by Sam O'Brien
Chapter 4
The next morning Andrew was leaning over the white railing surrounding the parade ring. He watched the first ten lots of the day marching laps, waiting for their time in the adjacent auditorium. Crowds dotted the lawns and pavement beside the offices and stables, their breath visible in the icy air. The PA system crackled as the auctioneer announced that the sale would begin in five minutes.
Andrew wandered inside and found a seat up at the back, opposite the area where most people stood to bid. He liked his vantage point, as he could not be jostled by others and he had a perfect view of potential bidders on the floor below. As he looked at their faces, he saw the usual suspects; the professional pinhookers were here in force, like poker players at a big game.
There were stud farm owners and managers, a smattering of trainers, and the advisors of oil-rich sheiks. Teams of foreigners had made their way to Newmarket from as far away as Mongolia and India. There were Italians, Turks, Germans, Libyans and even an American or two. An eclectic gathering, all searching for baby athletes or – like Andrew and the team – pristine commodities to resell at next year’s yearling sales. Despite the international presence, these sales lacked the glitzy glamour of the yearling auctions. There were fewer obscenely wealthy men engaging in ego-driven bidding wars; this was predominantly a sale for dealers and speculators.
Andrew chewed his pen, glanced around, and wondered why Billy was not standing with his Italian, or tucked in a corner with his phone clutched to an ear.
The first horse appeared and the action commenced.
Nearly an hour later, another foal strode majestically into the ring. Andrew perked up and checked the notes in his catalogue. This quality colt was well put together and athletic, a ball of muscle with long elegant legs and a beautiful action. Andrew had written just three words on the catalogue page: future Usain Bolt.
The auctioneer began his theatrical patter. He started by offering bland compliments about the animal’s physique, while glossing over its pedigree. He asked for 20,000 Guineas and when nobody took him up, he gradually dropped the price to 5,000. Mehmet Silah bid five. The auctioneer asked for seven. Andrew waited, started bidding at 25,000 and eventually came out victorious against the Turk at 50,000.
“Sold!” declared the auctioneer, with Shakespearian drama. “To Brockford Bloodstock. Thank you very much.”
Fifty thousand was ten times the covering fee that produced this colt. A handsome return for the breeder, but re-sale for a profit would be tough. Andrew didn’t care, he knew that if the horse failed to make a profit as a yearling next autumn, Charles and his friends had the means to put the animal in training. He would surely win a race for them.
Andrew allowed himself a half-smile.
The purchase docket was brought to his seat, Andrew signed it and kept the duplicate. Then he called Brockford to tell Terry Smith, the stud groom, to get the lorry over to Newmarket; at least one would be returning to Brockford this evening.
“Right you be, Andrew. I’ll send Colin in the lorry first thing after lunch.”
“Perfect, Terry.”
He was about to hang up, when Terry said, “Did you hear about that Billy Malone?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know my brother John works as a groundsman for Jockey Club Estates?”
Terry was an incorrigible gossip. “Yes,” said Andrew, sighing, expecting another longwinded tale.
“Well, he was harrowing Warren Hill gallop before dawn this morning and found old Billy down at the bottom, unconscious by the side of the road. Can you believe it?”
Andrew rolled his eyes, “I can actually, Terry. He’s always drinking himself into a state. Probably got lost and passed out.”
“No, no. I mean he was beaten unconscious. John said his face was an awful mess and his arm looked broken.”
Chapter 5
“Holy cow, Terry! Are you winding me up?”
“God’s honest truth.”
“Shit.” He paused, his mind whirring. “Hit and run?”
“Possible, I s’pose, but John reckons somebody took a knuckleduster to his face. I dunno. Ambulance took ‘im straight to Addenbrookes Hospital.”
Andrew thought back to yesterday evening and Billy’s agitation in the bar. “OK. Thanks for letting me know.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he was done over. The dirty beggar’s robbed half of Europe and all of Ireland, I should imagine.”
“Hmmm.”
Andrew bounded up the stairs to the private offices and barged in without knocking. Charles was alone at the desk, watching the sales on the wall-mounted monitor. He gave Andrew a startled look. “Don’t you knock anymore?”
“What? Oh, sorry. Hey, we got that nice little colt.”
“So I saw. Not cheap.”
“Don’t sell him. He’ll seem a bargain when he wins a group race for you.” Andrew chewed his lip, pondering how to continue.
Charles eyed him suspiciously. “Go on then, spit it out.”
Andrew had a pained expression on his face as he spoke. “Did you manage to get the deal with Billy finalised?”
Charles sat back, keeping his eyes on the screen. “Oh, that’s all taken care of,” he said, waving dismissively. “I’ve a feeling Billy’ll come up trumps for us. He always does.”
Andrew frowned. “It’s just that I heard he’s in Addenbrookes as we speak. Terry’s brother found him beaten unconscious near Warren Hill gallop.”
Charles flicked his gaze to Andrew. “What? Are you sure? Terry’s prone to exaggeration, you know.”
“Not about something like this.”
“Don’t you worry about it, Andrew. Billy’ll have got what he deserved.”
Andrew shot a puzzled look at his boss.
Charles shrugged. “Oh, I suppose Rimovich or the Kharkovs got fed up with his games.”
“Well, yeah, I suppose, but…”
Charles inspected Andrew with a narrow gaze. “But what?”
Andrew noticed Charles’ right hand had balled into a fist. “So do we look for someone else to take the fillies?”
Charles relaxed his facial muscles and his fist. “Oh no. No need to do that.”
An uneasy feeling shot through Andrew.
Charles continued, “I’m sure he got the horses sold. I’ll call the hospital later to see if he’s been admitted. You just keep your mind on the sales. Oh, and Mehmet Silah said he’ll take Fowler’s four mares. They all qualify for import to Turkey and he has clients lined up. So, all in all, I’d say we’re doing well for his Lordship. You can make up a shortlist of mares to buy next week and give him a call. He said he’d like to come and bid on them in person.”
“Sounds good.” He handed Charles a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the Capital Flight list.”
Charles stowed it in his catalogue. “Thanks. I’ll take care of this.”
“OK,” said Andrew, concealing his delight. He got up to leave.
“Oh, by the way, I’m thinking of putting together a syndicate to buy the Tote,” said Charles in a blasé tone.
Andrew stopped in his tracks, his jaw agape.
“I’ll have dinner with the PM next week and put in an offer,” he continued. “But if you should hear any gossip about it, deny everything. OK?”
“Er, sure. My lips are sealed, but does the company have the kind of money to pull it off?”
“That’s why I’m putting together a syndicate. Rupert and Piers are in, and we’ll see who else. Look, I mean it: not a word. I only told you so you’d know enough to keep quiet and keep your ears open in case anyone else is talking about it.” He paused, pursing his lips. “And if you do hear any gossip, be sure to let me know who is saying what. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Oh, and Holdsworth called me this morning. He wants us to buy him ten two-year-olds at the breeze-up sales in April, but he won’t increase the budget. Tight bastard.”
“OK,” said An
drew as he closed the door.
It was late afternoon when news of Billy’s accident spread like wildfire. In the meantime, Terry phoned to say that Billy had his arm in plaster, fifteen stitches in his face, and would be kept in hospital overnight for observation. At Tattersalls sales complex, however, the story grew legs and by the end of trading that day, it was widely understood that he was brain damaged and would never walk again. Andrew listened, but did not contribute. The general consensus seemed to be that it had been a long time coming and was well deserved. Some even reckoned that he’d got off lightly. Meanwhile, a few sharp bloodstock agents wondered if Rimovich or the Kharkovs would be needing new advisors in the near future. Lambs to the slaughter.
As he drove home that night, Andrew’s uneasy feeling nagged at him. There was something about Charles’ reaction that alarmed him.
The next day he called Addenbrookes Hospital, only to be told by the nurse that Billy Malone had already checked out. He looked up Billy’s number in the Horses In Training book and made the call. It rang through to voicemail. Andrew left a message, wishing Billy a speedy recovery and asking him to call back.
The following day Billy returned the call.
“Hi, Billy,” said Andrew.
“Well, boyo, what do you want?” said Billy. His voice was slow and slurred.
“How’re you doing?”
“You taking the fockin’ piss? I’m in agony.”
“Yeah, right. Sorry. Look, Billy, I know this is out of the blue, but when you were attacked, did you have any idea who it was?”
The line was silent, then, “Oh, don’t worry. Like I told the cops, I don’t have a fockin’ clue.”
“OK, Billy, but–”
“But what? Are you taking the piss?”
“No. Why would I want to do that?”
“Why would you? Ha! That’s a good one.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it, Dixon, and don’t fockin’ call me again.”
The line went dead.
Fowler’s fillies were due to leave the stud for Tblisi in three days. Surely Charles wouldn’t have gone so far just to get them sold for inflated prices?
* * *
That evening, Andrew sat in Piers’ sales office with Charles, going over lists of mares for sale the following week. Charles stood and stretched. “Time to call it a night, I reckon.”
Andrew glanced at his watch and heard his stomach growl. “I’m starving. Think I’ll grab dinner in town before I head back to Brockford.”
“Well, I’m going to pop into the restaurant here. The sales company is throwing a reception for new buyers. I’ll have a sniff around and see if I can get any of them under Brockford’s wing.”
Andrew’s shoulders drooped. “Do you need me?”
“No, no. You head off. Oh, and drop my hat, raincoat and catalogue in my car on your way out, will you?”
Andrew collected the things. “I’ll need the valet ticket.”
Charles growled and threw him the keys. “It’s parked at the bottom of the hill. Bloody valet park was full this morning. Oh, and don’t bother bringing the keys back to me at the reception. Just leave them with the secretary at the sale ring entrance. Tell her they’re mine.”
Andrew made his way out of the office block, across the gravel under the dim orange glow from the sodium light, and down the hill. He picked his way between cars, searching for the distinctive silhouette of Charles’ Range Rover. Eventually, he saw it at the bottom by the brook. He pulled out the key and pressed the fob. Ahead of him the car beeped. Andrew opened the passenger door and felt the stickiness. He looked at his hand in the interior light and gasped. His hand was covered in blood.
He dumped the coat and catalogue on the front seat and closed the door. Squinting, he saw that something had been daubed along the whole side of the car. Andrew wiped his hand on the grass and pulled out his phone. Illuminating the display, he walked a full lap of the large SUV. Then a second lap. Then he was able to decipher words. Someone had written sell at any cost? On the side of the vehicle. In blood.
Andrew called Charles.
“Don’t tell me you can’t find the car.”
“Oh, I found it alright.” He told Charles everything. “Shall I call the police?”
There was silence on the line.
“No. You go on home. I’ll come and have a look and decide how I want to handle it.”
The line went dead.
Andrew stood staring at the car. He checked the ground around it and the windscreen wipers, just in case there was a tarot card stashed anywhere. No sign of one. He washed his hands in a restroom and drove home. Only then did he realise he’d forgotten to eat. He didn’t feel hungry at all.
Chapter 6
Brockford Hall Stud, Thetford, Norfolk - December 3rd, 2011
Andrew rode the quad bike slowly around the laneways as dawn broke over Norfolk. He enjoyed these frosty winter mornings, the first rays of sun made the grass sparkle. He pulled a woolly hat down over his mop of dark hair, inhaled deeply and watched his breath cut through the air. Andrew preferred to make his rounds of the stud on a quad, with nothing between him and his surroundings, whereas Charles always drove. It was not as much fun as riding a horse in a point-to-point, but it would have to do.
Andrew toured the perimeter of the four hundred acre stud, the only remaining grassland of the once-glorious Brockford estate. He glanced over the fence at the fifteen-year-old forest. Some of the trees were finding the windswept Norfolk winter a challenge.
Andrew sighed. Charles’ older brother Jamie, the 11th Earl of Royston, had good intentions, but he had no idea how to run a business. He had planted a thousand acres of trees, which Charles insisted rendered the land useless. Jamie then spent another fortune unsuccessfully fighting in court to construct Britain’s largest wind farm on another part of the estate. The locals had won their case and Jamie had been forced to sell another four hundred acres to cover costs and find money to re-roof the house. Broke-ford the locals now called it. But Andrew liked the old place and he was sure that the successful stallion stud and bloodstock agency he managed with Charles was all that stood between the estate and financial ruin.
He crossed the back avenue and glanced at the imposing Elizabethan mansion. If the stud failed, it would be a pity to see it turned into a hotel or, worse still, a golf club.
He passed the sheltered paddock where the pregnant mares wintered out wearing their waterproof rugs. “Morning, Colin,” he called to the assistant stud groom, who was emptying a bag of feed into the pots near the fence line.
“Mornin’, Andrew,” he said with a grin. “And a t’riffic one it is, too.”
“Everything alright, Colin?”
“Perfect, these old girls are snug as bugs in them rugs.”
Andrew smiled and continued on. He pulled alongside the yearling barn and walked carefully up the aisleway, scanning left and right at all thirty horses finishing their breakfasts.
All of them had been broken-in and were now cantering around a small all-weather gallop every morning, waiting to be sent off to their trainers. Some had been born and raised here, some Andrew had selected at sales for clients of Charles, and some had been offered for sale, but returned to Brockford without finding a buyer. It was tough work trying to sell a horse these days. A buyer’s market.
Breaking-in the yearlings was Andrew’s favourite time of the year. He always made room in his schedule to do the daily lunging and long-reining with them, until they were ready to be ridden by guys lighter than him. Andrew missed riding, but not the wasting. He had grown tired of keeping himself seven kilos underweight by twenty-five; now nearly thirty-one, he shuddered at the thought.
Terry Smith, the stud groom, appeared from the tack room. The rosy-cheeked man in his forties had grown up in the area and worked on a Newmarket stud until he moved to Brockford at its inception in 1999. Since Andrew had joined the operation in 2008, Terry had been an invaluable help –
even if he was slightly old-fashioned and unable to keep his mouth shut.
It had been Terry who had explained to Andrew about how Charles and Jamie’s father, the 10th Earl, had been frustrated at Jamie’s inability to understand the running of the estate. The frail old man’s frustration turned to utter despair when Jamie came out of the closet and informed his father that the line of succession would not be continuing through him. A month before his death, the 10th Earl arranged for his sons to share control of the estate. And when Jamie lost the wind farm case, Charles realised that he could no longer oversee things from an army base in Hereford. He had returned to Brockford just in time.
“Mornin’, Andrew.”
“Morning, Terry. I need to see them all outside when you’re ready. I don’t have time to watch them work. Lord Fowler’s coming to see the stallions. He’ll want to see his four fillies here, too, before they head off to Billy Malone.”
“They’ll be ready in a minute.”
They walked out of the barn together.
Terry grimaced. “I can’t believe you managed to unload Fowler’s donkeys.. Did you speak to Billy after his accident?”
Andrew flicked Terry a glance and ignored the question, not wanting to add fuel to the man’s fertile mind. “We’ve done what we can with those horses, but you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Thing is, he blames our stallions and not his mares. Typical.”
The first yearling was paraded. Andrew looked at all thirty horses in rapid succession, noting how they were maturing and developing from skittish, adolescent animals into young athletes. He studied them intently from the moment they came into view. Later, he would discuss them with their prospective trainers and work on finding new owners for those that he could tell would not be good enough to race in Britain.
