`Mr. Beaufort is looking for creative ways of putting the company name in the public eye. I thought of a horse.'
40
Malcolm put his coffee cup down on the low-lying table that stood between them. He wasn't sure where this was going but, as he contemplated the firm black-stockinged calves in front of him, she had his full attention.
Àm I right in thinking you can buy a racehorse and call it anything you want?' she asked.
`Provided it hasn't run before. There's a few rules, of course. The name can't be too long or obscene or already listed. That kind of thing.' `But we could call it Beaufort Holiday or something like that, if we wanted?’
'Sure.'
Ànd suppose we bought one today, how soon could it race?' Malcolm laughed out loud. `Steady on, there's a few other things to bear in mind. It depends on what kind of animal we're talking about.' `We're talking about one that will be running on a racecourse in our next financial year, i.e.
next January. Otherwise there's no budget for it.'
`How big a budget were you thinking of?'
À hundred grand. Including running costs.' The milky blue eyes bored into his. `Can it be done?'
He hadn't hesitated. `No problem.'
That office meeting had been swiftly followed by another, at lunchtime in a city wine bar. Beverly still wore the suit and the specs but, armed with a glass of Chardonnay, she'd allowed herself to relax just a little further.
She'd leant forward across the table towards him as she'd outlined her progress.
`Mr. Beaufort likes the idea. He never misses the Grand National, so he sees this as "an innovative use of resources". I quote.'
`Hang on. I can't produce a Grand National entry just like that. You could buy a four-year-old jump horse and call him what you like but he wouldn't be eligible for the National until he was six. And he'd still be far too young for a race like that.'
She laughed and the thin silver link of her necklace caught his eye as it twinkled on the creamy skin below her throat. When they'd first met, hadn't her blouse been buttoned to her neck?
Ì'm not saying it's impossible,' he added hastily. `We'd need a bit of time and a lot of luck but for that money I can find you an exciting prospect.'
41
She draped her jacket over the back of her chair and refilled their glasses.
He caught a hint of her scent, some kind of herby aroma he couldn't place, elusive and subtle. `That sounds good, Malcolm,' she said, emphasising this first use of his Christian name with the touch of a finger on his arm.
`But what's really important is that it runs often. To maximise the marketing potential.'
`So you're just looking to have an entry? Get the name on the race card and throw a corporate jolly at the meeting?'
She flashed him one of those slow-burning smiles. `Provided the Beaufort name gets bandied about - that's the important point.'
Ànd you don't care if the horse doesn't win?'
She shrugged. That blouse was deceptively well cut - expensive, no doubt.
The no-nonsense businesswoman turned out to have a heck of a figure.
`That would be nice, of course. But I've heard that some of these horses can be right prima donnas. We don't want one that cries off if it's got a runny nose.'
Malcolm had left the meeting puzzled but intrigued. Beverley couldn't be more than twenty-five yet she treated him like an errant schoolboy. And the headmistress had an agenda, which she eked out over a series of increasingly lavish lunch meetings, paid for with a company charge card.
Here was a woman who enjoyed playing the powerful business operator and Malcolm enjoyed watching her. As a rule, with women, he liked to hold the whip hand. But the females he mixed with weren't corporate thrusters with company money to flash around; not even Pippa came into that category. So he played second fiddle to Beverley Harris and was content to watch the show.
He considered the deal she was proposing. He supposed it made sense from a corporate point of view. It also had some interesting aspects from his own, and he ran the situation by his father.
`They know naff-all about racing but they're prepared to blow the best part of a hundred grand on an animal, provided he runs regularly.'
Toby saw the potential at once. Ì imagine you think you're required to employ the whole budget.'
'I'd be failing in my duty otherwise, Dad.'
42
The trainer shook his head in mock disapproval. `You're a bad boy, Malcolm.'
How true that was. Even his father didn't know how bad. There were limits, Malcolm imagined, even to parental support.
He grinned at the older man. Àre you going to help me or not?' Toby pondered the question. Ì suggest you buy them a horse overseas.'
Ì was thinking of Ireland.'
Toby shook his head. `Germany would be better. I can put you in touch with someone, if you like.'
The contact had not come for free, as Malcolm had known it wouldn't, but the result was still satisfactory. With his father's assistance he had spent a pleasant couple of days in Bavaria in the company of a dealer called Hans-Jurgen Bach. By the time he left he had acquired a horse for the Euro equivalent of £8000, a value subsequently entered in the Beaufort Holidays account for £80,000 and Little Miss Four Eyes never had an inkling that she'd been so generous. Of course, Malcolm had had to hand half the proceeds to Toby, who had also agreed to stable and train the animal. Nevertheless it was possibly the sweetest deal Malcolm had ever done - especially considering the perks.
By then those perks - Beverly's twin perks, as he thought of them slyly -
had been eased from their expensive, well-cut covering and thoroughly explored, along with the rest of her, in bed at her cottage on the River Branch. So now, as he sat in the Walnut Room restaurant of the Fountain Hotel and listened to the self-important drone of Barney Beaufort, Malcolm was able to take a prurient pleasure in the pressure of a certain Marketing Director's foot as it rested on his beneath the table.
In fact the only fly in the ointment was that it would not be him who escorted Beverley upstairs at the end of the evening. She'd already told Malcolm that Mr. Beaufort stayed in town overnight after business dinners and that she was expected to join him for a nightcap.
`Suppose I get a room too?' he'd suggested. `When you've finished tucking the old boy in you can pop down the hall and see me.'
The milky blues turned to ice. `Mr. Beaufort's not a fool, you know.
Besides, won't your wife be waiting up for you?'
There was no answer to that and Malcolm had let it rest.
43
`Right then, lads and lasses,' announced Barney Beaufort in the tone of voice that clearly said the shutter was coming down on the evening's hospitality. Ì think we've all got our marching orders.'
Malcolm recognised his cue. Àbsolutely,' he said, and picked up the sheet of paper that the travel agent had painstakingly prepared - a design for the racing colours of his new acquisition, Beaufort Bonanza. Ì'll talk to my father and arrange for you to visit Ridgemoor as soon as possible.'
His hand still tingling from Beaufort's bone-crushing goodbye handshake, Malcolm headed for his taxi. At the door he looked back and caught a glimpse of Barney steering Beverley into the lift. The pair of them were laughing. A surge of anger swept through Malcolm. What right did that old goat have to a woman thirty years his junior? For two pins he'd turn round and take Beverley off him.
But he didn't. Control, that was the important thing. Emotions had to be controlled. Malcolm was well aware of his profound talent for destruction and how to channel it to his advantage - as some people could testify. If they were still alive, that is.
Pippa wasn't happy about the idea, Jamie could see that. `What's his name again?'
`Dave Prescott.'
Ànd I'm supposed to have heard of him?'
They were lolling on the sofa in the living room, watching the flames of the fire dance on the ceiling, chewing things over.
`He was a champion middle-distance runner about fifteen years ago. The next generation after Coe and Cram.'
`So what happened to him?'
`He got a bad injury before the Barcelona Olympics. It finished his career.'
Pippa prodded him with her bare foot. `What I meant was, how did he end up inside?'
For six weeks Dave Prescott, the man Jamie was suggesting as an adviser to Pippa on her training methods, had occupied a cell on the same landing at Garstone.
`Drugs.'
44
Pippa looked appalled. Ì'm not having him here then, Jamie.' Ìt wasn't heroin or anything really heavy,' he protested. `Heavy enough to have him locked up.'
In truth Jamie wasn't sure of the details. He'd listened to many how-Iended-up-in-here stories in Garstone and they all had a degree of similarity. Someone had let someone else down. It was a stitch-up. The jury had been swayed by circumstance. It always sounded like special pleading.
In Dave's case, his brother ran a gym in London's East End where body-building drugs frequently changed hands. The police had caught Dave in possession of two packages, one containing steroids, the other a hot handgun. Dave had told Jamie he was just minding the parcels at the request of his brother. Of course.
Jamie decided not to mention the gun. `He's OK, honestly. And he has been a top-class athlete.'
The two of them had bonded over the running. On his first morning on the wing, Prescott had stood in the doorway of Jamie's cell and watched him run on the spot, his feet pounding on the stone floor until sweat poured down his face. Dave had thought it was hilarious. Then he'd joined in, jogging alongside. At first Jamie had thought he was simply making fun of him and asked him politely - always prudent in Garstone - to go away.
Dave had ignored him and then effortlessly outlasted him. Only later did Jamie find out who the new boy was.
Over the next few weeks they'd played badminton whenever they could get on the one court in the beaten-up old gym. Jamie didn't have as good a technique as his opponent but he hated to lose and threw himself around like a lunatic. Dave had laughed at that too. Jamie had been sorry when the runner was released.
Pippa got up to stoke the fire. When she returned to her seat he could tell from her face that she'd come to a decision.
Àll right. Get him along - on one condition.'
Jamie knew what was coming. Malcolm had reported to her their earlier conversation and she'd been on at him already about his future. He'd repeated to Pippa his decision to give up riding and, when she'd come up 45
with a counter-proposal, he'd rejected it. But she wasn't a woman who gave up easily.
Ì'll talk to your Dave Prescott if you see Ros Bradey.'
Ros was a former show jumper who ran a nearby schooling yard, where she put horses of all sorts through their paces over jumps. She also visited yards and held schooling sessions for trainers who didn't have the time or inclination to do it themselves. Jamie knew from his sister that Toby Priest had his eye on Ros - in every sense - and she'd been making regular trips to school horses at Ridgemoor.
Pippa's suggestion was that Jamie switch to riding over jumps, where his increased weight would not be a factor.
Ì told you, Pippa, I don't like the idea.'
`So what else are you going to do with your life? Riding horses is the only thing you're any good at.'
Jamie took a deep breath and bit back the angry response that sprang to mind. Controlling his emotions was one thing he'd learnt inside. If you blew your top in Garstone you were liable to end up with half a face.
Pippa showed no such restraint. She leant closer to twist the knife. `What's the problem? You're not afraid of getting hurt, are you?' He exhaled slowly, trying to sort out his precise objections in his mind. Riding Flat horses had always seemed to him the ultimate racing experience.
Competing for the top prizes on the most stylish racecourses. Riding in the legendary races - the Guineas, the King George, the Arc and the rest. Here was speed and elegance and big money combined. And what did National Hunt have to offer? A serum called Cheltenham, best watched on a sofa at home away from the booze filled punters from over the water. Mostly it was flogging lumbering steeple-chasers through the mud at gaff tracks for lousy prize money. Compared to the Formula One glamour of the Flat, racing over the sticks was a minor-league drag race.
And, there was no getting away from it, you were much more likely to do yourself serious damage.
On the other hand, what was he going to do? Pippa was right - being a jockey was his only skill.
He returned his sister's steely gaze. ÒK then.' `So we've got a deal?’
'I'll give it a try, Pippa. I promise.'
46
Jamie glanced anxiously round the crematorium chapel. As expected, it was full of people he knew. It was possibly the last place he'd wanted to be so soon after his release but he could hardly opt out on the basis that he might find it embarrassing. He'd not known Mandy Parkin that well but he had a clear memory of an animated, pretty girl, smothering her horses with affection. It was hard to believe that she was lying in the coffin at the front of the hall. The murder had taken place a month ago but the police had only just released the body.
These circumstances put his own problems into perspective. And no one here was going to be concerned about him when their minds were concentrated on the unhappy fate of a girl who had recently been one of their own. Jamie had been puzzled to hear that the fun-loving, horse-mad Mandy had fallen for a druggie - and now look what had happened to her.
But he shouldn't be entirely surprised. He'd seen for himself in Garstone just what drugs could do.
By his side Richard looked sombre. Jamie tried to catch his eye as the jockey pushed a lick of sandy hair off his forehead in a familiar, nervous gesture. But Richard avoided his glance. He wasn't enjoying this any more than Jamie.
On the other side of Richard, looming over him, Malcolm gave Jamie an imperceptible wink. Buck up, mate, was the message. He'd urged Jamie to accompany them, saying it would be a good opportunity to see a load of familiar faces and let them know he was back in circulation. `Kill two birds with one stone,' was how he'd put it-which wasn't exactly tactful, given the circumstances. But Jamie had laughed all the same, he couldn't help himself.