Outside Chance

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘It might be, if they don’t get him back. But then, I guess, I’d be able to name my own price on the story. It’s an ill wind, as they say …’

  ‘Do you think we will get him back?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ Ben said frankly. ‘And I don’t think the police know either. I shouldn’t imagine there’s much precedent for horse-napping, except for the notorious Shergar case, of course, and that doesn’t inspire much hope. But, on the other hand, if they’d intended killing him, you think they’d have done it straight away.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Rice said gloomily. ‘The bastards really picked their time well, didn’t they? Having a fancied runner in a big race like that makes such a difference to yard morale. Some of the older lads were talking about it the other day; it’s going to be a real blow if the old boy doesn’t come back. But quite apart from that, I’ll miss him. He can be an awkward old sod sometimes, but I’m very fond of him.’

  One of the horses stretched out its neck towards them and Rice stopped to rub its forehead.

  ‘In what way is he awkward?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not bad, really. They all have their habits. It’s just that he can’t bear to have his ears touched, so we have to kind of buckle his bridle on round him. And he’s a devil for treading on your foot, too. If you let your attention wander even for a moment while you’re grooming, he’ll have you!’

  ‘Is he really such a hot chance for Cheltenham? Or is it hype?’

  ‘On past form, there’s nothing that can touch him, as long as the going doesn’t get too heavy.’

  ‘So, can you think of anyone who might be involved? Anyone with a grudge? Truman mentioned one or two ex-employees who weren’t exactly happy when they left, but he didn’t seem to think any of them were potential kidnappers.’

  Rice shook his head. ‘There have been one or two, but the Guv’s right. They were mostly just shirkers who were told to get on their bikes.’

  ‘Anyone else he might have upset?’

  ‘Quite a few, I expect. He’s mellowed a bit lately, but when I first started working for him there were all sorts of rumours flying around.’

  ‘What kind of rumours?’

  ‘People said he’d got where he had in business because no one would stand in his way. They said that competitors in the same field just kind of melted away. I’m not saying it’s true, but some people said he employed strong-arm men. One guy even described his outfit as “The Yorkshire Mafia”. They said he moved down here to start afresh and get respectable. I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’ Ben asked. They turned and walked slowly back through the aisle of the stable block, towards the centre of the complex.

  ‘Oh, donkeys’ years. Must be nearly twenty, I suppose. I’ve only been here about fifteen years but Trent used to work for the previous chap that trained here; then Eddie Truman came along, tore the whole lot down and rebuilt. It can’t have been easy, at first, even though he had money – and to spare – because in the racing world you’ve got to have contacts and he didn’t have any, other than as an owner. But he kept plugging away, and now the yard’s one of the top ones in the country. Sixth in the rankings last year. Whatever you say about the Guvnor, he seems to have a genuine talent for the game. He can spot a good horse or jockey way before anyone else can see anything. And I guess he’s not a bad boss, really. As long as you don’t cross him,’ he added.

  Ben’s ears pricked up. ‘So who crossed him? Who were you thinking of?’

  Rice began to look a little uncomfortable. ‘Look, no offence, but this hasn’t got anything to do with the Gold Cup, has it? I’m really not sure the Guv’d want me talking about all this.’

  ‘Truman won’t mind. Trust me. I’m not about to do anything to harm his reputation. I’ve got Mikey to consider.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Rice said slowly. ‘Well, I was just thinking of Lenny Salter, the last stable jockey we had before Rollo came. The Guv found out he was on the take – you know, pulling horses – and boy, did he come down on him! The thing was, it turned out he hadn’t got anything on him that would stand up in court, and Lenny more or less thumbed his nose as he walked out the door. Eddie was furious. And then, a couple of weeks later, we heard …’

  He tailed off, leaving Ben to prompt him.

  ‘You heard …?’

  ‘Look, I think I’ve said enough.’

  ‘Oh come on, you can’t leave it there!’ Ben protested. It occurred to him that this might be another of the matters that Truman would rather the police weren’t reminded about.

  Rice shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask someone else. The Guv’s always treated me fair and I don’t like talking behind his back. After all, it was only talk; he may have had nothing to do with it. A chancer like Lenny probably had all kinds of scams going on.’

  Ben sighed, trying to hide his frustration. They had come out into the brick-paved central area now, from which five more covered barn stables radiated. He looked around with interest.

  ‘OK. Tell me about this place.’

  Patently glad to be let off the hook, Rice gave Ben a top-notch tour of the facilities, showing him the forge, where the horses were shod; the veterinary building – where, it was hoped, a vet would one day be in full-time residence; the covered school with its indoor jumping lane; the deeply sanded barn, where the horses could go when they were hot and sticky, to enjoy a good roll and get some dust in their coats; and the horse walkers – three round, rotating metal cages with compartments in which the horses could be steadily exercised at various speeds. An equine swimming pool was under construction and Rice pointed to a site, across the acres of fields outside the wall, where a range of brick outbuildings stood on rising ground next to a copse. There, he said, Truman planned to build a stud to breed future champions.

  ‘He’s got big ideas,’ Ben said, impressed.

  ‘He wants to compete with the Arabs,’ Rice said. ‘But he hasn’t got a hope. He’s rich, but not that rich.’

  As they returned to the main area of the yard, a steady trickle of lads was arriving for the second part of their working day. Some chatting and laughing together, some more solitary, they all headed for the tackroom and reappeared carrying grooming kits. Mikey passed with Caterpillar and Ben asked if they’d enjoyed their film; the response was an enthusiastic affirmative.

  ‘Time to groom and skip out the boxes,’ Rice said. ‘Then it’s tack cleaning and evening feeds and we’re finished for the day. I’ll have to do my two in a minute, but I’ll just show you the feedstore and the tackroom area, if you like.’

  The tackroom was huge and beautifully organised, with rows and rows of saddles and bridles on racks around the walls and banks of lockers; each, Ben learned, was allocated to an individual horse and contained rugs, blankets and any personal effects of the same. On the wall, a huge whiteboard listed all the horses, divided into the four lots for exercise, with a lad’s name beside each; another gave details of runners in the upcoming race meetings, and which lorry was going where with what crew.

  Beyond that, and with its own door into the yard, was a square room with a tiled floor and strip-lighting, with a profusion of framed photographs on its whitewashed walls, several cuttings books on tables, and various racing mementoes behind glass in three large display cabinets.

  ‘Our “Hall of Fame”,’ Rice announced, as he held the door for Ben to peer in. ‘Mostly for the benefit of visitors on our open days.’

  The feedstore was as well organised as the tackroom, with another whiteboard keeping a note of exactly what each animal was to have in each of three feeds.

  Rice explained that the horses were fed by Truman or Finch at five-thirty a.m., one o’clock, and six p.m., with the exception of the first lot to be exercised, who had their first feed at eight-thirty when they returned from the gallops.

  Stacks and stacks of numbered buckets, all scrubbed clean, stood against one wall, while on the other side, huge galv
anised steel bins held the grain and performance mixes, and several huge plastic-wrapped bales containing chopped alfalfa waited to be opened.

  ‘It’s nutritious, gives them bulk and stops the greedy ones bolting their feeds,’ Rice said, seeing Ben’s interest.

  Another corner was taken up with red string sacks full of carrots, and a cupboard contained drums, tubs and bottles of supplements.

  ‘Must cost a fortune in feed bills,’ he commented.

  ‘It does.’ Rice named an approximate monthly total that took Ben’s breath away. ‘Add to that bedding, shoes, vets’ bills, insurance, tack repairs, and staff wages, and you can begin to see where the training fees go. It’s not a hobby for the faint-hearted. And you have to remember that for every Cajun King and Pod Pea there are thousands of also-rans, some of whom never win anything much. They all cost the same to keep.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, I must go and do my two. Why don’t you go and have a look at the Hall of Fame – it’s quite interesting. Make yourself a coffee if you want, and when I’ve finished I’ll show you the lorries.’

  Ben thanked him and, as Rice went off to attend to his allotted two horses, made his way through to the public room to browse the photographs and newspaper cuttings.

  The earliest photographs dated from around twenty years before; just one or two, recording modest wins at local racecourses by horses that were never destined to set the racing world alight. Then as now, Truman had had a mixed yard of flat horses and jumpers, and his success seemed to be split fairly equally between the two until suddenly – and apparently quite out of the blue – some four years after he started training, one of the Castle Ridge horses won the Derby.

  Massingham.

  Ben didn’t remember the name, but then he’d have been, what …? Sixteen? It was about the time he’d left home, still traumatised after the death of his brother less than two years before, and the subsequent break-up of his parents’ marriage. No wonder, then, that he hadn’t taken much notice of what was going on in the horse world. That had been a black time in his life and he shook his head now, as if to physically banish the memory.

  For Eddie Truman, at least, it seemed that things had been coming up roses at that point in time.

  Ben leafed back through the cuttings. Massingham appeared to have been virtually unraced before his big breakthrough. There was no mention of previous successes – actually, there were very few wins by any of the flat horses in the year leading up to the Derby. After the big race there were pictures galore: Massingham with Truman and the jockey in the winners enclosure; the prize-giving; the homecoming; Massingham opening a fête in the village. Several pages were devoted to the celebrations. He turned a few more pages, reading with interest. It seemed that, a month or two after the Derby success, the number of horses in training at Castle Ridge had swelled to such a degree that Truman was able to justify having a retained jockey; one who was paid to ride for the stable, wherever and whenever he was required to. This was reported under a photo of one of the yard’s winners, where Truman was described as ‘an up-and-coming force to be reckoned with.’

  Looking at the dates it appeared that the arrangement had been mutually advantageous; that particular jockey had ridden for Castle Ridge until his retirement six years later and the stable had had some notable successes. Over the next seven years the jockeys photographed on the yard’s winners were many and varied, leading Ben to think that perhaps Truman hadn’t had a retained jockey for that period. Then, for a couple of years, Lenny Salter had partnered many of the horses.

  Lenny Salter, who, according to Rice, had left with a flea in his ear, and then … Then what? Ben felt strongly that he should find out.

  ‘More research, Mr Copperfield?’ Fliss had come in, soft-footed, whilst he was engrossed in the history of the yard, and now stood beside him, looking down at the open page. ‘Oh, Lovely Lenny Salter!’

  ‘Lovely Lenny?’ Ben straightened up and found himself on a level with Truman’s younger daughter, close enough to be aware of the youthful smoothness of her pale skin, tinged with pink now by the icy wind.

  ‘I’m being sarcastic, of course,’ Fliss said, looking down at the photo on the page. ‘I never liked him. He was a rough sort – a rough diamond, Dad used to call him, which made him all the more furious when he found out he was just a lump of coal.’ She smiled at her own joke, her green eyes twinkling.

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He was pulling horses. You know, losing to order.’

  ‘So what did your father do?’

  ‘Sacked him, of course. He hadn’t enough proof to take him to the Jockey Club, but he saw to it that the word got around.’

  ‘So Lenny doesn’t ride any more?’ Ben said, hoping she might expand on it.

  ‘No. As a matter of fact, he was mugged just a few weeks later. Somebody kneecapped him with a cricket bat in his own garage. Did the world a favour, if you ask me.’

  Ben thought she sounded fairly offhand about it. It clearly hadn’t occurred to her that the attack was anything other than a happy coincidence. What wonderful things rose-coloured spectacles were, he mused, until you took them off. Well, he wasn’t about to do it for her.

  ‘I wanted to be a jockey when I was growing up,’ Fliss went on. ‘I was always begging Dad to let me take out a licence but he wouldn’t. He kept saying, “When you’re eighteen, we’ll see,” but by the time I was eighteen I was way too tall to be a flat jockey, and I knew he’d never let me ride over the jumps. It’s too dangerous. I think he knew I was going to be too tall,’ she added ruefully. ‘So now I shall just have to be a trainer, instead.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’ She answered freely; young enough not to be coy about her age. She turned round and parked her slim behind on the table, looking up at Ben from under her auburn fringe. ‘Why?’

  ‘So you could go and ride for someone else, if you wanted?’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh no, I’d never leave here! I wanted to ride for Dad. That was the whole point. Riding winners for our yard.’

  ‘Or not.’

  ‘Well, I hope I would have won sometimes. You’re not a male chauvinist, I hope, Ben Copperfield. Like those commentators who say, “Well, she rode quite a good finish, but you can’t expect a girl to ride as strongly as a man.” That really makes my blood boil.’

  ‘No, I’m not like that,’ he assured her.

  ‘Well … good.’ She looked at him and a reluctant smile softened her face. ‘Damn you! You made me get my soapbox out again, and I’ve been trying so hard not to do that. It’s just – I would love to have been a jockey …’

  ‘So now you’re intending to put your father out of a job, instead?’

  Fliss twinkled again. ‘Well, maybe not yet awhile.’

  Occupying pride of place in the centre of the wall was an enlarged photograph of Cajun King winning a race in fine form. Ben stepped closer to read the caption.

  ‘That’s King winning the Champion Chase,’ Fliss said proudly.

  ‘He’s nothing special to look at, really, is he?’ Ben said, studying another photo. ‘No, don’t take offence! I just mean that he’s fairly average-looking. If it wasn’t for his short tail, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from dozens of others.’

  ‘Looks don’t count for a lot on the racecourse. Look at Desert Orchid: even his most ardent fan couldn’t claim that he’s beautiful but he had that certain something about him that shouted Champion!’

  ‘Are you saying King has that look, too?’ Ben studied another picture but, with the best will in the world, couldn’t see anything that even whispered Champion. He was just a pleasant-looking, well put-together thoroughbred, with a laughably short tail.

  ‘Of course,’ she stated loyally.

  She stayed for another ten minutes or so, recounting various tales about the horses in the photos, though she was a little hazy on the earlier ones. ‘I was only three when we first came here,’ she said by way of an e
xcuse, ‘and seven when Massingham won the Derby.’

  Ben agreed to let her off.

  When she left, saying that she had a horse’s foot to poultice, she added, ‘You’re welcome to come and watch, if you like.’ But Ben declined. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have been perfectly happy to spend some more time chatting with her – she was very pleasant company – it was just that he knew from experience the attendant perils of such a situation. Standing in stable doorways watching that kind of operation inevitably led to such requests as, ‘Could you just move him over for me?’ or, ‘If you could just hold his leg up while I put this dressing on …’ He knew that any of his ready stock of excuses would be recognised as just that by Miss Felicity Truman. There were clearly no flies on her.

  With a sigh, he left the public room and wandered across to watch the work in progress on the building that was to house the swimming pool.

  He was still there, deep in thought, some ten minutes later, when a voice hailed him and he turned to see Ray Finch approaching.

  ‘You should be wearing a hard hat,’ the assistant trainer told him, unsmiling.

  As Ben was at least thirty feet from where the work was going on he ignored this. After a moment Finch spoke again.

  ‘Saw Rice showing you round. Did you get what you needed for your article?’

  ‘Some.’ Ben gestured at the perimeter wall. ‘Is that normal?’

  ‘Some yards lock up at night, some don’t,’ Finch said, stopping beside him. A faint smell of alcohol pervaded the air. ‘No point locking the gates if you can climb over the fence. Eddie’s always been security conscious.’

  ‘Your house is inside the wall,’ Ben commented, having had the bungalow pointed out to him earlier. ‘But apart from that, is there any other security? I mean a guard, or alarms.’

  Finch nodded. ‘Everything is wired up. Stables, tackroom, feedstore, the lot. And of course there are the boys.’

  ‘The boys?’ Ben raised an eyebrow and, for the first time, saw Finch smile.

  ‘Come and see.’