Flaxmead

by Brian Cain

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  Bob and Marie Fields had discussed further options to improve the social climate for their children at school. They were considering bringing Flaxmead back to Harpers so Anna and Dylan could have their friends involved to steady relationships. The attack on Celtic Storm reminded them of why a lock was on their gate. Bob suggested the way they'd set things up could just be why it had been Celtic Storm put under attack and not Flaxmead or Meadow. No one had got to Flaxmead because they couldn't, the cloak and dagger approach may have paid off, and they didn't want to invite disaster to verify otherwise.

  It was mid week and Dylan's birthday, a celebrations to double digits for the first time. Marie picked Anna and Dylan up from school and took them to Shangri La for a surprise party. Days were begging to grow longer but nightfall still set in early. Lindy, Jessica, Grahams family, the senior eccentrics, and Rhonda Richardson representing GPCC had a party organised at the stable complex.

  Ross Hildebrand kept his appointment and had been talking with Winston, Graham and Bob in Winston's office for some time. Hildebrand explained he had chosen a small stable in the Blue Mountains hidden amongst the backblocks of Medlow Bath. His previous employer owned the stable; he had worked for them until he managed to find Celtic Storm. They assisted Ross by offering several stabling options in Australia, he chose the Blue Mountains for the colder climate so Celtic Storm could acclimatise, the horse born in Scotland had never experienced a hot climate. Celtic Storm had settled in surprisingly well and actually benefited from the warmer weather. Ross had been arranging to have the horse moved to Randwick again using contacts thorough his previous employer, then the float hired for the trip from a bloodstock transport company of notoriety, was attacked at the weekend and he was pleased to hear from Winston. Graham talked at length with Ross about the establishment clan within the Australian racing industry. Ross was sure this was no random attack by vandals, the tyres were slashed in exactly the same place on each one at the weakest spot. The pierced hole was so small the air would not be heard escaping and the tyres would all deflate at the same rate causing no list of the truck, someone knew exactly what they were doing.

  The team offered Ross a place for Celtic Storm at Shangri La and transportation to race meetings. Ross was taken back; Celtic Storm was one of Flaxmead and Meadow's main rivals. This would bunch the horses at the same race meetings more or less guaranteeing they would be running g against each other. There was no guarantee the horses would make the same ballot in some cases and Ross tried to weigh up the logistical facts in his mind.

  "Well this is a turn up for the books, can I have a look around before I decide what to do. I had considered going back to Scotland before this came up."

  "Whoever did this that's exactly what they'd like to see. Scare them off and move on to the next one, could be us. If you want justice run your horse," said Graham.

  "I'll be dark soon and we're missing the party, best we make for the stable," said Winston as he got up from his chair and put his jacket on. "Putting a jacket on for a clear sunny evening, Celtic Storm isn't the only one who's acclimatised."

  They all had a laugh and Winston explained the layout of the winery pointing to various locations as they walked down the hill between the vines. The damp, cool, still, late afternoon air carried the scent of musty grape vines and freshly slashed grass and then a familiar odour of horses and stables to Ross's senses. They showed him around and he got to talk to Jessica by himself for a while. Meadow was in her stable but Flaxmead had gone to the open paddock below the broken back range with Anna and Dylan. The official birthday party had only been short and the senior eccentrics were watching horse races via sky relaxed in their recliners in the stable complex kitchen eating sponge birthday cake. They rose and spoke with Ross for a while expressing disgust at his misfortune. Wilson suggested disaster often drove innovation and change, small incidents if attended to could lead to giant leaps forward and assured him he was welcome at the complex no cost.

  Ross joined Winston and they walked towards the open paddock below the range leaving the other at the stable complex making wild bets on the outcome of races on sky. They crested the hill among the vines and there was Flaxmead following Anna and Dylan around, surrounded by white Major Mitchell parrots going to roost making a hell of a noise. Flaxmead had no saddle reins or halter. The children talked to Flaxmead and he shook and nodded his head occasionally, if they walked he tagged on behind.

  "Is that him," asked Ross.

  Winston smiled and chuckled as they reached the open gate leading from the vines into the paddock, he leant on the strainer post. "Yes that's him, and that's exactly how I found him he really hasn't changed. He'll play all day with them, he trots them up and down, and they don't even need a saddle or reins. He dives in the dam and swims with them and Meadow. The gate here is always open he comes and goes from the stable as he pleases. He's never ever gone near the winery complex, Lindy told him he wasn't allowed and that all that was required. If you told me I was mad, I'd say you were a fool. Show him another runner or a starting gate and he turns into a raging monster. He showed me that fact when I first saw him as well. Everything I saw in a lumbering foal no one wanted has materialised, I knew Id once find a horse and it would be called Flaxmead. Don't ask me why I can't tell you, I just knew. My stomach churned when I first saw him and I knew I'd found Flaxmead."

  Ross looked around and back up the hill to make sure they were alone. Ross's strong Scot accent was barely understandable as he dropped to a whisper. "I know you asked that I keep the past in the past but what the hell is going on here. Two kiddies with your horse, Wilson and Bartholomew eating sponge cake watching horse races on sky. They recently lent friends of mine two million pounds to establish their own stables, no interest. I keep pinching myself here but I'm no asleep."

  Winston laughed through his nose. "I gave up years ago trying to get the pair out of the office and club, trying to convince them there was more to life than money ledgers and stock markets. I always knew they were who they are now, small things like listening to comedy and then playing it out with each other. May be a godsend they found this late in life. When I parted company with them they retired, one encounter with Flaxmead and they now run a wine and horse empire beyond most people's dreams."

  "How did they end up here?"

  "Dropped in for a visit and sort of never really left, I don't think they ever will. They told me they visited the Bristol Stonemasons two weeks ago, walked out and came back here."

  "And the horse?"

  "That's a longer story, for the official and unofficial record Flaxmead belongs to the children. I want to find my daughter Rose, everyone gets what they want in this valley. Including you if you choose to join us."

  "I want the Melbourne Cup."

  "Beat Flaxmead and it's yours."

  "Nothing around can beat him."

  "He won't be around for ever he's a kids pet."

  "I hear talk of the Jorrocks gene. I read up on that horse, a long time ago but he was from round here."

  "We are trying to trace the early bloodline of Flaxy but are missing a link. We hope to find it one day. I think the press do it they can't help themselves."

  "Celtic Storm had the same problem in Scotland, they say he had the bloodline of a horse that was owned by William Wallace, anything to sell newspapers."

  "If they can prove that they kept better records than they did round here."

  "Purely speculation by newspaper reporters and well oiled drinkers in the corner of pubs in Scotland."

  "If you want it to become fact then bring your horse here, there's some nasty people out there and were getting to close. Nothing wrong with a good yarn that turns into a legend. Our latest paper seller is Flaxy has the cry of the banshee. He's always had that cry."

  "I wouldn't argue with that, he scares the whits out of me when he screams."

  A slight breeze came up and carried the scent of Celtic Storm from Ross's clothes across the nose o
f Flaxmead, he reared up and screamed, left the children galloping at full speed pulling up only metres from Ross and Winston. He displayed his disapproval or approval they didn't know which. He settled and walked calmly up to Ross sniffing the arms of his jacket. He grunted, threw his head around reared up turned and ran back to the children.

  "I don't think he likes me," said Ross.

  "To the contrary, he remembers you. He knows who you are and who you hang around with. He approves. The two million pounds to your friends, no interest. You think that's strange."

  "Absolutely, don't you."

  "Your friends offered to look after horses for Wilson and Bartholomew, did they not, free of charge."

  "Off course, wouldn't you."

  "I would indeed. They will get a steady stream of horses from Roger and Kalika Palmer. Remember them?"

  "I do, the horse whisperer from Flax Bourton and his daughter the show jumper."

  "The horses they get will be the fastest steeds around previously unheard off."

  "Id believe that."

  "Two millions pounds loaned at four percent will yield eighty thousand pounds a year. Even at six percent would be one hundred and twenty thousand pounds."

  "Okay, easy money."

  "Wilson and Bartholomew will probably give them ten horses in a short space of time and pay their way when it comes to the crunch. One group one win will yield on average two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. They are currently wining four group one races a week around the globe and that will be five next month and six the month after if my calculations and gut feel are correct. How's your easy money looking now?"

  "You plan that for them?"

  "No, they did it all themselves, they are currently selling more wine and winning more horse races than anyone else on the planet. And contemplate this. How much would you pay for a foal out of Celtic Storm sired by Flaxmead."

  "I hadn't thought of any of that, I have more pressing business."

  "You see it should be us paying you to come here, but money is not an issue. Finding my daughter and kids dreams are. We are also held up by the arms of the people of the hunter valley. I can't tell you how inspiring that is. We hope to bring them this invaluable trinket called the Melbourne Cup to the valley for them, which horse brings it here and when remains to be seen."

  Ross drew a big breath. "I need to talk to Graham, I've been away from Celtic Storm for a few hours now, and I need to get back. If someone knew I was in Warwick they know where I'm based."

  Any fears Ross had about the offer had been put to rest. He walked with Winston back up the hill through the vines to the stable complex. Anna and Dylan walked not far behind in a one way conversation with Flaxmead apart from the odd head toss, grunt and nod. Before they made the stable living arrangements had been worked out. An extra person at the stable complex to help Jessica, Winston saw as a positive idea. The sleeping quarters at the stable would be modified to give a bit more privacy to the permanent residents.

  A short conversation with Graham and they took off together in Grahams vehicle to pick up the float and head to the Blue Mountains. The party broke up and as night and everyone made for home. Keith Richardson had to attend and pick up his waiting wife Rhonda, she had indulged in the latest Shangri La products with the encouragement of Wilson and Bartholomew. It got away on her and she was a little to merry to pilot a vehicle. Keith poured her into the passenger's seat of his four wheel drive, apologised for her and left. While she was primed Wilson and Bartholomew clued her up on the Barking and Romford Toad, all the way back home Keith was reminded of the plight of the elusive amphibian.

  At three in the morning the float rumbled up the driveway at Shangri La. Beneath the floats flood lights in the cool damp night air, Celtic Storm was stabled two bays down from Flaxmead and next to Flushing Meadow. The stables fell dark and silent.

  Joel Renoir alias Rick O'Brien under instructions from the assassin had conducted surveillance on the stables used by Ross Hildebrand at Medlow Bath. He stayed at the Hydro Majestic perched above the sheer cliffs overlooking the spectacular views of the Megalong Valley. He had accurate notes of Hildebrand's movements with observations daily over two weeks. He deducted Hildebrand was a very punctual person with set behaviour patterns every day, rather military. At ten every morning he left the stables for a jog and was gone for an hour exactly. Renoir had sussed an access route through the heavy scrub surrounding the stables to the back of the complex. At the back of each stable was a flap instead of a window that when closed was part of the wall to open the stable up in hot weather.

  Renoir was given a five litre container of propylene glycol, a colourless, odourless, clear liquid used commonly in many industries in small quantities for cosmetics, solvents, food additives, deodorants, antifreeze to name a few. It is also used to treat ketosis in cattle, freely available and deadly if administered to horses in large quantities causing toxicoses. Renoir was instructed to drain the container into Celtic Storm's drinking water. It was expected it would at least make the horse too sick to ever compete, and looked like organ failure unless a through autopsy was conducted and test made should the horse die. Perpetration would be impossible to trace and the assassin hoped it would have a demoralising affect on the trainer as he watched his horse pass away, hoping he would never rise train again.

  Renoirs plan worked well moving undetected through the scrub, until he got to the rear of the stable complex, the flap wouldn't open. He stashed his container under the flap against the wall so he could reach it from inside when the flap was open. He crept around to the front of the stable complex and with no one in sight slipped into the stable door opening the bottom half of the door the top was already open. The stable cubicle was cleaned out, empty, and the water container turned upside down. He knew Hildebrand slept in the cubicle with the horse but his things had gone. He checked the stable forecourt, it was clear, and cautiously checked other cubicles six in all. None of them contained Celtic Storm. He noticed Hildebrand's vehicle was missing from its parking place, a person came out of the door of the house fifty metres from the stables and began to walk towards the complex with their hands in their pockets looking at the ground. Renoir dashed to the end of the stables out of sight and darted around the corner to pick up his container. A second person, female, opened the door of the house and shouted to the first.

  "Is that stable ready, we've got another now Celtic Storms gone!" they shouted.

  "I'll go and have a look!" shouted back the first. "Knowing Ross it's probably spotless even though it was the middle of the night."

  "Hurry up its coming up from Randwick and it's nearly here!" replied the first then slammed the door.

  Renoir heard the conversation clearly, cursed, picked up his container and headed back through the scrub to his car. He was putting the container in the back of his car when two cocker spaniel dogs ran past along the dirt side track he had hidden his car on. He concentrated on what he was doing and paid them no mind as they ran from tree to bush sniffing there way along the edge of the undergrowth, he checked the areas of the track he could in the direction from which the dogs had come but saw no one. He climbed in his car, carefully turned round edging into a gap in the trees backwards as the track was only one vehicle wide. His car occasionally scraped on the ground on the uneven roadway and slid around on the greasy surface from light rain, a unique tinge of musty scrub bit his nose in the still damp air. He accessed the bitumen back road leading to the main road, the track where he had parked was suitable for fire access and walking and hardly ever used. His car brushed overhanging wattle bushes as he shot from the camouflaged track opening, he heard the mud spatter on his wheel arches from the mud piked up on his tyres, subsiding after a short distance. He contemplated his mistakes and shook his head, he had used his own car and should the rain had been heavier he would have been stuck.

  His visit had not gone unnoticed, a retired couple walking their cocker spaniels as they did every day along the back tracks
of Medlow Bath from their nearby comfortable mansion hid in the bushes along the edge of the track once they saw Renoir and his vehicle. They had never seen a car along this track before and thought it quite odd. The gent occasionally peered out from the cover of the bushes studying Renoir as he fumbled with his container and then left in his vehicle. His dogs ran towards the car along the track and he remained in silence not calling them as he usually would sensing some kind of sinister motive in the vehicles presence. The vehicle, a Nissan Skyline GT black, with deep black tinted windows also took the retired couples attention. A strange vehicle to venture into the bush with in the Blue Mountains. The couple studied the area the vehicle was parked and found a clear trail left in the damp undergrowth and followed the foot prints. The dogs raced off in front of them, nose's to the ground following the trail linking up parts of the trail undistinguishable. A few hundred metres brought them to the back of the stable complex. Medlow Bath is a small place and news travels fast. They knew of the horse Celtic Storm and its recent misfortune. They found a familiar couple in the forecourt of the complex tending to horses and explained their observations. The retired couple had made a mental note between them of the type of car, colour and registration number, they passed it on to their friends. Their friends checked the facts out then wasted no time in calling Ross Hildebrand with the information and tightening the security of their stables.