked,’ Truman observed.

  ‘What proof have they offered that King is still alive?’

  ‘None,’ the trainer said gloomily. ‘And we’ve no way of asking for it.’

  ‘So you’re expected to cough up – what is it? half a million? – on demand, with no guarantee whatever that they are willing, or even able, to return the horse.’ Ben shook his head. ‘What does Ford say?’

  ‘He’s not happy, of course, but what can we do?’

  Ben didn’t know, but was saved from the necessity of replying by the front door opening and a slim, auburn-haired girl leaning out to call Truman to lunch.

  ‘Ma says it’s ready now,’ she said, with an interested glance at Ben. ‘Are you staying to lunch?’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Truman said.

  ‘If it won’t put you out too much.’ Ben added.

  ‘No. People are always dropping in,’ the girl assured him. ‘I’m Fliss, by the way. See you inside.’

  She’d gone before Ben could introduce himself, but Truman performed that office as he showed him into a huge kitchen that was a symphony of cream paint, black marble and natural stone; it also incorporated the biggest cooking range Ben had ever seen, resplendent in black and gold. The room covered more square feet than the entire ground floor of some houses Ben had been in, and was occupied at that time by four women and a baby.

  He recognised Bess, Truman’s PA cum secretary, and Fliss, whom he’d just met, but the others were unknown to him. At a guess he thought the fifty-something lady who wore her long, faded blonde hair in a chignon was probably Truman’s wife.

  ‘This is Ben Copperfield,’ the trainer announced to the room, then, turning to Ben, ‘You know Bess, don’t you?’

  His secretary, who was putting a basket of bread rolls on the table, smiled at Ben and said, ‘Hi.’

  ‘This is Felicity, my youngest.’

  At second glance, the tallish girl who’d introduced herself as ‘Fliss’ appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties. Wearing jeans and a cream roll-neck sweater she looked almost boyishly slim, and with an equally boyish, fine-boned face and her copper-coloured hair cut short, the overall effect was one that would have looked at home on the catwalk. Personally, Ben preferred a slightly more rounded figure. An image of Jeta Bardu flashed into his mind and he pushed it away.

  ‘Ben’s a journalist. He’s doing a feature on the Gold Cup horses,’ Truman added, and Fliss shot her father a frowning look.

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘It’s all right, he knows. He’s Mikey’s brother.’

  ‘Oh, of course; Copperfield.’ Fliss gave Ben an appraising look up and down. ‘You don’t look much like him.’

  ‘He’s my half-brother. Takes after his mother.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘This is Helen,’ Truman said, taking control again and indicating a well-built female of around Ben’s age, who was holding a baby against her shoulder and gently patting its back. ‘And that’s Lizzie, my first grandchild.’

  Helen’s long, golden-brown hair framed a rounded face with blue eyes and a full-lipped, if slightly sulky, mouth. She gave Ben a brief smile and a nod, then returned her attention to the infant.

  ‘Elizabeth, my wife,’ the trainer said finally, and the lady with the chignon turned away from the stove for a moment to greet Ben, revealing a small-featured, rather anxious face that might once have been quite beautiful.

  ‘Hello, Ben. I hope you don’t mind soup and rolls. We normally have a proper meal in the evening.’

  ‘Soup sounds brilliant at the moment,’ he assured her. ‘It was bitter up on the gallops.’
<
br />   ‘Ah, you want more meat on your bones,’ Truman told him.

  ‘It’s always cold watching. It’s not so bad when you’re riding,’ Fliss said.

  ‘Do you ride out?’ Ben enquired.

  ‘Yes, most days. I went out with the first two lots this morning.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ her father remarked. ‘How did Cokey feel to you, yesterday? Trent says he walked out a bit sore this morning, and he’s lost a shoe so he didn’t work him.’

  ‘Yeah. He was a bit pottery on the way home,’ Fliss replied, and they became immersed in a discussion about the state of fitness of several of the yard’s inmates, in which Ben, as an outsider, could take no useful part.

  Elizabeth had returned her attention to dishing up the soup, suggesting, over her shoulder, that those assembled washed their hands and sat down. Helen seemed totally occupied with her child, so Ben drifted across to Bess.

  ‘So, how long have you worked for Eddie?’ he asked.

  ‘Eight years,’ she said promptly. ‘I started here straight from college.’

  ‘Not much point in me asking if he’s a good employer, because you’d say yes, whatever, wouldn’t you?’

  She laughed. ‘I suppose I would. But as a matter of fact, we get on very well. Of course he can be difficult at times, but then it’s a very demanding job and it can be bloody frustrating. But when things aren’t going right we all just tread carefully until it blows over. After all, that’s what we’re paid for. In general it’s pretty good here. Certainly beats a city office job.’

  ‘You live over at the cottage, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but I spend all day here. They treat me like one of the family.’

  ‘So, you’re all treading carefully at the moment, then?’

  ‘Sorry?’ She frowned.

  ‘The kidnap? Cajun King?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, it’s been awful. And one of the worst things has been keeping it quiet. Remembering who knows and who doesn’t. When it’s on your mind all the time, it would be so easy to blurt it out in conversation, especially to Rollo, my boyfriend.’

  ‘The jockey?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not that Eddie doesn’t trust him, it’s just that the more people that know, the more likely it is that someone will let it slip.’

  Ben would have liked to continue the conversation, but at that moment the door opened and Ray Finch, Helen’s husband, came in, followed closely by DS Hancock.

  ‘Just turned up as I came over from the yard,’ Finch told his father-in-law.

  ‘Any news?’ Truman asked in the tone of one who wasn’t really expecting any. Hancock shook his head.

  ‘No. I was just passing.’ He caught sight of Ben. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘And hello to you, too,’ Ben commented.

  Hancock glared at him.

  ‘He’s working on a feature about the Gold Cup,’ Truman said.

  ‘Is he? How convenient.’

  ‘Oh, come on. We’ve had this conversation,’ Ben observed wearily. ‘Can’t we move on?’

  ‘Now we’re all here, let’s eat,’ Truman suggested. ‘Hancock?’

  ‘Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.’

  Hancock and Truman tended to dominate the conversation at the table, the detective regaling the party with colourful tales of a life spent upholding the law and consequently, by the time coffee was served, Ben had had a chance to observe the other diners at his leisure. In doing so he found a certain amount of food for thought.

  It seemed to him that, within his family, Truman was regarded with affection mixed with varying degrees of admiration, bordering – in Fliss’s case – on reverence. Introduced almost as an afterthought, Elizabeth was clearly the last person in the group whose feelings would be consulted on any matter, but she was just as clearly inured to it, although her air of anxiety suggested that possibly she lived in dread of her husband’s brusque tongue.

  Somebody who was not nearly so content, he thought, was Truman’s eldest daughter, Helen. Having laid her sleeping baby down in its buggy, she came to the table wearing a distinctly sullen expression which didn’t alter for the duration of the meal. If there was any one person who appeared to be the focus of her displeasure, it was her father, although her husband was also given short shrift on the one occasion he addressed her directly. Ben wondered if she was suffering from post-natal depression, although he wasn’t sure whether the baby was too old for it to be that.

  Ray Finch seemed, at first sight, to be an uncomplicated person. Sitting between his wife and motherin-law, he applied himself to his large bowl of soup as if it was the first food he’d seen in days, but his air of ruddy-cheeked and robust health suggested otherwise. The talk at the table didn’t extend to include him very often but that didn’t appear to worry him. He gave off an impression of placidness which, given a moody spouse and a forceful father-in-law who doubled up as his employer, was probably no bad thing. Ben wondered if the arrangement suited Finch; it certainly wouldn’t be for everyone.

  Sitting next to Ben, with Hancock on her other side, was Fliss, who took an active interest in the conversation, watched indulgently by her father. From the sound of it, she seemed to have a greater input into the running of the yard than Finch did. As he was Truman’s paid assistant, this must have been galling, even to someone as phlegmatic as him. And indeed, watching carefully, Ben did intercept a rather surly glance at one point. It was quite possible that Fliss was aware of this though, for – pausing in the middle of an observation she was making about one of the horses – she looked across at Finch and said, ‘What do you think, Ray? Should we try Jewster in blinkers tomorrow or do we give him one last chance without?’

  ‘I think he’s had all the chances I feel inclined to give him. I say put the blinkers on and see if that does the trick.’

  Hancock, who had temporarily lost his position as centre of the attention, now spoke up. ‘Where are you racing tomorrow? Any tips?’

  ‘Wincanton,’ Finch said. ‘Best tip I can give you is keep your money in your pocket – at least where our runners are concerned. Our regular jockey is suspended.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Axesmith has got a chance,’ Fliss responded.

  ‘Got the halfwit on him,’ Finch grunted, and the following silence was deafening.

  ‘I was telling Ben how well his brother’s coming on,’ Truman remarked casually.

  A swift reddening of his cheeks showed that Finch hadn’t made the connection.

  ‘His brother …Yeah, he is. I didn’t mean … The thing is, he lacks experience.’

  ‘There’s only one way to gain experience,’ Ben pointed out with deceptive mildness. ‘And you don’t need GCSEs to ride well.’

  ‘Of course, I know that, but –’

  ‘Actually, he’s really lucky,’ Fliss put in. ‘He’s a natural. The horses all seem to go well for him. I wish I could ride like that.’

  A natural horseman. That’s what Jakob had said of Nico. A God-given gift that couldn’t be taught. It seemed that what Mikey had missed out on in the academic department he had made up for elsewhere. Ben hadn’t seen him ride for ages. Suddenly he was looking forward to his trip to Wincanton the next day.

  ‘Do you ride, Ben?’ Elizabeth’s innocent query came out of the blue, and Ben’s heart sank as everyone’s eyes focused on him.

  ‘Used to, but not any more,’ he said lightly, praying they would leave it at that.

  ‘Don’t you miss it?’ Fliss asked earnestly. ‘I can’t imagine not riding.’

  ‘Not really. I guess I’m just too busy.’ That was a lie, but it was his only defence against the inevitable follow-on. I’ve got a horse you can ride. Dobbin could do with the exercise – you’d be doing me a favour, etc, etc.

  Fliss was still looking thoughtfully at him so he smiled and, after smiling in return, she looked away and the conversation moved on.

  8

  BEN SPENT THE afternoon at Castle Ridge looking round the yard and talking to an
y of the senior staff that he came across. His first port of call was the cottage adjacent to the yard, to see Mikey. Technically the lads’ working hours were seven until midday and then four till six, but Ben was aware that – as with all animal-related jobs – they didn’t stop until the work was done. He knew from Mikey that unpaid overtime was a fact of life for all of them.

  On this occasion Ben found his brother watching a video in the cottage’s small living room, with Ian Rice, Davy Jackson, the lad he’d met the day Cajun King was taken, and five other lads, one of whom sported a huge, seventies-style moustache. That, he decided with amusement, must be Caterpillar, back from his holidays.

  Accepting Rice’s offer of a guided tour, Ben walked with him to the stables, leaving Mikey and the others to their film.

  An eight-foot high, flint-topped perimeter wall enclosed the stable complex, leaving Truman’s house, the cottage and the lads’ hostels on the outside. At this time the double gates were open, leading on to a gravel parking area where three maroon and gold horseboxes stood – two large and one smaller – all emblazoned with Castle Ridge Racing across the doors and body.

  ‘I’ll show you those later, if you like. But I’ll have to get the keys from the office.’ Rice shivered theatrically and pulled his fleece closer around his wiry frame. The sun had disappeared completely since lunchtime and the wind was bitter as they walked up the cinder path between two stable blocks.

  ‘Brr! Brass monkeys, isn’t it? Days like this you almost envy the guys with desk jobs.’

  ‘Really?’

  Rice pursed his lips. ‘No, not really. Not for long anyway.’ They had entered the yard and turned into the end of the first, American-barn-style stable block, where the horses occupied loose boxes that looked in on a wide central corridor. Hearing their footsteps, several of the horses came to look over their doors. ‘As soon as I see those heads I know I’m in the right job. Aren’t they wonderful?’

  Ben agreed that they were.

  ‘So you’re writing an article on the Gold Cup runners. That’s a bit difficult, isn’t it? With King not being here, I mean.’ Rice was a good eight inches shorter than Ben and had to look up when he spoke to him.