The Mandarin Stakes

by Sam O'Brien

  They passed through another row of trees and came to a halt. In front of them, neatly railed paddocks were arranged in almost mathematical fashion. There were five long stable barns in various stages of construction and what looked like a stallion yard, breeding shed, and office complex.

  Charles rubbed his hands together. “This’ll all be ours, Rupe. We’ll unload our failed stallions – starting with Capital sodding Flight – and many more things they don’t yet realise they need.”

  Rupert stared at three men standing by a half finished stable barn. One was clearly a Westerner; he was drawing in the sand with a stick and talking to the locals, who responded with toothy grins similar to Ling’s standard expression. “Let’s have a word with that guy.” He thumped the roof and the jeep stopped. The ex-soldiers hopped off the back and marched towards the men.

  Their minder hurried after them. “Please, please. What you do? No time! No time!”

  They ignored him.

  The Westerner saw them approaching. He put down his stick, pinched the bridge of his nose, and spoke to the locals. “OK, lads, that’s enough for today. Sorry, but you’ll have to tell the builders to re-do it in the morning. Thanks, lads.” They scurried off, chattering wildly.

  He stuck out his hand. “Well, lads! Nick Brennan, how’s it going? Jesus, it’s good to see a Western face.” Nick’s eyes were sunken and encircled by black rings, but he shook their hands firmly.

  “Charles Buckham.”

  “Rupert Calcott.”

  “What brings you lads out here?”

  “A bit of reconnaissance,” said Rupert. “Are you part of the Irish mission?”

  “I am indeed. Been here six weeks, tryin’ to get the farm sorted before the first lot of horses arrive,” he shook his head. “Place is a shambles. They’ve all the kit and no end of money, but not a clue how to get it done. Bunch of engineers thinking they’re horsemen.” He raised his hands. “Don’t get me wrong now, they’re lovely people and bursting with enthusiasm, but they’ve a lot to learn.”

  Charles laughed. “They’re tough little buggers to get to the bottom of. Keep cracking the whip and you won’t go wrong.”

  Nick frowned. “You think? Not really my style. Besides, I’ve noticed that they clam up and stop altogether if you lose the plot.”

  “Not at all! Spare the rod, spoil the child,” said Charles, thrusting a business card into the Irishman’s palm. “Look, if you ever need any help, or even just someone to talk to, give me a shout any time.”

  “Thanks,” he said, reading the card.

  “Well, we’d love to stay and bring you out to dinner, but our plane leaves this evening. Very good to meet you.”

  They all shook hands again and parted company, much to the relief of their minder.

  “He won’t last long,” said Rupert, mounting the jeep.

  “I agree, he looks half-frazzled already. With Ling’s help, we’ll get them to see the light, cancel their deal with the Irish, and come running to us.”

  * * *

  Back in the hotel that evening, Charles was changing for dinner. Rupert appeared from the adjoining room with a gin and tonic.

  “Not much taste out of this,” he said, sinking into a chair.

  There was a knock at the door. The two men exchanged gloating smiles.

  Charles opened the door on a stony-faced Ling.

  “Been watching home movies?” said Charles, shutting the door behind Ling. His guards remained outside, blocking the corridor.

  Ling cleared his throat. He remained calm. “Firstly, you have got it all wrong. Despite what you have caught on camera, I am not gay.”

  Charles couldn’t tell if he uttered the word in a tone of embarrassment or disgust. “Hmm. Now look here, Ling,” he began, wearing a pleasant, thoughtful expression. “It might be difficult for your Committee, and indeed your population, to understand your point of view when they see, all over the internet and the world’s media, my brother giving you a fucking blow job!” His cheerful tone gave way to a thunderous roar.

  Ling jumped, startled. “I–I, was a drunken young man, taken advantage of by your brother.”

  Rupert let out a chortle. Charles wagged a finger. “You’ve got me there. Jamie always loved to try it on with anyone new. However, once I publish the footage and it’s verified as you – which it will be, you’ve hardly changed at all – nobody’ll give a shit about the details. You’ll be disgraced and your career will be over.” He clicked his fingers. “Just like that.” He cocked his head to one side, feigning a puzzled look. “Do they still shoot gays here?”

  Ling opened his mouth as if to speak. Charles cut him off. “Or do they just expect you to commit suicide?”

  Ling stared at the wall for a moment. “Charles Buckham, I’ll see what I can do. I will consult with the more liberal factions in the National People’s Congress at the forthcoming annual meeting, starting March fifth. It will also be a suitable opportunity to test the waters in the Standing Committee. I will suggest gambling centres on the facilities in Tianjin and Wuhan along with other centres in certain rich suburbs of Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “I suppose it’ll do for a start.” Charles had to concentrate to suppress an ecstatic smile.

  “However, you must assure me one thing. When Guo Qingling makes his visit to London in June, nobody will mention a word of this to him. It would be catastrophic for me – for all of us. I will find a way forward, but it must be found and structured before he learns of it, because he is the principle obstacle that we must manoeuvre around.”

  Charles narrowed his eyes. “Guo’s coming to England again?”

  “Yes, for a trade agreement in mid-June.”

  Charles shot a glance at Rupert, who narrowed his steely eyes. “I will expect to hear from you before then,” said Charles.

  Ling nodded rapidly three times, his smile wider and toothier than usual. Rupert thought he noticed a glint in the man’s eye.

  Charles grabbed the door handle. “I’m so glad we got that sorted. We’re off to Xi’an tomorrow, then home the day after. If any bizarre accident should befall us here or in England, the footage will be published. Oh, and then Rupe’s men’ll hunt you down and do simply awful things to you. Is that clear?” They shot Ling their coldest gazes. Rupert cracked his knuckles. Ling dashed through the open door.

  Charles felt like dancing a jig. Phase two underway.

  “Reckon he’ll come through?” asked Rupert, mixing two more drinks.

  “I’m bloody sure of it. Fear and leverage, old chap. Fear and leverage.” Charles moved to the window and sipped his drink, “You’re right, no flavour. Anyway, if he starts dithering about, we’ll get to work on Guo during his London visit…” He stopped, lost in thought. After a moment, he snapped his fingers. “Mid-June! Bloody marvellous! We’ll get Guo to Ascot for a day, treat him like a sodding emperor. Soften him up with a bit of British pomp, show him what a regal, classy occasion racing – with gambling – can be.”

  “Bloody good idea. No harm to open up another front on the attack.” Rupert’s nod turned into a frown. “What if he won’t accept the invitation?”

  “Mmmm. I suppose we could always collar him in Whitehall, but it wouldn’t be the same.” He sipped his drink and thought for a minute. “Don’t worry, he’ll accept the Ascot invitation because it’ll come from Buckingham Palace. Nobody turns down an invitation from the British Royal Household. They’re the world’s number one celebrities. I’ll get Eddie to bring it up at one of his weekly sessions with Her Majesty.”

  Rupert mulled it over for a second and his features brightened. “That’s positively inspired, Charlie. Stroke of genius! Eddie’ll go for it, too; it’s the perfect way to cater to Guo’s ego, it’ll grease all kinds of wheels.”

  “And at the very least, it’ll get him deep into our turf. One way or another, we’ll have it sewn up by August.”

  Rupert pulled out his smartphone. “I’d be
tter e-mail Piers and put him out of his misery. He’s been trying to call me all day. I don’t see why the fuck he couldn’t come.”

  “Just because I’m divorced and you don’t love your wife, don’t assume that it’s same for everybody,” Charles snapped. “Sometimes, I envy Piers,” he muttered. His thoughts turned to Rufus; he hadn’t seen him in so long. When he returned, he would take the boy out of Eton and treat him to Sunday lunch.

  * * *

  Piers sat in the plush armchair, staring at his wife as she slept. The scan at the Harley Street Clinic had revealed a hairline crack in her skull and the doctors had recommended that she stay under observation for a few days. Piers refused to leave her bedside until she was given the all clear. He had sent a car to bring his daughters from school for an hour this afternoon, which cheered them all up.

  His iPad pinged. He read Rupert’s message three times, a giddy grin plastered on his red face. “Proper job, men,” he muttered, then frowned as a brief wave of sadness passed over him. Poor old Ling; stuck between a rock and a hard place. He was not the first politician to get caught having inappropriate sex, nor would he be the last. Piers shrugged. “Can’t be helped, old chap. That’s life,” he muttered, as he tapped out a reply.

  * * *

  They stood on the gantry overlooking the Terracotta Army. Visitors walked the circumference of the three excavated pits, gazing down over the 8,000 warriors that had taken thirty-six years and a conscripted workforce of 700,000 to complete. Charles and Rupert admired the scene in reverential silence.

  Rupert’s smartphone pinged. His breath hissed through his teeth.

  “What?” said Charles.

  “It’s from Piers: Subject: Horse flied lice.” He rolled his eyes and read the mail aloud.

  “How’s his wife?” asked Charles.

  “Doesn’t say. Christ, he’s like a kid with his iPad: sent me a juvenile joke, too. Oh, look, he cc’d everything to you. Now that’s a waste of fucking time! Anyway, what do you reckon?” asked Rupert.

  “I think he’s on the right track,” said Charles. He continued in hushed tones, flicking his eyes about as they walked. Rupert lapped up the details, feeling his heart quicken. “It’ll almost be like the old days,” he said.

  “Only far more profitable.”

  Both ex-soldiers felt the buzz of adrenaline; heightened awareness, sharpened perception. They quickened their pace and grinned in anticipation of a satisfying victory. They took one last look at the ancient army before leaving the museum.

  Charles clapped his hands together. To the victor the spoils.

  Chapter 17

  Andrew barely slept that night. He could not get Jamie’s words out of his head. Billy Malone’s accident was definitely connected to the Fowler deal, and if Jamie was to be believed, Charles was probably capable of beating him up personally. It was sickening to confront the idea that Charles was guilty of assault just to get a few horses sold, and disheartening to realise he hadn’t a clue what to do about it. As for the man at the sales, well…. Andrew thought about calling Jess, but he knew she would ask him if he had proof. His mind flashed back to the morning the news had broken about his father: he hadn’t wanted to believe that either.

  The alarm beeped and he dragged himself out of bed and checked every horse on the farm without uttering a word. Then he waited for the vet to arrive. An hour later, he went to the stallion barn and looked at Capital Flight in his stable. It was Valentine’s Day; the stallions would begin covering tomorrow.

  Charles, like almost every other stallion master, had always insisted that coverings began on February first, and had encouraged many breeders to “get a head start on the season” by breeding before the traditional start. However, a couple of years ago a Monaco-based businessman had paid a seven-figure sum at the Newmarket December sales for a pregnant mare covered on February seventh by an Irish-based sire. Nobody told the mare that she must carry her foal for the full eleven months. She decided to give birth ten days early, on December twenty-seventh. Her owner was appalled that his new foal would officially turn one year old just four days after its birth. The Jockey Club and the BHA refused to grant an exception and the owner sold all his horses and quit racing in protest. Most stud farms went into panic mode and returned to the February fifteenth start. Except for a few, who continued to tempt commercial breeders to roll the dice. Andrew felt it would be silly to risk it, and Charles reluctantly agreed.

  In the office, he found Susan and Terry jabbering eagerly about yesterday’s action. Andrew smiled. They would probably give the matter more consideration than the local Constabulary.

  “Morning, all. Are we good to go for tomorrow, Terry?”

  “That we are,” he said with a wink. “The boys are mad for sex!”

  Susan rolled her eyes. “I’ve had nine bookings already, Andrew.”

  “Excellent. Are the contracts rolling back to us?”

  “Steadily.”

  “Good. So, back to your gossip. What’s the verdict on the blood-thrower?” said Andrew, leaning on the desk.

  “I’m damned if I know,” said Terry. “It’s a strange business and it’s not like we’ve a list of angry clients who’d throw blood at us.”

  “Well, I think it’s disgusting,” said Susan.

  “You should’ve seen the mess on the front door,” said Terry, winking.

  Susan turned up her nose and went back to her work.

  “Funny thing is,” said Andrew, “I was abused at the sales and the races back in December. Charles’ car was vandalised with blood there, too. Come to think of it, he never did much about that.”

  “You what?” said Terry.

  Susan stopped typing and looked over her glasses at Andrew.

  “Some guy accosted me in the bar, called me…” He hesitated to use the word in front of Susan. “Called me the ‘c’ word and walked off.”

  “He never!” said Terry. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I did, to a friend of mine – she’s a detective in the Met. We just kind of shrugged it off. Thing is, I think I recognised him.”

  “It weren’t the same guy yesterday, was it? I mean blood on the Range Rover and now the house!”

  Andrew shrugged. “Seems likely, but I don’t know for sure. Didn’t see him. Only heard the car zooming down the avenue. Jamie, er, The Earl, said it was a green Bentley.”

  Susan’s eyes were wide. “That’s rather a posh car for a vandal.”

  Terry arched his brow. “Poor old Mrs. Fellowes had one o’them, may she rest in peace… Don’t suppose it was her come back from the dead?” He chuckled.

  Susan cut him a disapproving stare.

  Andrew stared at Terry. His mind was… It hadn’t occurred to him yesterday, but he’d seen a green Bentley somewhere else recently and… No, no. It, it…

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Susan.

  Andrew half-heard her through the fog of muddled thoughts. “What? Yes, no. Look, I’ve just remembered something about some, er, contracts. Got to check them on the boss’s PC…” His voice trailed off as he made for Charles’ office and shut the door.

  Shooting a contemptuous glance at the photo wall, he sat at the desk and pondered. The hum of the cooling fan reached his ears and he realised he had left the computer on. He tapped the mouse, bringing the device out of sleep and glanced at the list of e-mails.

  Two new ones from Piers: one smutty joke with a clip of some jiggling breasts, and another entitled Horse flied lice. Andrew rolled his eyes at the feeble attempt at humour and was about to shut down the machine, when he became curious for a bit of inside information on China. He opened the mail and read it: “Chaps. Thanks for the news. I say, if the little poofter can’t get it done, instead of the pool footage, why not give it the Anatolian shove? Sort of pave the way, kind of thing?”

  Even by the childish standard of Pier’s bigoted jokes, this was truly bizarre. He shook his head, closed the inbox and clicked shut down.
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  Then he emptied the bottom drawer onto the desk. He began going through the clutter again, putting everything back in its place as he went.

  He got to the old folder and flicked through the cuttings. There it was. His heart skipped a beat. The front page of the Racing Post. He read the headline about the BHA Chairman’s shocking, tragic death. There was a quote from the BHA Chief Executive: “We are all struggling to come to terms with the sudden and tragic loss of such a dynamic and likeable woman.” Jockey Club Steward Sir Piers Bartholemew was quoted: “Further terrible proof of the despicable criminal element lurking in the underbelly of the wonderful racing town of Newmarket.” Prepared soundbites, if ever he read them.

  And there it was, under the text and in full colour: a photo of the crime scene. Police officers milled around a body covered with plastic, lying beside a blood-splattered Bentley. The next photo made Andrew gasp: Mr. and Mrs. George Fellowes attending Royal Ascot in 2010, said the caption. It was him, no doubt about it. Sure, he was dressed differently and had lost a few pounds since the photo, but the man who had accosted him at the races was definitely George Fellowes. Must’ve been him at the sales, too. Andrew sucked air through his teeth and rubbed his chin. It had to have been him yesterday, it just had to. Green Bentley. Tarot card.

  Andrew slumped at the desk and buried his head in his hands. What had Charles done to make Fellowes so mad? Billy Malone crept into his head again. Murder? Ridiculous. Catherine Fellowes wasn’t a trainer-come-agent, she didn’t even board mares at Brockford and, to Andrew’s knowledge, had never even patronised the stallions.