Dick Francis's Damage (7 page)

Running around the left side was a railed all-weather training gallop, which started at the lane beyond the house, curved around the buildings and ran up the hill to near where I sat at the edge of the woods. The gallop was about half a mile in total length and would be where the horses were exercised in the mornings.

I sat down on the damp grass and ate the cheese-and-pickle sandwich that Lydia had made for me the previous evening.

I was used to doing nothing for long periods, simply watching and waiting, but I did wonder about the purpose of this current surveillance. I could hardly tell from here if Graham Perry was or was not doping his horses with amphetamines. If it were up to me, I'd have sent in the testing teams. But Crispin must have his motives for asking me to watch, so watch I did.

After some time, a woman in a blue coat came out of the big house and began placing bedding plants into some window boxes.

Mrs. Perry, I assumed.

She moved from window to window, filling each box in turn with compost from a wheelbarrow before pricking out the seedlings from plastic trays. Finally, she used a dainty white watering can to give her new brood a drenching, no doubt in the hope that nighttime frosts were finally over for the winter.

I sat and daydreamed for a while, watching Mrs. Perry and wondering if she and Mr. Perry were happy in their marriage.

Would marrying Lydia be the sensible thing to do? Was I simply hanging back in the vain hope that things might change for the better? Perhaps this was as good as it gets and I'd be a fool to let such happiness I had slip through my fingers.

It was not as if Lydia and I argued at all. We didn't. It just seemed to me that we had lost the passion and excitement from our relationship, and I grieved for it. Sex had become routine rather than spontaneous and less satisfying as a result.

Maybe, I thought, I was having a midlife crisis. But, at thirty, surely I was too young for that.

But what was the alternative? Force the relationship to a close, along with all its inherent problems, both emotional and financial, and then start the long process of finding a new mate?

I'd always wanted children; I suppose almost everyone did. To re-create the next generation in one's own image is a powerful human instinct, to perpetuate the species. But if I had to start all over again, might I be too old to be the active young father I always thought I'd be. Body clock ticking and all that. True for dads as well as moms.

What, I wondered, would happen if and when the scientists found the magic potion to prevent aging so human beings could live for much longer, maybe even forever? What would happen to fertility? The world is very nearly full of people now, with hardly enough productive land available to feed us all here already. If we continued in the future to procreate at the present rate and nobody died, the human species would very quickly be in deep trouble.

My thoughts of impending doom were interrupted by a small car that drove along the lane towards the house. I raised my binoculars and watched as Mrs. Perry waved at the driver. I couldn't see if the wave was returned, but I watched as the car pulled into the courtyard between the house and the stables. Two men got out and then disappeared from view into the two-story building. Perhaps some of the stable staff returning to their digs above the garages.

I waited a while longer, again checking the layout of the stables and the house to ensure that I had it correctly logged in to my memory. Mrs. Perry completed her window boxes and went back inside, and all was quiet.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly four o'clock.

Like every other racing yard in the country, the one below me would soon be coming to life for “evening stables,” when the grooms would come back on duty to brush the horses, give them food and water, muck out the stalls and finally rug up the horses for the night. It is also when the trainer would generally do his daily round, examining each horse in turn, feeling for any unusual heat in its legs, and arranging for any special feeds or medications.

According to the BHA register, Graham Perry currently employed ten staff, all of whom had also been issued a Racehorse Attendant's Identity Card to allow access to the secure areas at British racetracks. Over the past couple of days, I had learned the names of all ten by heart and had even searched the files to study the photographs on their identity card applications. I was confident that I'd know them if any came into the pub that evening.

Not one of the ten was Lee Furness, former employee of Matthew Unwin and possible relation to Jordan Furness, the murdered bookmaker.

I
walked into the Tilston local at ten past seven, having parked the rental car a couple of streets away. I didn't want anyone who might have seen the car parked off the road earlier near the woods spotting it again outside the pub and asking difficult questions.

I had remained at my vantage point up the hill until evening stables were well under way, with the lights in the stalls beginning to shine brightly in the gloom of the March afternoon. I had departed only when the daylight began to fade to such an extent that waiting any longer would have left me unlikely to find my way back to the car through the trees.

Graham Perry had emerged from his house at twenty minutes to five, and I had watched him intently through the binoculars as he had moved from stall to stall to inspect the horses within. There appeared nothing unusual about his actions, but, without night vision goggles, I had no idea if he'd again crossed the
courtyard to the stables after the other staff had left with mischief on his mind and a loaded syringe in his hand.

—

THE PUB
was busy, with Friday-evening drinkers raiding their weekly pay packets for a few pints with their mates.

A large circle of ten men stood in front of the bar loudly discussing soccer, especially the match between Liverpool and Manchester United scheduled for the following afternoon.

“That new boy—you know, the Czech with the unpronounceable name—he'll make all the difference for United,” one said. “Can't see them losing with him on the team.”

“Nonsense,” said another. “Liverpool at home—no contest.”

I bought myself a nonalcoholic beer at the bar and stood on the periphery of the circle, scrutinizing my fellow drinkers, as the banter continued back and forth.

“Your goalie's no good anyway. He couldn't catch a cold.”

“He saved that penalty last week against Chelsea—kept us in the game.”

None of them were grooms from Graham Perry's stable. I was sure of it.

“Are you a Liverpool or United fan?” asked the man standing on my right.

“Neither,” I said with a smile. “Can't stand either of them. I want them to draw so they both lose ground.” I was using my best Newcastle accent.

“Bloody Geordie,” said one of the others, a big man who'd had a few pints in his time if his protruding beer gut was anything to go by.

“And proud of it,” I replied with a laugh. They all laughed
with me. I was now an accepted member of the circle. “I'm more of a horseracing man myself. I'm off to Bangor-on-Dee tomorrow.”

“Me too,” said the tall young man on my left.

“And me,” piped up another. “I reckon Perry will win the big race. He always does well at Bangor.”

“Perry?” I queried.

“Graham Perry,” said the big man. “His place is just down the road.”

I nodded in understanding. “So do you get any local tips? Any insider info?”

“His grooms are usually down here on a Friday. They'll put you right.”

As if on cue, the door of the bar opened and four of Graham Perry's stable staff came in.

“Speak of the devil,” said the big man with a huge guffaw. “Evening, lads. Want a drink? Who's going to win tomorrow?”

“Ah. That would be telling,” one of the four replied, placing a finger alongside his nose.

I knew him from his BHA photo. His name was Sean Caddick, and he'd been at Perry's yard for at least the last five years.

“Come on, lads,” said the big man, not giving up so easily. “You must know what's going to win. It's only fair you let us locals in on the deal.”

“If only we knew,” Sean replied. “We're forever losing because we think ours will win and then they don't.”

The talk was all in good humor with plenty of smiles

“Surely you use go-faster juice?” I said it with a laugh.

I watched him closely for any reaction. A tightening of the muscles in the face, a widening of the pupils of the eyes—both
involuntary consequences of increased adrenaline, both giveaways of stress and fear.

“You must be joking,” Sean said. “You can't even give a horse a piece of chocolate these days without it failing a dope test.”

“Chocolate?” said the big man. “How the hell does chocolate make a horse go faster?”

“I've no idea,” Sean replied. “But I do know that it will make it fail a dope test. It once happened to a horse I looked after. The bloody owner gave it a Mars bar as a treat on the morning of a race. Stupid woman. The horse was disqualified and we all nearly lost our jobs.”

I decided not to tell them that it was the theobromine in chocolate that was the prohibited substance, along with the caffeine. Both were banned stimulants.

Paradoxically, eating chocolates could make you run faster, provided you didn't spend all day sitting on the sofa watching television while you ate it.

“How many runners have you got at Bangor?” asked the tall young man on my left.

“Three,” said one of the other grooms, a man I recognized as Tom Lindsay. “One in the first, and two in the Wrexham.”

The Wrexham Handicap Chase would be the big race of the day.

“Will they win?” asked the big man.

“If they're fast enough,” came the ironic reply.

“You're no bloody help.”

“Tribute Lunch has a great chance,” Sean Caddick said, “but don't blame me if you lose your shirt.”

That seemed to end the conversation, and the four grooms collected beers from the bar before moving over to sit together
at a table by the window. The circle broke up into smaller groups, and I found myself talking to the tall man who was going to Bangor races the following day.

“You're a long way from home,” he said. “Don't get many Geordies round here.”

“Visiting my aunt,” I said. “And for the races.”

“Where does she live?” he asked.

Damn it, I thought, I really didn't need an inquisitive local.

“Fancy a game of darts?” I asked him, ignoring his question.

“No thanks, I'm rubbish.” He turned away to talk to the man on the other side.

Meanwhile, I took a set of darts from behind the bar and practiced on my own. Not that I really liked throwing darts, but the board was on the same side of the room as the grooms now sitting at a table.

All the better for hearing what they were talking about.

That is, if they'd been saying anything interesting, or at least something interesting about racing. Instead, they were discussing the relative merits of girls—in particular, the four members of a popular band who were all the rage.

“God, I'd like to give that Justine one,” said Tom Lindsay. “I wouldn't chuck her out of bed for eating biscuits.”

“Much too snobbish, if you ask me,” said one of the others. “But Gillian—now, she's just my sort. Nice and cuddly, with gorgeous tits.”

It was not great conversation and of little use to me. Not for the first time, I wondered why I was here. These lads were like all other grooms the world over, spending their time drinking beer and chatting about girls. And I was sure that listening to them wouldn't give me any insight into whether their boss was or was not doping his horses.

Sean Caddick's face and eyes had remained steadfast and completely unaffected by my comment concerning go-faster juice. If Graham Perry was indeed dosing his horses with amphetamine, then one of his long-serving stable staff didn't know about it. Of that I was certain.

I went on throwing darts.

“Fancy a game?” I turned around. Tom Lindsay was on his feet.

“Sure,” I said. “Loser buys the beers?”

“OK,” he said. “But it'll be you.”

“How are you so sure?”

“I'm the local champion.”

“Now you tell me.”

I was good at darts, the result of having had a board on the back of my bedroom door during my early teens, but I was no match for Tom Lindsay.

I bought the beers, mine again nonalcoholic, and we played a second game with him giving me a 200-point start.

“Are you going to Bangor races tomorrow?” I asked as I finally managed to hit a treble twenty.

“Yeah,” he replied. “We all go to Bangor on race days. The gaffer lets us do evening stables late.”

“Good to work for, then, is he?”

“He's OK,” Tom said. “I've worked for worse.”

He beat me again. Easily.

“Thanks,” he said, drifting back to the table to rejoin his mates. I was clearly not a sufficient challenge for his skills.

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

I returned the darts to the barman, drained my glass, and decided it was time to leave. There was nothing else to gain by staying any longer.

—

I WAS BACK
at my vantage point in the woods above Graham Perry's yard by eight in the morning.

Some of the horses were exercising up the gallop when I arrived. Hence, I stayed well back behind the tree line so as not to be visible.

I was now dressed and appeared as myself. The beard and tousled mousy brown wig of yesterday were neatly packed away in my overnight bag along with the jeans and the leather bomber jacket. Today I was clean-shaven, short-haired, with gray pants and a navy blue sweater.

I watched as the eight horses walked back down to the start of the all-weather gallop before once again moving fluently up in pairs, galloping upsides under the careful watch of Mr. Perry, who leaned against the front of his Land Rover.

I studied the horses and riders through my binoculars and could clearly distinguish the features of Sean Caddick riding one of the leading pair.

Thirty or more years ago, trainers, especially steeplechase trainers like Graham Perry, would have galloped their horses over a much greater distance than the half mile or so of this all-weather track, perhaps over a mile or even a mile and a half as a single exercise.

All that had changed, not least due to the influence of the trainer Martin Pipe, who had had such phenomenal success either side of the millennium being champion jump trainer a total of fifteen times in seventeen years.

Martin trained his horses in a manner far more akin to how a coach would train a human athlete. Instead of a single long
exercise run, he used shorter, interval training gallops. And everyone else soon followed suit.

Graham Perry's horses were blowing hard by the time they reached the top of the rise, their nostrils rhythmically flaring and contracting as the air rushed in and out, the expelled moisture condensing into a fine mist in the morning chill like steam from a two-spout kettle.

They were then walked around in a large circle until their breathing rates had returned to normal.

When all eight horses had recovered from the exertion, the pairs moved off in turn, walking down to the start of the track, from where the whole procedure was repeated.

After the horses had galloped past the Land Rover for a third time, I watched as Graham Perry drove himself back to the yard, the horses following a few minutes later, led home by Sean Caddick.

—

I REMAINED
in the woods all morning, keeping watch as events unfolded beneath me.

Another eight horses were taken through the same exercise regime, with the trainer again watching from in front of his vehicle. And there was considerable movement in the training yard as well.

At eleven o'clock a horse trailer was driven into the loading area close to the stable blocks and I watched as three horses were loaded aboard.

The runners for Bangor-on-Dee, I assumed.

Boxes of tack and other kit were also lifted aboard, and the trailer departed down the lane at twenty past eleven.

It was only about ten miles from Perry's yard to Bangor-on-Dee racetrack, but, sensibly, the horses would be there early, with time to calm down after the journey and relax in the stables until their race times.

There was plenty of other activity as the whole team rushed through their duties, getting ready to depart for the races.

I had checked that the first race at Bangor started at half past two, and, as two o'clock approached, there was a final mad rush, with several people running out to cars and disappearing down the lane with their wheels spinning.

I didn't follow them to Bangor. In fact, I never did get to the races.

I waited on the hill for another half hour to see if there were any lategoers, then I walked back to the rented Toyota and drove around to Graham Perry's stable, pulling up in the middle of the courtyard and sounding the horn with three long loud bursts.

No one came out to greet me.

For good measure, I went over to the house and rang the doorbell.

No reply.

I stood outside the two-story accommodation block and shouted for attention.

I got none.

In my hand I held my BHA credentials and a letter indicating that I had the right to enter any BHA-licensed premises, including this stable yard.

No one emerged to read either.

It appeared that, as Tom Lindsay had told me in the Tilston pub, the whole workforce had decamped to Bangor-on-Dee races, and Mrs. Perry had gone with them.

In fairness, in spite of the place being deserted, security had
not been completely compromised. Each lower stall door was padlocked shut, and the feed and tack rooms were locked as well. I tried them.

Fortunately, as far as I could see, there were no CCTV cameras recording my visit.

As my credentials made clear, I had every right to be there, but I didn't really have the right to pick the three-lever lock on the door of the feed store, something I managed with ease.

It was much like any other racing stable's feed store. There were unopened bags of horse pellets stacked in one corner, and a feed bin containing more loose pellets in another. Some trainers with big yards had their own special mixtures made up by the feed companies with added cod liver oil or cider vinegar, others had added garlic or Cortaflex for joints, others still even had Guinness included in the recipe.