Rat Race (9 page)

I ignored the sneer in his voice. ‘That’s right.’

‘We got rid of that aircraft,’ he said sarcastically nodding towards it, ‘Because we’d flown the guts out of it. It’s only suitable now for minor operators like you.’

‘It shows signs of the way you flew it,’ I agreed politely: and that deadly insult did nothing towards cooling the feud.

He compressed his lips and flicked the end of his cigarette away into the grass. A thin trickle of blue smoke arose from among the tangled green blades. I watched it without comment. He knew as well as I did that smoking near
parked aircraft was incredibly foolish, and on all airfields, forbidden.

He said, ‘I’m surprised you take the risk of flying Colin Ross. If your firm are proved to be responsible for his death you’ll be out of business.’

‘He’s not dead yet.’

‘If I were him I wouldn’t risk flying any more with Derry-downs.’

‘Did he, by any chance,’ I asked, ‘Once fly with Polyplanes? Is all this sourness due to his having transferred to Derrydowns instead?’

He gave me a bitter stare. ‘No,’ he said.

I didn’t believe him. He saw that I didn’t. He turned on his heel and walked away.

Rudiments won the big race. The dim green colours streaked up the centre of the track at the last possible moment and pushed Colin on the favourite into second place. I could hear the boos all the way from the stands

An hour until the end of racing. I yawned, leaned back in my seat, and went to sleep.

A young voice saying ‘Excuse me,’ several times, woke me up. I opened my eyes. He was about ten, slightly shy, ultra well bred. Squatting down on the wing, he spoke through the open door.

‘I say, I’m sorry to wake you, but my uncle wanted me to come over and fetch you. He said you hadn’t had anything to eat all day. He thinks you ought to. And besides, he’s had a winner and he wants you to drink his health.’

‘Your uncle is remarkably kind,’ I said, ‘But I can’t leave the aeroplane.’

‘Well, actually, he thought of that. I’ve brought my father’s chauffeur over with me, and he is going to sit here for you until you come back.’ He smiled with genuine satisfaction at these arrangements.

I looked past him out of the door, and there, sure enough,
was the chauffeur, all togged up in dark green with a shining peak to his cap.

‘O.K..’ I said. ‘I’ll get my jacket.’

He walked with me along the paddock, through the gate, and across to the Members’ bar.

‘Awfully nice chap, my uncle,’ he said.

‘Unusually thoughtful,’ I agreed.

‘Soft, my mother says,’ he said dispassionately. ‘He’s her brother. They don’t get along very well.’

‘What a pity.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. If they were frightfully chummy she would always be wanting to come with me when I go to stay with him. As it is, I go on my own, and we have some fantastic times, him and me. That’s how I know how super he is.’ He paused. ‘Lots of people think he’s terribly thick, I don’t know why.’ There was a shade of anxiety in his young voice. ‘He’s really awfully kind.’

I reassured him. ‘I only met him this morning, but I think he’s very nice.’

His brow cleared. ‘You do? Oh, good.’

The Duke was knee deep in cronies all armed with glasses of champagne. His nephew disappeared from my side, dived through the throng, and reappeared tugging at his uncle’s arm.

‘What?’ The kind brown eyes looked round; saw me. ‘Oh yes.’ He bent down to talk, and presently the boy came back.

‘Champagne or coffee?’

‘Coffee, please.’

‘I’ll get it for you.’

‘I’ll get it,’ I suggested.

‘No. Let me. Do let me. Uncle gave me the money.’ He marched off to the far end of the counter and ordered a cup of coffee and two rounds of smoked salmon sandwiches, and paid for them with a well crushed pound note.

‘There,’ he said triumphantly. ‘How’s that?’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Terrific. Have a sandwich.’

‘All right.’

We munched companionably.

‘I say,’ he said, ‘Look at that man over there, he looks like a ghost.’

I turned my head. Big blond man with very pale skin. Pair of clumsy crutches. Large plaster cast. Acey Jones.

Not so noisy today. Drinking beer very quietly in a far corner with a nondescript friend.

‘He fell down some steps and broke his ankle and collected a thousand pounds from an insurance policy,’ I said.

‘Golly,’ said the boy. ‘Almost worth it.’

‘He thinks so, too.’

‘Uncle has something to do with insurance. Don’t know what, though.’

‘An underwriter?’ I suggested.

‘What’s that?’

‘Someone who invests money in insurance companies, in a special sort of way.’

‘He talks about Lloyds, sometimes. Is it something to do with Lloyds?’

‘That’s right.’

He nodded and looked wistfully at the sandwiches.

‘Have another,’ I suggested.

‘They’re yours, really.’

‘Go on. I’d like you to.’

He gave me a quick bright glance and bit into number two.

‘My name’s Matthew,’ he said.

I laughed. ‘So is mine.’

‘Is it really? Do you really mean it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow.’

There was a step behind me and the deep Eton-sounding voice said, ‘Is Matthew looking after you all right?’

‘Great sir, thank you,’ I said.

‘His name is Matthew too,’ said the boy.

The Duke looked from one of us to the other. ‘A couple
of Matts, eh? Don’t let too many people wipe their feet on you.’

Matthew thought it a great joke but the touch of sadness in the voice was revealing. He was dimly aware that despite his ancestry and position, one or two sharper minds had wiped their feet on
him
.

I began to like the Duke.

‘Well done with Rudiments, sir,’ I said.

His face lit up. ‘Splendid, wasn’t it? Absolutely splendid. Nothing on earth gives me more pleasure than seeing my horses win.’

I went back to the Cherokee just before the last race and found the chauffeur safe and sound and reading Doctor Zhivago. He stretched, reported nothing doing, and ambled off.

All the same I checked the aircraft inch by inch inside and even unscrewed the panel to the aft baggage compartment so that I could see into the rear part of the fuselage, right back to the tail. Nothing there that shouldn’t be. I screwed the panel on again.

Outside the aircraft, I started in the same way. Started only: because when I was examining every hinge in the tail plane I heard a shout from the next aircraft.

I looked round curiously but without much haste.

Against that side of the Polyplane which faced away from the stands, two large men were laying into Kenny Bayst.

The pilot of the Polyplane was standing aside and watching. I reached him in six strides.

‘For God’s sake,’ I said. ‘Come and help him.’

He gave me a cold stolid stare. ‘I’ve got my medical tomorrow. Do it yourself.’

In three more steps I caught one of the men by the fist as he lifted it high to smash into the crumpling Kenny, bent his arm savagely backwards and kicked him hard in the left hamstring. He fell over on his back with a shout of mixed anger, surprise, and pain, closely echoed in both emotion and volume by his colleague, who receive the toe of my shoe very solidly at the base of his spine.

Bashing people was their sort of business, not mine, and Kenny hadn’t enough strength left to stand up, let alone fight back, so that I got knocked about a bit here and there. But I imagined that they hadn’t expected any serious opposition, and it must have been clear to them from the beginning that I didn’t play their rules.

They had big fists all threateningly bunched and the hard round sort of toecaps which cowards hide behind. I kicked their knees with vigour, stuck my fingers out straight and hard towards their eyes, and chopped the sides of my palms at their throats.

I’d had enough of it before they had. Still, I outlasted them for determination, because I really did not want to fall down and have their boots bust my kidneys. They got tired in the end and limped away quite suddenly, as if called off by a whistle. They took with them some damaged knee cartilage, aching larynxes, and one badly scratched eye; and they left
behind a ringing head and a set of sore ribs.

I leaned against the aeroplane getting my breath back and looking down at Kenny where he sat on the grass. There was a good deal of blood on his face. His nose was bleeding, and he had tried to wipe it with the back of his hand.

I bent down presently and helped him up. He came to his feet without any of the terrible slowness of the severely injured and there was nothing wrong with his voice.

‘Thanks, sport.’ He squinted at me. ‘Those sods said they were going to fix me so my riding days were over… God… I feel crook… here, have you got any whisky… aah… Jesus…’ He bent double and vomited rakingly onto the turf.

Straightening up afterwards he dragged a large handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his mouth, looking in dismay at the resulting red stains.

‘I’m bleeding…’

‘It’s your nose, that’s all.’

‘Oh…’ He coughed weakly. ‘Look, sport, thanks. I guess thanks isn’t enough…’ His gaze sharpened on the Polyplane pilot still standing aloof a little way off. ‘That bastard didn’t lift a finger… they’d have crippled me and he wouldn’t come… I shouted.’

‘He’s got his medical tomorrow,’ I said.

‘Sod his bloody medical…’

‘If you don’t pass your medical every six months, you get grounded. If you get grounded for long in the taxi business you lose either your whole job or at least half your income…’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘And your own medical, when does that come up?’

‘Not for two months.’

He laughed a hollow, sick sounding laugh. Swallowed. Swayed. Looked suddenly very small and vulnerable.

‘You’d better go over and see the doctor,’ I suggested.

‘Maybe… but I’ve got the ride on Volume Ten on Monday… big race… opportunity if I do well of a better job than I’ve had with Annie Villars… don’t want to miss it…’ He smiled twistedly. ‘Doesn’t do jockeys any good to be grounded either, sport.’

‘You’re not in very good shape.’

‘I’ll be all right. Nothing broken… except maybe my nose. That won’t matter; done it before.’ He coughed again. ‘Hot bath. Spell in the sauna. Good as new by Monday. Thanks to you.’

‘How about telling the police?’

‘Yeah. Great idea.’ He was sarcastic. ‘Just imagine their sort of questions. “Why was anyone trying to cripple you, Mr Bayst?” “Well, officer, I’d promised to fiddle their races see, and this sod Goldenberg, I beg his pardon, gentleman, Mr Eric Goldenberg, sticks these two heavies on to me to get his own back for all the lolly he had to cough up when I won…” “And why did you promise to fiddle the race Mr Bayst?” “Well officer I done it before you see and made a handy bit on the side…”’ He gave me a flickering glance and decided he’d said enough. ‘Guess I’ll see how it looks tomorrow. If I’m in shape to ride Monday I’ll just forget it happened.’

‘Suppose they try again?’

‘No.’ He shook his head a fraction. ‘They don’t do it twice.’

He picked himself off the side of the fuselage and looked at his reflection in the Polyplane’s window, licked his handkerchief and wiped most of the blood off his face.

The nose had stopped bleeding. He felt it gingerly between thumb and forefinger.

‘It isn’t moving. Can’t feel it grate. It did, when I broke it.’

Without the blood he looked pale under the red hair but not leaden. ‘Guess I’ll be all right. Think I’ll get into the plane and sit down, though… Came in it, see…’

I helped him in. He sagged down weakly in his seat and didn’t look like someone who would be fit to ride a racehorse in forty-six hours.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I never asked you… are you O.K. yourself?’

‘Yes… Look, I’ll get your pilot to fetch you some whisky.’

His reaction showed how unsettled he still felt. ‘That would be… fair dinkum. He won’t go though.’

‘He will,’ I said.

He did. British aviation was a small world. Everyone knew someone who knew someone else. News of certain sorts travelled slowly but surely outwards and tended to follow one around. He got the message. He also agreed to buy the whisky himself.

By the time he came back, bearing a full quarter bottle and a scowl, the last race was over and the passengers for all the aeroplanes were turning up in little groups. Kenny began to look less shaky, and when two other jockeys arrived with exclamations and consolations, I went back to the Cherokee.

Annie Villars was waiting, not noticeably elated by her win with Rudiments.

‘I thought you said you were going to stay with the plane,’ she said. Ice crackled in her voice.

‘Didn’t take my eyes off it.’

She snorted. I did a quick double check inside, just to be sure, but no one had stored anything aboard since my last search. The external check I did more slowly and more thoroughly. Still nothing.

The thumping I’d collected started to catch up. The ringing noise in my head was settling into a heavy ache. Various soggy areas on my upper arms were beginning to stiffen. My solar plexus and adjacent areas felt like Henry Cooper’s opponents on the morning after.

‘Did you know,’ I said to Annie Villars conversationally, ‘that two men just had a go at beating up Kenny Bayst?’

If she felt any compassion she controlled it admirably. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

‘An uncomfortable night should see him through.’

‘Well then… I dare say he deserved it.’

‘What for?’

She gave me a direct stare ‘You aren’t deaf.’

I shrugged: ‘Kenny thinks Mr Goldenberg arranged it.’

She hadn’t known it was going to happen. Didn’t know whether Goldenberg was responsible or not. I saw her hesitating, summing the information up.

In the end she said vaguely, ‘Kenny never could keep his tongue still,’ and a minute later, under her breath, ‘Stupid thing to do. Stupid man.’

Major Tyderman, the Duke of Wessex and Fenella Payne-in-the-neck arrived together, the Duke still talking happily about his winner.

‘Where’s Colin?’ asked Fenella. ‘Isn’t he here after all? What a frantic nuisance. I asked for him at the weighing room and that man, who did he say he was? His valet, oh yes, of course… his valet, said that he had already gone to the plane.’ She pouted, thrusting out her lower lip. There was champagne in her eyes and petulance in her voice. The gold bracelets jingled. The heavy scent didn’t seem to have abated during the afternoon. I thought Colin had dodged very neatly. The Major also had been included in the celebrations. He looked slightly fuzzy round the eyes and a lot less rigid everywhere else. The hand that pushed at the wiry moustache looked almost gentle. The chin was still tucked well back into the neck, but there was nothing aggressive any more: it seemed suddenly only the mannerism of one who used suspiciousness instead of understanding to give himself a reputation for shrewdness.