Дик Фрэнсис: Slay-Ride

‘That is right.’

‘What happens if after all that the jockey rides a stinking race?’

Holth answered with deadly seriousness. ‘The owner does not ask the jockey to come again.’

We stepped out of the barn back into the mud. It hadn’t actually rained that day, but the threat still hung in the cold misty air.

‘Come into my house,’ suggested Holth, ‘Have some coffee before you catch the tram.’

‘Great,’ I said.

His house was a small wooden bungalow with lace curtains and geraniums in pots on every window sill. The stove in the living-room was already lit, with an orange metal coffee pot heating on top. Gunnar dug into a cupboard for two earthenware mugs and some sugar in a packet.

‘Would the owners have asked Bob Sherman to come again?’ I said.

He poured the coffee, stirring with a white plastic spoon.

‘Per Bjørn Sandvik would. And Sven Wangen; that’s the owner of that dappled mare on the far side.’ He pondered. ‘Rolf Torp, now. Bob lost a race the day he went. Rolf Torp thought he should have walked it.’

‘And should he?’

Holth shrugged. ‘Horses aren’t machines,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I don’t train Rolf Torp’s horses, so I don’t really know, do I?’

‘Who trains them?’

‘Paul Sundby.’

‘Will Rolf Torp be at the races tomorrow?’

‘Naturally,’ Holth said. ‘He has the favourite in the National.’

‘And you,’ I said. ‘Would you have asked him to ride for you again?’

‘Certainly,’ he said without hesitation. ‘Bob is a good jockey. He listens to what you say about a horse. He rides with his head. He would not have been asked so many times if he had not been good.’

The door from the yard opened without warning and one of the lads poked his head in: he was about twenty-five, cheerful, and wore a woollen cap with a pompom.

‘Gunny,’ he said, ‘Will ye be takin’ a look at that bleedin’ mare now? She’s a right cow, that one.’

The trainer said he would look in a minute, and the head withdrew.

‘He’s Irish,’ I said, surprised.

‘Sure. I’ve three Irish lads and one from Yorkshire. And three from here. There’s a lot of British lads in Norwegian r; icing.’

‘Why is that?’

‘They get a chance of riding in races here, see? More than they do at home.’

We drank the coffee which was well boiled and all the stronger for it.

I said, ‘What did Bob do for transport? Did he ever hire a car?’

‘No. I don’t think so. When he stayed here he used to go with me over to the course.’

‘Did he ever borrow your car? Or anyone’s?’

‘He didn’t borrow mine. I don’t think he ever drove, when he came.’

‘Did you take him anywhere except to the races, the day he disappeared?’

‘No.’

I knew from a file of statements which had been awaiting my arrival at the hotel that Bob Sherman had been expected to leave the racecourse by taxi to catch the late flight to Heathrow. He had not caught it. The taxi driver who had been engaged for the trip had simply shrugged when his passenger didn’t show, and had taken some ordinary racegoers back to the city instead.

That left public transport, all the taxi drivers who didn’t know Bob by sight, and other people’s cars. Plus, I supposed, his own two feet. It would have been all too easy to leave the racecourse without being seen by anyone who knew him, particularly if, as the collected notes implied, the last race had been run after dark.

I put down my empty coffee mug and Gunnar Holth abruptly said, ‘Could you be doing something about Bob’s wife, now?’

‘His wife? I might see her when I go back, if I find out anything useful’

‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘She is here.’

‘Here?’

He nodded. ‘In Oslo. And she won’t go home.’

‘Arne didn’t mention it.’

Holth laughed. ‘She follows him round like a dog. She asks questions, like you. Who saw Bob go, who did he go with, why does no one find him? She comes to every race meeting and asks and asks. Everyone is very tired of it.’

‘Do you know where she’s staying?’

He nodded vigorously and picked up a piece of paper lying near on a shelf.

‘The Norsland Hotel. Second class, away from the centre. This is her telephone number. She gave it to me in case I could think of anything to help.’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone is sorry for her. But I wish she would go away.

‘Will you telephone her?’ I said. ‘Say I would like to ask her some questions about Bob. Suggest this afternoon.’

‘I’ve forgotten your name,’ he said without apology.

I smiled and gave him one of the firm’s official cards. He looked at it and me in disbelief, but got the Norsland Hotel on the line. Mrs Emma Sherman was fetched.

Holth said into the receiver, ‘A Mr David Cleveland... come from England to try to find your husband.’ He read from the card, ‘Chief investigator, Investigation Office, Jockey Club, Portman Square, London. He wants to see you this afternoon.’

He listened to the reaction, then looked at me and said ‘Where?’

‘At her hotel. Three o’clock.’

He relayed the news.

‘She’ll be waiting for you,’ he said, putting the receiver down.

‘Good.’

‘Tell her to go home,’ he said.

She was waiting in the small lobby of the Norsland, sitting on the edge of a chair and anxiously scanning the face of every passing male. I watched her for a while through the glass doors to the street, before going in. She looked small and pale and very very jumpy. Twice she half stood up, and twice, as the man she had focused on walked past without a sign, subsided more slowly back to her seat.

I pushed through the doors into air barely warmer than the street, which in a totally centrally heated city spoke poorly of the management. Emma Sherman looked at me briefly and switched her gaze back to the door. I was not what she expected: the next man through, sixtyish and military-looking, had her again half way to her feet.

He passed her without a glance on his way to collect his room key at the desk. She sat slowly down, looking increasingly nervous.

I walked over to her.

‘Mrs Sherman?’

‘Oh.’ She stood up slowly. ‘Is there a message from Mr Cleveland?’

‘I am,’ I said, ‘David Cleveland.’

‘But,’ she said, and stopped. The surprise lingered on her face among the strain and tiredness, but she seemed past feeling anything very clearly. At close quarters the nervousness resolved itself into a state not far from total breakdown.

Her skin looked almost transparent from fatigue, dark shadows round her eyes emphasizing the pebbly dullness of the eyes themselves. She was about twenty-two and should have been pretty: she had the bones and the hair for it, but they hadn’t a chance. She was also, it seemed to me, pregnant.

‘Where can we talk?’ I asked.

She looked vaguely round the lobby which contained three chairs, no privacy, and a rubber plant.

‘Your room?’ I suggested.

‘Oh no,’ she said at once, and then more slowly, in explanation, ‘It is small... not comfortable... nowhere to sit.’

‘Come along, then,’ I said. ‘We’ll find a coffee shop.’

She came with me out into the street and we walked in the general direction of the Grand.

‘Will you find him?’ she said. ‘Please find him.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘He never stole that money,’ she said. ‘He didn’t.’

I glanced at her. She was trembling perceptibly and looking paler than ever. I stopped walking and put my hand under her elbow. She looked at me with glazing eyes, tried to say something else, and fell forward against me in a thorough-going swoon.