High stakes - By Dick Francis Page 0,13

wrist and she would smell of a musk-based scent. She held intolerant views on most things and stated them forthrightly, but she had never, before that evening, unleashed on me personally the scratchy side of her mind.

‘To talk about transport,’ I said.

‘So you really are kicking our props away.’

‘You’ll survive.’

‘That’s bloody complacent claptrap,’ she said angrily. ‘I could kill you. After all Jody’s done for you.’

I paused. ‘Did he tell you why I’m breaking with him?’

‘Some stupid little quarrel about ten quid on a bill.’

‘It’s a great deal more than that,’ I said.

‘Rubbish.’

‘Ask him,’ I said. ‘In any case, three horseboxes will collect my horses on Thursday morning. The drivers will know which ones each of them has to take and where to take them. You tell Jody that if he mixes them up he can pay the bills for sorting them out.’

The names she called me would have shaken Jody’s father to the roots.

‘Thursday,’ I said. ‘Three horseboxes, different destinations. And goodbye.’

No pleasure in it. None at all.

I sat gloomily watching a play on television and hearing hardly a word. At nine forty-five the telephone interrupted and I switched off.

‘… Just want to know, sir, where I stand.’

Raymond Child. Jump jockey. Middle-ranker, thirty years old, short on personality. He rode competently enough, but the longer I went racing and the more I learnt, the more I could see his short-comings. I was certain also that Jody could not have manipulated my horses quite so thoroughly without help at the wheel.

‘I’ll send you an extra present for Energise,’ I said. Jockeys were paid an official percentage of the winning prize money through a central system, but especially grateful owners occasionally came across with more.

‘Thank you, sir.’ He sounded surprised.

‘I had a good bet on him.’

‘Did you, sir?’ The surprise was extreme. ‘But Jody said…’ He stopped dead.

‘I backed him on the Tote.’

‘Oh.’

The silence lengthened. He cleared his throat. I waited.

‘Well, sir. Er… about the future…’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, half meaning it. ‘I’m grateful for the winners you’ve ridden. I’ll send you the present for Energise. But in the future he’ll be ridden by the jockey attached to his new stable.’

This time there was no tirade of bad language. This time, just a slow defeated sigh and the next best thing to an admission.

‘Can’t really blame you, I suppose.’

He disconnected before I could reply.

Tuesday I should have had a runner at Chepstow, but since I’d cancelled Jody’s authority he couldn’t send it. I kicked around my rooms unproductively all morning and in the afternoon walked from Kensington Gardens to the Tower of London. Cold grey damp air with seagulls making a racket over the low-tide mud. Coffee-coloured river racing down on the last of the ebb. I stood looking towards the City from the top of little Tower Hill and thought of all the lives that had ended there under the axe. December mood, through and through. I bought a bag of roast chestnuts and went home by bus.

Wednesday brought a letter.

Dear Mr Scott,

When and where?

Alexandra Ward.

She had kept the five pound note.

On Thursday evening the three new trainers confirmed that they had received the expected horses; on Friday I did a little work and on Saturday I drove down to Cheltenham races. I had not, it was true, exactly expected a rousing cheer, but the depth and extent of the animosity shown to me was acutely disturbing.

Several backs were turned, not ostentatiously but decisively. Several acquaintances lowered their eyes in embarrassment when talking to me and hurried away as soon as possible. The Press looked speculative, the trainers wary and the Jockey Club coldly hostile.

Charlie Canterfield alone came up with a broad smile and shook me vigorously by the hand.

‘Have I come out in spots?’ I said.

He laughed. ‘You’ve kicked the underdog. The British never forgive it.’

‘Even when the underdog bites first?’

‘Underdogs are never in the wrong.’

He led me away to the bar. ‘I’ve been taking a small poll for you. Ten per cent think it would be fair to hear your side. Ten per cent think you ought to be shot. What will you drink?’

‘Scotch. No ice or water. What about the other eighty per cent?’

‘Enough righteous indignation to keep the Mothers’ Union going for months.’ He paid for the drinks. ‘Cheers.’

‘And to you too.’

‘It’ll blow over,’ Charlie said.

‘I guess so.’

‘What do you fancy in the third?’

We discussed the afternoon’s prospects and didn’t refer again to Jody, but later, alone, I found it hard to ignore the general climate.