6

Barry Lawrence had enjoyed his trip to Barbados. He liked staying with the Farrants; his association with Roy Farrant went back a long time, longer than anybody knew. They had a bond in common which made it easy for Barry to relax, and normally he wasn’t a man who felt happy with owners. As a species, he despised and disliked them; those who knew nothing about racing in general and their own horses in particular were one degree less of a nuisance than those who prided themselves on being experts.

Even when he was an apprentice and had all the way to make, he found it difficult to be polite to them. It gave him positive pleasure to get down off some pig-eyed no-hoper and tell the flustered owner that in his opinion it was absolutely useless. He had lost a lot of rides in the beginning by being truthful about bad horses. Now, he always lied. It was expected; he had a string of excuses ready. The ground didn’t suit him, or her. The distance was too long or too short. We got knocked into coming into the straight and he or she lost their stride. He or she needed the race. Jesus Christ, Barry used to think while he produced that knock-kneed old cliché, what the bugger really needed was a bullet through the ear – he had perfected a charming manner with owners. It was his only concession to an individual style which was otherwise modelled to the smallest detail on his hero, the incomparable Lester Piggott. He drove a big Mercedes and smoked cigars; his favourite drink was champagne. As he became successful, he took a chance and went freelance, riding for any stable that would retain him; he rode two Classic winners in his first season on his own, and he was suddenly a big-name jockey, able to pick and choose his rides. And the owners liked him. There was an old racing dictum among jockeys. You can call a man a crook, sleep with his wife, tell him his daughter’s a prize whore, but God help you if you say his horses aren’t any good. And it was true. He kept the truth for the trainers. After that it was up to them. The only man he had never deceived about a horse’s capabilities was Roy Farrant. And if Farrant wanted him to ride for him, Barry rode. And rode to win. Unless otherwise instructed. The holiday in Barbados was an annual trip; he expected to be asked, and to be supplied with booze and girls. It wasn’t that Farrant patronized him; it was much more of a partnership. He was loyal to Roy, not only because he couldn’t afford to be otherwise, but because he liked him. Loyal enough to send Patsy Farrant back to her own bed when she tried creeping into his one night, naked as a snake. He didn’t like her for it, but he knew better than to mention it to Roy.

He was on his way to the Farrants’ house in St John’s Wood. They had invited him to dinner. Whenever he saw that house, three massive storeys of brick and stucco, with a car port for eight and a swimming pool under glass that was Olympic size, he kept thinking of the first time he met Roy in Barnsley, when he lived in two rooms above his first ironmonger’s shop, and he, Barry, was a skinny, semi-literate apprentice jockey to a moderate Yorkshire trainer with a mixed yard of flat and jumpers. He hadn’t got tuppence to put together in those days. He struck up a conversation with Farrant in the pub round the corner, during a holiday spent with his family, liking the look of the big fellow sitting with a pint at the counter. There was one thing Barry Lawrence had always known, although he couldn’t have expressed it properly in words. He wasn’t going to work behind some lousy counter or in some rotten factory, working his guts out to end up like his father. With nothing. He had a way with horses. His first year of apprenticeship had taught him that. And his governor was teaching him to ride. That clinched it. As soon as he got up on one of the big thoroughbreds, his ego swelled and a sense of profound self-confidence came over him. He was a different human being, perched on the horse’s withers, flat cap tilted a little over one eye. He was Barry Lawrence, riding the favourite in the Derby, with a million people crammed into Epsom watching him. It was always the same dream, the Derby. He never wanted to be a National Hunt jockey. There was no money in it. Just broken bones and cracked heads, and fuck-all at the end of it. The fools could go jumping. He was small enough and light enough to ride the Flat horses. And he loved them. He loved the good ones, and genuinely hated the bad.

He had talked about horses to Roy Farrant that night in the pub, making his one half pint of bitter last and last, until Farrant insisted on buying him another. And that was the beginning. The beginning of their ill-assorted friendship and of Roy Farrant’s interest in racing which culminated in buying Rocket Man as a yearling at the Hialeah Sales for 118000 guineas because his pedigree made him a Derby prospect. It was one hell of a giant’s leap, from the ironmonger’s shop in the dingy Barnsley street to Farrant Enterprises Ltd. But Barry Lawrence had helped him make it. He grinned as he drew into the sweeping drive in front of the house. Even if they didn’t like each other, they could never afford to fall out. He parked alongside a big grey Rolls Corniche and went up to the house. His cigar was already in his mouth. It wasn’t just part of his champion jockey act. It helped to reduce his appetite. He might be asked to lunch but he wouldn’t eat more than a token. The Flat season had begun and he was in full training. Two glasses of champagne, a maximum of 500 calories in the meal, and no water. He had learned to cope with thirst, to take pills to make him pee to the point of dehydration, more pills to quell his hunger, to sit and sweat in steam baths till he was sick and dizzy. But if Lawrence was riding, he always made the weight. He was fit and on time, and had a cheering word for the owners and a joke for the press. He was a very popular figure with the public. His fellow jockeys didn’t trust him and there were trainers who went into seizures at the mention of his name. Barry Lawrence. He walked into the crowded sitting room and everyone looked round. There must have been nearly twenty people there. He saw Patsy coming towards him, swaying in pink silk trousers and top, a ruby and diamond pendant as big as a coffee saucer bouncing round her navel. She kissed him, and he smelled her strong, expensive scent.

‘Hello, Barry – nice to see you –’ She always said the same thing, giving her bright smile to everyone. She seemed genuinely pleased to see him; he wondered if it was real good nature or plumbless stupidity that didn’t bear him any grudge for turning her away. Not that it mattered.

Farrant came up to him, slapped him on the back, put a glass of champagne in his hand. He knew most of the faces. Racing associates, a press lord, the inevitable fringe models, a man whose name he remembered seeing in last week’s edition of Private Eye in connection with a dubious merchant bank. The usual group. The Garvins, Dick Shipley from Newmarket, who had been leading Flat trainer two years before. He had run Nigel Foster very close. They were the two best in the game. People often said they wondered why Roy didn’t send his Derby hope to Shipley instead of the less experienced Garvin. But Barry knew. Shipley didn’t play games. And he didn’t take orders from anyone. He would tell an owner when to bet but that was all. Lawrence knew Shipley had expected to get Rocket Man; he was sharp enough to know why it had been sent to Garvin as a two-year-old. He had two Derby hopefuls in his yard, and Roy didn’t want any competition. Garvin would break his neck to win the race. And he would look the other way when Shipley wouldn’t. Barry paused. The man talking to Dick Shipley had turned round. He saw that it was Richard Schriber. The trainer was hailing him and he had to go over.

‘Hello, Barry – saw you had a nice winner at Chantilly the other day.’

‘Yes,’ Lawrence answered. ‘Nice filly. Went like a bird.’

‘Hello Barry,’ Richard Schriber said. He always made the jockey feel uncomfortable. He didn’t really fit in with the Farrant clique, and Lawrence didn’t know why. He was a heavy gambler, went strong on the booze and the birds, but there was something about him which set Lawrence’s teeth on edge. He felt that Schriber was laughing at him and at all of them. Even Roy. He didn’t like him; he saw one of the model girls smiling at him and gladly turned away.

Shipley glanced after him. ‘The trouble with him is he gets better and better. And the little bugger knows it. Do you know he rang me up the other day and told me he was going to ride Askara in the Oaks? He’d fixed it with the owners!’

‘And what did you say?’ Richard asked.

‘I told him I’d pick my own pilot, thank you, and I told the owners the same. They weren’t best pleased but I’m damned if I’m going to have that little monkey going behind my back and booking himself on my horses. Pity is, I think he’d do her very well. He’s got a great touch with difficult fillies and she’s a right bitch.’

Richard smiled. ‘Then I shouldn’t be proud, pal. Winning is all in this game. Put him up. Excuse me – I have to grab Roy.’

Farrant walked into a corner of the living room with him. There were huge red velvet sofas round the walls. The room reminded Richard of a luxurious hotel lounge, with glaring incongruities like an exquisite Sisley painting over the fireplace, outraged by some of Patsy’s forays into Harrods gift department on the mantelpiece. She had a weakness for winsome china.

‘I’m glad you invited yourself over –’ Farrant said. ‘What’s the news?’

‘About what?’ Richard lit a cigarette.

‘Don’t play bloody games,’ Farrant said angrily. ‘You know what about – the Falcon! What’s happening?’

‘Nothing much so far as I know,’ Richard answered. ‘He’s down with Nigel Foster and according to Isabel they’re delighted with him. By the way –’ he stubbed out his cigarette and glanced up at Farrant. ‘I saw something in the paper last night about a lad in Foster’s yard getting injured by a horse. Just a paragraph. Have you heard anything about it?’

‘No.’ Roy’s face was blank. Too blank. ‘Not a word. Why should I?’

‘The rumour is,’ Richard went on, still very casual, ‘that the lad was trying to cripple a horse when he got kicked. And that horse was the Silver Falcon. You wouldn’t be taking things into your own hands by any chance?’

Farrant’s face turned red. He swung round towards Richard. ‘I haven’t seen anything coming from you! You gave me a lot of stuff in Barbados about stopping that horse running in the Derby, and he’s been here a month, training on, with nothing but reports about how good he is, coming out. There was a whole column about him in the Life yesterday! What have you done, Richard – nothing!’

‘And that’s exactly what I will do, unless you lay off. All you’ve done is get Foster’s yard crawling with security guards and dogs.’

‘You’ve got the perfect set-up,’ Farrant said. ‘You’re her stepson, you can go anywhere. If I give you some stuff, you could get at that horse.…’

Richard stood up. ‘Nothing,’ he said slowly, ‘is going to happen to the horse.’

Farrant started to say something, and then changed his mind.

‘I’m not staying,’ Richard said. ‘I just dropped by to tell you that either you let me handle this my way or you can count me out. One more bullyboy trick and you’re on your own!’ He turned and walked away.

There were three dozen red roses delivered to Isabel’s suite that afternoon. She had tried to call Richard the evening before to tell him about Coolbridge, but there had been no reply, and she had accepted an invitation from friends of Charles to dine with them. The next morning she drove down to Oxford to lunch with her parents; it was a duty visit, and it depressed her. She had said goodbye to them with relief and known it was mutual.

The sitting room was full of the flowers; the card was on a silver salver on the table.

‘Sorry about the house hunting. Money has its disadvantages, I had to see my accountant. I’ll call for you at eight tonight. Richard.’

She put the card on the mantelpiece instead of tearing it up. She felt suddenly confident again; the uneasiness associated with her visit to her parents disappeared. She had missed seeing Richard for the past two days. If she had had another date for dinner that evening, she would have cancelled it.

He took her to dinner at Marks, the most exclusive and fashionable dining club in London. Isabel had chosen a new dress to wear; she liked the simplicity of Yves St Laurent clothes and she was slim enough to wear them. She felt guilty about buying so expensively, but now, irrationally she was glad. She chose a long cream dress in wild silk, and she was ready ten minutes before he was due to arrive. They didn’t say much. Richard kissed her on the cheek and took her arm going down in the lift. He helped her into a red BMW which the Savoy doorman was watching over, and drove her to Charles Street.

‘I hope no one’s taken you here,’ he said. ‘I want this to be my surprise. It’s the best place to eat in London.’

They drank champagne in the first-floor room in front of an open fire which was burning against a slight spring chill in the evening, surrounded by nineteenth-century pictures and bronzes, assembled with impeccable taste. The effect was deliberately casual; it was a splendid country house room, where at any moment the host would walk in.

‘Do you like it?’ Richard asked her. They were side by side on a sprawling deep sofa.

‘Yes,’ she looked at him. ‘It’s perfect. I want to tell you about my new house, Richard. I’m moving in the day after tomorrow.’

‘Where is it? Not too far from London, I hope. You know what Dr Johnson said – he who is tired of London is tired of Life –’

‘I am getting tired of it,’ she admitted. ‘This is a lovely place; and it’s not far, about an hour I think. William and Mary with a gorgeous old-fashioned garden. Tim said we could give a fabulous party there after the Derby.’

‘Good old Tim. He keeps his eye on the main chance, doesn’t he – I suppose it’s next door to Epsom?’

‘Well,’ Isabel said, ‘it’s very close.’

He laughed. ‘I missed you,’ he said.

Isabel looked at him. ‘I missed you too,’ she said. He reached across and took her hand. She wore Charles’s engagement ring; it was a big pear-shaped diamond, surrounded by baguette sapphires.

‘You have beautiful hands,’ he said. ‘That’s too big and vulgar; it doesn’t suit you.’ Isabel didn’t answer; he went on holding her hand. She couldn’t draw it away. The head-waiter Luigi approached them; he was an urbane and charming Italian, who knew every member by name. He gave Isabel an admiring look; he seemed to know Richard very well. He advised them what to choose. The room had filled up since their arrival; there was a group of older men with beautifully dressed women in their early forties, a young couple sitting tête à tête in a corner near the window, and a man with a smart brunette drinking bourbon sours, and saying very little to each other. He was undistinguished-looking, with slicked-down brown hair and glasses, wearing a light-weight American suit. The woman with him was English and looked bored. Richard signalled Manuel, the barman, from the outside bar.

‘We’ll have another drink,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll go downstairs. I’ve asked Luigi for a table in the end room. I hope you’re hungry?’

‘Fairly.’ Isabel withdrew her hand and laid it on her lap. The huge ring flashed in the soft lighting. Vulgar. He was right, but she wished he hadn’t said it. The remark was like a signal, something for which she had been waiting.

‘Richard,’ she said quietly. ‘Tell me something.’ Manuel set down two glasses in front of them; whisky for him and champagne for her. Richard picked up his glass.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Why do you hate your father so much?’

He didn’t answer; he sipped his drink, put it down, offered her a cigarette and lit one for himself. Then he smiled.

‘I shouldn’t have said that about the ring. I’m sorry.’

‘I want to know,’ Isabel persisted. ‘Charles wouldn’t discuss it; he wouldn’t talk about you or your mother. I didn’t want to pry. The ring is typical, and it keeps coming up in one form or another. Every time I mention his name I can feel it. Please Richard, tell me what happened.’

He turned round to her till they were face to face. Blue eyes, she thought suddenly, can be very cold.

‘You really want to know all about us? You want to know about Charles Schriber and my mother and me – all right Isabel. But don’t blame me if you don’t like it. Let’s go downstairs. They’ll send the drinks to the table.’

The dining room was restful, decorated in a William Morris pattern paper, all soft greens and blues; the walls were hung with pictures and drawings of superb quality. He didn’t mention his father during the meal, and Isabel didn’t press him. They talked about her house, and he seemed relaxed and in a teasing mood. She noticed how the women in the room were looking at him. It was a splendidly handsome face, almost classical in its regularity, but with a firm, sexual mouth. The food and wine were excellent, the whole atmosphere luxurious and seductive. He leaned close to her and their bodies touched. The coffee came.

‘Richard,’ she reminded him with an effort. She didn’t want him to press against her, and yet she hadn’t moved away. ‘Tell me about Charles.’

‘You’re a determined lady, aren’t you? I said that to you in Barbados, when we went sailing, and you nearly drowned yourself. All right. Why do I hate my father?’

He was looking ahead of him, his hands cradled round a brandy glass. The skin round his eyes was drawn tight.

‘He wasn’t my father,’ he said. ‘I’m a bastard.’ Isabel breathed sharply, audibly, with shock. He didn’t move. He went on, talking in the same quiet tone, not looking at her. ‘He told me that when I was fourteen. Up to then I thought he just hated boys. I wouldn’t admit he hated me. I remember when it happened; it’s not a scene I’ve been able to forget. He was bullying my mother and she was crying. As usual. I was a big kid for my age and I squared up to him. I called him a bastard. He used to beat the hell out of me when I was small; he hit me then, right across the face. “You’re the bastard! You hear me – you’re the bastard! You’re no son of mine – ”’

‘Oh my God,’ Isabel said. He didn’t seem to hear.

‘My mother tried to explain it to me, right there, with him standing over both of us. She was so scared, she hardly made sense. Something about making a mistake with someone and doing this terrible wrong to my father. She called him that. I put my arm round her; I remember feeling her tremble. I took her out of the room and upstairs.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ Isabel said slowly. ‘I can’t believe he could have been so cruel. It’s just not the Charles I knew – it’s not the same person!’

‘You never did know him,’ Richard said. ‘And you never hurt his pride. You came into his life when he was an old man and you gave him the ego-boost he needed. He didn’t have to pretend with you. You walked into the set-up ready-made. Big Charles Schriber, the great sportsman, the popular millionaire, respected by all. He wasn’t like that when my mother married him. She had the money. He used it to make himself a success. And he used her to make the social scene. The Ducketts were an old Carolina family; he was the son of a German immigrant, self-made all the way. Christ knows why she ever married him, but she must have thought she was in love. Her family never accepted him; she was cut off there too. And then she slipped up and had me, and he had her on her knees from then on. He was sterile, you see. That was the irony. So there couldn’t be a real Schriber to make up for me.’

‘He could have divorced her,’ Isabel said at last. ‘She could have left him, taken you with her.’

‘He wouldn’t let my mother go in a million years,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t stand before his little world at Freemont and admit he wasn’t up to keeping a beautiful young wife happy. He’d have killed her before he let anyone know the truth. But there was nothing he could do about me. Nothing.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said slowly. ‘Oh, Richard, how horrible. How cruel – cruel on all of you. And I feel so sorry for your mother – He must have suffered too, to behave like that.’

‘I hope so,’ he said slowly. ‘Not because of how he treated me, but because of what he did to her. You saw that portrait. She looked just like that. She was quite beautiful, sweet and kind with it. She could have been so happy with a different man. Even with him if he’d ever forgiven her. But he never did. So let’s cut the family saga short and just say that when she died I took my inheritance and left for Europe. Where I’ve had one hell of a ball ever since.’

‘You blame him for her suicide,’ Isabel said. ‘That’s really why you hate him.’

‘Yes,’ the tight little smile was back again. ‘Yes, I think you could say that.’ He turned and the smile became warm.

‘Tears in the eyes,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have told you. What good does it do? Come on,’ his tone was gentle. ‘Forget it. I’m going to sign the bill and take you over the road to Annabel’s. I haven’t danced with you yet. It would be good for both of us.’

The night club, under the same ownership as the drinking club, was smart but less exclusive. It was very dark and the noise was brutal. She hadn’t wanted to go with him; she felt shaken and miserable. He took her straight onto the small, dark dance floor and held her in his arms.

The rock beat changed to a slow rhythm. He was pressing her very close against him, and he whispered to her. ‘Stop thinking about him. Just relax with me, Isabel. He’s gone. You don’t belong to him any more.’

She closed her eyes and put her arms round his neck. She didn’t notice that the man with the slicked-down hair and the American clothes who had been at Marks Club, had taken a table at the back wall, facing the dance floor. He had put his glasses away. There weren’t any lenses in them anyway. The brunette, hired for the evening from an escort agency, sipped a whisky and tried not to yawn. She kept wondering what the hell this particular dummy wanted company for. He hardly talked and he didn’t dance. She supposed, wearily, that the inevitable proposition would follow when they went home. MacNeil paid her no attention. Following Isabel was easy; bluffing his way into that exclusive club had been extremely difficult. Luckily he had London contacts and they had supplied him with a list of members of all the best places. He had got in by saying he was meeting a man on the club’s list for drinks. The same ruse worked with the night club. The name he mentioned was very well known. He watched Richard and Isabel circling the floor. They weren’t dancing. If he was going to follow them back he had to get rid of the woman. He paid her, added a handsome tip, and sent her off to find a taxi home. Then he settled back into the dark corner, ordered himself another Scotch, and waited.

There was an hour to spare before Andrew Graham’s evening surgery began. He had done his afternoon round of patients, most of them old friends, spent the usual twenty minutes examining, chatting and prescribing and accepted a drink towards the end. He was tired. Medicine bored him; he sometimes wondered whether some of his patients, like Agnes Hilton for instance, fiftyish and hypochondriac, had any idea what it cost him in nervous tension to listen to their symptoms and commiserate over their non-existent ailments. But he couldn’t afford to retire. He had three children, the last two still at college and the youngest starting high school. Joan and he had made a mistake in planning their family late. He was tied to his practice for another five years at least. Not that the Grahams were poor; although his wife liked to talk as if they were. He had a little private money, and a savings account of which she knew nothing, the result of careful betting and inside tips from friends. It was paying for the services of MacNeil at that moment. No, they weren’t poor, but there was an element of frugality about their lives which didn’t accord with their social status. As a young student he had been full of zeal for medicine; his father’s gambling hadn’t seemed to matter so much then. It was in the later years, when his practice was becoming a routine and much of his initial fervour had been dissipated in late-night calls and trivial illnesses, that he started regretting the money that had been lost on horses, cards and the backgammon table.

He had dropped his bag on a chair in his inner surgery, and asked his receptionist to bring him coffee from the dispenser outside. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon and he wished he was at home, wandering round the garden. He sipped his coffee, and flipped the page of his appointment book. Agnes Hilton’s name sprang at him and he groaned. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The telephone on his desk rang. It was his receptionist.

‘There’s a personal call for you from England, Doctor. Will you take it?’ He was instantly alert. He swung up straight in his chair.

‘Yes – yes, put it through.’

He heard MacNeil’s voice on the other end of the line. It was not very clear and there was a maddening echo that boomed across, repeating every word. He kept his voice low, he didn’t want the receptionist to hear.…

He let MacNeil talk. ‘It’s only a matter of time,’ he heard MacNeil say. He didn’t answer for a moment, and the detective started to shout down the line, thinking they were cut off. The echo doubled everything.

‘I’m here,’ he said hastily. ‘Just hold on a minute. What makes you so sure?’

‘Why don’t you come over and see for yourself?’ was the answer. ‘It’ll make the gossip columns at this rate. I’ve got a suggestion to make,’ the detective went on. ‘Why don’t you take a trip over – we could have a meaningful discussion.’

‘Just a minute –’ Graham said. ‘I haven’t money to throw around like that. What good would it do?’ Now the pause came from MacNeil.

‘I think you should come,’ he said. He sounded slow, decisive, as if he wanted to impress his view on Andrew Graham. ‘I think you should make some excuse back home and take the trip. ‘I think things are moving over here. Take down my number and think it over. Let me know.’

The echo repeated it. Let me know. He wrote down a telephone number.

‘You got that?’ MacNeil checked the figure again. ‘Okay. Be in touch.’ The connection went clear. Andrew stayed very still. It’s only a matter of time. It’ll make the gossip columns next.… He was surprised by the surge of his own anger. His hand shook as he reached for the coffee cup and put it down again. The coffee was tepid and bitter. Isabel had fooled them all. Including Charles. She wasn’t content with grabbing everything, getting a dying man to change his will and leave her every cent. She had to add this final insult to the injury she did her husband’s memory.…

His buzzer nagged at him from the desk. He snapped the switch and the receptionist’s metallic voice announced that Mrs Agnes Hilton was waiting outside in reception. Andrew swore under his breath.

He said to send her in.

When Mrs Hilton, suffering from a dizzy feeling and a backache, walked into the surgery he was on his feet, ready to shake hands. Smiling and reassuring. So kind. He knew she wasn’t in the best of health. But she did notice, in spite of her absorption in her symptoms, that he looked quite sallow in the face, and when they shook hands, he was trembling. She hoped the doctor himself wasn’t going to be ill.