An elaborate flower display had been received from the office of Bertie Brooks. The message I'll call when I get back from Dubai was scrawled on a card embossed in gold leaf with the letters BBG. It took a moment for Jamie to work out that this stood for the Bertie Brooks Group. Since when had Bertie become a group? Five years ago, he'd been just another bandy-legged jockey scratching around for second division rides. And the elegant handwriting that flowed across the card was not his, unless he'd been back to school recently. Jamie had to laugh.
The message which most captured his attention was less eye-catching, just a postcard of the Dales stuffed into an envelope. It read: I was sorry to hear of your accident and hope you make a good recovery. Thank you for helping me with Spring Fever. Yours sincerely, Marie Kirk-stall.
Now, why on earth had she done that?
Dave directed Walter down the rutted path, the Lexus cruising through the puddles, spraying water into the hedgerows. Finally the caravan, its weatherbeaten sides flaking paint and the wheel arches stained with rust, came into sight.
Dave could see that his friend was appalled. `You don't really live in that, do you?'
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'It's not so bad. Come in and I'll make you a cuppa.'
Nevertheless, as he poured boiling water over tea bags in the tiny galley, he noticed Walter staring round uncomfortably. The moth-eaten curtains and cheap plastic fittings were not, Dave knew, to be compared with the Italian chic chez Clark.
They'd spent the morning in an amiable five-mile jog with a couple of Walter's running mates, followed by a session in the pub which Walter had cut short at Dave's request. The meeting had been instigated by the vet, who was plainly enjoying their past association. Dave would have thought that his prison conviction and public fall from grace might have taken the gloss off his reputation. But that was not the case where Walter was concerned. Dave had been paraded like a trophy of the glorious past.
Walter's eyes were flicking back and forth, taking in every detail of their shabby surroundings. They came to rest on Dave. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought the better of it. Dave watched with amusement, wondering how long it would take.
`Can I ask you a question?'
Dave nodded. Here it comes, he thought.
Àre you happy living like this?' Walter pushed a bony index finger along a grime-ridden crack in the Formica of the table top. Ì mean, you're one of the best athletes this country has ever produced. You've held national records at every distance from the three thousand metres to the marathon.
You've represented your country at the Olympic Games.'
Dave said nothing; best to let him get it off his chest.
`People with half your experience are all over the radio and TV They write columns in newspapers and give after-dinner speeches at five grand a pop.
You could do the same. At least get together with some journalist and write your autobiography - you've got a great story to tell.'
`Why would I want to do that, Walter?'
The other man's eyes bulged incredulously as he shouted, `To make some money, of course! Surely you don't want to live in shit heaps like this for the rest of your life?'
Dave said nothing in the silence that followed. Walter looked anxious, worried maybe that he had offended his hero. He pressed for an answer; however, his voice was low this time.
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`Come on, mate - you can do better than this. I can help.'
Dave sipped his tea. The truth was, life was simpler without possessions and expectations and all the baggage that went with having a ,career'.
Before he'd been banged up he'd had plenty of things - a flat, money in the bank, a girlfriend. All of that had gone down the tubes when he'd been convicted. He'd sold up and spent the money on lawyers. The girl had kissed him goodbye on the day he went to court with his overnight bag and he'd not seen her face since. Apart, that is, from the photographs in the paper illustrating her lurid account of their life together.
`Thanks, Walter, but I'm quite happy as I am. I'm not bothered whether I've got a couple of cars and a Jacuzzi.'
The vet exhaled noisily, trying no doubt to curtail his exasperation. It was plain that the number of cars a person owned bothered him a lot. `But surely you don't object to money on principle?'
Dave was tempted to say yes, he did, just to enjoy Walter's reaction but he didn't want to upset him. He guessed there was at least one topic on Walter's agenda that wasn't a subject for jest.
`Well, I don't mind a few quid in my pocket, if that's what you're suggesting.'
Walter looked relieved. `Thank God for that.' He leant forward, elbows on the table and said, `Look, I'm going to give you a little steer. Do yourself a favour and make a note of it.'
Dave was intrigued. Òh yes?'
Ì shouldn't be telling you this but there's a horse running at Newbury tomorrow.'
`You told me you didn't gamble.'
Ì don't.' Walter was indignant. Ì just want to help you out, that's all.'
Ìs this a horse you've been treating?'
Ì'm not answering any questions, Dave. Let's just say I know of the animal and it's got a good chance. I'll lend you the stake money if you're short. Pay me back if you win.'
Ànd if I don't?'
Walter shrugged. The possibility appeared not to have entered his head.
Dave was curious.
ÒK, I'll buy. What's the horse's name?'
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'A novice hurdler in the fourth race. Beaufort Bonanza.' Now Dave was seriously intrigued.
Malcolm drove to Newbury with confidence that this time Adolf would pull off a victory and justify the hoopla that surrounded his every appearance on the track. And when that happy event took place, Malcolm expected to be the recipient of Beverley's gratitude.
He was sorely in need of Beverley's hands-on appreciation. He'd not seen much of her since he'd persuaded his father to go along with Beaufort Holidays' plans for the horse. She'd visited Ridgemoor once to run her eye over a new jockey - they'd agreed on the yard's top apprentice who'd been schooling the horse intensively - and gone along with Toby's suggestion that Adolf have a stab at a longer distance. Barney had been all in favour of an outing at Newbury on the basis that it spread the Beaufort Holidays word in the southern half of the country.
But it had been some while since Malcolm had enjoyed a cosy evening tucked up with Beverley in her pink boudoir. The closest they'd been recently was during that trip to the yard when he'd steered her into the woods after watching Adolf run through his paces. It hadn't been entirely satisfactory. Though there was something to be said for reliving your teenage thrills, these days he preferred a large double bed behind a locked door. And that's what he'd be angling for with Ms Harris once Adolf brought home the bacon today.
Jamie was in two minds about watching Adolf's latest race. He'd been jocked off enough horses in the past not to feel too sore about it but this situation was a bit different. He'd spent so much time with Adolf in recent months that, cussed animal that he was, Adolf did seem likèhis' horse.
On the other hand, even if Jamie had originally been booked for the ride, he'd have had to cry off. His jockey's licence had been marked with red ink at Wetherby, and until the last entry was initialled in blue by a Jockey Club doctor he wouldn't be allowed to ride anywhere in the world.
Anyhow, at present, he didn't feel fit enough to sit on a garden swing.
To Jamie's surprise, Dave sat down to watch the race with him, cutting short his afternoon training session with Pippa's horses.
`Your sister was right. If horses are happy, you can do what you like with them,' he said as he sprawled on the sofa. Ìt's taken me three weeks to 205
discover that that big grey one loves being in front. He's a different horse when he's leading. He works better, eats better. It's amazing.'
Jamie smiled. He was glad of the company and pleased that his friend should be having some success, no matter how small. One of the animals his sister had passed to Dave had gone lame and would be off work for at least six weeks. That left him with only three, to which had been added the grey jump horse, Gates of Eden. As Pippa had pointed out, each time a racehorse goes lame on you, it chips away at your confidence. Then you ease up on the workload of the rest of the string and only a winner will put you back on track.
Unfortunately Dave hadn't yet got one of his animals on the course -
though Gates of Eden was entered in a hurdle at Carlisle. Jamie hoped he'd be fit enough to ride him and he was encouraged to hear of his progress, though he couldn't remember whether he was a frontrunner or not. In fact he couldn't remember much of anything at present. He seemed to spend most of the time by himself, drifting woozily in and out of consciousness under the influence of painkillers.
`Don't let me go to sleep,' he said to Dave. Ì can hardly keep my eyes open these days.'
`There's no chance you'll get any kip with me around. I'm a bit noisy when I've got money on a race.'
That woke Jamie up. `You're having a bet?'
'Sure. That's the point of watching horses on the box, isn't it?' Ànd?'
'And what?'
`Who's your money on then?' 'Adolf, of course.'
Jamie was flabbergasted. This was only Adolf's third race and he'd yet to finish. What's more, he was attempting half a mile further than he'd run before.
Dave was grinning at him, waiting for Jamie's objections.
`You obviously think he's going to improve now I'm not on him.' Ìf you want to put it like that. I've got a good price, too.'
To Jamie's way of thinking, that was about the only aspect of the wager that made sense. Much as he was attached to Adolf, the horse was no champion in the making. He'd need to improve from his last run just to get a place.
206
Having paid his respects over a glass of champagne, Malcolm gave the Beaufort hospitality box a wide berth for much of the afternoon. He bought drinks for a couple of trainers he'd worked with in the past and chatted up an investment banker who was thinking of wasting his money on some fancy horseflesh - not that Malcolm sold the prospect to him in those terms. But as the time of Adolf's race approached, Malcolm could not put off his return. A knot of discomfort had formed in his chest - an increasingly familiar sensation when a certain person came to mind. He didn't understand how a woman like Beverley could have sunk her hooks so deep, but she had. And the prospect of seeing her cosy up to Barney while the big-mouthed businessman paraded her in public filled Malcolm with fury and an emotion that he'd never felt before. For the first time in his life he was jealous.
His only consolation was that, on this occasion, there was every chance that Beaufort Bonanza would put on a good show. Steps had been taken.
Like certain top cyclists, endurance athletes and, undoubtedly, some other racehorses, Adolf was about to benefit from the effects of a drug that increased the supply of oxygen to his muscles. Some said EPO didn't work and that it put the horses in danger. So far, to Malcolm's knowledge, his father had achieved only good results. Fingers crossed, the success would continue.
The mood in the Beaufort box was less raucous than usual, possibly because these southern guests were less impressed by the generous liquid hospitality and more aware that the horse flying the company flag was facing failure for the third time in a row. Malcolm could see the tension in Barney's face and Beverley, while chatting animatedly to those around her, looked straight through Malcolm when he tried to catch her eye.
Guy Greaves, a well-tailored individual to whom Malcolm had been introduced earlier, appeared at his elbow. `So, Mr. Priest, what are our chances of finally seeing a return on the company investment?'
Malcolm recalled that Greaves sat on the Beaufort board. He looked like a sharp customer.
Èvery chance, I'd say.' Malcolm sounded more bullish than he felt. `He's had a couple of handy trial runs and now I expect to see the best of him.'
`What makes you think he can last an extra half mile?'
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That was a good question - one that Malcolm was prepared for, however.
`My father's observation of him in training, really. He's not the fastest but he's built to last. We think he'll benefit from a longer trip.'
`Really?' It was obvious from his tone that Greaves was sceptical. Ì see the bookmakers don't share your optimism.'
Adolf was priced around 16-1 in the ring.
Àll the more reason to get your money on, Guy.' Malcolm produced his own betting slip from his pocket. Ì've got a Beaufort Holidays Luxury Leisure Break riding on this.'
He had his eye on Beverley's shining dark hair as he spoke - he knew exactly who he intended to accompany him if he won.
Jamie looked at the list of runners in the paper. Ì see young Carlo's got the ride on Adolf. He's half Italian, you know.'
As it happened Dave did know. Carlo was the lad he'd seen riding Adolf on the day he took Malcolm's phone over to Ridgemoor. But Dave had no intention of letting on about that. He was still trying to pretend he'd not seen Pippa's husband all over that Beaufort woman.
Ì hope he's tough enough,' Jamie mused. 'Adolf pulls like a train.'
Dave was well aware that Malcolm was one of the Beaufort party at Newbury for the race. She'd be there too, that Beverley. It made Dave's blood boil - Pippa didn't deserve such treatment. He'd almost put his foot in it with her just that morning.
Àren't you going to Newbury with Malcolm’ he'd asked. `Don't be daft,'
she'd said. Ì've got too much to do here.'
Ì just thought - he's away a lot, isn't he? Don't you fancy going along sometimes?'
She'd given him a funny look. `We've both got our own businesses to run, Dave. I can't go tagging after him even if I had the time. He'd think I didn't trust him.'
Well, quite. Dave had shut up after that. It was none of his business after all. Not really.
`Look, Adolf's gone all buzzy again. Carlo's going to have to hang on tight.'