The Silver Falcon (18 page)

‘I hadn't thought of that,' Isabel said slowly. ‘I wouldn't let you lose by it, Tim. You'd have the money. He shouldn't have made it a conditional bequest anyway.'

‘No, thank you,' he said quickly. ‘I don't take money that I haven't earned. That's why Charles left it in that way. If Falcon wins I've earned it. And that's the only way I'll take it. Not as a sop to your conscience. I'm not being a bastard, Isabel, I'm just telling the truth. You can't back off this just to please Richard Schriber or even yourself. And I don't think you'll ever forgive yourself if you do.'

She didn't speak for a while. She sipped the brandy, watching the fire flickering round the logs. Cold, common sense, plainly put by a man she respected and trusted, a man she couldn't bear to walk away from her in anger. She had never realized until that moment how close she had grown to him since Charles had died. Not like Richard; there was no sense of being swept relentlessly towards the reefs of a love affair. It was a different feeling; Tim was a man who would never lie to her or let her lie to herself.

‘You're right,' she said at last. ‘Richard will have to understand. It can't be done. I'm only surprised at myself for thinking it was possible. I'm sorry, Tim. I've got myself into an emotional tangle, that's all. Forget I ever mentioned it. Tell me, when do we go to Longchamp?'

‘May 16th,' he said. He drew a long breath. ‘Christ,' he said, ‘you gave me a fright.' He laughed then, and suddenly Isabel felt the tension had gone. Everything was right; the room was warm and full of scent from the flowers she had arranged. It was as if time had gone into reverse, as if Richard had never told her about his father, never faced her with loving him. Tim had brought her back. Back to the safe world of Beaumont and the accepted pattern of her life as Charles's widow. She had been wrong to doubt her husband's motives. If only, she found herself thinking suddenly, if only it had been Tim instead.…

‘I've got a suggestion to make,' he interrupted her. The idea had come to him soon after he arrived, when they were sitting on the terrace.

‘There's a two-year-old colt over in Kildare we ought to see. I got a call from Brian Martin yesterday. It got the virus and wasn't ready for the Sales. He's seen it and he thinks it's great. It's by Monkstown, out of a winning mare by Never Bend. Fly over to Kilgallion tomorrow and look at it with me?'

‘I haven't been to Ireland for two years,' she said.' It would be fun to go. Nice to see Brian again too. All right, why not? How much do they want for the colt – or don't you dare tell me –'

Ryan grinned. ‘I don't,' he admitted. ‘I don't even dare tell myself till I've seen it. With that breeding, if it looks right, and Brian says it does, you're going to have to win the bloody Derby to pay for it!'

‘Tim,' Isabel said, ‘you're impossible. You'd better stay the night.' She reached up and gave him a grateful, affectionate kiss. He had another brandy, put through two calls to Ireland, one to Brian Martin asking him to meet them at lunchtime, and another to the owner of Kilgallion stud, saying they were coming to see the Monkstown colt. Once in Ireland they could linger until it was time to hurry back to England and then go on to Paris for the Prix Lupin. Richard Schriber wouldn't have a chance to upset her again. And there was something about the way she kissed him when she invited him to stay, that made Tim Ryan quietly confident. Richard had not won yet.

David Long was in a plaster cast from the waist down. His chest and shoulder were swathed in bandages. Heavy elastoplast supported his rib cage. He looked at the visitor with eyes full of suspicion. He had never seen the man before, but he had a good idea who had sent him. And about bloody time, he thought bitterly. Not a word from them since the accident. Not a penny either. He hadn't been too surprised; it was natural they wouldn't want to know when the plan went wrong. And wrong was hardly the word for it. Crippled for life; he wasn't fooled by the doctors. When they started talking about wheelchairs he knew what that meant. Useless. He cried a lot when he was alone, but he wasn't a coward. He had wanted to be a top jockey and he had the nerve all right, but not the skill. He had wasted away to a skeleton to make the weight for his first ride as an apprentice. Nigel Foster had given him the chance, and it had been disastrous. Long took the news that he couldn't expect to rise above a stable lad without saying much. He was a surly boy and seldom expressed his feelings except in four-letter words. He went back to work in the yard and knew he would never put on the silks again. So he decided to make a bit of money for himself instead. He had got away with a couple of jobs without anybody knowing. Nothing spectacular, just a horse in a seven-furlong race at Redcar that the bookies didn't want to win. A bucket of water half an hour before the race had settled him. He picked up a couple of hundred pounds for that. The second time he lamed one of Foster's two-year-olds with a well-timed kick when he was doing it in the box, and nobody suspected anything. She was heavily backed for a good race and he got five hundred for that. When he was approached over the Silver Falcon, it was in the bar at Newbury, on his day off. The amount of money was commensurate with what he had to do. He didn't hesitate; it was a fortune to him. They even supplied the iron bar.

‘Who the hell are you?' he said to the man. He was a small, wizened figure, with a sad monkey face. Long knew the type. Another down-at-heel ex-jockey bumming drinks off the lads on the course, hanging round the training pubs, hoping for a handout or a casual job. They would send a little scut like him.…

‘My name's Downs,' the man said, which was a lie, and which Long didn't believe for a moment. ‘You stood me a pint or two at the Black Cock – I heard what had happened, so I thought I'd pop along and see how you were getting on.'

Long turned his head away. ‘If that's it, then piss off,' he said. Downs didn't move.

‘A friend of yours sent me,' he said. ‘He wants to know what happened.' Long turned his head again and looked at him.

‘He took his fuckin' time,' he said. ‘I'm broke up. Tell him that. The bleeder broke my spine. I never got no chance with him.'

Downs leaned forward. ‘How come?' he whispered. He had seen enough of Long's injuries to know that more than a single kick was involved. The upper half of his body was bandaged to the neck.

Long's face twisted, whether with pain or hatred it was difficult to tell until he answered.

‘That bastard,' he spat out under his breath. ‘That bleedin' bastard – he tried to kill me! He came at me as soon as I got in the box, laid one on me and when I was down, he nearly murdered me –'

‘Christamighty,' Downs said. ‘Savaged you, did he? Nobody said nothin' about that –'

‘They wouldn't,' Long said. ‘It wouldn't look good, running a bloody killer horse. Everything was hushed up all right. But I tell you, and you tell them, don't send anyone else in after him; he'll do for them like he did me. I've got teeth marks on me like something out of bleedin'
Jaws
.'

Downs screwed up his eyes. ‘Christamighty,' he said again.

‘What're they going to do for me?' Long demanded. It was worth a try, but he didn't have much hope. They only paid on results, and it wasn't possible to blackmail them. He would only lose out if he told the real reason why he had gone into the Falcon's box. And after Nigel Foster's visit the day before, he didn't want to take any chances.

The best medical treatment available would be provided for him, and enough money settled on him by Mrs Schriber to keep him in comfort for the rest of his life. Not comfort; luxury. His parents were being compensated too, and that had really earned his gratitude. They had a hard life, especially his mother. The money would make all the difference. He could go and live with them when he left Stoke Mandeville. But the price, and Nigel Foster had made this clear, was no press interviews, no publicity. He worried for a moment about having talked to Downs.

‘Do for you?' Downs looked stupid, which Long felt wasn't difficult for him. ‘I dunno; nobody said nothing to me. Just wanted to know how you was.' He got up quickly, patted Long on the shoulder.

‘Glad you're not too bad,' he said. ‘Keep smilin', lad. Accidents will 'appen.' He hurried out of the ward. Long raised his head and said something obscene at his back view.

Downs came out of the hospital entrance, looked round him, and then walked over to the hospital car park. He needed a drink, and the nearest pub was a good twenty minutes away. He slipped between the cars until he came to a blue Ford Cortina. The passenger door opened as he approached and he got in. The man in the driver's seat wore a felt hat and dark glasses. Downs cleared his throat nervously; he felt sandpaper-dry in the throat. Thirty years ago, when he was a promising jockey with a retainer to a good stable, he started getting that same feeling. Drink had ruined his career and his life.

‘Well Guv,' the words came out in a rush. ‘I've talked 'im round – 'e won't give no trouble –'

Five minutes later he came out of the car park. There were four five-pound notes in his greasy inside pocket. He hurried towards the pub in the High Street as fast as his short legs could cover the ground. The blue Ford Cortina passed him on the way. The window was up and the man in the hat and dark glasses didn't look at him. The car turned off at the sign to the motorway and London.

The announcement that the Silver Falcon was to run in the Prix Lupin was made from Dublin. Nigel Foster had joined Isabel and Tim Ryan; he had heard about the Monkstown colt and, being a man who seized opportunities, flew out on a pretext of looking at something else. If anyone was going to train the colt that season, he was determined it should be himself. Tim had booked himself and Isabel into the Hibernian. He knew it well and liked its old-fashioned service and homely charm. Isabel hadn't been there before, because Charles had usually stayed at the Shelbourne or with friends when he visited Ireland.

Tim had driven her out to the Kilgallion stud the day after they arrived. He was in a buoyant mood, teasing her about having a hangover; they had spent the evening dining with Brian Martin, who had been a scout for Charles during the last ten years. He was a huge, jolly man, hard-drinking and over-fond of women, but with a faultless eye for a horse. He didn't always buy the most expensive either. His dictum was always the same. First look at the breeding and then look at the horse. They had spent a long, uproarious evening in Snaffles, a small dining club near Merrion Square, where the food was excellent. Isabel had never experienced Ireland with the Irish before; she didn't realize until she and Tim and Brian were all strolling back through the streets, arm in arm, with the big man rolling slightly, how Charles had dominated everything they did together. He moved on a princely circuit; nobody walked because there was always a vast sleek car in waiting. He overawed his guests a little; even Brian was subdued, though that wasn't saying much by normal standards. That night Tim showed her the city and himself as she had never seen them before. Driving down to Kildare along the two-lane highway out of Dublin the morning after that party, she did feel slightly hung over, but she couldn't remember having ever enjoyed herself more. Nigel Foster had telephoned them, full of disarming talk about coincidences, which had amused Tim very much, and invited himself down to Kilgallion to look at the two-year-old with them.

The stud was one of the most famous in Ireland, standing in twelve hundred acres of prime pasture, with the Liffey river running through it; the house was approached by an impressive avenue of beech trees. She hadn't visited it before, and she was intrigued by the meeting with the owner. Mrs Muriel Bartlett Brown was a well-known Irish folk figure; revered, or detested, she had established herself as one of the most successful breeders in the world. Widowed at thirty-seven with four children and very little money, she had begun with two brood mares, purchased with money borrowed from friends, and ended as a millionairess owning Kilgallion and with many of the great Classic winners among her progeny. She referred to her bloodstock as my children, and had been known to send a buyer off the property if she didn't like his looks or manner, irrespective of how much he could pay. The house was a big Georgian rectangle, painted shell-pink, with creepers and wisteria trained up its walls. The lawns surrounding it were barbered and as green as the rolling paddocks on all sides. As the car turned into the gravelled courtyard, a horde of Border terriers came streaking out of the front door, barking furiously. The tall, thin figure of Mrs Bartlett Brown followed them. She had untidy grey hair, a grey, granite textured face, with bright blue eyes; she was dressed in a similar shade of pale pink to the walls of her house.

They were invited inside, and offered a choice between whisky and champagne. It was just before eleven o'clock in the morning. Tim and she talked most of the time; Isabel was happy to sit and listen to them, and to look at the sitting room. The curtains were pink and the chintz had the same predominant colour – obviously Mrs Bartlett Brown's favourite. There were photographs everywhere, of horses winning races all over the world. She seemed a woman of intelligence and charm, obviously an expert who knew her own mind, and either the reports were exaggerated, or else she had taken a fancy to them. They waited for Nigel Foster to arrive.

‘No point in taking you out to see the little fellow, without him being here,' she said to Isabel. ‘I imagine that if you do buy him, you'll send him to Nigel?' It wasn't so much a question as a statement. Tim winked at Isabel.

‘Let's see him win the Derby with Silver Falcon first, Muriel. But I'll tell him you were working for him, anyway.'

She gave a loud, masculine laugh. ‘I wouldn't if I didn't think he was the best. As English trainers go; I'd like to see my little fellow trained over here, but Nigel will do. That's him now; shut up, dogs! Shut up!'