His disapproving frown lightened into a half-smile. ‘You’ll be telling me next that the Blaze is more interested in justice than sensationalism.’
‘It says so. Often,’ I agreed sardonically.
‘Huh,’ said Norton. ‘You can’t believe everything you read in the papers.’
I drove home slowly, tired and depressed. Other times, trouble had been a yeast lightening the daily bread. A positive plus factor. Something I needed. But other times, trouble hadn’t bitterly invaded my marriage or earned me such a savage physical attack.
This time, although I was fairly confident that Tiddely Pom would start in his, race, the successful uncovering and extermination of a racing scandal was bringing me none of the usual up-surging satisfaction. This time, dust and ashes. This time, present grief and a grey future.
I stopped on the way and rang the Blaze. Luke-John had left for the day. I got him at home.
‘Tiddely Pom is in the racecourse stables at Heathbury,’ I said. ‘Guarded by an ex-policeman and a large Alsatian. The Clerk of the Course and the racecourse manager both know who he is, but no one else does. O.K.?’
‘Very, I should think.’ He sounded moderately pleased, but no more. ‘We can take it as certain now that Tiddely Pom will start in the Lamplighter. It’s made a good story, Ty, but I’m afraid we exaggerated the danger.’
I disillusioned him. ‘Charlie Boston’s boys were three miles from Norton Fox’s stable by two thirty this afternoon.’
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘So it’s really true...’
‘You’ve looked at it so far as a stunt for the Blaze.’
‘Well...’
‘Well, so it is,’ I agreed. ‘Anyway, Charlie Boston’s boys had a slight accident with their car, and they are now back to square one as they don’t know where I took Tiddely Pom.’
‘What sort of accident?’
‘They ran into the back of the horsebox. Careless of them. I put the brakes on rather hard, and they were following a little too close.’
A shocked silence. Then he said, ‘Were they killed?’
‘No. Hardly bent.’ I gave him an outline of the afternoon’s events. Luke-John’s reaction was typical and expected, and the enthusiasm was alive again in his voice.
‘Keep away from the police until Sunday.’
‘Sure thing.’
‘This is great, Ty.’
‘Yeah.’ I said.
‘Knock out a preliminary version tonight and bring it in with you in the morning,’ he said. ‘Then we can discuss it tomorrow, and you can phone in the final touches from Heathbury after the Lamplighter on Saturday.’
‘All right.’
‘Oh, and give Roncey a ring, would you, and tell him the horse is only safe thanks to the Blaze.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Maybe I will.’
I put down the receiver and felt like leaving Roncey severely alone. I was tired and I wanted to go home. And when I got home, I thought drearily, there would be no let off, only another dose of self hate and remorse.
Roncey answered the telephone at the first ring and needed no telling. Norton Fox had already been through.
‘Tiddely Pom is safe and well looked after,’ I assured him.
‘I owe you an apology,’ he said abruptly.
‘Be my guest,’ I said.
‘Look here, there’s something worrying me. Worrying me badly.’ He paused, swallowing a great deal of pride. ‘Do you... I mean, have you any idea... how those men appeared so quickly on the scene?’
‘The same idea as you.’ I agreed. ‘Your son, Pat.’
‘I’ll break his neck,’ he said, with real and unfatherly viciousness.
‘If you’ve any sense, you’ll let him ride your horses in all their races, not just the unimportant ones.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘About Pat’s outsize sense of grievance. You put up anyone except him, and he resents it.’
‘He’s not good enough,’ he protested.
‘And how will he ever be, if you don’t give him the experience? Nothing teaches a jockey faster than riding a good horse in a good race.’
‘He might lose,’ he said pugnaciously.
‘He might win. When did you ever give him the chance?’
‘But to give away the secret of Tiddely Pom’s whereabouts... what would he expect to gain?’
‘He was getting his own back, that’s all.’
‘All!’
‘There’s no harm done.’
‘I hate him.’
‘Then send him to another stable. Give him an allowance to live on and let him see if he’s going to ride well enough to turn professional. That’s what he wants. If you stamp on people’s ambitions too hard, it’s not frantically astonishing if they bite back.’
‘It’s a son’s duty to work for his father. Especially a farmer’s son.’
I sighed. He was half a century out of date and no amount of telling from me was going to change him. I said I’d see him on Sunday, and disconnected.
Like his father, I took no pleasure at all in Pat Roncey’s vengeful disloyalty. Understand, maybe. Admire, far from it.
One of the men who came to enquire at Roncey’s farm must have sensed Pat’s obvious disgruntlement and have given him a telephone number to ring if he ever found out where Tiddely
Pom had gone, and wanted to revenge himself on his father. One might give Pat the benefit of enough doubt to suppose that he’d thought he was only telling a rival newspaperman to the Blaze: but even so he must have known that a rival paper would spread the information to every corner of the country. To the ears which waited to hear. Exactly the same in the end. But because of the speed with which Charlie Boston’s boys had reached Norton Fox’s village, it must have been Raincoat or the chauffeur, or even Vjoersterod himself who had talked to Pat at the farm.
It had to be Pat. Norton Fox’s stable lads might have passed the word on to newspapers, but they couldn’t have told Vjoersterod or Charlie Boston because they didn’t know they wanted to know, and probably didn’t even know they existed.
I drove on, back to London. Parked the van in the garage downstairs. Locked up. Walked slowly and unenthusiastically up to the flat.
‘Hi,’ said Elizabeth brightly.
‘Hi yourself.’ I kissed her cheek.
It must have looked, to Mrs Woodward, a normal greeting. Only the pain we could read in each other’s eyes said it wasn’t.
Mrs Woodward put on her dark blue coat and checked the time again to make sure it was ten to, not ten after. She’d had three hours extra, but she wanted more. I wondered fleetingly if I could charge her overtime to the Blaze.
‘We’ve had our meal,’ Mrs Woodward said. ‘I’ve left yours ready to warm up. Just pop it in the oven, Mr Tyrone.’ ‘Thanks.’
‘’Night, then, luv,’ she called to Elizabeth.
‘’Night.’
I opened the door for her and she nodded briskly, smiled, and said she’d be there on the dot in the morning. I thanked her appreciatively. She would indeed be there on the dot. Kind, reliable, necessary Mrs Woodward. I hoped the Tally cheque wouldn’t be too long coming.
Beyond that first greeting Elizabeth and I could find little to say to each other. The most ordinary enquiries and remarks seemed horribly brittle, like a thin sheet of glass over a pit.
It was a relief to both of us when the door bell rang.
‘Mrs Woodward must have forgotten something,’ I said. It was barely ten minutes since she had left.
‘I expect so,’ Elizabeth agreed.
I opened the door without a speck of intuition. It swung inward with a rush, weighted and pushed by a heavy man in black. He stabbed a solid leather gloved fist into my diaphragm and when my head came forward chopped down with something hard on the back of my neck.