Dick Francis's Gamble (7 page)

“I'd love to come and watch your horses work,” I said to Jan, returning once again to the present. “But I'm afraid I can't ride one.”

She looked disappointed. “I thought you'd love it.”

“I would have,” I said. “But it's too much of a risk with my neck.”

“What a bloody shame,” she said.

Bloody shame was right. I longed to ride again. Coming racing every week was a pleasant change from spending all my time in a London office, but, in some ways, it was a torment. Each day I chatted amicably to my clients as they wore their racing silks and I positively ached to be one of them again. Even after all this time, I would sometimes sit in my car at the end of a day and weep for what I had lost. Why? Why? Why had this happened to me?

I shook my head, albeit only slightly, and told myself to put such thoughts of self-pity out of my mind. I had much to be thankful for, and I should be happy to be twenty-nine years old, alive, employed and financially secure.

But oh how I wanted still to be a jockey.

 

 

I
watched the first race from a vantage point on the grandstands, the vivid harlequin-colored jackets of the jockeys appearing bright in the sunshine as they cantered down to the two-mile-hurdle start.

As always, the undiminished longing to be out there with them weighed heavy in the pit of my stomach. I wondered if it would ever go away. Even though Cheltenham had been the scene of my last, ill-fated ride, I held no grudge towards the place. It hadn't been the racetrack's fault that I had been so badly injured. In fact, it was only due to their paramedics' great care after the fall that I wasn't paralyzed, or dead.

Cheltenham had been the first racetrack I had ever known and I still loved the place. I had grown up in Prestbury village, right alongside, and I'd ridden my bicycle past the backstretch every morning on my way to school. Each March, as the Steeplechasing Festival approached, the excitement surrounding not only the track but the whole town had been the inspiration for me first to ride a horse, then to pester a local racehorse trainer for holiday jobs and finally to give up a planned future of anodyne academia for the perilous existence of a professional jockey.

Cheltenham was the home of jump racing. Whereas the Grand National was the most famous steeplechase in the world, every racehorse owner would rather win the Cheltenham Gold Cup.

The Grand National was a handicap, so the better horses carried the greater weight. The handicapper's dream was that all the horses would cross the finish line in a huge dead heat. But it would be a bit like making Usain Bolt run the Olympic 100 meters in Wellington boots to even up the chances of the others. However, in the Cheltenham Gold Cup, other than a slight reduction for female horses, all the participants carried the same weight, and the winner was the true champion.

I had only ridden in it once, on a rank outsider that'd had no chance, but I could still recall the tension that had existed in the jockeys' Changing Room beforehand. The Gold Cup was not just another race, it was history in the making, and one's performance mattered even if, as in my case, I had pulled up my horse long before the finish.

Away to my left, at the far end of the straight, the fifteen horses for the first race were called into line by the starter. “They're off,” sounded the public-address, and they were running.

Two miles of fast-paced hurdle racing with the clatter-clatter from hooves striking the wooden obstacles clearly audible to those of us in the grandstands. The horses first swept up the straight towards us, then turned left-handed to start another complete circuit of the track, ever increasing in speed. Three horses jumped the final hurdle side by side, and a flurry of jockeys' legs, arms and whips encouraged their mounts up the hill to the finish.

“First, number three, Fallen Leaf,” sounded the public-address system.

Mark Vickers, the other jockey in the race to be the champion, had just extended his lead over Billy Searle from one to two.

And Martin Gifford, the gossip, had trained the winner in spite of his expressed lack of faith in its ability. I wondered if he had simply been trying to keep his horse's starting price high by recommending that other people should not bet on it. I looked down at my race program and decided to invest a small sum on Yellow Digger in the third race: the other runner Martin had told me would have no chance.

I turned to go back to the Weighing Room, looking down at my feet to negotiate the grandstand steps.

“Hello, Nicholas.”

I looked up. “Hello, Mr. Roberts,” I said in surprise. “I didn't realize you were a racing man.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Always have been. In fact, my brother and I have horses in training. And I often used to watch you ride. You were a good jockey. You could have been one of the greats.” He pursed his lips and shook his head.

“Thank you,” I said.

Mr. Roberts—or, to use his full title, Colonel The Honourable Jolyon Westrop Roberts, MC, OBE, younger son of the Earl of Balscott—was a client. To be precise, he was a client of Gregory Black's, but I had met him fairly frequently in the offices at Lombard Street. Whereas many clients are happy to leave us to get on with looking after their money, Jolyon Roberts was one of those known to have a hands-on approach to his investments.

“Are you on your day off?” he asked.

“No,” I replied with a laugh. “I'm seeing one of my clients after racing, you know, the jockey Billy Searle.”

He nodded, then paused. “I don't suppose . . .” He paused again. “. . . No, it doesn't matter.”

“Can I help you in some way?” I asked.

“No, it's all right,” he said. “I'll leave it.”

“Leave what?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Nothing for you to worry about. It's fine. I'm sure it's fine.”

“What is fine?” I asked with persistence. “Is it something to do with the firm?”

“No, it's nothing,” he said. “Forget I even mentioned it.”

“But you didn't mention anything.”

“Oh, right,” he said with a laugh. “So I didn't.”

“Are you sure there is nothing I can help you with?” I asked again.

“Yes, I'm sure,” he said. “Thank you.”

I stood there on the grandstand steps for a few seconds, looking at him, but he made no further obscure reference to whatever was clearly troubling him.

“Right, then,” I said. “No doubt I'll see you sometime in the office. Bye, now.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Right. Good-bye.”

I walked away leaving him there, standing ramrod straight and looking out across the track as if in deep thought.

I wondered what that had all been about.

 

 

M
ark Vickers won twice more during the afternoon, including the big race on Yellow Digger at the relatively long odds of eight to one, giving Mark a four-winner lead over Billy Searle in the championship race, and me a tidy payout from the Tote.

Billy Searle was not in the least bit happy when he emerged from the Weighing Room after the last race for our meeting.

“Bloody Vickers,” he said to me. “Did you see the way he won the first? Beat the poor animal half to death with his whip. Stewards should have banned him for excessive use.”

I decided not to say that I actually thought that Mark Vickers had been rather gentle with his use of the whip in the first race, and had in fact ridden a textbook finish with his hands and heels to win by a head. Perhaps, in the circumstances, it wouldn't have been very diplomatic. I also chose not to mention to Billy that Mark was a client of mine as well.

“But there's still plenty of time left for you to catch him,” I said, although I knew there wasn't, and Mark Vickers was bang in form while Billy was not.

“It's my bloody turn,” he said vehemently. “I've been waiting all these years to get my chance, and now, with Frank injured, I'm going to bloody lose out to some young upstart.”

Life could be hard. Billy Searle was four years older than me and he'd been runner-up in the championship for each of the past eight years. Every time, he'd been beaten by the same man, the jump jockey recognized by all as the best in the business, Frank Miller. But Frank had broken his leg badly in a fall the previous December and had been out of action now for four months. This year, for the first time in a decade, it would be someone else's turn to be champion jockey, but, after today's triple for Mark Vickers, it seemed likely that it wouldn't be Billy. And time was no longer on Billy's side. Thirty-three is getting on for a jump jockey, and the new crop of youngsters were good, very good, and they were also hungry for success.

It was obvious to me that Billy was in no real mood to discuss his finances even though it had been he, not me, who had called the previous afternoon asking for this urgent meeting at Cheltenham. But I'd come all the way from London to talk to him and I didn't want it to be a wasted journey.

“What was it that you wished to discuss?” I asked him.

“I want all my money back,” he said suddenly.

“What do you mean ‘back'?” I asked.

“I want all my money back from Lyall and Black.”

“But your money is not with Lyall and Black,” I said. “It's in the investments that we bought for you. You still own them.”

“Well, I want it back anyway,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“I just do,” he said crossly. “And I don't need to tell you why. It's my money, and I want it back.” He was building himself into a full-blown fury. “Surely I can do what I like with my own money?”

“OK. OK, Billy,” I said, trying to calm him down. “Of course you can have the money back. But it's not that simple. I will need to sell the shares and bonds you have. I can do that tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he said.

“But, Billy,” I said, “some of your investments were bought with long-term growth in mind. Just last week I acquired some thirty-year government bonds for you. If I have to sell them tomorrow, you are likely to sustain a loss.”

“I don't care,” he said. “I need the money now.”

“All right,” I said. “But as your financial adviser I have to ask you again why you need your money so quickly. If I had more time to sell, you might get a better return.”

“I haven't got more time,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Billy,” I said seriously, “are you in some sort of trouble?”

“No, of course not,” he said, but his body language gave another answer.

I could remember most of the details of the investment portfolios of most of my clients, and Billy Searle was no exception. His was rather smaller than one might imagine after so many years at the top of his profession, but Billy had always been a spender rather than a saver, driving expensive cars and staying in lavish hotels. However, as far as I could recall, he had a nest egg of around a hundred and fifty thousand growing nicely for his retirement, certainly more than he would prudently need just for a new car or a foreign holiday.

“OK, Billy,” I said. “I'll get on with liquidating everything tomorrow. But it'll take a few days for you to get the cash.”

“Can't I have it tomorrow?” He looked desperate. “I need it tomorrow.”

“Billy, that simply isn't possible. I need to sell the shares and bonds, have the funds transferred into the company's client account, and then transfer it to your own. Banks always say to allow three days for each transfer so overall it might take a week but it will probably be a little quicker than that. Today's Tuesday. You might have it by Friday if you're lucky, but more likely it will be Monday.”

Billy went pale.

“Billy,” I said, “are you sure you're not in any trouble?”

“I owe a guy some money, that's all,” he said. “He says I have to pay him by tomorrow.”

“You will just have to tell him that's impossible,” I said. “Explain to him the reasons. I'm sure he'll understand.”

Billy gave me a look that said everything. Clearly the guy in question wouldn't take excuses.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “But I can't do it any quicker.”

“Can't your firm lend me the money until everything's sold?” he asked.

“Billy,” I said, “it's a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. We don't have that sort of cash lying round.”

“I only need a hundred,” he said.

“No,” I said firmly. “Not even a hundred.”

“You don't understand,” he said in desperation. “I need that money by tomorrow night.” He was almost crying.

“Why?” I asked him. “Why do you owe so much?”

“I can't tell you.” He almost screamed the words at me and the heads of a few other late-leaving racegoers turned our way. “But I need it tomorrow.”

I looked at him. “And I cannot help you,” I said quietly. “I think I'd better go now. Do you still want me to sell your portfolio and liquidate the money?”

“Yes,” he said in a resigned tone.

“Right,” I said. “I'll get the office to send you a written authority. Just sign it and send it straight back. I'll try and get the cash into your account by Friday.”

He was almost in a trance. “I hope I'm still alive by Friday.”

I
sat in my car in the members' parking lot and thought through my recent conversation with Billy Searle. I wondered what I should do about it, if anything.