Mount! (27 page)

When Rupert gave her a hard time, Celeste had always fancied a job at Valhalla, and studied the place on its website. But looking out of the window, she was taken aback by the splendour of the stud and the yard, which had been carved out of seemingly impenetrable woodland. Below lay a spaghetti of racetracks and gallops, runways for jet and helicopter, an equine swimming pool, indoor gym, massive indoor schools, lovingly tended gardens, endless stables and racehorses in rugs, out in stallion pens and fields, sweeping down to the River Fleet.

There, on the right, was the famous Valhalla maze, where Cosmo held wild parties. Soon she’d be one of the guests. There, deep in the woods, was the watchtower where Cosmo’s sinister father, Sir Roberto, had composed, edited, ravished and near which, Celeste gave a shiver, he had been murdered.

No doubt billions had been spent on the place. Cosmo’s study
included a grand piano, two sofas draped in fur rugs, shelves filled as much with orchestral scores as racing files. Apple logs crackling in the fireplace scented and warmed the room. On the mantelpiece was a gilt and ormolu clock of
Apollo Driving the Chariot of the Sun
; the horses would be non-runners on such a dark day.

On the walls were a Picasso Clown, portraits of Cosmo’s heroes – Byron, Wagner, the Marquis de Sade, his father, Roberto Rannaldini – and Roberto’s Revenge in his gleaming dark-brown glory, rearing up, towering over his handler. Celeste was giggling over a naughty painting of Don Juan, humping some lady of the manor in the orchard while casting an eye over her pretty maid, who was hanging out her mistress’s washing, when Cosmo swept in, still in indigo silk pyjamas, wafting very strong, musky aftershave.

‘Celeste.’ He took both her hands, then in his deep, caressingly beautiful voice, ‘So sorry to have kept you. Welcome to Valhalla.’

‘I’ve been admiring your office, and this amazing view. It reminds me of Penscombe.’

Just for a second, Cosmo’s face hardened into the steely glare with which his father had petrified entire orchestras, then he relented. ‘But vastly superior. Let me get you a cup of coffee. We’ll save the champagne for later.’

‘Lovely property,’ gushed Celeste. ‘Is it very old?’

‘Very. During the Civil War, it was a Royalist stronghold.’ Pouring into a blue cup coffee even darker than his eyes, Cosmo pointed to one of the mullions on which was carved the head of a cavalier. ‘Alleged to be Prince Rupert of the Rhine.’

Another Rupert’s head might soon be on the block, Cosmo thought happily as he handed her a plate of pink sugar biscuits, and directed her to the end of the sofa near the fire, plumping a cushion on which was embroidered
I may be here, but my heart is on the racecourse
.

‘Well, well,’ Cosmo said gently, sitting down beside her. ‘Ah, here’s Isa.’

Celeste had always fancied Isa – taller than most jockeys, the black cobra with his wild black hair and closed gypsy face.
Today, with reddened eyes and extremely pale, he seemed more vulnerable. Before leaving, Celeste had tarted herself up in the briefest, cutest little black leather mini-skirt and jacket. Fortunately, she’d washed her hair last night so it floated long, lush and gleaming red. She had drenched herself in the last of Lark’s scent.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Isa.’

‘Thanks.’ Isa handed two black armbands to Sauvignon, to give to Tarqui and Roman Lovell, who were about to set off with four horses for the All-Weather at Southwell. Even death didn’t stop the show going on. ‘Tell Roman not to talk to the press.’

Getting up to put her coffee cup on the table, Celeste could see from the big gilt mirror how lush she was looking. All this was wasted on Isa and Cosmo, however, who were only interested in Dave’s original foaling certificate.

Pretending to search for a tissue, Celeste switched on her tape recorder. Before she handed anything over, she wanted big money. Cosmo took a snort of coke and switched on his own tape recorder as he examined a Christmas card from Roddy Northfield, showing Rutminster Manor in the snow.

‘Well.’ He smiled at Celeste.

‘I hate to be commercial but my career’s on the line, so I’d like something up front.’

‘Of course.’ Cosmo opened his desk drawer and handed over a couple of grand of laundered money in fifty-pound notes.

‘For starters?’

‘Of course, we promise.’

‘And a job and protection, once the story breaks? I can’t return to Penscombe, Rupert would rip me apart.’

‘Of course,’ Cosmo said, reflecting that she was a tough little thing. A smile like eastern light spread across his face as he and Isa pored over the faded bloodstained document.

‘“Chestnut colt – thirty-first December”,’ muttered Isa. ‘Whose writing is this?’

‘Gavin Latton.’

‘Oh, Floppy Dick in person.’ Cosmo was jubilant.

‘He swore me to secrecy,’ sighed Celeste. ‘Got pretty nasty. He’s powerful at Penscombe. I’d lose my job if I snitched.’

‘Rupert knew,’ snapped Isa.

‘Must have done. He and Gavin are as thick.’

‘As thieves,’ added Cosmo. ‘This will bring them both down. Corrupt and fraudulent behaviour. Rupert could lose his licence for ten years, and Gavin’ll probably never work again.’

The Horses of the Sun tolled one o’clock.

Out of the window, mighty, magnificent, bounding, white L-shaped blaze identifying him, Roberto’s Revenge could be seen dragging a nervous stud hand along a grass track, getting fit for the next covering season.

‘Leading Sire-in-waiting,’ Cosmo gloated. ‘Oh boy, this will help him.’

‘Is that I Will Repay?’ asked Celeste.

Isa got out a calculator.

‘New Year’s Dave must have won nearly a million running illegally as a two-year-old. He’ll be disqualified from all those races, which will push Rupert right down the Leading Sire list. Dave beat and prevented I Will Repay from winning the richest Group Two for two-year-olds, and I as the owner would have made an infinitely better Gimcrack speech,’ sighed Cosmo. ‘Poor Rupert will never be forgiven for last night’s tirade. The timing is perfect, he’s offended everyone. There isn’t a stakeholder in racing who won’t want to ram a stake into his heart. And what about the poor punters?’ Cosmo started to play an imaginary violin.

‘And what about compensation for poor Rosaria and her repellent husband,’ said Isa. ‘If Geoffrey had come second in the Gimcrack, they might have scraped enough money together to have taken him to the Breeders’ Cup.’

‘Oh Rupert.’ Cosmo had another snort of coke. ‘You really are up shit creek.’

‘What happens now?’ asked Isa.

‘I’ll telephone the British Racing Association Integrity Department,’ said Cosmo, looking at his watch, ‘who will probably be at lunch.’

‘And I’m ready for that glass of bubbly,’ piped up Celeste.

‘Sure,’ said Cosmo. Then, as Sauvignon walked in, ‘Can you take Celeste to the canteen and give her some lunch.’

When Celeste looked outraged, Cosmo added, ‘We’ll sort things out later. We really appreciate you telling us, I’ve just got to put the wheels into motion.’

‘But I still need to get my stuff from Rupert’s before you break the story!’

‘Sure, sure.’

When a reluctant Celeste had finally left, Isa said: ‘We can’t give
her
a job. She didn’t even recognize Roberto’s Revenge.’

‘Course not,’ said Cosmo soothingly, ‘but we’ve got to keep her sweet till after the enquiry. She’s a key witness.’

Isa, however, had collapsed on the sofa with his head in his hands.

‘I’ve got to sort out Dad’s funeral. Mum wants it tiny, but the press’ll never leave us alone.’

Cosmo put a hand on Isa’s shoulder. ‘It’s horrible, I’m sorry. We couldn’t bury my father for months after his death. When they’ve been as ill as your father, you think it would be a relief, but once they’re dead, you start remembering their old selves, and you miss them appallingly. My father was a monster, but he made me laugh. At least you had a father you were proud of.
Console-toi
.’ Cosmo poured Isa a brandy.

‘I’ve got to get hold of the death certificate, and there’s so bloody much to do for the funeral.’

‘I’ll help you with the readings and the music, and I’ll get the New Year’s Dave thing started,’ said Cosmo. ‘This’ll be a death certificate for Rupert, and to cheer yourself up, Dave’s now favourite for the Guineas and the Derby, but on January first, he’ll be a four-year-old, which rules him out of both of them. And even if Rupert denies everything and hangs Gav out to dry, it means Gav won’t be here any more to nurture Quickly and Touchy Filly. Oh, gotcha, gotcha!’

‘Celeste’s frantic to get her stuff out of Penscombe,’ Sauvignon told Cosmo after she returned from lunch. ‘I pumped her about Rupert’s horses, but she didn’t seem to know much about them. She’s a nympho, eyeing up all the lads in the canteen. When she went to the Ladies, I found a tape recorder in her bag.’

‘Perhaps she should come and work for us.’

‘I took out the tape,’ said Sauvignon.

An ex-model just turned thirty, Sauvignon was spectacularly glamorous. She had a smallish straight nose, perfect for photographs, and a mouth made bigger with carefully applied scarlet lipstick, which lifted a hard, cold face when she smiled. The wine which she had renamed herself after was the same amber as her hypnotic yellow eyes. She had also had elocution lessons to iron out her Cockney accent.

Cosmo employed her to lead up his horses to draw maximum attention to them in the paddock. She also instilled fear into his staff, who nicknamed her the Nazicist. This was because as well as being spiteful, she was also utterly self-obsessed. When she was talking about herself to someone, her eyes swivelled constantly to find someone more important to talk about herself to. Very spoilt because of her looks, she was accustomed to getting her own way.

Cosmo found Sauvignon useful for manipulating people. Mrs Walton, his mistress, detested her. Used to drawing the glance of every passing man, how mortifying when they instead all looked at Sauvignon.

Sauvignon Smithson’s mission in life was to marry a vast amount of money.

Rupert’s hangover after his Gimcrack speech was further punished by furious telephone calls.

From his first wife, Helen: ‘How dare you say those outrageous things about the mother of your children?’

From Tory Lovell’s sister, Fen, about to fly over from America: ‘How dare you slag off Jake like that and resurrect his affair with Helen, the one thing that crucifies Tory? She’s in pieces. How come you’re such a bitch, Rupert?’

From his gentle son, Marcus, in Moscow and his volatile daughter, Tabitha, in Germany: ‘How can you be so vile about Mum?’

Rupert was wondering if he could keep down a cup of black coffee when he was cheered by an email confirming that Quickly and Dave were entered for next year’s Derby, and Dave was favourite.

Wandering into the kitchen in search of Alka Seltzer, he winced at the smell of a bowl of Whiskas that Taggie had put on the kitchen table, so Purrpuss could eat in peace away from the dogs.

‘You OK?’ she asked.

‘Ish. Everyone’s incandescent that I slagged off Helen. I must have been pissed.’

‘Can I tell you something utterly shaming?’ Taggie put her arms around him, hanging her head so he couldn’t see her face
beneath her dark cloud of hair. ‘I absolutely adored you slagging off Helen. Everyone always goes on about how beautiful and clever she is, and she’s always been so patronizing and made me feel so thick. It was such heaven, hearing you say how up herself she is, and then such blissful things about me.’ Her gruff voice trembled. ‘Is that awful of me?’

‘No, because it’s absolutely true.’ As he forced her chin upwards, her eyes were still smudged by last night’s make-up. ‘I think my hangover might improve dramatically if we went back to bed.’

Cosmo and Isa moved fast. As Rupert had said in his speech, the BRA often took some time to carry out an enquiry, keeping unfortunate trainers and jockeys, unable to earn, their reputations dwindling, in a vacuum for months. But the following morning, Rupert returned home on Safety Car, from watching a river of matchless two-year-olds flow up the all-weather gallops, to be greeted by a troupe of BRA investigators armed with tape recorders.

Back in Rupert’s office, refusing a cup of coffee, their leader, a Mr Wilde, who had a round pink face, spiked hair combed forward to hide any bald patches, and a flat North Country accent, announced: ‘We have evidence that your colt, New Year’s Dave, is being passed off as a two-year-old, born on January the first, when he is, in fact, a three-year-old, born on the thirty-first of December, who has won nearly a million pounds under false pretences.’

‘Do you honestly think,’ Rupert didn’t miss a beat, ‘I’d call a horse New Year’s Dave, drawing attention to the fact that he’d been born on New Year’s Eve?’

‘Can we look at your records, sir?’

Soon they were going through passports, telephone bills, medical records, scrumpled love letters, records of foaling. Finding Dave’s, they then compared it with a photocopy of the original record, passed on by Celeste, and showed it to Rupert.

‘One doesn’t need to be a graphologist to recognize the writing is identical. At the top, it says “attended by Gavin Latton”. The only difference is the dates.’

‘Someone must have copied Gav’s handwriting to frame him. How did you get hold of this?’

‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to say. What were your movements that night, sir?’

‘I was seeing the New Year in with my in-laws across the valley. I can’t remember the exact time, about two in the morning, Gav rang in great excitement, saying Cordelia had dropped a foal in record time. She’s one of our best mares, but quite old. The sire was our leading stallion, Love Rat, the foal was a colt: all cause for celebration, so I belted back here – probably shouldn’t have been driving – saw a beautiful foal, mother fine, so we went up to the house and had a bottle of champagne, at least Celeste and I did. Gav doesn’t drink.’

Mr Wilde looked at his notes. ‘We’d like to interview Pat Inglis, Marketa Bolokova and Celeste.’

But Celeste had flown. Her room was empty, cupboards bare of her clothes and shoes.