David Wishart: White Murder

‘Sure. No problem. Thanks for your help.’ Well, that gave me the entrée, anyway. We shook, and he left.

Hesper stood looking at me for a while, sucking on a tooth; not that he had all that many to choose from, he probably gave them turn about. Finally when he’d had all the entertainment he could take he said: ‘Okay, sir. Where do you want to start?’

Not exactly enthusiastic in tone, but I recognised the type: he had his orders, and although his personal inclinations might prompt him to tell me to piss off he was willing to shelve them for the present. Until I put a foot wrong, of course. At which point he’d have my guts for leggings.

‘Where would you suggest, friend?’ Like I say, a master of stables is the shop-floor expert. My policy’s always been, if you’ve got yourself an expert the last thing you do is try to tell him his business. That way you save yourself a lot of time and grief. You save making an enemy, too.

Hesper shrugged, but most of the antagonism went out of his expression. Right decision. ‘There’s Typhon,’ he said. ‘He was the only one with any time for the Great Man, but then Typhon’d socialise with a brick if it kept him in booze.’

Uh-huh. Definitely not flavour of the month, our Pegasus. Mind you, that was only what I’d expected. ‘Who’s Typhon? One of the drivers?’

‘Shit, no.’ I got a grin that was mostly space; a bit like a temple front, but not as regular. Or as clean. ‘He’s a placard man.’

Right. Every faction has placard men. These’re the guys who walk in front of the horses in the big parade before the races proper, carrying boards giving the names of the horses and drivers and how many wins they’ve had. ‘Fine by me,’ I said. ‘Where do I find him?’

A touch of the stiffness crept back. ‘You don’t,’ he said. ‘We find him together.’

Whoopee, joy in the morning. With the boss’s right-hand man breathing down my neck I’d bet anyone I talked to would keep a tight rein on his mouth, which is always a handicap. Still, the guy had his orders. ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

We headed off towards the back of the compound; as far, I noticed, from the stables block as it was possible to get. There were still plenty of buildings, but most of them were lean-to sheds: definitely the racing world’s equivalent of the sticks. Through some of the open doors I saw the racing equivalent of attic-space lumber: old chariots without the wheels, shelves of paint-pots that’d probably been hardening to rock-like solidity since I put on my adult mantle and stacks of chipboard with the names of long-dead horses and long-gone drivers. Outside one of the sheds a weaselly little guy was sitting against the wall swigging from a travelling flask. When he saw us coming he quickly tucked it behind his back.

‘Hey, Typhon.’ Hesper beckoned. ‘Leave that alone and come over here, you drunken bugger.’

Weasel Face grinned, got up and ambled towards us. Drunk was an exaggeration, but he wasn’t walking too straight, either.

‘This is Valerius Corvinus. He wants to ask you a few questions.’ Hesper stepped back and folded his arms: his way, obviously, of tactfully creating an area of private space.

Yeah, well, as interview conditions went it wasn’t perfect, but it was all I was going to get. Not much of an introduction, either. I sighed.

‘What about?’ The eyes were shifty and bloodshot, but despite the guarded tone I had the impression that Typhon was no thicko.

I glanced at Hesper, but he’d obviously decided that he’d done all that his job required. ‘You know Pegasus was murdered yesterday? The lead driver?’

‘Sure. Stabbed for his purse in an alleyway.’ He didn’t seem too concerned.

‘You were, uh, friendly with him?’

That got me a slow, calculating look. ‘I wouldn’t say “friendly”, chief. Not “friendly”, exactly. I knew him, sure, but that’s as far as it went.’

Jupiter! I’d struck a real equivocating type here. He’d’ve got on great with Charax. ‘Fine, pal. We won’t quarrel over words. You care to tell me about the guy?’

‘He was okay.’

Uh-huh. The last of the big communicators. I’d have to spell this out. ‘I understand he wasn’t too popular with your colleagues. Let’s start there, shall we?’

The guy’s chest swelled with that ‘colleagues’ and he seemed to brighten. Maybe I was getting his measure after all: placard men come pretty low in the pecking order and anyone who feeds their self-esteem is off to a flying start. ‘The lads weren’t too taken with him, no,’ he said. ‘Threw his weight around from the start. Mind you, he had the right. He was just about the best car-man in the business, even Uranius admitted that.’

‘Uranius?’

That got me the look I was beginning to get used to, the one that said: This guy’s a mentally-defective cockroach. Typhon’s version didn’t even make a pretence at disguise. ‘Our first driver before Pegasus turned up. First driver again now he’s dead.’

Uh-huh. I’d assumed there’d be somebody of that description – Pegasus must’ve taken someone’s place, and whoever’s it was wouldn’t be a very happy chappie – but it was good to have a name. I glanced at Hesper, but he hadn’t moved. ‘He around at present?’

‘Nah. He’ll be out on Mars Field with the lead horses. He likes to exercise them himself.

‘I take it that this Uranius didn’t like the guy.’ I kept my voice neutral.

‘Hated his guts,’ Typhon said cheerfully. ‘Not that he would’ve killed him because of that, if that’s what you’re thinking. Uranius wouldn’t hurt a fly, and Pegasus was team. Besides, the rest of the lads felt the same way, especially after the Plebbies.’

‘Yeah? So what happened at the Plebbies?’

Typhon gave me a sycophantic grin. ‘There wouldn’t be a chance of a sub after all this, would there?’ he said. ‘Wear and tear on the memory and vocal cords, like?’

I glanced back at Hesper and raised an eyebrow. The guy had gone back to his scowling, although mostly it was directed at Typhon. I half-expected him to put the brakes on the idea, maybe on Typhon as well, but he just shrugged.

‘Suit yourself, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘It’s your money.’

I took out my purse and extracted a silver piece, but I didn’t hand it over: I’d met Typhon’s type before, and the silver pieces ended up multiplying faster than rabbits.

‘You’re a prince, chief.’ Typhon beamed.

‘The Plebbies.’

‘The Plebbies. Pegasus was driving for the Greens. He got one of our sprinklers in the final lap when he overtook our first car on the inside. Drove straight over him. He won, too, a length ahead of the Blues. That made it worse. It was an accident, sure, and the kid should’ve been watching out, but the lads wouldn’t be in the mood to make allowances.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I wasn’t too shocked, or even much surprised: accidents happen at every Games, especially to sprinklers, the guys whose job is to run out as their Colour draws level and throw water over the horses to cool them down. Which is safe enough if the home team’s in an outside position, on the same side of the track as the sprinkler, but any other permutation is risky as hell. Sprinklers are usually small men – smaller even than the usual racing types – or boys, and fast on their feet, but even so the long-term career prospects are pretty limited. ‘He was killed?’

‘Sure. The wheel got him. Backbone snapped like a rotten stick.’

‘Uranius was driving the White car?’

‘Yeah. He was running a blocker for the Blue ahead of him. To be fair, it wasn’t Pegasus’s fault. You have to take your chances where they’re offered on the track, especially after the final turn, and Uranius was too far from the barrier.’