Дик Фрэнсис - Knock Down

I said, ‘The man I sent to South Africa says he can’t swear the extra horses he looked after on the way were yours.’

‘You seemed sure enough that he would.’

‘He says he had the impression they were yours, but he couldn’t be sure.’

‘That’ll not stand up in court.’

‘No.’

He grunted. ‘I’ll not sue, then. I’ll not throw good brass after bad. Suing’s a mug’s game where there’s any doubt.’

His plain honesty rebuked me for the lie I’d told him. My man had been absolutely positive about the horses’ ownership: he’d seen the papers. I reckoned my promise to get Fynedale off was fully discharged and from there on he would have to take his chances.

‘What’s past is past,’ Wilton Young said. ‘Cut your losses. Eh, lad?’

‘I guess so,’ I said.

‘Take my word for it. Now, look here. I’ve a mind to buy an American horse. Tough, that’s what they are. Tough as if they came from Yorkshire.’ He wasn’t joking. ‘There’s one particular one I want you to go and buy for me. He comes up for sale soon after Christmas.’

I stared at him, already guessing.

‘Phoenix Fledgeling. A two-year-old. Ever heard of it?’

‘Did you know,’ I said, ‘That Constantine Brevett is after it too?’

He chuckled loudly. ‘Why the hell do you think I want it? Put his bloody superior nose out of joint. Eh, lad?’

The bloody superior nose chose that precise moment to arrive at the reception, closely accompanied by the firm mouth, smooth grey hair, thick black spectacle frames and general air of having come straight from some high up chairmanship in the City.

As his height and booming voice instantly dominated the assembly, I reflected that the advantage always seemed to go to the one who arrived later: maybe if Constantine and Wilton Young both realised it they would try so hard to arrive after each other that neither would appear at all, which might be a good idea all round. Constantine’s gaze swept authoritatively over the guests and stopped abruptly on Wilton Young and me. He frowned very slightly. His mouth marginally compressed. He gave us five seconds uninterrupted attention, and then looked away.

‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ I said slowly, ‘That it might just be your nose that he’s putting out of joint?’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘How many times have you had to out-bid him to get a horse?’

He chuckled. ‘Can’t remember. I’ve beaten him more times than he’s sold office blocks.’

‘He’s cost you a great deal of money.’

The chuckle died ‘That was bloody Fynedale and Vic Vincent.’

‘But... what if Constantine approved... or even planned it?’

‘You’re chasing the wrong rabbit, I tell thee straight.’

I chewed my lower lip. ‘As long as you’re happy.’

‘Ay.’

Nicol won the amateurs’ race by some startlingly aggressive tactics that wrung obscenities from his opponents and some sharp-eyed looks from the Stewards. He joined me afterwards with defiance flying like banners.

‘How about that, then?’ he said, attacking first.

‘If you were a pro on the Flat you’d have been suspended.’

‘That’s right.’

‘A proper sportsman,’ I said dryly.

‘I’m not in it for the sport.’

‘What then?’

‘Winning.’

‘Just like Wilton Young,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Neither of you cares what winning costs.’

He glared. ‘It cost you enough in your time in smashed up bones.’

‘Well... maybe everyone pays in the way that matters to them least.’

‘I don’t give a damn what the others think of me.’

‘That’s what I mean.’

We stood in silence, watching horses go by. All my life I’d stood and watched horses go by. There were a lot worse ways of living.

‘When you grow up,’ I said, ‘You’ll be a bloody good jockey.’

‘You absolute sod.’ The fury of all his twenty-two pampered years bunched into fists. Then with the speed of all his mercurial changes he gave me instead the brief, flashing, sardonic smile. ‘OK. OK. OK. I just aged five years.’

He turned on his heel and strode away, and although I didn’t know it until afterwards, he walked straight into the Clerk of the Course’s office and filled out an application form for a licence.

Vic didn’t come to Cheltenham races. I had business with him, however, so after a certain amount of private homework I drove to his place near Epsom early on the following morning.

He lived as he dressed, a mixture of distinguished traditional and flashy modern. The house, down a short well-kept drive off a country by-road on the outskirts of Oxshott Woods, had at heart the classically simple lines of early Victorian stone. Stuck on the back was an Edwardian outcrop of kitchens and bathrooms and to one side sprawled an extensive new single storey wing which proved to embrace a swimming pool, a garden room, and a suite for guests.

Vic was in his stable, a brick-built quadrangle standing apart from the house. He came out of its archway, saw me standing by my car and walked across with no welcome written plain on his large unsmiling face.

‘What the hell do you want?’ he said.

‘To talk to you.’

The cold sky was thick with clouds and the first heavy drops spoke of downpours to come. Vic looked irritated and said he had nothing to say.

‘I have,’ I said.

It began to rain in earnest. Vic turned on his heel and hurried away towards the house, and I followed him closely. He was even more irritated to find me going in with him through his own door.

‘I’ve nothing to say,’ he repeated.

‘You’ll listen, then.’

We stood in a wide passage running between the old part of the house and the new, with central heating rushing out past us into the chilly air of Surrey. Vic tightened his mouth, shut the outer door, and jerked his head for me to follow.

Money had nowhere been spared. Large expanses of pale blue carpeting stretched to the horizon. Huge plushy sofas stood around. Green plants the size of saplings sprouted from Greek looking pots. He probably had a moon bath, I thought, with gold taps: and a water bed for sleep.

I remembered the holes in Antonia Huntercombe’s ancient chintz. Vic’s legal robbery had gone a long way too far.

He took me to the room at the far end of the hallway, his equivalent of my office. From there the one window looked out to the pool, with the guest rooms to the left, and the garden room to the right. His rows of record books were much like mine, but there ended the resemblance between the two rooms. His had bright new paint, pale blue carpet, three or four Florentine mirrors, Bang and Olufsen stereo and a well stocked bar.

‘Right,’ Vic said. ‘Get it over. I’ve no time to waste.’

‘Ever heard of a horse called Polyprint?’ I said.

He froze. For countable seconds not a muscle twitched. Then he blinked.

‘Of course.’

‘Died of tetanus.’

‘Yes.’

‘Ever heard of Nestegg?’

If I’d run him through with a knitting needle he would have been no more surprised. The stab went through him visibly. He didn’t answer.

‘When Nestegg was foaled,’ I said conversationally, ‘There was some doubt as to his paternity. One of two stallions could have covered the dam. So the breeder had Nestegg’s blood typed.’

Vic gave a great imitation of Lot’s wife.

‘Nestegg’s blood was found to be compatible with one of the stallions, but not with the other. Records were kept. Those records still exist.’

No sign.

‘A full brother of Polyprint is now in training in Newmarket.’

Nothing.

I said, ‘I have arranged a blood test for the horse now known as Nestegg. You and I both know that his blood type will be entirely different from that recorded for Nestegg as a foal. I have also arranged a blood test for Polyprint’s full brother. And his blood type will be entirely compatible with the one found in the supposed Nestegg.’