Дик Фрэнсис: High Stakes

‘Neat.’

‘Yes. So the weeks pass and now the Flat season is finished, and we are back again with the jumpers. And you, my trainer, have found and bought for me a beautiful young hurdler, a really top class horse. I back him a little in his first race and he wins it easily. I am thrilled. I am also worried, because you tell me there is a race absolutely made for him at Sandown Park which he is certain to win, and you encourage me to have a very big bet on him. I am by now filled with horrid doubts and fears, and as I particularly admire this horse I do not want his heart broken by trying to win when he isn’t allowed to... which I am sure happened to one or two of the others... so I say I will not back him.’

‘Unpopular?’

‘Very. You press me harder than ever before to lay out a large stake. I refuse. You are obviously annoyed and warn me that the horse will win and I will be sorry. I say I’ll wait till next time. You say I am making a big mistake.’

‘When do I say all this?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘And today?’ Charlie asked.

‘Today I am suffering from suspicion worse than ever. Today I think that maybe you will let the horse win if he can, just to prove I was wrong not to back him, so that next time you will have no difficulty at all in persuading me to have a bigger bet than ever.’

‘Tut tut.’

‘Yes. So today I don’t tell you that a little while ago... because of my awful doubts... I opened a credit account with the Tote, and today I also don’t tell you that I have backed my horse for a thousand pounds on my credit account.’

‘Deceitful of you.’

‘Certainly.’

‘And your horse wins,’ Charlie said, nodding.

‘He looked superb...’ I smiled wryly. ‘You tell me after the race that it is my own fault I didn’t back him. You say you did try to get me to. You say I’d do better to take your advice next time.’

‘And then?’

‘Then,’ I sighed, ‘all the weeks of suspicion just jelled into certainty. I knew he’d been cheating me in other ways too. Little ways. Little betrayals of friendship. Nothing enormous. I told him there wasn’t going to be a next time. I said I would be taking the horses away.’

‘What did he say to that?’

‘He didn’t ask why.’

‘Oh dear,’ Charlie said.

I told Charlie everything that had happened that day. All amusement died from his expression and by the end he was looking grim.

‘He’ll get away with it,’ he said finally.

‘Oh yes.’

‘You remember, I suppose, that his father’s a member of the Jockey Club?’

‘Yes.’

‘Above suspicion, is Jody Leeds.’

Jody’s father, Quintus Leeds, had achieved pillar-of-the-Turf status by virtue of being born the fifth son of a sporting peer, owning a few racehorses and knowing the right friends. He had a physically commanding presence, tall, large and handsome, and his voice and handshake radiated firm confidence. He was apt to give people straight piercing looks from fine grey eyes and to purse his mouth thoughtfully and shake his head as if pledged to secrecy when asked for an opinion. I privately thought his appearance and mannerisms were a lot of glossy window-dressing concealing a marked absence of goods, but there was no doubting that he was basically well-meaning and honest.

He was noticeably proud of Jody, puffing up his chest and beaming visibly in unsaddling enclosures from Epsom to York.

In his father’s eyes, Jody, energetic, capable and clever, could do no wrong. Quintus would believe in him implicitly, and for all his suspect shortness of intelligence he carried enough weight to sway official opinion.

As Jody had said, I couldn’t prove a thing. If I so much as hinted at theft he’d slap a lawsuit on me, and the bulk of the Jockey Club would be ranged on his side.

‘What will you do?’ Charlie said.

‘Don’t know.’ I half smiled. ‘Nothing, I suppose.’

‘It’s bloody unfair.’

“All crime is bloody unfair on the victim.’

Charlie made a face at the general wickedness of the world and called for the bill.

Outside we turned left and walked down Beauchamp Place together, having both, as it happened, parked our cars round the corner in Walton Street. The night was cold, cloudy, dry and still windy. Charlie pulled his coat collar up round his ears and put on thick black leather gloves.

‘I hate the winter,’ he said.

‘I don’t mind it.’

‘You’re young,’ he said. ‘You don’t feel the cold.’

‘Not that young. Thirty-five.’

‘Practically a baby.’

We turned the corner and the wind bit sharply with Arctic teeth. ‘I hate it,’ Charlie said.

His car, a big blue Rover 3500, was parked nearer than my Lamborghini. We stopped beside his and he unlocked the door. Down the street a girl in a long dress walked in our direction, the wind blowing her skirt sideways and her hair like flags.

‘Very informative evening,’ he said, holding out his hand.

‘Not what you expected, though,’ I said, shaking it.

‘Better, perhaps.’

He opened his door and began to lower himself into the driver’s seat. The girl in the long dress walked past us, her heels brisk on the pavement. Charlie fastened his seat belt and I shut his door.

The girl in the long dress stopped, hesitated and turned back.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘But I wonder...’ She stopped, appearing to think better of it.

‘Can we help you?’ I said.

She was American, early twenties, and visibly cold. Round her shoulders she wore only a thin silk shawl, and under that a thin silk shirt. No gloves. Gold sandals. A small gold mesh purse. In the street lights her skin looked blue and she was shivering violently.

‘Get in my car,’ Charlie suggested, winding down his window, ‘out of the wind.’

She shook her head. ‘I guess...’ She began to turn away.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘You need help. Accept it.’

‘But...’

‘Tell us what you need.’

She hesitated again and then said with a rush, ‘I need some money.’

‘Is that all?’ I said and fished out my wallet. ‘How much?’

‘Enough for a taxi... to Hampstead.’

I held out a fiver. ‘That do?’

‘Yes. I... where shall I send it back to?’

‘Don’t bother.’

‘But I must.’

Charlie said, ‘He’s got wads of the stuff. He won’t miss it.’

‘That’s not the point,’ the girl said. ‘If you won’t tell me how to repay it, I can’t take it.’

‘It is ridiculous to argue about morals when you’re freezing,’ I said. ‘My name is Steven Scott. Address, Regent’s Park Malthouse. That’ll find me.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll drive you, if you like. I have my car.’ I pointed along the street.

‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘How d’you think I got into this mess?’

‘How then?’

She pulled the thin shawl close. ‘I accepted a simple invitation to dinner and found there were strings attached. So I left him at the soup stage and blasted out, and it was only when I was walking away that I realised that I’d no money with me. He’d collected me, you see.’ She smiled suddenly, showing straight white teeth. ‘Some girls are dumber than others.’

‘Let Steven go and find you a taxi, then,’ Charlie said.

‘Okay.’

It took me several minutes, but she was still huddled against the outside of Charlie’s car, sheltering as best she could from the worst of the wind, when I got back. I climbed out of the taxi and she climbed in and without more ado drove away.

‘A fool and his money,’ Charlie said.

‘That was no con trick.’

‘It would be a good one,’ he said. ‘How do you know she’s not hopping out of the cab two blocks away and shaking a fiver out of the next Sir Galahad?’