Outside Chance (32 page)

Backing into a convenient gateway and heading for home, Ben realised that maybe, in future, he should be more careful in his dealings with the trainer.

By the time he finally reached home Ben was dog-tired, and close inspection of his fridge revealed very little that looked even remotely appetising, so he sent out for a Chinese.

It had been his intention to relax for the rest of the evening but the events of the day kept replaying over and over in his mind, and even before his chicken chow mein had arrived, he'd booted up his computer and was searching the family history websites for a database of registered births, marriages and deaths.

What he found set his mind buzzing and caused him to sit back and rethink a large part of his investigation.

CHELTENHAM FAVOURITE IN DISAPPEARANCE MYSTERY

BEN STARED AT
the headline with a sinking heart. Telephone receiver in hand, he'd padded barefoot along to the front door of the cottage to retrieve his Sunday paper, and he now stood on the sheepskin mat in the hall.

‘Well?' Truman's voice barked down the phone.

‘Yeah, I see it.'

‘And I suppose you're proud of your handiwork?'

‘Except that it's not mine,' Ben said, swiftly scanning the text underneath the title. Whoever had alerted Fleet Street hadn't given much away – or possibly didn't have much
to
give away. The article didn't name its informant, accrediting the information to ‘sources close to Truman's Castle Ridge yard'.

‘It's already in three of the papers and the others all want a piece. I've had reporters on my
doorstep, all over the gallops, and tying up the phone lines all morning. I've had to get the police to move them on.'

‘Well, I'm sorry but, like I said, it wasn't me. If it had been, I'd have wanted my name on it, I can tell you!'

‘Well, if it wasn't you, then who the fuck was it?' Truman demanded.

‘Could be any one of dozens,' Ben said. ‘Your staff, or your family . . .'

‘My family? Don't talk crap! They wouldn't do this. How dare you try and shift the blame!'

‘There's no blame to shift as far as I'm concerned.' Ben went into his kitchen and tossed the paper on to the granite worktop. Wedging the handset between shoulder and ear he proceeded to fill the kettle, talking all the while. ‘To be honest, I'm surprised this hasn't happened long before now. Any reporter with his eye on the gallops would have noticed that King hasn't been out for a few days, and it would be easy enough to get one of the lads chattering down at the pub. After all, it doesn't say anything specific, does it? Just that you're being secretive about his whereabouts. I'd say it was pure speculation; probing for a reaction on a quiet news day. With that frost yesterday quite a few fixtures were off, and they've got to find something to write about.'

There was silence for a moment, and Ben guessed that Truman was reluctantly seeing the truth of his argument. He sat on a stool to lift his feet off the cold flagstones for a moment and wished he'd taken the time to find a dressing
gown and moccasins. Truman's call had caught him having a lie-in.

‘Are you coming over today?'

Ben blinked.

‘I thought I was a waste of time and money.'

‘I was mad with you yesterday.'

‘And you're not now?'

‘Well, sometimes you make sense,' he conceded. ‘Which is more than I can say for all these chattering women I've got round me all day.'

Ben frowned. To someone who had a great deal of respect and liking for the fairer sex, Truman's misogynistic undertones grated, to say the least. Though remembering the way his hands had wandered all over his part-time secretary, Ben supposed it was more accurate to say that the trainer held women in contempt rather than actual dislike.

Ben braved the cold floor again to get a mug from the drainer and reached for the coffee. Mouse came quietly in, glanced at him under her bushy brows and curled up, with a sigh, on her blanket under the table.

‘I could come over later, for a little while. I was coming to see Mikey, anyway.'

‘Make it lunchtime if you like,' Truman said. ‘One-ish. Come to lunch. What on earth's that racket?'

‘The kettle.'

‘The kettle? Thanks a bloody million! Here am I dealing with a crisis, and you're making a cup of bloody tea!'

‘Life goes on,' Ben observed. ‘See you later.'

Ben was expecting Lisa back at some point that day, but his intention to spend what was left of the morning tidying up and cleaning the cottage was hampered by two further telephone calls: one from Taylor, his editor on the Csikós story, and the other from Logan.

Taylor, who – Ben thought a little sourly – must live in his office to be there first thing on a Sunday morning, was keen to wrap up the first part of the article on the Hungarians, not least because the troupe's performances were attracting so much attention that he was worried someone might pre-empt Ben's exposé. They would do a separate review of the preparation for and performance of the final, spectacular
son et lumière
at Brinkley Castle, Taylor said, warning that there would be hell to pay if someone else stole the magazine's thunder.

Logan's business was equally imperative.

‘When are you going to tell me what the bloody hell you're up to?' he demanded without preamble.

‘With regard to . . .?' Ben asked cautiously.

‘Well, try this for size: you ask me for information on ALSA, then our colleagues over at Midhurst pick a couple of them up after a midnight disturbance and who should be on hand but Ben Copperfield. You ask for info about one Leonard Salter, and guess what? A couple of days later he gets himself beaten up and almost fried to a crisp. And when we asked the neighbours if they saw anything strange in the last few days, they said yes – our Lenny had a visitor; a youngish man in a four-wheel-drive vehicle whose description was
you to a tee. Now, do you have anything you'd like to tell Uncle Mark?'

‘He was beaten up? Again? Poor bastard! Will he be OK?'

‘Well, he's off the danger list, apparently. But he's still hooked up to a machine and I'm told it'll be a while before he's up and about. It would appear that someone took a boot to him. I gather there was quite extensive internal bleeding.'

‘They didn't – I mean, he told me he was terrified if they came back they'd break his elbows. They didn't, did they?'

‘If who came back?'

‘Whoever did his knees.'

‘Well, not as far as I know. So, come on. What gives?'

‘Nothing. Well, nothing new. I mean, you know what I'm working on. Ford and Truman have promised me an exclusive, and I'm just following up a few leads while I'm waiting.'

‘And what's the connection with this horse circus thing?'

‘No connection,' Ben heard himself say, lightly. ‘That's another article I happen to be working on.' If only that could be true. He didn't like lying to Logan.

‘So what did you find out from Salter?'

‘Well, he's certainly not one of Eddie Truman's biggest fans, if that's anything. Quite apart from unfair dismissal and defamation of character, he seems to have no doubt that it was Truman who was behind the beating-up he suffered a few years ago.'

‘Yet, when we interviewed him at the time, he
swore it was a couple of youngsters after dope money.'

‘Well, do you blame him? When they'd just taken out his kneecaps with a monkey wrench and were threatening to come back and finish the job?'

‘So, who was it this time, Sherlock?'

‘What does he say? Haven't you spoken to him?'

‘He hasn't said much at all yet; he's pretty drugged up. But, interestingly, your name has come up a couple of times. Why should that be, I wonder.'

Ben ignored him.

‘Well, I don't know for sure who did it, but I do know that when Truman found out that I'd been to see Salter he wasn't a particularly happy bunny.'

‘Well, we've got a man waiting to have a word, as soon as the doctor says he can. Until then I guess we'll have to hope forensics turn up something. And as for you, buddy, just remember there's a whole lot more to this thing than making the headlines in some newspaper, OK?'

‘Yeah, I know,' Ben said. ‘Believe me, I know.'

The atmosphere at the Truman dinner table was interesting, to say the least. It was Eddie Truman himself who opened the door to Ben and, aside from shooting a pithy dismissal towards the remaining couple of reporters lingering hopefully on his drive, he seemed perfectly genial. Somehow, rather than putting Ben's mind at rest, he found this a little unsettling. He was ushered
into the huge, range-warmed kitchen where the rest of the family had gathered and was furnished with a glass of red wine. All the recessed spotlights were on and blinds were drawn over the two windows that overlooked the front drive, which Ben presumed was to guard against the possibility of prying eyes and camera lenses. Tactfully, he made no comment.

Fliss greeted Ben with a kiss on the cheek, glancing defiantly across at her father as she did so, and as the soup-and-sandwich lunch got underway it was obvious to Ben that she still hadn't forgiven either her father or her sister for the previous day's quarrel. Helen wore her habitually sullen expression, glaring at Ben whenever he looked her way, and her mother looked almost as if she'd been crying. Eyeing her, Ben wondered for the first time whether Truman's abuse of her ever went beyond the purely verbal.

As on the previous occasion, Finch seemed interested in his food and little else, so the conversation – such as it was – was confined almost entirely to Truman, Ben and Bess.

‘Oh, I hate this false light!' Helen exclaimed suddenly, breaking in rudely on something Bess was saying. ‘Can't we have the blinds up now?'

‘You know why we can't,' her father said shortly.

‘Because somebody blabbed to the papers. And we all know who that was, don't we?' Helen sent Ben a sneering glance, which he affected not to notice.

‘It wasn't Ben,' Truman said.

‘Oh, why? Because he says so? He can do no
wrong, can he? You let him talk his way out of everything. What is he, the son you never had?'

‘Helen!' Elizabeth said sharply. She had put little food on her plate and eaten almost none of it.

‘It wouldn't surprise me if it was
you
who spoke to the papers,' Fliss put in, looking at her sister.

‘What? Don't be ridiculous! Why on earth would I do that?'

‘Just to get Ben into trouble, probably. I wouldn't put it past you.'

Helen coloured, and it occurred to Ben that Fliss might well have hit the nail on the head.

‘I did not, you vicious cow!'

‘That's enough!' her father thundered.

Somewhere in the central part of the house a two-tone doorbell sounded, and Bess quickly offered to answer it.

‘Why do you always take
her
side?' Helen complained bitterly, ignoring Bess's departure.

‘It's not a case of taking sides, it's a case of behaving like civilised adults, which, quite frankly, neither of you are at the moment!'

‘Well, it's not my fault she's got a crush on Ben!' Helen retorted.

This time it was Fliss whose face flamed.

‘I have not! You made that up, you interfering bitch!'

‘Oi!' Finch looked up over a spoonful of soup, finally moved to a nominal defence of his wife and, in the corner of the room, baby Lizzie hiccupped and started to cry.

Elizabeth rose to her feet to go and tend to the child but Helen pushed her chair back sharply
and jumped up, saying over her shoulder, ‘Now look what you've done!'

Being opposite the door to the hall, Ben was
the first to notice Bess come back and stand hesitantly on the threshold. He thought she looked flustered.

She cleared her throat. ‘Er – Eddie . . .'

She had to say it again, a little louder, before he heard but then he too saw the look on her face and waved his hand impatiently at the others.

‘Yes, Bess?'

‘Er . . . There's a young man at the door. He says . . . He says he's . . . '

Suddenly, the young man in question was there, beside and just behind her.

‘I
said
, I've come to find my mother,' he stated, in the squeaky-gruff voice of the adolescent male.

Somewhere in his teens, the newcomer was of medium height and slim build but with a breadth of shoulder he had yet to grow into. His hair was dark, as were his eyes and, even under a stress-induced pallor, his skin had a faintly olive tint. He looked terrified but Ben was impressed by the courage with which he faced the roomful of people, who were gazing back at him with a semi-comical array of expressions, none of them especially welcoming.

Into the stunned silence, Ben took it upon himself to speak.

‘And you, I take it, are Stephen,' he said. Instantly everyone's attention was transferred to him.

‘What the . . .?' Truman seemed momentarily floored.

The boy's dark eyes had turned Ben's way, surprised and wary.

‘How did you know? Who are you?'

‘Call it an educated guess,' Ben said, smiling a little. ‘I knew of your existence so it's not so very clever. My name's Ben Copperfield.'

‘You're not . . .? I mean . . . '

With a shock, Ben realised what the boy was trying to say.

‘No, I'm not,' he said gently. ‘You'll have to ask your mother about that.'

Stephen looked across to where Helen was standing, holding the baby tucked under one arm and her feeding bottle in the other hand. Her fingers had tightened and milk was dripping steadily from the rubber top but she didn't notice. Her eyes shot in panic from the visitor to her father and back again.