Mount! (66 page)

He took a bite of his sandwich and choked; it was a minute before he realized Jan was standing in the doorway.

‘We’re busy,’ gasped Rupert, as Lark patted him on the back.

‘I don’t want to stir things,’ said Jan, ‘but I’ve always suspected Bao. I found your lucky shirt under the lining paper in his room and I discovered this in the inside pocket of the jacket, which he asked me to take to the dry cleaners.’

Jan handed over a photograph of a brutally handsome, granite-jawed Chinese man with his arm around a beautiful, also Chinese, woman.

‘On the back of which Bao’s written “Mother” in Mandarin,’ said Jan.

‘When did you speak Mandarin?’

‘I don’t, but when Bao was giving Sapphire and Timon Mandarin lessons, he made a card for them to send Tabitha, which is still in their rooms. Look – it’s the same hieroglyph, “Mother”.’

‘Good God.’ Rupert and Lark examined card and photograph.

‘That’s certainly the Wang who bought Dave,’ said Lark with a shudder, ‘and Mrs Wang.’

‘I’ve been checking online,’ said Jan. ‘Zixin Wang is actually married to Bao’s mother, Bingwen, who he stole from Mr Tong. The present Mrs Tong is Tong’s second wife, Aiguo, and Bao’s stepmother. No wonder Tong hates Wang and wants to beat him in the World Cup. Rumour has it he’s trying to buy Geoffrey.’

‘Also,’ Jan went on, ‘Bao’s probably worried about his mother. Wang is suspected of having bumped off his first wife, who was in television, in order to marry her.’

‘And assassinated Gala’s husband – not a great track record,’ said Rupert. ‘Bao must be our mole, the little shit.’

‘But he was so sweet,’ protested Lark, ‘and he really loved all the horses and the dogs. It doesn’t add up. Perhaps he only went to Valhalla to check his mother was OK with Mr Wang. He so adores her. According to Harmony, vile Sauvignon was doing a real number on Wang on Sunday. Poor Eddie.’

‘Wang, bang, thank you, Mum.’ Rupert threw the rest of his sandwich in the bin. ‘It’s obviously Wang who’s backing Cosmo, that’s why he’s been able to spend such billions on horses. I must go and ring Valent.’

Valent was equally appalled to learn of Bao’s transgressions but reluctant to call the police because he was so involved with Tong on a business level; he and Rupert were also about to pull off a huge deal selling him hundreds of horses.

‘I’ll try and ring Bao,’ said Rupert.

But Bao wasn’t answering his mobile and had clearly pushed off back to China.

Worse was to come. With tragic irony, a fortnight after Dora’s inflammatory column in Rupert’s name, inveighing against the transport of live horses, Safety Car was found missing from his field, leaving his sheep friends racing around frantically bleating.

‘He’s probably in the pub,’ said Roving Mike.

‘Or been signed up to play football for Chelsea,’ said Cathal.

‘He’ll go for meat, I know he’ll go for meat,’ sobbed Dora.

‘Can’t sell for meat without a passport,’ said a shaken Rupert, then went cold when he discovered Safety Car’s passport was missing from the office. It must be an inside job, somebody wanting to destabilize Quickly. Anyone armed with the passport could now spirit Safety Car across the Channel and on to a long-distance lorry rattling towards a bloody death.

‘It must be Bao,’ said Cathal. ‘He was hanging around photographing Safety and Love Rat for hours on the day he left. He
always made a point of cosying up to Safety, who probably went with him willingly, poor old boy.’

It was then discovered the CCTV had been switched off that night, so there was no evidence.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Taggie, fingering her diamond necklace in horror. ‘Bao adored Safety – he thought he was so funny. He wouldn’t do that.’

Marketa, who’d been so excited about taking Safety to Dubai, was inconsolable. ‘Some windictive willain’s stolen him.’

Equally inconsolable, but refusing to show weakness, Rupert called in the police and offered a £500,000 reward for Safety, not excessive when one appreciated Quickly was going to compete in a $10,000,000 dollar race.

‘With his one ear, white face, scraggy tail and his photograph all over the press and internet, someone must recognize him,’ said Lark hopefully. But as hammer blow followed hammer blow, it seemed that someone must really hate Rupert. On a pre-race canter the following morning, Bitsy got a leg treading on a pile of stones unaccountably thrown down on the gallops – so Quickly had no pacemaker with whom to go to Dubai.

Poor Taggie was just as upset about Safety Car, but at least it meant that people assumed he was the reason for her tear-stained unhappiness when, on the pretext of going shopping for Sapphire’s birthday in Cotchester, she went to hospital for the blue-coloured dye to be injected into her breast. Jan had wanted to go with her but Eddie’s buxom carer, Shannon, had a migraine so he couldn’t get away.

Returning from hospital, Taggie was chucking out a pile of newspapers when she discovered on the features page of the
Scorpion
a picture of Rupert and Gala embracing after the King George. She was still fretting that, when Jan had found her crying a while back, he had assumed it was over Gala and Rupert.

On his last night before leaving for Dubai, Rupert was caught up with so many things in the yard, particularly a fading Love Rat, he was very late coming to bed. Taggie pretended to be asleep, but when Rupert woke her and tried to make it up, she
shoved him away, petrified he’d discover the blue dye, refusing to let him touch her. Rupert had proceeded to walk out and have insomnia in the spare room with all the dogs.

In the morning, Love Rat was even more lethargic. He didn’t even whicker when Rupert entered his box. Sapphire and Timon had spent the night in the straw beside him.

‘He’s not going to die, is he?’ begged Sapphire. ‘And Safety Car’ll come home soon, won’t he?’

‘I’m sure he will, darling.’ Rupert so loathed leaving them.

It was such a lovely day. Robins singing their heads off, woodpeckers laughing and rattling, custard-yellow sweeps of primroses, sticky buds on the chestnut avenue and a crimson blur on his beechwood. Rupert suddenly thought how nice it would be to stop chasing dreams and win the Lincoln Handicap, the first big race of the English flat season, rather than pushing off round the world. His dogs, knowing he was off, followed him around, all with sad ‘suitcase faces’.

Going into the kitchen in a last attempt to make it up with Taggie, he found her sobbing in Jan’s arms, toyed with the idea of hitting Jan across the kitchen … and then stormed out.

Thank God, Gala was going to be in Dubai.

Gala was already in Dubai but also in turmoil. On the eve of her departure, she had gone into the kitchen at Penscombe to check if she had any post and to rinse and return Rupert’s favourite mug with Love Rat’s picture on, which he’d left in the tack room. As she rummaged around for a drying-up cloth, an envelope fell out. Remembering this was the drawer where Taggie hastily hid any Valentines, Gala couldn’t resist having a look – and went cold. Inside was a letter from Cotchester Hospital summoning Taggie to an operation on 26 March at 8.30 a.m. – that was the Friday before Saturday’s World Cup. Also in the envelope were leaflets on treating breast cancer, including chemotherapy and radiotherapy.

Oh God – poor darling Taggie! That’s why she’d been so red-eyed, wretched and up and down recently, and Gala had been riddled with guilt that she’d guessed about her and Rupert.

Not wanting to distract Rupert, Taggie was obviously having the op when he’d be safely in Dubai. This changed every goal post. Rupert had gone ballistic over the surprise party – how infinitely more so, if he discovered Taggie had cancer, particularly with Master Chef here holding the fort.

Taggie had always been angelic to her. How could she go to bed with Rupert knowing this? Yet she had to fight off an utterly shaming thought: if Taggie died, that would free up Rupert.

Janey Lloyd-Foxe was just typing another venomous chapter, mobbing up Rupert for becoming a great-grandfather in her
Billy and Me
book, which she needed to finish to pay lots of bills. She wouldn’t have been so broke if bloody Rupert had allowed her to stay free at Lime Tree Cottage.

She was relieved to be interrupted by the doorbell – Colin Chalford, Mr Fat and Happy, dropping in with a bottle of champagne. As they were drinking it, even more excitingly, he took a little blue leather box out of his pocket and handed it to her.

‘I’d like you to look at this.’

Inside was a huge and beautiful sapphire.

‘Do you like it, Janey?’

‘It’s the loveliest ring I’ve ever seen,’ gasped Janey.

‘Oh good,’ said Colin. ‘I’m always unsure of my taste in women’s things, but if you approve …’

‘I do indeed.’

Janey flashed the sapphire on a dirty-nailed finger. If she married Colin, she reflected, she’d never have to sweat her guts out writing books any more. She was so delighted, it was a few seconds before she registered Colin saying, ‘You see, I’ve met the loveliest woman in the world and I want to give her an engagement ring she really likes.’

Rupert landed in Dubai early on the Friday before Saturday’s World Cup, moving into a suite in the Meydan Hotel, near the racecourse, where he could do business and pull off deals. Right in the middle of the desert, the hotel was attached to the end of a huge 600-metre-long stand which soared upwards like a multi-decked liner, topped from end to end by a roof shaped like a vast sickle moon. Meerkat, Tarqui, Gav and Cathal were staying in a nearby hotel.

On arrival, Rupert went straight to the deluxe quarantine complex half a mile from the racecourse where his horses, Blank Chekov, Delectable, Dick the Second and Quickly, were staying, with his stable staff accommodated in the rooms overhead.

Three overseas trainers were allotted to each barn, with
Penscombe ironically sharing with Valhalla and Tommy Westerham. For this reason, Gav had employed a nightwatchman to guard Penscombe horses and their tack. Everyone was giggling because at 5 a.m. the nightwatchman had been traumatized by Louise running downstairs in only her thong to shut up a whinnying Chekov with a bowl of nuts.

‘He must have been kept awake finishing
The Cherry Orchard
,’ said Gala.

Gav, however, had his head in his hands because Quickly, in addition to all his other setbacks, had come out worst with a coffin draw in the World Cup – right on the outside, fifteenth out of fifteen – while I Will Repay had drawn number three.

‘But it’s great here,’ Lark reassured Rupert. ‘So warm after Gloucestershire, and our rooms are lovely and there’s a beautiful swimming pool and gorgeous food: lots of salads and kedgeree.’

Outwardly cheerful as usual, she was churning inside over whether Eddie would turn up. Knowing she shouldn’t talk to the opposition, she hadn’t been able to resist asking Harmony, who admitted Eddie was very out of favour, and that Roman and Ash were likely to take any rides. Horrible Sauvignon was evidently seeing a great deal of Wang, so Eddie was probably being kept out of the way.

Before he went back to his hotel, Rupert had a private word with Gav, who was pleased with the way Tarqui had limbered up Quickly with a half-mile work on the dirt that morning.

‘He’s in great form. Needs to be, to make up for this bloody awful draw.’

As Meerkat didn’t have a ride in the World Cup, Rupert had agreed Rosaria could borrow him to ride Geoffrey. Aware that Gala seemed abstracted and unhappy, Gav then bravely warned Rupert not to hurt her and was told to mind his own fucking business.

‘OK,’ said Rupert, returning to take leave of the troops: ‘I don’t want any of you to go out on the razzle. I don’t mind what you do tomorrow, but get some sleep tonight.’

He ignored the longing in Gala’s eyes. But out of earshot, five minutes later, livid with Jan and Taggie, and with Gav for sticking his nose in, he rang her, telling her to come and spend the night at the Meydan.

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’

‘Perfectly.
Gulf News
is hardly likely to lead on us and I need you. Bring your toothbrush.’

‘What about Quickly?’

‘Lark can keep an eye on him.’

It was terribly hot. As she blow-dried her hair, Gala looked back at Dubai, a vast distant huddle of skyscrapers, many of them wearing cranes like fascinators. Among the freebies beside her basin she found a little mending kit. Perhaps she should pass it on to Rupert to mend his marriage – and how could she put a deodorant called Sure under her armpits, when she was so unsure of everything? She felt shredded with guilt about Taggie, but couldn’t help herself.

She fiddled with her make-up all the way in the taxi, worrying if her new lipstick entitled ‘Passion’ was too dark a red? On the glass behind the driver was a list of questions on how you rated your ride.

Have you been completely satisfied?
asked the last one. I’m going to be that later, thought Gala with a shiver, but right now I’m going to be late, as the traffic was held up by an accident on the other side of the road and her driver jumped out to photograph it.

Rupert met her by the main stand. He was wearing jeans and a blue and white striped shirt. How was it that tiredness never dimmed his beauty?

Briefly he showed her the Hall of Champions.

‘That room’s called “the Horse Connections Lounge” – ghastly expression.’

To the right was a huge wall covered in glass moons, each framing the name of a previous World Cup winner. There was mighty Cigar, and Curlin and Dubai Millennium, a home win, and Victoire Pisa from Japan, whose victory had cheered up his
country after a devastating earthquake. A few glass moons were still empty.

‘That one’s waiting for Quickly,’ said Rupert.

‘Oh goodness.’ Gala’s voice trembled. ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely?’

They dined in the Meydan Restaurant. Rupert had a rare steak and chips; Gala, Dover sole and a green salad. Trying to banish all thoughts of Taggie, Safety Car and Love Rat, they both drank a great deal more than they ate.

Rupert made no attempt to hide the fact they were together, calling her ‘darling’, holding her hand, waving to Tommy Westerham and Charles Norville and their wives across the room and blanking a furiously disapproving Roddy Northfield and Damsire, who were running Red Trousers in an early race.