Felix Francis - Crisis

He disappeared to get himself a refill from the kitchen while I looked around the room.

To my left was a glass-fronted display cabinet full of small cups and round silver salvers. I stood up to have a closer look.

‘The trainer always gets a small trophy,’ Oliver said, coming back into the snug with a full glass. ‘It’s the owner who always walks away with the big one in spite of the fact that we do all the bloody work.’ It was an obvious cause of resentment. ‘Some owners don’t even know what their horses look like, other than they have four legs and a tail. It’s the trainers who love and nurture them.’

Yes, I thought, but it’s the owner who pays the training fees and also puts up the money to buy the horse in the first place.

Oliver sat down again in one of the armchairs and I joined him in the other.

‘Now then...’ I said in an encouraging manner.

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Tony is also riding in the next.’

We watched the race but I couldn’t raise any excitement this time. Tony’s mount was slow coming out of the stalls and, as far as I could tell, became progressively slower as the race unfolded. So much so that it wasn’t even in the TV picture as the winner passed the post.

‘Useless,’ Oliver said, flicking off the television. ‘But what do you expect from a Class Six handicap for four-year-olds. The lowest of the low. Just one small step from the dog-food factory.’

At least he didn’t seem to blame Tony this time.

‘Your drink all right?’ he asked.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, and took another small sip.

I was beginning to think he had changed his mind about wanting to talk to me, but I was wrong.

‘Harry,’ he said finally, laying a hand on my arm, ‘what are you going to tell the Sheikh?’

‘About what?’

‘The fire, of course.’

‘What do you want me to tell him?’ I asked.

‘The truth,’ Oliver replied, looking me straight in the eye. ‘That it was an accident. That we did everything we could to save his horses.’

‘But was it an accident?’ I asked pointedly. ‘Don’t you think we should wait for the police to investigate before I can say that?’

‘Are you seriously suggesting that someone set fire to my stables on purpose?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ I said. ‘I just think it would be prudent to await the forensic results. After all, there is a human body to explain.’

Oliver didn’t look very happy.

‘Tell me about the Sheikh’s other horses. How many are there?’

‘Nine,’ Oliver said, but then corrected himself. ‘Only seven now. Five other colts and two fillies.’ He laughed. ‘I had to talk him into buying the fillies. He prefers male horses. Must be an Arab thing.’

‘Where did he buy them?’ I asked.

‘At the sales, of course,’ Oliver said. ‘Some over a year ago but he also bought two colts and two fillies from Book One here last October. Conductivity, who died, was one of those.’

‘Book One?’ I asked.

‘The best. The top five hundred or so yearlings of the year.’

‘Who decides?’

‘The auctioneers. It’s their sale. It’s determined by the horses’ breeding — mostly their sires. There are four books in the October sale. Over two thousand lots altogether. And that’s just one yearling sale. There are others in Doncaster, and plenty more in Ireland, France and the US.’

‘Big business,’ I said.

‘Huge. The average price for Book One is about three hundred thousand guineas. The top-priced colt last year went for over four million.’

‘That’s incredible.’

‘Sure is. Especially when you consider the horse is completely untested. Four million simply on a promise and who its mum and dad are. I hope he turns out better than Snaafi Dancer.’

‘Snaafi Dancer?’

‘Infamous son of Northern Dancer. Sold as a yearling way back in 1983 at Keeneland Sales in Kentucky for an unbelievable ten million dollars and never even made it to a racecourse. Too slow, apparently. And, to add insult to injury, he fired mostly blanks when he went to stud. Sired just four foals in total and they were all useless.’

And most people thought that gambling was only done at the bookmakers.

‘Did the Sheikh buy his horses personally?’ I asked. ‘Was he at the sale?’

‘No,’ Oliver replied. ‘I was there, and Ryan of course. Plus a bloodstock agent, Bill Vandufful. He did the actual bidding.’

‘Did the Sheikh know which horses you were going to buy for him?’

‘No, but he knew we were planning to buy something. Which particular horses we bought would be determined by the price. We bid on two or three other colts but they went too high. At the sales, you have to be always ready and not miss a bargain.’

‘Four million doesn’t sound like a bargain to me.’

He laughed. ‘Sadly, we’re not in that league. Sheikh Karim told me he wanted a couple of good colts but not at any price. Half a million was my limit. Conductivity cost just under that.’

It still seemed like an awful lot of money to me for a young unproven horse.

‘How about the two fillies?’ I asked.

‘Much less,’ he said. ‘Bargains. Bill and I couldn’t believe our luck. Everyone else seemed to have gone off for a coffee after a few really big ones. Too good an opportunity to miss.’ He smiled broadly. ‘All I needed was to find an owner to pay for them. Sheikh Karim eventually agreed.’

‘What would’ve happened if he hadn’t?’ I asked.

‘I’d have found someone else. It’s quite normal for a trainer to buy horses at the sales and confirm the owners later. Buying on spec, it’s called. I’ve done it regularly over the years.’

‘But who puts up the money in the meantime?’

‘I have an understanding with my bank.’

Quite an understanding , I thought, if he could sign cheques for half a million with only untried horses as the guarantee. But who was I to know? There was clearly more value in racehorses than I realised.

Oliver laughed nervously. ‘I haven’t lost the house and stables yet.’

So the horses weren’t the only collateral after all.

‘How many did you buy on spec in total at last year’s sales?’

‘Five, including the Sheikh’s,’ he said. ‘Two colts and three fillies.’

‘Who now own them?’

‘One of my regular owners bought the other filly.’

‘And the colts?’ I asked.

‘Ah, well,’ Oliver replied rather sheepishly. ‘We didn’t actually find owners for them.’

‘I assume you’re still trying.’

‘That might be a bit difficult now,’ he said. ‘Both of them died in the fire.’

‘So will you personally bear the liability?’

‘No, thank God,’ he said, holding his hands up in mock prayer. ‘I insured them.’

Did you, indeed? I thought.

On Tuesday morning, my phone rang at seven o’clock precisely, but I’d been reading the daily newspapers for over an hour by then.

‘Harrison, my friend, how are you?’ There was a slight southern twang to the Sheikh’s middle-eastern accent, the result of having mostly learned his English from watching old Hollywood movies plus a stint at a US Air Force flight-training facility in Alabama.

‘I am well, Your Highness,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Good. Now tell me what is going on. All I have received is a garbled message from Oliver Chadwick that two of my horses have died in a fire.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.

I gave him an update of the known facts and the loss of life, both equine and human, including the demise of Prince of Troy.

There was a short pause from the other end of the line, which may have been due to the distance the signal had to travel.