Taking the Fall (27 page)

Mandy Gleeson pulled Duncan aside some time after the day’s races. ‘I’ve got something to tell you. One of our journalists on the team has been in George Pleasance’s pocket.’

‘What?’ Duncan said. ‘How long?’

‘Nearly a year. No wonder he’s been one jump ahead of anything we could get on him.’

Duncan made a quick calculation about whether this would affect him and anything he might have told Mandy.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, reading his mind. ‘Anything you might have said to me never went any further.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘We’ve only just found out. We’re trying to think how we might use it to our advantage.’

‘Good. Do you think you can keep it like that for another few days?’

‘What’s in your mind?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

That same evening, a rather distinguished-looking Chinese gentleman with a permanent smile entered the Ritz. He had just a few thin strands of black hair combed back across his head. His glasses had unusually thick lenses. He seemed to be enjoying a special air of privilege: perhaps it was the company of the extremely nubile young lady, around half his age, on his arm. They dined in lavish style in the restaurant. They ate foie gras and drank champagne.

At about nine o clock in the evening they finished their dinner and took the lift up to a room.

Mandy Gleeson, sitting in the lounge and to all intents reading a newspaper, was able to observe this gentleman and his companion. She was also able to establish, without too much difficulty, that his dinner and accommodation for the evening had been placed on the account of Duke Cadogan.

20

S
andy Sanderson whistled as he let himself out of his lover’s cottage that Gold Cup morning. It was seven thirty and the day was beautiful. A golden sunlight was breaking through the mist. What was there not to like about the world? He’d left Jeannie sleeping and happy in the cottage that he owned; had his usual race-day breakfast of coffee and one thin slice of toast spread with honey; he was about to get into his sleek black Porsche parked discreetly at the rear of the property. And more than all of this it was Gold Cup day!

Life didn’t get better than this.

He’d had nine years as Champion Jockey, and if he swept up a couple of end-of-season races, this would be his tenth. Undisputed champion. He’d taken five more winners at this festival alone, and today he was pretty certain of winning the Gold Cup itself. The challenge was there, of course; it was always there. But he knew he was riding the top horse of the hour for Osborne and Cadogan, and all he had to do was steer her home. There was that detail to take care of in the last race, on Ra-ho-tep, but that was nothing new; and anyway it was the kind of detail that had brought him the Porsche, the cottage hideaway in the Wiltshire hills and the sweet young thing snoozing blissfully upstairs.

The Cheltenham Festival was the time when he felt most alive, confident that no other jockey could touch him.

As he dropped the latch on the cottage door and turned to cross the gravel driveway to where his Porsche lurked in the shadows, something made him draw up short. Something unfamiliar. Something not quite right.

It was a scent on the morning air. Just a tiny whiff. It made him stop.

He couldn’t quite place the smell. He made his way across the driveway, crunching the gravel as he went. As he reached for the driver’s door, three black-clad figures, all wearing balaclavas, seemed to unfold themselves from the shadows of the black Porsche. Sanderson very nearly shat himself.

Two of the three held small handguns levelled at him.

‘Top o’ the morning to you, Mr Sanderson,’ said one of the figures in a strong Irish brogue.

Sanderson went to stammer a reply. ‘Say nothing,’ said a second Irish voice, gruff and unfriendly. ‘Get into the back of the car.’

‘What can . . .’ Sanderson began

The gruff figure waved his gun. ‘If you want to get out with your kneecaps intact, you’ll shut your mouth. That’s the last I want to hear from you. Nod if you understand.’

Sanderson nodded.

‘Take his keys,’ said the gruff voice.

The third figure relieved him of his Porsche keys, and the keys to the house, and opened up the car. Sanderson walked stiffly to the vehicle and made to get into the passenger seat.

The figure with the more cheerful voice waved his gun. ‘Oh no. It’s the boot for you, laddie.’ Sanderson scowled as the boot was opened. He climbed in. ‘Just as well you’re a wee jockey. Not much room else. Now settle down, ’cos we’re going for a wee fun drive.’

The boot was closed over Sanderson’s head.

When the boot was opened again, he shouted, ‘I need to piss!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve taken a pee pill.’

‘Is that legal?’

‘Please!’

Sanderson realised he was in some sort of a barn. He thought he could smell cattle, and maybe sheep too, but there was no sign of any livestock. The barn was cobwebby and it looked like it hadn’t been used for farming in a few years, though it still had all the trappings: grain feeders, hay bales, pitchforks, rat traps hanging on hooks. He had a bad feeling. He thought maybe he was about to be tortured. He looked up into the rafters of the barn. An old-style bicycle complete with pannier basket was suspended there, its shape plumped with black cobwebs.

He’d been disoriented by the drive. In the darkness of the boot he’d tried to identify any familiar sounds in case it would be useful for telling the police later. Now he had a nasty feeling that there might not be any later.

He was roughly pulled out of the boot by the three figures in balaclavas, who worked in silence. First they let him take a piss in the straw. When he’d finished, they blindfolded him, and tied his arms behind his back. Then they gagged him. After that they pulled off his shoes and socks and tied his ankles together. There was a dragging noise.

‘Is it money you are after?’ he shouted through his gag.

‘Can’t hear you wit’ that gag on ye,’ said the cheerful one.

He was pushed backwards and chopped at the back of the knees so that he fell into a chair. He was left there for some time and he thought perhaps the three had gone out of the barn. But after a while he heard them arguing in hushed tones.

‘I say we just blow his fuckin’ head off and dump his body up the lane.’

‘No,’ said the gruff voice. ‘We stick with the plan. Blow his kneecaps off. That was the agreement.’

‘He got a look at you when you put him in the boot. Your mask slipped and now he’s seen your face. He’s a dead man.’

‘I didn’t see anyone!’ Sanderson screamed, muffled through his gag. ‘Nothing! I swear to you!’

‘What did he say?’ asked one of the men.

As the first of the six races of day three of the Cheltenham Festival got closer, the rumour swept the racing fraternity that Sandy Sanderson had failed to turn up. It seemed unthinkable: Gold Cup day and no sign of the Champion Jockey. So far the news hadn’t got out to the punters, but because everyone behind the scenes had already been told, it was only a matter of moments before the information leaked out.

There were a lot of croaky voices around after winners and happy owners and trainers had spent the night lashed to the bar, and so there were a lot of jokes about how Sandy Sanderson had been unable to find his way home; or about how he’d slept in a ditch; or about how he’d been ensnared by one of the cigarette-promotions models or the Guinness girls. Jokes became rumours and rumours became stories. Maybe with this or that jockey the stories might have been credible, too, but not with Sanderson. Whatever he was, he was a pro through and through. He never failed to turn up.

He was scheduled for three races on the last day, and the first race of the day – the Triumph Hurdle – was one of them. Of course everyone knew that his big race was the fourth, the Gold Cup itself. The fact that he was running in the Grade 3 curtain-closer was seen as a signature farewell to the Festival rather than a major race for him, a little flourish and a swish of the tail. In the same way the opening race was his calling card, an announcement of his intention for the Gold Cup. But right then he looked like weighing in for none of them.

Cadogan was in the stewards’ office with Osborne, where he’d been allowed access to the telephone to make some calls. The two of them had had a discussion about whether they should first call Christie, knowing perfectly well that Sanderson would have been with his mistress in Wiltshire.

‘Just call the tart!’ Osborne had said.

‘But I won’t be able to tell Christie I called her first!’ Cadogan complained.

‘All right, call Christie first, but get off the blower damned quick and then call his tart.’

Cadogan went through the motions of speaking to Christie, who knew perfectly well that Cadogan was fully informed about Sandy’s Thursday-night arrangements. She was cool, icy even, but no, she had no idea where the Champion Jockey might be.

Cadogan was about to hang up, but then Christie cut up rough. ‘Surely,’ she said, ‘you have his number.’

‘Number? This is his number, Christie.’

‘You know exactly what I mean.’

‘I’m sure I don’t.’

‘I mean his Thursday-night number. He told me you had it, in case I ever needed it in emergencies.’

‘Really? I’m sure he didn’t . . . I mean, if he did, I must have forgotten it. Or if he did—’

‘Forget it, you shit.’ Christie hung up.

‘JUST CALL THE TART!’ Osborne screamed when Cadogan had finished.

Of course when Cadogan called Sanderson’s mistress, she had nothing to offer. She’d woken up with Sandy, heard him pottering about making breakfast and heard him leaving the cottage. She’d even heard the Porsche leave the driveway before she’d turned over and gone back to sleep.

No, he hadn’t said anything about going anywhere other than Cheltenham.

No, he hadn’t said anything unusual at all. Where was Sandy right now? she wanted to know.

As did a lot of people.

There was half an hour to go before the Triumph Hurdle. Cadogan and Osborne discussed the matter with the stewards, who were prepared to allow Tim McPhee, one of Osborne’s team, to take Sanderson’s place at the last minute. Nothing needed to be said until the Gold Cup came around, by which time Sanderson might have shown his face.

Duncan only had one ride on Gold Cup day, and that was in the first race. He would have been up against Sanderson, and he was on Lemontree, the horse he’d ridden so well against the Monk a while back. With the news that Sanderson was no longer riding, the odds changed and Lemontree became the favourite.

Petie, though he’d already had a great Festival, was jumpy and mad keen for Lemontree. ‘Where the hell is Roisin? This is her horse, after all.’

‘I’m here, Daddy, standing right behind you, if you’ll only stop working up a sweat.’

‘George, get Duncan up, will you? I don’t know what the matter is with you all this morning. You’re never where I want you. You’re at sixes and sevens.’

‘We’re all right,’ George growled. ‘This is our race.’

‘Get yourself down to the start,’ Petie said a little sharply, ‘and look like you’re ready to ride.’

Duncan said nothing. Maybe after all this time he was managing to curb his lip. He trotted Lemontree off to the start.

At the barn, Sandy Sanderson was beginning to wonder if he’d been abandoned. The three hooded figures seemed to go out, then come back in, then go out again. He’d heard the door creak open another time but wasn’t certain whether there was anyone there.

‘Hello,’ he croaked from behind his gag.

There was no answer.

‘Hello.’

He strained to listen. There was no sound. Then came a slight rustling across the floor. He thought maybe they’d left him and that he could hear a rat moving in the barn. He pulled at his bindings but it was hopeless. Then out of nowhere he felt a piece of straw pushed in his ear.

He roared.

‘What’s the matter with ye, ye wee shite?’ said a voice. He recognised it as the cheerful one.

‘Water,’ said Sanderson. ‘A drink.’

He felt the gag being unbound and a water bottle was put to his lips. He drank and some of the water spilled down his front.

‘Don’t waste it now; that’s all there is.’

‘Where are the others?’ Sanderson said.

‘Others?’

‘There were three of you.’

‘Oh, they’re up at the house.’

‘House?’

‘Yes, up at the big house. Talking with the big boss about what to do with you.’

‘What to do with me?’

‘Yes. They’re discussing it now. With the big boss.’

‘Why me?’ Sanderson pleaded. ‘What the hell has all this got to do with me?’

‘Oh, that’s because of allegations.’

‘Allegations?’

‘Yes. Hints and allegations. And implications. And suggestions. And assertions.’

‘I don’t know what that means!’

‘Sure you do. Making hints. About certain organisations.’

‘Has this got something to do with Claymore?’

‘Who?’

‘Duncan Claymore?’

‘There you go again. I wouldn’t be making any more implications and suggestions and allegations if you know what’s good for you.’

‘I meant nothing by it.’

‘Who is Duncan Claymore?’

‘No one. Nothing. Listen to me. I should talk to your boss.’

‘Oh, why is that now?’

‘I can tell you how to make some money. Either for yourselves or your organisation.’

‘Organisation? Are you saying we’re part of an organisation now, is it?’

‘No no no, that’s not what I meant!’

‘Sounds to me that’s what you meant. What organisation would that be?’

‘No, I don’t know anything about that. I’m sorry I said it. Listen, you can make some money.’

‘How would I do that?’

‘Do you know what a lay bet is?’

‘Of course I know what a lay bet is. D’ye think I’m fuckin’ well thick because I’m Irish? Is that it?’

‘No no no. Please listen. Listen to me.’ Sanderson was almost in tears. ‘You don’t have to hurt me. You could make yourself some good money. Today.’