Дик Фрэнсис - Break In

‘Nasty.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Why didn’t they show the whole tape on How’s Trade ? They obviously meant to needle Maynard. Why did they smother the results?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’ Rose hitched a hip on to one of the tables and regarded me with acid amusement. ‘I should think Allardeck paid them not to show it.’

‘What?’

‘Pure as a spring lamb, aren’t you? That interviewer and his producer have before this set up a pigeon and then thoroughly shot him down, but without the brawl ever reaching the screen. One politician, I know for certain, was invited by the producer to see his hopelessly damaging tape before it was broadcast. He was totally appalled and asked if there was any way he could persuade the producer to edit it. Sure, the producer said, the oldest way in the world, through your wallet.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The politician told me himself. He wanted me to write about it, he was so furious, but I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me use his name.’

‘Maynard,’ I said slowly, ‘has a real genius for acquiring assets.’

‘Oh, sure. And nothing illegal. Not unless he helped the trains to shake the block of flats’ foundations.’

‘One could never find out.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘How did the interviewer rake all that up?’

Rose shrugged. ‘Out of files. Out of archives. Same as we all do when we’re on a story.’

‘He’d done a great deal of work.’

‘Expecting a great deal of pay-off.’

‘Mm,’ I said, ‘if Maynard was already angling for a knighthood, he’d have paid the earth. They could probably have got more from him than they did.’

‘They’ll curl up like lemon rind now that they know.’ The idea pleased Rose greatly.

‘How did you get this tape?’ I asked curiously.

‘From the producer himself, sort of. He owed me a big favour. I told him I wanted to do a shredding job on Allardeck, and asked to see the interview again, uncut if possible, and he was as nice as pie. I wouldn’t tell him I knew about his own little scam, now would I?’

‘I suppose,’ I said slowly, ‘that I couldn’t have a copy?’

Rose gave me a long cool look while she considered it. Her eyelids, I noticed, were coloured purple, dark contrast to the pale blue eyes.

‘What would you do with it?’ she said.

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘It’s under copyright,’ she said.

‘Mm.’

‘You shouldn’t have it.’

‘No.’

She bent over the video machine and pressed the eject button. The large black cassette slid quietly and smoothly into her hand. She slotted it into its case and held it out to me, gold chains tinkling.

‘Take this one. This is a copy. I made it myself. The originals never left the building, they’re hot as hell about that in that television company, but I’m fairly quick with these things. They left me alone in an editing room to view, with some spare tapes stacked in a corner, which was their big mistake.’

I took the box, which bore a large white label saying ‘Do not touch’.

‘Now listen to me, buddy boy, if you’re found with this, you don’t get me into trouble, right?’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Do you want it back?’

‘I don’t know why I trust you,’ she said plaintively. ‘A goddamn jockey. If I want it back I’ll ask. You keep it somewhere safe. Don’t leave it lying about, for God’s sake. Though I suppose I should tell you it won’t play on an ordinary video. The tape is professional tape three-quarters of an inch wide, it gives better definition. You’ll need a machine that takes that size.’

‘What were you going to do with it yourself?’ I asked.

‘Wipe it off,’ she said decisively. ‘I got it yesterday morning and played it several times here to make sure I didn’t put the uncut version’s words into Allardeck’s mouth in the paper. I don’t need suing. Then I wrote my piece, and I’ve been busy today... but if you’d come one day later, it would all have been wiped.’

‘Lucky,’ I said.

‘Yes. What else? Files? There’s more on the tape, but Bill said files, so files you can have.’

‘Bill?’

‘Bill Vaughnley. We worked together when we were young. Bill started at the bottom, the old Lord made him. So did I You don’t call someone sir when you’ve shared cigarette butts on a night stint.’

They had been lovers, I thought. It was in her voice.

‘He says I have a tongue like a viper,’ she said without offence. ‘I dare say he told you?’

I nodded. ‘Rattlesnake.’

She smiled. ‘When he’s a pompous fool, I let him know it.’

She stood up, tawny and tinkling like a mobile in a breeze, and we went out of the television room, down a corridor, round a few corners, and found ourselves in an expanse like a library with shelves to the ceiling bearing not books but folders of all sorts, the whole presided over by a severe looking youth in spectacles who signed us in, looked up the indexing and directed us to the section we needed.

The file on Maynard Allardeck was, as Rose had said, less informative than the tape. There were sundry photographs of him, black and white glossy prints, chiefly taken at race meetings, where I supposed he was more accessible. There were three, several years old now, of him leading in his great horse Metavane after its win in the 2000 Guineas, the Goodwood Mile and the Champion Stakes. Details and dates were on flimsy paper strips stuck to the back of the prints.

There were two bunches of newspaper clippings, one from the Towncrier , one from other sources such as the Financial Times and the Sporting Life . Nothing critical had been written, it seemed, before the onslaught in the Flag . The paragraphs were mainly dull: Maynard, from one of the oldest racing families... Maynard, proud owner... Maynard, member of the Jockey Club... Maynard, astute businessman... Maynard, supporter of charity... Maynard the great and good. Approving adjectives like bold, compassionate, far-sighted and responsible occurred. The public persona at its prettiest.

‘Enough to make you puke,’ Rose said.

‘Mm,’ I said. ‘Do you think you could ask your producer friend why he hit on Maynard as a target?’

‘Maybe. Why?’

‘Someone’s got it in for Maynard. That TV interview might be an attack that didn’t work, God bless bribery and corruption. The attack in the Flag has worked well. You’ve helped it along handsomely yourself. So who got to the Flag , and did they also get to the producer?’

‘I take it back,’ she said. ‘Some jockeys are smarter than others.’

‘Very few are dumb.’

‘They fust talk a different language?’

‘Dead right.’

She returned the file to its place. ‘Anything else? Any dinky little thing?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘How would I get to talk to Sam Leggatt, who edits the Flag ?’

She let out a breath, a cross between a cough and a laugh. ‘Sam Leggatt? You don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘He walks around in a bullet-proof vest.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Metaphorically.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Sure, I know him. Can’t say I like him. He was political correspondent on the Record before he went to the Flag , and he’s always thought he was God’s gift to Fleet Street. He’s a mocker by nature. He and the Flag are soulmates.’

‘Could you reach him on the telephone?’ I asked.

She shook her head over my naivety. ‘They’ll be printing the first edition by now, but he’ll be checking everything again for the second. Adding stuff. Changing it round. There’s no way he’d talk to Moses let alone a... a jumping bean.’