Wild Horses - By Dick Francis Page 0,31

is Greg Compass: Greg… Nash Rourke.’

Greg came to his senses like any seasoned television performer should and with genuine welcome shook the hand that had fired a hundred harmless bullets.

‘He’s here to see the Lincoln,’ I explained. ‘How about some inside information?’

‘Gallico,’ Greg suggested promptly. ‘He’s bursting out of his skin, so they say.’ He looked thoughtfully at Nash and without pressing him asked, ‘Do you mind if I say you’re here? I expect Thomas told you I do the ghastly chat stuff for all the couch potatoes?’

‘I did tell him, yes.’

‘Thomas and I,’ Greg explained, ‘used to ride against each other, when I was a jockey and we were young.’

‘You’re all so tall,’ Nash exclaimed.

‘Jump jockeys are mostly taller. Ex-jump jockeys get to be racing commentators or journalists, things like that. Live it first. Talk about it after.’ He was comically self-deprecating, though in fact he’d been a top career jockey, not an amateur like me. He was forty, slender, striking, stylish. He took a breath. ‘Well…’

‘You can certainly say I’m here,’ Nash assured him.

‘Great. Um…’ He hesitated.

‘Ask him,’ I said, half-smiling.

Greg glanced at me and back to Nash. ‘I suppose… I couldn’t get you in front of my camera?’

Nash gave me a dry sideways look and in his best slay-them gravelly bass said that he saw no reason why not.

‘I did hear you were in Newmarket, making a film,’ Greg said. ‘I suppose I can say so?’

‘Sure. Thomas is directing it.’

‘Yes. Word gets around.’

I pulled a folded Drumbeat page from my pocket and handed it to Greg.

‘If you’ll let him,’ I said, ‘Nash would very briefly like to contradict what’s written in that ‘Hot from the Stars’ column.’

Greg read it through quickly, his expression darkening from simple curiosity to indignation.

‘Difficult to sue,’ he exclaimed, it’s all questions. Is it true?’

‘It’s true the film story is different from the book,’ I said.

Nash assured him, ‘I didn’t say those things and I don’t think them. The film is going well. All I’d like to say, if you’ll let me, is that one shouldn’t believe newspapers.’

‘Thomas?’ Greg raised his eyebrows at me. ‘You’re using me, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. But that column’s assassinating me. If Nash can say on screen that it’s not true, we can beam him to the moneymen in Hollywood and hope to prevent them from taking the column seriously.’

He thought it over. He sighed. ‘All right, then, but very casual, OK? I’ll put you both together in shot.’

‘Innocence by association,’ I said gratefully.

‘Always a bright boy.’ He looked at his watch. ‘How about after the Lincoln? An hour from now. After I’ve talked to the winning trainer and jockey and the owners, if they’re here. We could slot it in at that point. I’ll tell my producer. Thomas, you remember where the camera is? Come there after the Lincoln. And Thomas, you owe me.’

‘Two seats for the premier,’ I said. ‘Without you, there may not be one.’

‘Four seats.’

‘A whole row,’ I said.

‘Done.’ Greg looked at Nash. ‘What is this over-hyped buffoon of an ineffectual bullyboy really like as a director?’

‘Worse,’ Nash said.

We did the interview, Nash and I side by side. Greg introduced us to the viewers, asked if Nash had backed the winner of the Lincoln – Gallico – congratulated him and said he hoped Nash was enjoying his visit to Britain.

Nash said, ‘I’m making a film here. Very enjoyable.’ He nodded affably. He added a few details casually, as Greg had wanted, but left no listeners in doubt that the racing film we were making in Newmarket was going well.

‘Didn’t I read an uncomplimentary report…?’ Greg prompted quizzically.

‘Yes,’ Nash agreed, nodding, ‘Words were put into my mouth that I never said. So what else is new? Never believe newspapers.’

‘You’re playing a trainer, aren’t you?’ Greg asked the questions we had asked him to ask as if he’d just that minute thought of them. ‘How’s it going with the riding?’

‘I can sit on a horse,’ Nash smiled. ‘I can’t ride like Thomas.’

‘Do you ride in the film?’ Greg asked me helpfully.

‘No, he doesn’t,’ Nash said, ‘but he takes a horse out on the Heath to gallop it sometimes. Still, I can beat him at golf.’

The affection in his voice said more than a thousand words. Greg wound up the interview good-naturedly and expertly handed on the couch potatoes to the paddock commentator for profiles of the next race’s runners.

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘very much.’

‘A row of seats,’ he nodded. ‘Don’t forget.’ He paused, and added cynically, ‘Do you