John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

These three were the Spratt brothers — Mark, Matthew and John.

They were a remarkable trio, in appearance: so different that, but for a certain similarity in the rather high cheekbones and craggy eyebrows of all three, it would have been difficult to believe they were brothers. John, with his aggressive good looks and toughness, was a sharp contrast to Matthew, a man of medium height with rather thin lips and thin features-a mousey-looking man. The youngest and smallest was Mark, only five-feet three, dapper, well-turned out in every way; he had a sharp nose, a pointed chin, and eyes that were very bright. In spite of his near-foppishness, he was much more aggressive and bold in his actions than Matthew; at times, indeed, he was as bold as John. These three were now the only directors of the company, although at one time a prominent London financier, Sir Geoffrey Craven, had been on the board. They much preferred the family control . . .

The race finished, and Matthew switched off the set and turned to greet his brother. There was a hint of real anxiety in his face and voice as he said: “Hallo, John. How are things?”

“Couldn’t be better!” declared John, heartily. “We don’t have a thing to worry about, except feeding our tonic to the horses.”

And he laughed again; not only strikingly handsome but tremendously confident.

Matthew still looked a little troubled, but Mark clapped his hands in something near elation.

All over England and Ireland, and in several places in France, ‘the horses’ were being treated as if they were precious — as indeed they were. The finest bloodstock in the world, horses born and bred by their owners with the dream of a Derby win in their minds and hearts, would soon be heading for Epsom Downs and the race which captured the imagination of the world.

It was a very good year for three-year-olds.

And each owner, even of a horse not very much fancied, had a secret hope: that this year the Derby would be his.

The owners, from the richest in the land to small ‘syndicates’ made up of men risking nearly all the money they possessed, could think or talk of nothing but their horses. The jockeys, each with his own dream, lived, slept, ate and thought their Derby mounts. The trainers, with so much reputation at stake, took extreme precautions to ensure their horse could not be injured or doped; would not catch cold, or be trained beyond its peak. And every owner and trainer, every jockey and even stable boy, said to himself: “This is our year!”

“This,” John Spratt added, lightly, “is our year.”

Mark nodded, perkily. Matthew, whose face still held that note of apprehension, said nothing at all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Man Who Confessed

For Gideon, it was a quiet weekend.

Now that the weather was better — still warm, but without the humidity — Kate seemed much better, too.

The weekend brought the people out in swarms. Londoners who did not go to the country or the coast, thronged the parks. The Lido at the Serpentine in Hyde Park was as bright and gay as any seaside resort; the boating there and on the other park lakes, on Regent’s Park Canal and on the Thames vied with any South Coast harbour. Everyman and his wife, in short, were out and about; even those who did not travel were busy in their gardens.

Gideon himself first mowed and then trimmed the lawns, both back and front, and thinned the front privet hedge. Kate hoed the one or two flower-beds and the small vegetable-patch — and for supper produced, in triumph, some radishes, spring onions and a lettuce which nearly had a heart.

“I wondered whether you’d like to go out to a meal?” he suggested.

“I’d rather not, dear,” Kate said. “You don’t mind cold beef, do you?”

“Tell me the time when I mind beef, however it comes!” Gideon retorted.

The truth was, he realised, that Kate didn’t want to make the effort of dressing to go up to the West End. Well, that had happened before, and she seemed bright enough -bright enough to be vexed with Malcolm when he came dashing in only to say he had to go out again.

“Malcolm, you haven’t had a solid meal —”

“Pooh, been eating all day! Just got to put a collar and tie on.” He rushed upstairs, and Kate was more put out than Gideon would have expected. But when he appeared again, spruced up, face shining, hair brushed, tie straight as a rod and shoes newly-polished, she appraised him with amused affection, and did not ask the obvious question. When he had gone, husband and wife looked at each other across the kitchen table and laughed.

“Girl-friend,” Gideon hazarded. “His first?”

“George, dear,” said Kate, “his twenty-first! For a detective -!”

They laughed together, and Gideon thought comfortably: she’s all right; it was just the heat. He turned to the sports page of the Sunday Sun and glanced through an enthusiastic editorial under headlines which trumpeted:

GREAT MONTH OF SPORT!

First Test-the DAKS — Wimbledon — The Derby With Wimbledon beginning tomorrow, the second England v. South Africa Test Match starting at Lords on Thursday, the DAKS Tournament at Wentworth providing the first major golfing event of the season and the Southern Counties Swimming Championships at Crystal Palace, this week begins a great month of sport.

Add polo at Windsor, where the Duke of Edinburgh will be playing, Greyhound-racing, Hot-rods at Wimbledon, rowing on the Thames, Cycle racing at Herne Hill and Athletics in half-a-dozen sports centres and stadiums, and we have a truly record June ahead of us. And the week after next with the Derby and the Oaks thrown in, will be furiously exciting.

At Wimbledon, six out of the first eight top seeds in the Men’s Singles are professional: three American, two Australian and one from Ecuador. Some of the unseeded players . . .

As Gideon read, it struck him with redoubled force that if any one man was to keep his finger on the pulse of London’s sport, he would need to be chosen quickly; it was already plenty late enough. And as the name and mental picture of Chief Inspector William Bligh kept recurring to him, that of young Tandy dropped into the background.

Bligh was due if not overdue for a superintendency; but everything which could possibly go wrong for him had gone wrong, in the past two or three years — including a divorce. There had been no breath of scandal, but somehow among certain authorities divorce of itself carried a connotation almost of stigma: an inherent suggestion that a police officer should give a perfect conventional example in his personal as well as his official life. Gideon believed, quite simply, that every man’s private life was his own and should only be considered officially if it could have an adverse effect on his work. Significantly Bligh, either because of tensions and emotional crises, had failed on several cases, including one which had received a lot of publicity. On the other hand, he was an ardent and exceptionally well-informed sports enthusiast, and did a great deal of work for the Metropolitan Police sporting associations.

Gideon tried to put him out of his mind, but only half-succeeded.

Kate went to bed early, and Malcolm came home late, with one or two smears of badly wiped-off lipstick on his mouth. Half-amused, half-thoughtful, Gideon pretended not to notice. But he was uneasily conscious of the fact that ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ of this generation took things for granted which still shocked him a little and would probably upset Kate a great deal. Well, at least Malcolm looked happy . . .

Kate was up at her usual seven-thirty, next morning, singing under her breath as she cooked breakfast. Penelope called, to say she would be back next day, instead of that evening.

“Had a wonderful wow of a weekend!” she told Kate.