Outside Chance (20 page)

Massingham.

Ben didn't remember the name, but then he'd have been, what . . .? Sixteen? It was about the time he'd left home, still traumatised after the death of his brother less than two years before, and the subsequent break-up of his parents' marriage. No wonder, then, that he hadn't taken much notice of what was going on in the horse world. That had been a black time in his life and he shook his head now, as if to physically banish the memory.

For Eddie Truman, at least, it seemed that things had been coming up roses at that point in time.

Ben leafed back through the cuttings. Massingham appeared to have been virtually unraced before his big breakthrough. There was no mention of previous successes – actually, there were very few wins by any of the flat horses in the year leading up to the Derby. After the big race there were pictures galore: Massingham with Truman and the jockey in the winners enclosure;
the prize-giving; the homecoming; Massingham opening a fête in the village. Several pages were devoted to the celebrations. He turned a few more pages, reading with interest. It seemed that, a month or two after the Derby success, the number of horses in training at Castle Ridge had swelled to such a degree that Truman was able to justify having a retained jockey; one who was paid to ride for the stable, wherever and whenever he was required to. This was reported under a photo of one of the yard's winners, where Truman was described as ‘an up-and-coming force to be reckoned with.'

Looking at the dates it appeared that the arrangement had been mutually advantageous; that particular jockey had ridden for Castle Ridge until his retirement six years later and the stable had had some notable successes. Over the next seven years the jockeys photographed on the yard's winners were many and varied, leading Ben to think that perhaps Truman hadn't had a retained jockey for that period. Then, for a couple of years, Lenny Salter had partnered many of the horses.

Lenny Salter, who, according to Rice, had left with a flea in his ear, and then . . . Then what? Ben felt strongly that he should find out.

‘More research, Mr Copperfield?' Fliss had come in, soft-footed, whilst he was engrossed in the history of the yard, and now stood beside him, looking down at the open page. ‘Oh,
Lovely Lenny Salter
!'

‘
Lovely
Lenny?' Ben straightened up and found himself on a level with Truman's younger
daughter, close enough to be aware of the youthful smoothness of her pale skin, tinged with pink now by the icy wind.

‘I'm being sarcastic, of course,' Fliss said, looking down at the photo on the page. ‘I never liked him. He was a rough sort – a rough diamond, Dad used to call him, which made him all the more furious when he found out he was just a lump of coal.' She smiled at her own joke, her green eyes twinkling.

‘What did he do?'

‘He was pulling horses. You know, losing to order.'

‘So what did your father do?'

‘Sacked him, of course. He hadn't enough proof to take him to the Jockey Club, but he saw to it that the word got around.'

‘So Lenny doesn't ride any more?' Ben said, hoping she might expand on it.

‘No. As a matter of fact, he was mugged just a few weeks later. Somebody kneecapped him with a cricket bat in his own garage. Did the world a favour, if you ask me.'

Ben thought she sounded fairly offhand about it. It clearly hadn't occurred to her that the attack was anything other than a happy coincidence. What wonderful things rose-coloured spectacles were, he mused, until you took them off. Well, he wasn't about to do it for her.

‘I wanted to be a jockey when I was growing up,' Fliss went on. ‘I was always begging Dad to let me take out a licence but he wouldn't. He kept saying, “When you're eighteen, we'll see,” but by the time I was eighteen I was way too tall
to be a flat jockey, and I knew he'd never let me ride over the jumps. It's too dangerous. I think he knew I was going to be too tall,' she added ruefully. ‘So now I shall just have to be a trainer, instead.'

‘How old are you?'

‘Twenty-two.' She answered freely; young enough not to be coy about her age. She turned round and parked her slim behind on the table, looking up at Ben from under her auburn fringe. ‘Why?'

‘So you could go and ride for someone else, if you wanted?' he suggested.

‘Oh no, I'd never leave here! I wanted to ride for Dad. That was the whole point. Riding winners for
our
yard.'

‘Or not.'

‘Well, I hope I would have won sometimes. You're not a male chauvinist, I hope, Ben Copperfield. Like those commentators who say, “Well, she rode quite a good finish, but you can't expect a girl to ride as strongly as a man.” That really makes my blood boil.'

‘No, I'm not like that,' he assured her.

‘Well . . . good.' She looked at him and a reluctant smile softened her face. ‘Damn you! You made me get my soapbox out again, and I've been trying so hard not to do that. It's just – I would love to have been a jockey . . .'

‘So now you're intending to put your father out of a job, instead?'

Fliss twinkled again. ‘Well, maybe not yet awhile.'

Occupying pride of place in the centre of the
wall was an enlarged photograph of Cajun King winning a race in fine form. Ben stepped closer to read the caption.

‘That's King winning the Champion Chase,' Fliss said proudly.

‘He's nothing special to look at, really, is he?' Ben said, studying another photo. ‘No, don't take offence! I just mean that he's fairly average-looking. If it wasn't for his short tail, I probably wouldn't be able to tell him apart from dozens of others.'

‘Looks don't count for a lot on the racecourse. Look at Desert Orchid: even his most ardent fan couldn't claim that he's beautiful but he had that certain something about him that shouted Champion!'

‘Are you saying King has that look, too?' Ben studied another picture but, with the best will in the world, couldn't see anything that even whispered Champion. He was just a pleasant-looking, well put-together thoroughbred, with a laughably short tail.

‘Of course,' she stated loyally.

She stayed for another ten minutes or so, recounting various tales about the horses in the photos, though she was a little hazy on the earlier ones. ‘I was only three when we first came here,' she said by way of an excuse, ‘and seven when Massingham won the Derby.'

Ben agreed to let her off.

When she left, saying that she had a horse's foot to poultice, she added, ‘You're welcome to come and watch, if you like.' But Ben declined. It wasn't that he wouldn't have been perfectly
happy to spend some more time chatting with her – she was very pleasant company – it was just that he knew from experience the attendant perils of such a situation. Standing in stable doorways watching that kind of operation inevitably led to such requests as, ‘Could you just move him over for me?' or, ‘If you could just hold his leg up while I put this dressing on . . .' He knew that any of his ready stock of excuses would be recognised as just that by Miss Felicity Truman. There were clearly no flies on her.

With a sigh, he left the public room and wandered across to watch the work in progress on the building that was to house the swimming pool.

He was still there, deep in thought, some ten minutes later, when a voice hailed him and he turned to see Ray Finch approaching.

‘You should be wearing a hard hat,' the assistant trainer told him, unsmiling.

As Ben was at least thirty feet from where the work was going on he ignored this. After a moment Finch spoke again.

‘Saw Rice showing you round. Did you get what you needed for your article?'

‘Some.' Ben gestured at the perimeter wall. ‘Is that normal?'

‘Some yards lock up at night, some don't,' Finch said, stopping beside him. A faint smell of alcohol pervaded the air. ‘No point locking the gates if you can climb over the fence. Eddie's always been security conscious.'

‘Your house is inside the wall,' Ben commented, having had the bungalow pointed
out to him earlier. ‘But apart from that, is there any other security? I mean a guard, or alarms.'

Finch nodded. ‘Everything is wired up. Stables, tackroom, feedstore, the lot. And of course there are the boys.'

‘The boys?' Ben raised an eyebrow and, for the first time, saw Finch smile.

‘Come and see.'

He led the way across the complex to where a galvanised steel gate was let into the wall. This was at the furthest point from all the houses, and Finch described it as the tradesman's entrance. ‘It's used for deliveries – feed, hay, bedding etc – and the diesel tank is here,' he explained.

On one side of the gate, and surrounded by a low, double-skinned breezeblock wall was a large, grey-painted fuel tank; on the other was a brick and timber building with an attached wire-netting run. As they approached, a black and tan face appeared enquiringly in the open doorway of the structure and uttered a short sharp bark. Instantly the face was joined by a second, identical one, and then two sleek Dobermans rushed out to stand at the front of the concrete-floored pen and give voice to a very effective warning.

‘Meet the boys,' Finch announced proudly, raising his voice to make himself heard over their enthusiastic efforts. ‘Kaiser and Rommel. They take care of security for us after lights out.'

‘I can see how they might,' Ben replied, half shouting.

Finch laughed. ‘Watch this.' He held up his right hand, making a circle with his index finger and thumb; then, as the dogs faltered a little in
their furious barking, he said quietly, ‘That'll do, boys.'

All at once there was silence and the two dogs sat down, but Ben noticed that they continued to keep him under close scrutiny.

‘I guess that wouldn't work if I were to do it,' he hazarded.

‘Nope. Only me and Helen's father,' Finch said, clearly revelling in the knowledge.

‘Should have thought it might be awkward in an emergency.'

‘Not really. They don't go out until after we've walked round the stables at nine o'clock, and if there's a problem with one of the horses and Trent has to go in and out, we just keep the dogs in. But all the people who deliver here know about the dogs, and the word gets around. They're the best deterrent.'

‘What would they do if they got loose now? Would they attack me?' An unfortunate incident with a friend's Doberman when Ben was very young had led him to regard the breed with caution.

‘They might if I let 'em. So you'd better stay on the right side of me,' Finch said with a sideways look. ‘They take their job very seriously.'

As if to illustrate the point, the dogs began another frenzy of barking, this time directed towards the gate, and after a moment the two men heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. In due course, the bolt on the gate slid open; it swung inward and a rather unprepossessing character in dirty overalls peered cautiously inside, checking first on the dogs, before catching sight of Ben and Finch.

Ben got the impression that the man was rather dismayed to find them there, a fact that was borne out by his almost immediate withdrawal.

‘Yes? What do you want?' Finch called loudly, starting towards the gate and silencing the dogs with a shrill whistle and the hand signal as he did so. They subsided with no more than a few stray barks. Ben was impressed.

The gate opened a few inches once more and the face reappeared.

‘Sorry mate. Wrong turning.'

Looking distinctly annoyed, Finch went up to the man, spoke a few words and then, pointing this way and that, redirected him.

‘There's a quarry half a mile up the road,' he said, rejoining Ben after the man had retreated. ‘We're always getting people who've taken the wrong turning. It's a bloody nuisance.'

‘Should have thought it'd be worth putting a sign at the end of the track, then,' Ben suggested. ‘You know, “No Access to Quarry” or something like that.'

‘Yeah, I know. I just never seem to get round to it.'

Finch sounded almost offhand and Ben didn't think the problem could be a very great one.

‘I suppose you get through a lot of fuel with the lorries,' he remarked, gesturing towards the tank and adding apologetically, ‘I overheard Eddie this morning, having a moan to you about it.'

‘He's always having a gripe about something or other. But yeah, with the three lorries and a couple of Land Rovers, it's frightening how
much.' He looked at his watch. ‘Well, I'd better be getting back to the yard. There'll be feeding to see to soon.'

‘Rice said it's always either you or Eddie that does the feeds; doesn't your wife ever get involved with the horses?' Ben started to walk back towards the stables with Truman's son-in-law.

Finch shook his head. ‘No. Helen's not really interested – especially not now she's got the baby. The only other person who's allowed to prepare the feeds is Trent, or Fliss. She knows as much about the business as any of us.'

‘Yes, I was just talking to her. She's quite an ambitious young lady.'

‘Takes after her father.' Finch didn't sound as though the fact filled him with joy.

‘So, how long have you worked here? Were you here before you were married or did you marry into the job?'

Finch bristled. ‘I'm fully qualified for the position. I worked for Belinda Kepple before I came here.'

From his response, Ben gathered that he had indeed married into the job.

‘So, what's it like, working for the family firm?' he asked, probing for a reaction.

‘It's crap!'

It seemed he'd touched a nerve because Finch's response came instantly, almost involuntarily, but was just as quickly retracted.

‘No, I didn't mean that. If that gets into print I'll sue you,' he said, turning towards Ben and wagging a finger in his face.