‘Fetch the car?’
He brightened a little. ‘Right away.’
His brightness was short-lived because after half an hour he came back white-faced and angrier than I would have thought possible.
‘Sir!’
‘What is it?’
‘The car, sir. The car.’
His manner said it all. He stammered with fury over the details. The nearside front wing was crumpled beyond repair. Headlights smashed. Hub cap missing. Bonnet dented. All the paintwork on the nearside scratched and scored down to the metal. Nearside door a complete right-off. Windows smashed, handle torn away.
‘It looks as if it was driven against a brick wall, sir. Something like that.’
I thought coldly of the nearside of Jody’s horsebox, identically damaged. My car had been smashed for vengeance.
‘Were the keys in it?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘It wasn’t locked. Couldn’t be, with one lock broken. I looked for your wallet, like you said, but it wasn’t there. None of your things, sir.’
‘Is the car drivable?’
He calmed down a little. ‘Yes, the engine’s all right. It must have been going all right when it was driven into Leicester Square. It looks a proper wreck, but it must be going all right, otherwise how could they have got it there?’
‘That’s something, anyway.’
‘I left it in the pound, sir. It’ll have to go back to the coach builders, and they might as well fetch it from there.’
‘Sure,’ I agreed. I imagined he couldn’t have borne to have driven a crumbed car through London; he was justly proud of his driving.
Owen took his tangled emotions down to the workshop and I dealt with mine upstairs. The fresh blight Jody had laid on my life was all due to my own action in creeping into his stable by night. Had it been worth it, I wondered. I’d paid a fairly appalling price for a half-minute’s view of Energise: but at least I now knew Jody had swapped him. It was a fact, not a guess.
I spent the whole morning on the telephone straightening out the chaos. Organising car repairs and arranging a hired substitute. Telling my bank manager and about ten assorted others that I had lost my cheque book and credit cards. Assuring various enquiring relatives, who had all of course read the papers, that I was neither in jail nor dipsomaniac. Listening to a shrill lady, whose call inched in somehow, telling me it was disgusting for the rich to get drunk in gutters. I asked her if it was okay for the poor, and if it was, why should they have more rights than I. Fair’s fair, I said. Long live equality. She called me a rude word and rang off. It was the only bright spot of the day.
Last of all I called Rupert Ramsey.
‘What do you mean, you don’t want Energise to run?’ His voice sounded almost as surprised as Jody’s at Sandown.
‘I thought,’ I said diffidently, ‘that he might need more time. You said yourself he needed building up. Well, it’s only a week or so to that Christmas race and I don’t want him to run below his best.’
Relief distinctly took the place of surprise at the other end of the wire.
‘If you feel like that, fine,’ he said. ‘To be honest, the horse has been a little disappointing on the gallops. I gave him a bit of fast work yesterday upsides a hurdler he should have made mincemeat of, and he couldn’t even lie up with him. I’m a bit worried about him. I’m sorry not to be able to give you better news.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘If you’ll just keep him and do your best, that’ll be fine with me. But don’t run him anywhere. I don’t mind waiting. I just don’t want him raced.’
‘You made your point.’ The smile came down the wire with the words. ‘What about the other two?’
‘I’ll leave them to your judgement. Nothing Ferryboat does will disappoint me, but I’d like to bet on Dial whenever you say he’s ready.’
‘He’s ready now. He’s entered at Newbury in a fortnight. He should run very well there, I think.’
‘Great,’ I said.
‘Will you be coming?’ There was a load of meaning in the question. He too had read the papers.
‘Depends on the state of my courage,’ I said flippantly. ‘Tell you nearer the day.’
In the event, I went.
Most people’s memories were short and I received no larger slice than I expected of the cold shoulder. Christmas had come and gone, leaving perhaps a trace of goodwill to all men even if they had been beastly to poor Jody Leeds and got themselves fined for drunkenness. I collected more amused sniggers than active disapproval, except of course from Quintus Leeds, who went out of his way to vent himself of his dislike. He told me again that I would certainly never be elected to the Jockey Club. Over his dead body, he said. He and Jody were both addicted to the phrase.
I was in truth sorry about the Jockey Club. Whatever one thought of it, it was still a sort of recognition to be asked to become a member. Racing’s freedom of the city: along those lines. If I had meekly allowed Jody to carry on robbing, I would have been in. As I hadn’t, I was out. Sour joke.
Dial made up for a lot by winning the four-year-old hurdle by a length, and not even Quintus telling everyone it was solely due to Jody’s groundwork could dim my pleasure in seeing him sprint to the post.
Rupert Ramsey, patting Dial’s steaming sides, sounded all the same apologetic.
‘Energise isn’t his old self yet, I’m afraid.’
Truer than you know, I thought. I said only, ‘Never mind. Don’t run him.’
He said doubtfully, ‘He’s entered for the Champion Hurdle. I don’t know if it’s worth leaving him in at the next forfeit stage.’
‘Don’t take him out,’ I said with haste. ‘I mean... I don’t mind paying the extra entrance fee. There’s always hope that he’ll come right.’
‘Ye-es.’ He was unconvinced, as well he might be. ‘As you like, of course.’
I nodded. ‘Drink?’ I suggested.
‘A quick one then. I’ve some other runners.’
He gulped his scotch in friendly fashion, refused a refill, and cantered away to the saddling boxes. I wandered alone to a higher point in the stands and looked idly over the cold windy racecourse.
During the past fortnight I’d been unable to work out just which horse was doubling for Energise. Nothing on Jody’s list of horses-in-training seemed to match. Near-black horses were rarer than most, and none on his list were both the right colour and the right age. The changeling at Rupert’s couldn’t be faulted on colour, age, height, or general conformation. Jody, I imagined, hadn’t just happened to have him lying around: he would have had to have searched for him diligently. How, I wondered vaguely, would one set about buying a ringer? One could hardly drift about asking if anyone knew of a spitting image at bargain prices.
My wandering gaze jolted to a full stop. Down among the crowds among the rows of bookmakers’ stands I was sure I had seen a familiar pair of sun glasses.
The afternoon was grey. The sky threatened snow and the wind searched every crevice between body and soul. Not a day, one would have thought, for needing to fend off dazzle to the eyes.
There they were again. Sitting securely on the nose of a man with heavy shoulders. No cloth cap, though. A trilby. No raincoat; sheepskin.
I lifted my race glasses for a closer look. He had his back towards me with his head slightly turned to the left. I could see a quarter profile of one cheek and the tinted glasses which showed plainly as he looked down to a race card.
Mousey brown hair, medium length. Hands in pigskin gloves. Brownish tweed trousers. Binoculars slung over one shoulder. A typical racegoer among a thousand others. Except for those sun specs.
I willed him to turn round. Instead he moved away, his back still towards me, until he was lost in the throng. Impossible to know without getting closer.