Hands Down, page 24
* * *
I sat bolt upright in bed.
It was still pitch-black outside, but something had definitely woken me.
I touched the clock on my bedside table. It briefly lit up. Two-fifteen.
I lay very still in the dark, listening.
Nothing – nothing other than my pounding heart.
As silently as I could, I got up, put on my dressing gown and went to my bedroom door, opening it very slowly.
‘Chico,’ I whispered over the banister into the hallway beneath. ‘Are you there?’
No reply.
I padded down the stairs in bare feet.
‘Chico,’ I whispered again.
I heard a chair move on the kitchen floor.
‘Sid, is that you?’ Chico said.
‘Yes. Something woke me.’
‘I’ve heard nothin’. I’ll go and check.’
I waited in the hallway while Chico went outside.
‘Nothin’ there,’ he said, coming back in through the kitchen door. ‘All quiet. Not a peep from Rosie either.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ I said. ‘It must have been a dream.’
I went back upstairs to my room feeling somewhat foolish, and climbed into bed. But I lay awake in the dark for some time, listening for any strange noises and wondering what it was that had woken me.
I must have drifted off but, suddenly, I was awake again and, this time, I knew why. The thought that had fleeted in and out of my brain in the car on the motorway had finally returned – and, this time, it stuck.
I looked again at my clock – two-fifty.
I didn’t want the thought to evaporate again so I wrote down ‘Harry the Hands for Prime Minister’ on the notepad beside my bed as a reminder, then went soundly back to sleep for the rest of the night.
* * *
I went downstairs at six-thirty, again wearing my dressing gown, to find Chico fast asleep in the kitchen armchair.
‘Call yourself a bodyguard?’ I said, gently kicking his foot.
He opened one eye. ‘I knew it was you,’ he said.
‘Liar.’
I made myself a cup of instant coffee, then sat at the kitchen table and opened my laptop.
There were eight new emails in my inbox – two were bills, one was from my accountant about changes in rates for the new tax year, one was an invitation to a past-champion jockeys’ lunch at Cheltenham the following month. The other four were all spam.
I deleted the spam, accepted the invitation and decided that the bills could wait for another day.
Next I logged onto the internet and removed the notepad from my dressing-gown pocket: ‘Harry the Hands for Prime Minister’.
Not that I really wanted my hand-transplant surgeon to go into politics.
I googled British prime ministers.
Then I looked up a certain name in the Thoroughbred Business Guide, but it didn’t appear. Not surprising, really. No one was obliged to have their details included in the guide. Anton Valance’s name didn’t appear there either.
Next I called Simon Paulson.
‘Can’t you bloody leave me alone?’ he said. ‘First lot goes out in twenty minutes and I’m busy.’
‘I only need one thing,’ I said quickly, before he had a chance to hang up.
‘What thing?’
I told him.
‘Why do you need that?’
‘I just do? It’s no skin off your nose, but I could ask the BHA Integrity Department if you’d rather. However, they will probably also want to know why I want it and I might end up telling them about your little arrangement with Anton Valance.’
‘Bastard,’ he said with feeling. But he told me what I wanted, and it was just as I had expected.
I disconnected.
‘Okay,’ I said to Chico. ‘I think I may have worked out who is Valance’s accomplice. And it pains me to say this, but it’s all thanks to you – you and the Kaiser.’
31
After breakfast, Chico and I took Rosie over to Aynsford.
Reluctantly, Charles had agreed to look after her again, even though he didn’t particularly like it.
‘But come in for a cup of coffee before you go,’ he’d said. ‘I hope it might make the dog settle better than when you just drop her off at my front door.’
So we did that, and I took Rosie’s usual bed along with me so she would feel more comfortable, placing it in Charles’s kitchen next to his Aga in the same manner as it was at home.
‘Did you have a good dinner?’ I asked.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘The only trouble is that most of the admirals I served with have now fallen off the perch. Only young chaps these days, some of whom didn’t join the service until long after I had retired. But it was fun nevertheless, and it was good to spend a night in London. I even walked up to Jermyn Street yesterday morning and bought myself some new shirts.’
He poured coffee into three mugs and carried them over to the table.
‘So who is this Kaiser chappie?’ Chico asked him.
‘The Kaiser?’ Charles said.
‘Sherlock Holmes, here, says he’s helpin’ us.’
‘That isn’t quite what I said.’
‘Kaiser Wilhelm II?’ Charles asked.
I nodded.
Charles stared first at me, then at Chico, who looked back at him with an expectant expression. ‘Sid said you would know him.’
‘He was the last German Emperor. Kaiser is the German word for emperor. It was he who started the First World War.’
‘I thought it was because someone was assassinated,’ I said.
Charles nodded. ‘That’s what the history books will tell you. Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He was shot dead during a visit to Sarajevo, causing the Austrians to declare war on Serbia. That caused the whole international diplomatic house of cards to collapse due to various military alliances, but it was the Kaiser who really wanted the war, and he made sure it happened.
‘When he became German emperor on the death of his father in the 1880s, he sacked all the politicians and assumed total control, building a huge army and a massive navy in order to threaten all his neighbours. He was absolutely itching for a war. Dreadful man. He also wore an appallingly stupid moustache.’
That was clearly, in Charles’s eyes, almost as damning as having caused a world war. After all, moustaches on their own are not permitted in the Royal Navy – British sailors either have to be clean-shaven or have a full set: a moustache together with a beard.
‘But I suppose we should be grateful,’ he said.
‘Grateful? Why?’
‘Grateful that he wasn’t also the King of England.’
‘You mean because Germany lost the war?’
‘Oh, no. Long before that. Back in 1901. Kaiser Wilhelm’s mother was Princess Victoria, Queen Victoria’s eldest child. If the succession rules for British monarchs had been then as they have recently been changed to, stopping male preference in favour of the first-born of either sex, then she would have become Queen Victoria II when her mother died, instead of her younger brother becoming King Edward VII, and then Wilhelm would have become King of England six months later when she also died. It’s quite scary really when you think about it. We would never have had Queen Elizabeth II or the House of Windsor.’
‘But what has this got to do with us?’ Chico asked, clearly confused.
‘Nothing,’ I said, standing up. ‘Thanks for the history lesson, Charles, but Chico and I have to get going. We’ll pick Rosie up later. I’ve left some dog biscuits for her supper in case we’re late.’
Charles didn’t look at all happy at the prospect that we might be late.
* * *
We went north in the MY S1D Discovery, not least because I felt that I had already put enough miles on Marina’s Skoda.
All this driving up and down the country reminded me of the years I had spent as a jockey. Back in those days, I’d put seventy thousand miles a year or more on my car’s clock, riding perhaps at Newton Abbot in south Devon on one day, at Doncaster or Haydock in the North the next, and maybe at Fontwell or Plumpton races way down close to the Sussex coast the day after. And so on, six or even seven days a week, most weeks of the year.
‘So, where to this time?’ Chico asked.
‘We’re off to see the prime minister,’ I said. And hence he was all the more confused when I joined the northbound M1 at Leicester.
‘What happened to using the Red Telephone Hotline?’ he asked.
‘That’s a last resort. Only to be used when we absolutely have to.’
‘Don’t we absolutely have to already?’
‘Not quite.’
As we were passing Nottingham, my non-red black telephone rang. I answered it using the Discovery’s hands-free system. The call was from a breathless Marcus Capes.
‘Valance just called and told me to lose on Jahaz Bar.’
‘And will you?’ I asked.
‘I told him I wouldn’t. I said I would ride Jahaz Bar to win and that, in future, every horse I ride will be trying its best to win.’
‘And what did he say to that?’
‘He asked me if I was sure. Because he said he would post the video he has of me counting his bloody money on social media and send a copy to the BHA unless I did what he told me.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Look, I’m sorry, Sid, but I told him if he did that, I would send the video I took of him on Monday evening in my room to the BHA as well.’
So much for my dire warnings, I thought.
‘And I also told him that it wasn’t any good him doing something to me to stop me, because I’ve already told Sid Halley about the video I’d made.’
Oh, great, I thought, thanks a lot.
Marcus had just massively raised the stakes in this dangerous poker game. But who would blink first?
* * *
I turned the Discovery into the free public car park at Sedgefield Racecourse at a quarter past twelve.
‘I didn’t realize the prime minister liked racin’,’ Chico said with a grin.
‘Didn’t you know that Tony Blair was the local MP here for over twenty years?’
‘Please don’t tell me we’ve come all the way up here just to see Tony Blair.’
‘No,’ I said, laughing. ‘We haven’t.’
Surprisingly, this was my first ever visit to Sedgefield racecourse, having never ridden here as a jockey. County Durham had always seemed so far away from my then home in Berkshire, but that was silly, really, as I rode several times in Scotland, including twice at Perth, which is nearly 200 miles further north than Sedgefield.
We were quite early as the first race wasn’t until two o’clock, so I parked the Discovery in the largely empty car park, as close as I could to the main entrance to the enclosures, rather than tucking it away in a dark corner where thugs in balaclavas might be waiting for us when we came out later.
Chico and I went in through the turnstiles, buying racecourse-entry tickets that included not only a complimentary racecard but also some traditional fish and chips, complete with mushy peas and curry sauce, from the on-site fish-and-chip shop.
We sat on a wooden bench in front of the grandstand, eating our fish lunch in the warm early April sunshine, which had replaced the heavy overnight rain.
‘So, are we here to give Marcus Capes some moral support?’ Chico asked between mouthfuls.
‘Partly, but we were always coming here anyway, even before his phone call.’
‘To see the prime minister?’
‘Exactly so,’ I replied with a smile.
I sat and perused the racecard.
As expected, Jahaz Bar was listed among the seven runners for the second race with Marcus Capes riding, but there was another horse that I was also interested in: Ricardian, a declared runner in the fifth race, a two-and-a-half-mile handicap hurdle for four-year-olds and older. He was trained by Simon Paulson and was due to be ridden by Jimmy Shilstone.
According to the printed probable starting prices, both horses were expected to start as their race favourite, but would they both be trying to win? That was the big question.
As the time for the first race neared, the place began to fill up, even though that was a relative term.
Sedgefield in April was not like Cheltenham for the annual racing festival, which had taken place the previous month. Then crowds in excess of seventy thousand had flocked to Prestbury Park to witness the very cream of British and Irish steeplechasers battle it out in a series of Class 1 championship races, some with purses well in excess of half a million pounds.
Here at Sedgefield today, there were seven scheduled races. Three of those were Class 4 and the other four Class 5, with the biggest prize of eight grand going to the winner of the fourth, while most of the others were worth less than six. And the attendance reflected the lesser standard of the racing, with fewer than a thousand souls actually paying to get in.
In footballing terms, while Cheltenham and Aintree racecourses were certainly in the Premier League, Sedgefield, as far as size of crowds go, was probably in the fourth tier or even lower. Not that the racing itself would be any less competitive, with plenty of runners here today vying for the moderate spoils.
Just before one o’clock, with still over an hour to go before the first race I positioned myself close to the entrance to watch the arrivals, while Chico nonchalantly leaned against a wall some distance away to my left, so that it was not too obvious that we were there together.
The first persons of interest to appear were Noel Kline and Marcus Capes walking in side by side, deep in conversation.
Marcus saw me almost as soon as I spotted him and there was a small but distinct falter in his step, but he quickly recovered. I gave him a small thumbs-up sign with my right hand and he fractionally nodded in my direction, before turning to his left towards the weighing room and the jockeys’ changing rooms.
Jimmy Shilstone was next to arrive and he was far more concerned by my presence.
‘Is Ricardian a good bet?’ I asked him as he walked past me.
‘Go away,’ he said. ‘I can’t be seen talking to you.’
‘Why not? Is an ex-jockey giving a current one some advice so bad?’
‘You know why. I wish I’d never told you anything.’
‘Okay, Jimmy,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave you alone, but only if you tell me to back Ricardian to win – and mean it.’
‘He’ll be doing his best as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Good lad,’ I said. ‘Does everyone else also think that?’
He gave me a look that included that slight touch of panic I had first seen at Catterick. So, no, everyone else didn’t think that.
‘Do your best to win,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure he was listening as he also hurried off towards the sanctuary of the weighing room.
And still I waited.
A few more people arrived who I recognized, mostly trainers and a few jockeys who had made the journey up from the South, but none of them were the person I was waiting for.
With just twenty minutes to go before the first race was due to start, Simon Paulson hurried in. I knew from the racecard that, in addition to Ricardian in the fifth, he had another runner in the second and he was cutting things rather fine.
I let him go. He was not the man I was waiting for either.
Just when I was beginning to think that my prey wasn’t coming to the races at Sedgefield today after all, he appeared in his camel-coloured overcoat and battered trilby. But he wasn’t alone. He had a woman and a young boy with him.
That could make things awkward.
‘Didn’t he come?’ Chico asked when I finally waved him over to me.
‘Yes, he did. But he’s not alone.’
‘So?’
‘I was hoping to corner him as he arrived but that was not possible.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘We bide our time and watch the racing.’
32
Jahaz Bar didn’t win the second race but it was due to no fault of Marcus Capes. And, in an ironic twist, the race was actually won by Simon Paulson’s runner, even though it had no right to the triumph.
Jahaz Bar had shadowed the long-time frontrunner throughout and, coming to the last fence, Marcus moved him almost upsides of the leader, ready to strike for glory. The horse in third was half a furlong adrift, and the remaining four runners were completely out of sight and pulling up, after the fast-run three miles in testing ground had sapped all their stamina.
But it was the tiredness of the leader that was to prove decisive.
As he jumped the last, he twisted to his right in midair, pitched nose-down on landing and fell forward right into Jahaz Bar’s path, causing both horses to crash to the turf. The third horse, which had itself almost pulled up, now staggered over the last and trotted the final hundred yards to the line for a totally undeserved victory.
Meanwhile, I kept my eyes on the carnage at the last fence and was relieved to see both horses and riders quickly rise to their feet. Being ‘brought-down’ when in a winning position was a dreadful way to lose a race, but it happens and had probably happened to every jockey at some stage or another. It certainly had to me.
‘Come on,’ I said to Chico. ‘Let’s go down and watch the winner come in.’
We went down from our lofty position in the grandstand and I leaned on the rail of the unsaddling enclosure while Chico stood some way off to my right.
The victor was led into the space reserved for the winner by Simon Paulson, and he had a rather embarrassed expression on his face.
I, meanwhile, wondered if the plan all along had been for the horse to lose and, short of joining the other two on the floor at the last fence, he’d had no choice but to win. But maybe I was being uncharitable.
‘That was a bit of luck, Simon,’ I shouted across to him.
He looked back at me with the same air of panic as I’d seen in Jimmy Shilstone’s eyes earlier. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
