Outside Chance (29 page)

Then, when he reached the other side of the building, Bajnok broke into a canter and the spell was broken. Nico turned the music down and, after a couple more circuits, Ben brought the horse to a halt beside them.

‘Wow! That was incredible!' he said. ‘Thank you. He's a wonderful horse.'

‘Of course!' Nico declared. ‘He's the best horse in the world. But you did well.'

‘Riding by numbers,' someone muttered, and Ben saw that the door was open a foot or so. Ferenc had been watching too.

‘Pay no attention to him. Nico's right; you did well,' Jakob said.

There was a derisive snort and the door closed as Ferenc withdrew.

It was a shame, Ben reflected as he slowed the Mitsubishi down on the approach to Salisbury, that he couldn't really pin the horse-knapping on Ferenc, but it had to be said, that if it were to be any of Ciskós, Ferenc and his sister Anna were the least likely suspects, being apparently unrelated to the main family.

Sampling the troupe's friendly hospitality once again had made him keener than ever to prove his suspicions right or wrong as soon as possible. In the face of Jakob's generous investment of time and trouble to help him overcome his fear, he felt little short of a traitor.

Thus, he was en route once more for Truman's stables, knowing that the man himself would be out and hoping that Finch might be too, leaving the way clear for a chance to speak to Helen again.

His luck was in.

When he called at the house the door was opened by Elizabeth Truman, whose look of mild enquiry hardened to something much less encouraging as she saw who was darkening her doorstep. Remembering the previous night, Ben quickly revised his plans and asked instead whether Bess was around.

Truman's wife looked at him in suspicious silence for a moment or two but apparently found nothing sinister in the query; she then volunteered the information that it was the secretary's afternoon off and suggested that he might try the cottage.

Ben thanked her, adding, ‘I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to get anyone into trouble.'

At this, she unbent a little. ‘Well, I suppose you couldn't have known,' she said. ‘It wasn't a happy time, and we have tried very hard to put it behind us. Eddie doesn't like it spoken of.'

‘But realistically, a teenage romance is no great scandal. Why is it still such a big deal?'

‘Mr Copperfield, our family business is our affair and ours alone. Just leave it, will you? Please? For all our sakes.'

What started out as a snub, delivered with cold dignity, ended as a heartfelt plea, and Ben wished he could give her the assurance she craved. But the more he was warned off the subject, the more determined he became to get to the root of it.

Bess was indeed at the cottage. She invited Ben into the kitchen where a slim young man with wavy brown hair and a pleasant smile was lounging in the old armchair. Putting two and two together, Ben guessed that this must be Rollo Gallagher, the Castle Ridge stable jockey who, Truman had told him, was at present suspended from racing. No one else was around.

‘Oh, have you met Rollo?' Bess asked.

‘No, not yet,' Ben said. ‘Hi.'

The jockey touched the brim of an imaginary cap and returned the greeting, not moving from his relaxed position.

‘Sorry to disturb you. I was wondering if Helen's around this afternoon.'

‘Yes, I think she's up at the bungalow. Why?'

‘I just wanted to have a word with her,' Ben said casually.

Bess raised an eyebrow.

‘You're living dangerously. I heard about last night,' she paused. ‘Look, I don't want to interfere, but I'd be careful if I were you. Without being disloyal to the Guvnor, he's not a man you'd want to cross.'

‘I've heard a couple of stories. Are you telling me they're true?'

‘Well, I don't know what you've heard exactly. Look, I really shouldn't be talking like this – he
is
my boss . . . '

‘The truth is,' Rollo cut in, ‘the man's an egomaniac who'll bulldoze anyone who stands in his way.'

Ben glanced at him thoughtfully. He wasn't sure if the jockey was privy to the whole Cajun King business yet.

‘Oh, I wouldn't go that far,' Bess protested. ‘I know he can be a bit heavy-handed but he's not all bad.'

Rollo shook his head. ‘You're OK as long as you're useful to him, but if you're not careful he'll pick you up, suck you dry and then spit you out.'

‘But you're happy to work for him?' Ben quizzed.

‘Work is work. His ambitions happen to fall in line with mine at the moment, but that doesn't mean I don't watch my back,' Rollo told him. ‘And if you're set on rocking the boat, I'd advise you to do the same.'

‘Thanks. Er – just one thing – is Ray Finch likely to be about?'

‘No. He's gone with the Guvnor. You've got a clear field.'

The yard was a hive of activity when Ben passed through it. Looking at his watch he saw it was half past four, time for the afternoon shift: grooming, skipping out and feeding.

The Truman–Finch's bungalow was long, low and painted white. The strip of garden that ran along the front of it was planted with winter pansies and clumps of wallflowers; the path was weed-free and the door was glossily red. All in all, it seemed the epitome of domestic bliss, but Ben had a feeling that life behind its model façade might not be the proverbial bed of roses. Helen never looked particularly happy and, from what he'd seen, her husband had a surly, discontented streak. Together, they didn't give the appearance of a couple for whom each made the other complete.

Helen opened the door wearing a lilac velour tracksuit and regarded her uninvited visitor with a look of undisguised hostility.

‘What do you want?'

‘Just wanted to talk to you.'

‘I've nothing more to say.'

‘You mean you're not allowed to. Look, tell me what happened. I know his name was Stefan Varga; he came from Hungary, didn't he?'

Helen opened her mouth then shut it again, as if changing her mind.

‘And I know your father had him thrown out of the country. Come on. Fill in the gaps, it could be important.'

‘You think you know such a lot – you don't know anything! Just leave me alone.' She stepped back and tried to shut the door in Ben's face, but he swiftly put his foot against the bottom of it. ‘Look, you'll get me into trouble.'

‘And I wouldn't be the first, would I?'

Her face paled. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Your jockey friend . . . This air of tragedy – this family rift, it has to be over something more than a teenage crush. He got you pregnant, didn't he?'

She didn't answer, but the look on her face was reply enough.

‘What happened to the baby? Was it adopted? Or did you have an abortion?'

Helen stared, her face a mirror for what was obviously a maelstrom of emotions. Eventually she seemed to decide on honesty.

‘Yes. I had an abortion.'

‘And no doubt you were told it was for the best?'

Helen's cheeks became suffused with a much healthier pink.

‘My father only wanted what was best for me. I was just sixteen; too young to bring up a child.'

‘Oh, he's taught you well,' Ben said, nodding. ‘But I sense you've never quite accepted it, have you?'

‘This is none of your fucking business! What are you going to do? Write a story on us? Dad'll crucify you if you do. Your career will be finished. Over. And you'll be lucky if that's all! If you don't take your foot out of the door, I'll tell Dad that you came here asking questions.'

‘And I'll tell him you invited me to.'

‘You wouldn't!'

‘I would, too.'

‘He wouldn't believe you,' she said, but with a measure of doubt.

‘Shall we try him?'

‘You're an interfering bastard!'

‘And you're a bad-tempered bitch,' he countered, without heat.

That silenced her. She eyed him with loathing. ‘Look, you've got what you wanted. Why don't you just go?'

‘Yep. I think I will. And don't worry – I won't tell your father if you don't.' He started to turn away, then stopped. ‘Tell me, did you ever hear from Stefan again?'

She shook her head. ‘Dad used to check the post. If he did write, I never got the letters.'

Ben didn't think anything would be gained by telling her that Stefan had perished in a car crash, so he merely nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, anyway.'

As he moved his foot the door was slammed shut, but not before Eddie Truman's elder daughter had spat at him like a brat from a city slum.

Ben shook his head as he moved away, thinking of the impeccable manners of Stefan's father. Eddie Truman had thought the couple ill-matched – how right he had been.

BEN LEFT THE
bungalow in a pensive mood and almost walked right past Fliss without seeing her.

‘Penny for 'em,' she joked. ‘Though I guess, in this day and age, they're probably more like two pounds fifty! What did you want with my sweet sister?'

‘There seems to be a distinct lack of familial affection amongst you Trumans,' Ben observed. ‘Whatever happened to sisterly love?'

‘She's nine years older than me. When we were young, all I ever was to her was a nuisance. We were never the right age to go out together, or talk about boys, or go shopping – you know, all the girly things that forge bonds. Quite apart from that she's been a miserable cow for as long as I can remember!'

‘So you don't remember the family scandal?'

‘Scandal?'

‘Yeah, you know. Your sister and the jockey.'

‘Oh,
that
,' she said dismissing it with scorn and a movement of her hand. ‘Is that what you were
talking to her about? I never understood what all the fuss was about. I was only seven, so no one told me anything, but I remember all the tears and long faces. Mum and Dad nearly split up over it. Mum took Helen away with her to her sister's for a while, and Dad was like a bear with a sore head. And for what? A stupid teenage crush.'

‘And what happened after that?'

‘I don't know really; not a lot. To be honest, I was just chuffed to bits to have Dad to myself. We did loads of stuff together – he spoiled me rotten. Then Mum and Helen came home and there were more tears and long faces. I used to think – when I was old enough to understand – that if it'd been
my
lover I'd have gone with him, but Helen's not like that. She'd rather moan about how life's treated her than get on and do something about it.'

She glanced at Ben. ‘So that's the Truman family history. What about the Copperfields? What deep, dark secrets does your past hold?' Walking beside him she suddenly slipped her arm through his and leaned towards him.

‘Oh, no dark secrets, really. We're quite a boring lot,' said Ben, wondering how soon he could remove his arm without appearing to snub her. He was uneasily aware of how many prying eyes might potentially be watching, and Belinda Kepple's warning was still fresh in his mind.

‘Oh, come on, I don't believe that. Every family has at least one skeleton in their closet. And I wouldn't call you boring.'

‘Are you flirting with me, Felicity Truman?' Ben asked, deciding that directness was his best
policy. He took the opportunity of turning towards her and disengaging her hold.

‘I might be,' she said, her clear green eyes twinkling roguishly. ‘Would you mind?'

‘I'd be flattered,' Ben replied, his mind racing. He mustn't make a big thing of this. ‘But I'm not sure my girlfriend would be too pleased.'

‘You've got a girlfriend?' Fliss sounded mildly disappointed. ‘But then you would have, wouldn't you? Cute guys who are single are usually looking the other way, if you know what I mean.'

‘And what about you? Don't you have a boyfriend?'

‘Mm. Maybe. But don't tell Dad, or I'll get the ninth degree. I'm his little girl, you see.'

‘Good God! You're twenty-two. How long does he expect you to stay Daddy's little girl?'

Fliss shrugged, linking her arm in his again. ‘I don't know. I don't mind, really. He's just protective.'

Ben would have called it possessive, but he held his tongue.

‘Anyway, it's nothing serious – my boyfriend, I mean. And as for your girl . . . Well, I won't tell her if you don't.'

‘You're going to get yourself in a whole load of trouble with that attitude, you little minx,' Ben said severely. ‘Not to mention me. Now tell me, do you have any idea where I can find Lenny Salter these days?'

‘Um . . . He used to have a bungalow near Tisbury when he rode for us, but I've no idea whether he's still there. Why on earth would you want to find him?'

‘Oh, I don't know, call it a whim. Could you give me directions, or an address?'

‘I could take you there, if you like.'

‘Thanks, but an address will do just fine.'

‘All right, have it your own way, but I don't have it on me. You'll have to ask Bess.' She removed her arm from his, her manner cooling perceptibly. ‘I've got better things to do, anyway.'

They parted; Fliss peeling off to go into the yard, and Ben heading down to the cottage with a shake of his head. Madam was rather too used to getting her own way.

Lenny Salter's bungalow was one in a road of identical properties, most of which stood, four-square, on perfectly manicured postage-stamp gardens with garages alternately to the right and left. Lenny Salter's was square and had its garage on the right, but there the similarity to its neighbours ended. The patch of ground it occupied was liberally scattered with rusting vehicle parts and other discarded junk through which grass, docks, bindweed and nettles had grown enthusiastically, probably for several years. Whereas the other bungalows had shiny front doors and neatly curtained windows, Lenny's sported peeling paintwork, and the torn and grubby remains of net curtains hung lifelessly behind filthy glass. The gate was rusting and hung crookedly on its hinges, causing the bolt to score an arc in the crumbling concrete, and the garage door was only two-thirds shut over the mountain of junk inside. The place didn't look lived in, but a bottle of milk on the step showed that someone must call it home.