‘And you took a swipe at Jogger,’ I said.
‘Well, he wouldn’t shut up and I was raging about Brett, and Jogger was going on and on about things stuck on the bottom of the horseboxes, on and on about the cash box in your sitting-room, that filthy old cash box, on and on about things being carried under the lorries...’
‘Did you understand what he was talking about?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘About lone rangers?’
‘Yeah, of course. Strangers.’
‘What about nuns and Poland?’
‘Eh?’
His face was blank. Nuns and Poland meant nothing.
‘Did Jogger,’ I asked, ‘know about your private enterprise?’
‘What? Do you mean that Ogden? Of course Jogger knew he’d died, like. I didn’t tell him the ride had been fixed in advance. I’m not loony, see, he’d have been round to you in five minutes telling on me. Always on your side, was Jogger.’
‘I thought you were, too,’ I observed.
‘Yeah.’ He looked very faintly ashamed. ‘Well, like, there’s no harm in a bit of beer money on the side.’
‘There was, this time.’
‘How was I to know he’d die?’ Dave asked aggrievedly.
‘What was he carrying?’ I asked.
‘Carrying?’ His forehead wrinkled. ‘A bag. One of them briefcases. And, um, a sort of carrier bag with sandwiches and a flask. I helped him put them all up in the cab.’
‘What did he do with the sandwiches?’
‘Ate them, I suppose. I don’t know.’
‘Did you and Brett buy sandwiches?’
He looked puzzled by the questions but found them easier to answer than earlier ones. ‘Brett did,’ he said readily, though sourly. ‘He went off laughing and bought some with my money, the turd.’
‘Brett said you’d picked up hitchhikers on other occasions.’
‘He’s a shit.’
‘Well, did you? And were they arranged in advance?’
‘No, they were casual, like. Brett never minded, if he got some of the dosh.’
‘What about the other drivers? Have they done the same?’
‘I’m not snitching on anyone,’ he said virtuously.
‘Meaning that they have?’
‘No.’ He physically squirmed.
I left it. Instead I asked, ‘How long before you went to Newmarket was the stop at South Mimms arranged?’
‘The night before.’
‘Time?’
‘After I got back from the Folkestone races.’
‘That means late.’
He nodded. ‘My wife didn’t like it.’
‘Had the woman tried to reach you before you got back?’
‘My wife would have gone on about it if she had.’
He seemed to be well under his wife’s thumb, and it didn’t seem to have occurred to him to ask how the woman on the telephone had known he wouldn’t be home until late, and had also known he would be going to Newmarket the next day. She had known, moreover, that he could be bribed to pick up a hitchhiker.
She had known a good deal too much.
Who, for God’s sake, had told her?
Chapter 10
Dave and Aziz set off for Ireland, Dave looking only moderately chastened, apparently confident that I wouldn’t actually sack him. He was probably right, as he didn’t appear to have broken any laws except my own and could go off to an industrial tribunal muttering about wrongful dismissal if I gave him grounds and he had a mind to. There was nothing new in his irresponsibility. He was still very good and reliable with horses and an adequate driver. I hoped he would think twice in future about taking money for lifts, but I wouldn’t bet he’d never do it. The main change, as far as I could see, was in my own attitude towards him, my indulgent liking having faded towards irritation.
Out in the farmyard Lewis was showing photographs of his baby to Nina who had arrived in her working persona and her working car.
‘He’s a right little raver,’ Lewis said, looking adoringly at his offspring. ‘You know what, he likes soccer on the telly, he watches it all the time.’
‘How old is he?’ Nina asked, dutifully admiring.
‘Eight months. Look at this one, in the bath, sucking his yellow duck.’
‘He’s lovely,’ Nina said.
Lewis beamed and said, ‘Nothing’s too good for him. We might send him to Eton, why not?’ He tucked the photos away in an envelope. ‘Better be off to Lingfield, I guess,’ he said. ‘Two for Benjy Usher. Last time I went to that yard,’ he told Nina, ‘they led out the wrong horse, and not for the first time, either. I’d loaded up and was driving out of the gate when one of the lads came tearing along yelling and screaming. I ask you! The wrong horse! And there’s Mr Usher yelling out of his upstairs window as if it was my fault, not his head lad’s, the stupid git.’
Nina listened, fascinated, and asked me, ‘Is it easy to pick up the wrong horse?’
‘We take the horses they give us,’ I said. ‘If they’re the wrong ones, it’s not our fault. As you know, our drivers have worksheets with times, pick-up points, destinations, and the names of the horses, but it’s not their job to check identities.’
‘We took two of Mr Usher’s all the way to the wrong races, last year,’ Lewis said, enjoying it.
I enlarged. ‘We were taking one from Usher’s to Leicester and one to Plumpton, and although Lewis and the other driver each said clearly which box was going to which destination, the Usher head lad mixed them up. They didn’t find out until the first one arrived at the wrong place. There was quite a fracas.’
‘Frack-ass,’ Lewis said, grinning. ‘I’ll say.’
‘Look in a newspaper and check you’ve got the right names of the Usher runners,’ I told Lewis, ‘so we have no more mix ups today.’
‘OK.’
He walked off to the canteen where he could be seen consulting the racing programmes, then with a wave took himself over to his super-six to set off on his journey.
‘When he came here first,’ I told Nina, ‘Lewis had ringlets. Now he has the baby instead. He’s handy with his fists if you ever need defending. There won’t be many people messing with his boy.’
‘School bullies beware?’
‘And their dads.’
‘They’re all very different from each other when you get to know them,’ Nina said.
‘The drivers, do you mean? Yes, they are.’ She came with me into my office. ‘Tell me about Nigel.’
She settled herself comfortably into the second chair while I perched on the edge of the desk.
‘He drove nearly all the way, there and back, regardless of hours, but we wrote up the logbooks as if we’d shared it more evenly.’
‘Tut.’
She smiled. ‘He said I could look after the horse. He’s not too fond of horses, did you know? He said some drivers he talks to at race meetings are downright scared of them.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Nigel thinks you aren’t too bad to work for. A bit fussy, like, he said.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘He’s proud of his body. He gave me a run-down of the state of his muscles, practically each of them separately. He told me how to develop my pectorals.’
I laughed in my throat. ‘How useful.’
‘I have a message for you from Patrick Venables.’
Abrupt change of subject. ‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Those tubes you gave me for analysis. He says,’ she frowned indecisively, ‘he says they held something called viral transport medium.’
I made no immediate comment, so she went on. ‘It’s a liquid apparently made up of sterile water, sucrose — it sounds odd but that’s what he said — and bovine albumin which is what keeps the virus going, and glutamic acid, that’s an amino acid or something, and an antibiotic called geranium... er, no... Gentamicin... which kills off invading bacteria, but won’t act on a virus. The whole stuff’s used for transporting a virus from place to place.’