‘What’s he been doing?’
‘He arrived at ten this morning all set to blow his top if the horse arrived a minute after twelve and when he found he was there already he blew his top anyway and said he should have been told.’
‘Not the easiest of characters,’ I agreed.
‘Anyway, that’s only the half of it. The gate-man rang me at about eight this morning to say there was a man persistently trying to get in. He’d offered him a bribe and then increased it and had tried to slip in unnoticed while he, the gate-man, was having an argument with one of the stable lads. So I nipped over from my house for a reccy, and there was this short stout individual walking along the back of the stable block looking for an unguarded way in. I marched him round to the front and the gate-man said that was the same merchant, so I asked him who he was and what he wanted. He wouldn’t answer. Said he hadn’t committed any crime. I let him go. Nothing else to do.’
‘Pity.’
‘Wait a minute. My racecourse manager came towards us as the man walked away, and the first thing he said to me was, ‘What’s Charlie Boston doing here?’
‘What?’
‘Ah. I thought he might mean something to you. But he was extraordinarily clumsy, if he was after Tiddely Pom.’
‘No brains and no brawn,’ I agreed.
He looked at me accusingly. ‘If Charlie Boston was the sum total of the threat to Tiddely Pom, haven’t you been over-doing the melodrama a bit?’
I said dryly, ‘Read the next thrilling instalment in the Blaze.’
He laughed and turned back decisively to his impatient queue. I wandered out into the paddock, thinking of Charlie Boston and his futile attempt to reach the horse. Charlie Boston who thought with his muscles. With other people’s muscles, come to that. Having his boys on the sick list and Vjoersterod and Ross on the dead, he was as naked and vulnerable as an opened oyster.
He might also be desperate. If he was trying to lay off fifty thousand pounds, he had stood to lose at least ten times that — upwards of half a million — if Tiddely Pom won. A nosedive of epic proportions. A prospect to induce panic and recklessness in ever-increasing intensity as the time of the race drew near.
I decided that Roncey should share the care of his horse’s safety, and began looking out for him in the throng. I walked round the corner with my eyes scanning sideways and nearly bumped into someone standing by the Results-at-other-Meetings notice board. The apology was half way to my tongue before I realised who it was.
Gail.
I saw the pleasure which came first into her eyes, and the uncertainty afterwards. Very likely I was showing her exactly the same feeling. Very likely she, like me, felt a thudding shock at meeting. Yet if I’d considered it at all, it was perfectly reasonable that she should come to see her uncle’s horse run in the Lamplighter.
‘Ty?’ she said tentatively, with a ton less than her usual poise.
‘Surprise, surprise.’ It sounded more flippant than I felt.
‘I thought I might see you,’ she said. Her smooth black hair shone in the sun and the light lay along the bronze lines of her face, touching them with gold. The mouth I had kissed was a rosy pink. The body I had liked naked was covered with a turquoise coat. A week today, I thought numbly. A week today I left her in bed.
‘Are Harry and Sarah here?’ I said. Social chat. Hide the wound which hadn’t even begun to form scar tissue. I’d no right to be wounded in the first place. My own fault. Couldn’t complain.
‘They’re in the bar,’ she said. Where else?
‘Would you like a drink?’
She shook her head. ‘I want to... to explain. I see that you know... I have to explain.’
‘No need. A cup of coffee, perhaps?’
‘Just listen.’
I could feel the rigidity in all my muscles and realised it extended even into my mouth and jaw. With a conscious effort I loosened them and relaxed.
‘All right.’
‘Did she... I mean, is she going to divorce you?’
‘No.’
‘Ohhhh.’ It was a long sigh. ‘Then I’m sorry if I got you into trouble with her. But why did she have you followed if she didn’t want to divorce you?’
I stared at her. The wound half healed in an instant.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said.
I took a deep breath. ‘Tell me what happened after I left you. Tell me about the man who followed me.’
‘He came up and spoke to me in the street just outside the hotel.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘He puzzled me a bit. I mean, he seemed too... I don’t know... civilised, I suppose is the word, to be a private detective. His clothes were made for him, for instance. He had an accent of some sort and a yellowish skin. Tall. About forty, I should think.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said your wife wanted a divorce and he was working on it. He asked me for... concrete evidence.’
‘A bill from the hotel?’
She nodded, not meeting my eyes. ‘I agreed to go in again and ask for one.’
‘Why, Gail?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Did he pay you for it?’
‘God, Ty,’ she said explosively. ‘Why not? I needed the money. I’d only met you three times and you were just as bad as me, living with your wife just because she was rich.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, how much?’
‘He offered me fifty pounds and when I’d got used to the idea that he was ready to pay I told him to think again, with all your wife’s money she could afford more than that for her freedom.’
‘And then what?’
‘He said... if I could give him full and substantial facts, he could raise the payment considerably.’ After a pause, in a mixture of defiance and shame, she added, ‘He agreed to a thousand pounds, in the end.’
I gave a gasp which was half a laugh.
‘Didn’t your wife tell you?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘He surely didn’t have that much money on him? Did he give you a cheque?’
‘No. He met me later, outside the Art School, and gave me a brown carrier bag... Beautiful new notes, in bundles. I gave him the bill I’d got, and told him... everything I could.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘Why did he pay so much, if she doesn’t want a divorce?’ When I didn’t answer at once she went on, ‘It wasn’t really only the money... I thought if she wanted to divorce you, why the hell should I stop her. You said you wouldn’t leave her, but if she sort of left you, then you would be free, and maybe we could have more than a few Sundays...’
I thought that one day I might appreciate the irony of it.
I said, ‘It wasn’t my wife who paid you that money. It was the man himself. He wasn’t collecting evidence for a divorce, but evidence to blackmail me with.’
‘Ohh.’ It was a moan. ‘Oh no, Ty. Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ Her eyes widened suddenly. ‘You must have thought... I suppose you thought... that I sold you out for that.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ I apologised. ‘I should have known better.’
‘That makes us quits, then.’ All her poise came back at one bound. She said, with some concern but less emotional disturbance, ‘How much did he take you for?’
‘He didn’t want money. He wanted me to write my column in the Blaze every week according to his instructions.’
‘How extraordinary. Well, that’s easy enough.’
‘Would you design dresses to dictation by threat?’
‘Oh.’
‘Exactly. Oh. So I told my wife about you myself. I had to.’
‘What... what did she say?’
‘She was upset,’ I said briefly. ‘I said I wouldn’t be seeing you again. There’ll be no divorce.’