Felix Francis: Crisis

‘The Dante Stakes. A race at York this coming Thursday over a mile and a quarter. Acts as the last Derby trial, sixteen days before the big one. Prince of Troy was possibly going to run as part of his final preparation.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Don’t have to make that decision now. Still can’t believe he’s gone. Best horse I’ve had. Impossible to replace.’

I thought that, if I were he, I’d have been more worried about the human victim than the equine ones.

One didn’t just ring up His Highness Sheikh Ahmed Karim bin Mohamed Al Hamadi for a chat. One had to use email to make an appointment for a call, and mine was set at seven the following morning, UK time.

The previous evening at Castleton House Stables had been relatively quiet compared to the events of earlier in the day.

Soon after six o’clock, the horses temporarily stabled at old Tom Widgery’s place were walked back up the road and returned to the new yard via the top gate.

Oliver, Maria and I stepped out through the front door and stood in the evening sunshine, watching the long line of Thoroughbreds snaking past the last remaining fire engine.

So many stable staff from all over Newmarket had volunteered to help that the string was unbroken.

‘It’s quite a sight,’ I said, as the clip-clop of the hooves on the tarmac seemed to be never-ending.

‘Certainly is,’ Maria agreed with a giggle. ‘Like watching the circus animals parade through my home town when I was a kid.’

‘But no elephants here,’ I said.

‘No,’ Oliver said without any amusement. Then he turned away and went back inside. Maria and I followed him in.

‘Fancy a drink?’ Oliver asked me. ‘I could certainly do with one. A big one.’

He walked over to a cupboard in the corner of the kitchen.

‘I have a room booked at somewhere called the Bedford Lodge Hotel,’ I said. ‘I should leave you two in peace.’

‘Gin and tonic?’ Oliver said, clinking ice into two glasses.

‘I have a driver waiting for me.’

‘You don’t need a driver to take you to the Bedford Lodge,’ Oliver said, cutting up a lemon without turning round. ‘It’s less than a hundred yards up the road.’

‘He has my suitcase in his car.’

‘Tell him to take it into the hotel and then piss off.’ He handed me a cut-glass tumbler two-thirds full of a clear liquid, which I assumed was not sparkling water. ‘I need you here. We have to talk.’

I was surprised not just that he wanted me to stay, but by the intensity with which he said it.

‘What about?’ I asked.

He downed his drink in two large gulps and then poured himself a generous refill, not skimping on the gin.

He glanced cautiously at Maria but she was already well ahead of him. One empty bottle of Chardonnay sat in front of her on the kitchen table and she was pouring a generous measure into her glass from a second.

‘Let’s go into the snug,’ Oliver said.

He led the way while I called the driver.

‘Leave my bag at the Bedford Lodge Hotel reception and go home,’ I told him. ‘I won’t need you again this evening.’

I decided against telling him to piss off as Oliver had suggested.

‘What time in the morning?’ the driver asked.

‘I’ll call you if I need you,’ I said.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in Newmarket by eight o’clock so five minutes notice will be fine. Unless you need me earlier than that?’

Simpson White never pinched pennies by not having a car and driver ready on standby for operatives on assignment. On this occasion our client could easily afford it.

‘Eight will be fine,’ I said, although I imagined that Newmarket was wide awake and long at work by then, especially as the sun was up by five in mid-May and horses, like most diurnal mammals, had their body clocks set by the daylight.

Oliver led the way along the corridor and into his snug, a smallish room with a huge television hung on one wall and two deep, black leather armchairs facing it. However, instead of talking he switched on the live racing from Windsor.

‘Tony’s riding,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘He’s on the favourite in the feature at seven-thirty.’

‘For Ryan?’ I asked.

‘No, for Jonathan Ayers. Also trains here in Newmarket. Tony rides for him quite a lot.’

We both sank down into the folds of the armchairs and watched on the big screen as the ten horses for the 7.30 race circled behind the starting stalls.

‘Is there much horse racing in the evenings?’ I asked.

‘Lots of it,’ Oliver said. ‘All through the summer months and in the winter too under lights on the all-weather.’

‘All-weather?’

‘Artificial surfaces. Not turf. There are currently five courses with all-weather tracks in the UK. They race all year round, mostly in the evenings.’

The horses were being loaded into the stalls.

‘Six furlongs,’ Oliver said, not taking his eyes off the images. ‘Listed race for three-year-olds and up.’

I wondered what it was listed on but decided not to ask.

The stalls swung open and all ten jumped out fast and ran like the wind, the multicoloured silks of their jockeys standing out brightly against the green grass.

‘Which one is Tony?’ I asked.

‘Light-blue jacket and orange cap,’ Oliver said. ‘On the far side, right at the back. He’s got a good chance.’

The TV commentator called out the names of the leading horses and the pitch of his voice rose dramatically as the race built towards its finale. But I wasn’t really listening. Strangely, I found myself transfixed by the contest, leaning forward in my chair and willing Tony to get a move on, to start overtaking those in front.

Only at the last moment, as the runners were well within the final furlong, did the orange cap make a late surge forward, moving past some of the other runners as if they were standing still, but the winning post came too soon and Tony ended up as a fast-finishing second, beaten half a length at the line.

‘Bloody hell,’ Oliver said with feeling. ‘He should have won that. Left his run far too late.’

I could tell he was angry but I wasn’t sure whether it was with the horse or the jockey.

It was with the jockey.

‘Tony has never reached his full potential due to his lack of concentration. Not like Ryan. Ryan would have won that easily. Declan would have too.’

‘But Tony must surely be pretty good,’ I said. ‘The newspaper said he was due to ride Prince of Troy in the Derby.’

‘Against my better judgement,’ Oliver said sharply. ‘It was Ryan who decided to stick with Tony, not me. I recommended a change.’ He snorted in obvious disapproval that his advice had not been taken. ‘I grant you that Tony rode the horse in all its previous races and he did a reasonably good job in the Guineas, but the Derby is a completely different matter. The Guineas is run on a dead-straight flat course here at Newmarket but, at Epsom, there are major undulations and sharp turns. That steep run downhill into Tattenham Corner is the most testing stretch of racetrack on the planet. Needs someone with more bloody nous than Tony. Ryan, now, he was a master at it.’

I felt quite sorry for Tony. Always being compared to his gifted elder brother would have done nothing for his confidence. Nor, I suspected, for the relationship with his father.

‘So what is it you want to talk about?’ I asked.

‘Another drink?’ Oliver replied, standing up.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

My glass was still half full and I was taking very cautious sips. The ratio of gin to tonic would have made even Dean Martin wince. Not that it was stopping Oliver knocking it back like water.