Outside Chance (41 page)

‘Sorry, I've had a bad couple of days. But that was bloody stupid! We could have crashed.'

‘Not in the middle of a field.'

‘Well, you nearly gave me a heart attack, anyway. Exactly why were you waiting for me? And why here?'

‘I followed you – yes, in spite of your praiseworthy efforts to lose me.'

‘Not you, in particular. Anyone. I especially
didn't want to lead those two charmers from last night here.'

‘You didn't. I'd have seen them.'

‘D'you mean you've been waiting here all that time?'

‘Well, not here precisely. I did have a wander round. Watched the show, as a matter of fact. And as for why I'm here? Well, I've been pondering your interest in the late Stefan Varga, who fell so foul of our friend Eddie Truman. And then I got to thinking about Hungarians in general. Not a race you stumble across all that often, you'd have to agree – so it's stretching coincidence a little far to accept that these Hungarian horsemen of yours should just happen to be in the country right now, isn't it? And then, after a few judicious phone calls, I discovered that although the main performing family go – as advertised – by the name of Bardu, they are closely related to the Varga family. Furthermore, Jakob Varga – who appears to be part of the road crew – is none other than our own Stefan Varga's father! I'd say that blows coincidence right out of the water, wouldn't you?'

Ben's heart sank. Was his plan to save the troupe from retribution doomed to failure before he started?

‘Have you discussed it with anyone?'

‘No. I'm off-duty, and I wanted to see what you were up to first.'

Ben hesitated. He'd hoped to have a little more time to prepare before he tackled Logan. In the end he took a chance and jumped straight in at the deep end.

‘What would you say if I said I've found the horse?'

‘I'd say, congratulations. And then I'd wait for the rest. I have a feeling there's a big, fat juicy ‘but' coming.'

‘OK. The Csikós – the Hungarians – do have the horse,
but
I've persuaded them to give it back.'

‘In return for which . . .?'

‘I don't say a word about their involvement. In short, one of my editors receives an anonymous tip-off as to his whereabouts, with the stipulation that I go collect him, which I do, with a cameraman at my elbow no doubt. So the paper gets a front page to die for, I get recognition and a big fat cheque, and Truman gets his Gold Cup horse back. Job done; everyone happy. But it would only work, of course, if you were to agree to be similarly mute.'

Logan frowned.

‘That's a big ask.'

‘I know it.'

‘So give me one good reason why I should pass up on such a big pat on the back from my superiors?'

‘Because you don't give a shit about that kind of thing?'

Logan chuckled.

‘Actually I do. You can build up quite a bit of credit from the occasional big bust – you know, leeway in the future, when you step out of line.'

‘You? Step out of line? I can't imagine that,' Ben mocked. ‘But OK, look at it from another angle. If we point the finger at these guys, then Truman – who we're agreed is a bastard of the
first water, besides being the biggest criminal not behind bars – Truman gets to win on all counts. And I, for one, find that difficult to stomach. The Csikós, on the other hand, are, on the whole, a nice bunch,' he added, conveniently pushing the memory of András and his whip to the back of his mind.

‘Some of the nicest blokes I know are criminals,' Logan remarked. ‘And don't forget, these friends of yours, these paragons of virtue, held up a horsebox and four innocent crew with guns.'

‘They were toy guns.'

‘It's a crime, nevertheless. As is kidnapping and demanding money with threats.'

‘They never intended picking up the money,' Ben persisted.

‘Easy to say
now
,' Logan pointed out. ‘Tell me, is the late Stefan Varga really the
late
Stefan Varga, or is that also a myth?'

‘Yes, he is . . . Except he wasn't. It's a long story,' Ben ended helplessly.

‘OK. Well, unless you're particularly wedded to this spot, shall we head back to my pad and you can tell me over a beer or two?'

It was nine o'clock the following morning before Ben made it back to Dairy Cottage.

Instead of beer, Logan had produced a bottle of home-made wine given to him by a neighbour, which had turned out to be rather good. Recounting the tale of Nico and Stefan had taken quite some time and the further down the bottle they got, the longer it seemed to be taking. In the end, Logan rummaged in his freezer and
came up with a pizza which, after twenty minutes in the oven, became a welcome accompaniment to the wine. When, at nearly four in the morning, they were all talked out, it seemed much the best thing for Ben to spend the night in a sleeping bag in the spare room.

The upshot of it all was that Logan agreed, if the Csikós handed Cajun King over to Ben within the next two days, to say nothing of what he'd learned.

‘But you owe me, big time!' he warned, when Ben had tried to thank him.

Dairy Cottage sat quietly in the winter sunshine, and Ben got stiffly out of his car to find that Mike had been watching for his return.

‘Everything OK?'

‘Yeah, thanks Mike. Our visitors haven't been back?'

‘Nope. Not a soul.'

Despite having breakfasted at Logan's, Ben made himself toast and coffee, lit the wood-burner, and settled down to spend the day working on the Csikós article.

By the time he got up to switch the lights on at dusk, Ben was beginning to feel a little twitchy. It was just too quiet. Why hadn't Nico called? He'd given him two days but what was the point in delaying? They'd thrashed out the details before he left their camp. All that remained was for Nico to implement them. He prayed the Hungarian hadn't changed his mind.

At half past six in the evening, when the winter sun was but a memory and the moon was lifting into a sky full of stars, Ben's phone rang and he
picked up the receiver to find one of his London editors on the other end of the line, sounding cautiously euphoric. He told Ben what he'd learned.

‘So I thought I'd give you a ring first, before I did anything else, just to see if you thought there was any chance it might be kosher, he finished.

‘There's every chance,' Ben replied, putting excitement in his own voice.

‘So the bugger got it right! The horse is missing?' he said, alluding to his rival on the paper that had carried the story. ‘So tell me why they're asking for you to collect the animal and not any one of a hundred other more likely people.'

Ben had been prepared for this question.

‘Maybe because I'm already involved. My brother, Mikey, works for Truman, and he was there when the horse was taken.'

‘And you didn't think to share this titbit of news with an old chum?'

‘Sworn to silence, I'm afraid. Police business. But you were first on my list for the exclusive.'

‘I should sincerely hope so!' He took a deep breath. ‘Right; action. First things first: do you know where this Turf Hill place is?'

‘I think so. If you send the photographer here he can follow me.'

‘He's already on his way. He was in Southampton anyway so he should be with you in twenty. They say the horse will be there at seven. How long will it take you to get there?'

‘All of that,' Ben said. ‘Better give me your guy's mobile number and I'll give him directions.'

‘OK, and meanwhile I'll call Truman to get his first reaction.'

‘Er – look, could you hold that thought for ten minutes or so? We don't want him getting to the rendezvous first, do we? You can take it from me he's a bit of a sod to deal with, and you don't want him buggering up your big moment, do you? Ten minutes'd just give us a bit of a head start.'

‘Just at the moment, Benjamin, I'd give you just about anything,' his editor declared.

‘Ah, good. I was just coming to that,' Ben said with alacrity. ‘Have you got your chequebook handy?'

The return of Cajun King to his rightful owner went more smoothly than Ben could have dared hope.

The photographer followed his instructions to the letter, arriving at the New Forest car park at Turf Hill just seconds after Ben. Together they set off along the gravel track beyond the barrier, with Mouse trotting at their heels.

Ben had jogged the half-mile or so across the open, moonlit moorland, cursed every step of the way by his overweight colleague, who complained that he'd got his equipment to carry as well. But Ben kept going, anxious that no late dog-walker should discover the horse before they did and report it to someone official or, worse still, take it home. It was the one possible flaw in the plan, but it didn't happen.

Just as the anonymous email had promised, Cajun King – with the dye removed from his
white star, and his tail returned to its usual meagre proportions – was waiting in the stout wooden corral into which the New Forest ponies were herded come round-up, or drifting, time.

With the photographer snapping frantically, Ben steeled himself to enter the pen and catch the horse. Happily, in the event, this proved remarkably easy with the benefit of a tip Nico had given him about King's penchant for Polo mints. Even so, without his recent sessions under Jakob's calm and patient eye, Ben wasn't sure he could have pulled it off.

The horse had behaved like a star, doing no more than jiggling beside Ben as they approached the car park once more to find it ablaze with vehicle lights and noise. When they were still fifty yards distant, Truman, Fliss, Rice and Ray Finch hurried out to meet them and the photographer got pictures to build a career on.

In the midst of all the excitement, as the horse was led away to the luxury of the Castle Ridge horsebox, Ben turned and caught Helen's husband watching him.

The look in his eyes would have curdled milk.

IF BEN HAD
expected the pace of life to be calmer after Cajun King's celebrated return to the Castle Ridge fold, he would have been sadly mistaken. Almost before the ink had dried on the first, sensational front-page story he was hot property, and reporters, racing journalists, TV and radio companies and local newspapers all wanted to hear his side of what looked set to be the greatest racing story of the year.

As ‘The Man Who Brought Cajun King In From The Cold' Ben was the hero of the hour, and the media seemed reluctant to accept his stated opinion that he'd been chosen for the task purely on the basis of his connection with Castle Ridge through his brother and the article he'd been researching.

‘A lot of people are speculating that it was you who brought about Cajun King's release; are you saying it wasn't?'

‘It's a claim I'd love to be able to make but, unfortunately, I can't,' Ben told them regretfully.

‘But as the man who famously beat the Jockey Club to the line over the Goodwood betting scam, you surely don't expect us to believe that you weren't taken into Truman's confidence over the disappearance of his top horse?'

‘No, of course not. I was aware of the kidnap, and naturally I did what I could – as did the police – so maybe our investigations frightened the kidnappers into giving the horse up, who knows?'

‘Have you any idea where Cajun King might have been hidden over the past eleven days?'

Ben shrugged. ‘He could have been anywhere, really. That's what made it so hard. One horse in a field looks much like another from a distance, especially with a rug on. All I can say is that he looks to have been well looked after.'

‘Why do you think the kidnappers chose to return the horse in such a public way?'

‘If I ever meet them I'll ask them,' Ben promised.

There was laughter and the questions went on, and by returning non-specific answers, he was able to get through without selling his soul to the devil.

DI Ford was not so easily satisfied.

‘Well, it looks like you've done it again,' he observed, settling himself into one of Truman's red leather chairs and regarding Ben with a thoughtful eye. ‘The Goodwood Scandal and now this. It would seem that CID has missed out on a star recruit in you.'

From his position, leaning on the mantelpiece, Hancock smirked.

It was the second day after King's return, and Truman himself was out on the gallops, no doubt watched by dozens of hacks and tipsters eager for a sighting of the equine celebrity of the moment. Ben was alone in the trainer's study with the two officers.

‘I'm afraid I can't take the credit for this one, Inspector,' he said, ignoring Hancock. ‘I think I came up against the same dead ends as you did.'

‘I daresay you did, but it's not the dead ends I'm interested in, Mr Copperfield. It's whatever you found out that precipitated this sudden change of heart from the kidnappers that I'd like to hear about.'

‘You don't think they just got cold feet, then?'

‘It's possible, but I have an enquiring mind, Ben – I like to think it's what got me where I am today – and I find I'm always exploring other possibilities. I find I'm always saying to myself,
what if?
'

Ben began to feel a little uneasy. The DI was an extremely clever man; Logan had warned him of that.

‘Go on . . . '

‘Well, in this instance, I find myself thinking
what if
Mr Truman – who I secretly suspect of having quite a, shall we say, colourful history –
what if
he put you on to a lead that he didn't feel able, for whatever reason, to mention to myself or Hancock here?'

Ben waited.

‘And then,
what if
this person, or persons, were persuaded – by whatever means – that it would be in their best interests to give the horse up in
such a fashion that the motives of all parties could be left discreetly out of the public eye?'