The Silver Falcon (13 page)

‘Get me Mrs Schriber, suite 206,' he said.

Ryan had rented a car for them; it waited outside the Strand entrance and as he followed Isabel into the back he gave instructions to the driver. ‘Kresswell House, Lambourn. It's straight through Lambourn and on the left on the Ashbourn Road. And go like hell – we're in a hurry.'

‘What is it?' Isabel said. ‘What on earth could have happened – why didn't he tell you instead of just leaving it in the air like that? You should have rung back.'

‘I told you – he said he wouldn't go into details. And when Nigel says he's not going to do something, he bloody well means it. I just don't know what sort of an accident. Christ, look at this traffic!'

‘It must be very serious,' Isabel said. ‘I wish we knew –'

‘Try not to worry. Whatever it is, we'll sort it out. Falcon's all right, that's the main thing.'

‘Thank God for that,' she said.

An hour and fifteen minutes later they were sitting in Nigel Foster's office.

Nigel Foster was fifty-four years old; an ex-major in a cavalry regiment, he had begun training after the war, starting with a few jumpers sent to him by rich friends and supplemented by two point-to-pointers that he owned himself. He was a renowned horseman and an equally skilled horse-master. He had a phenomenal memory and the indefinable sixth sense in placing horses which marks out the genius from the merely successful trainer. He had won a Cheltenham Gold Cup and had two seconds in the Grand National when he changed from National Hunt racing to the Flat. He liked explaining the transition. ‘Jumping is for gentlemen. The Flat is for pros. As I took out a licence I thought I'd better do it properly.' He was a handsome man in a lean and angular way; extremely tall and thin with a deceptively quiet manner. He had won every Classic since the war, and he had trained all Charles Schriber's horses in England.

Now he faced Isabel, grey-faced and grim.

‘We won't know till they've X-rayed and done all the rest of it, but there's a bloody good chance the lad will be a cripple for life. That is if he doesn't die.'

‘And nobody knows how it happened,' Isabel said. ‘It seems incredible.' Tim Ryan had said very little since Foster started talking.

‘He was found in the Falcon's box this morning,' Foster said. ‘My head lad went in to feed him and he saw the boy lying there. He thought he was dead.'

‘They're certain his back's broken?' Tim asked quietly.

‘Looks like it; that's what the hospital said when we brought him in.'

‘But what was he doing in the box,' Isabel said. ‘It doesn't make sense – surely every box is locked up at night –'

Nigel Foster didn't answer immediately. There was a bottle of vodka on his desk and he helped himself to a drink. Neither Isabel nor Tim had joined him. He looked as if he needed it.

‘There's a man on permanent duty during the night, Mrs Schriber. We don't take any chances in this yard. We've got horses worth a fortune here apart from yours. He swears he didn't see or hear Dave Long go near that box, or anybody else. But the fact remains that however he got in to the horse, he was kicked and his back was broken. He didn't recover consciousness enough to call for help so he wasn't found till the morning. The point is, Mrs Schriber, we've got to consider the position. We don't want the press getting hold of this. I've put a total shut-down on the yard this morning. Anyone leaving the area, going to the pub or phoning in home will get sacked. I've made that clear. For now we can keep it quiet and the hospital isn't going to say anything. They don't know which horse it was and it probably wouldn't mean anything to them if they did.'

‘When will we know about the lad?' Isabel asked. She was trying not to think of what it meant to lie in a stable with a broken back, paralysed and unable to call for help. She shivered. ‘I'd like to ring the hospital myself.'

‘No,' Tim said gently. ‘They wouldn't tell you anything. Leave it to Nigel.' He spoke to the trainer.

‘Mrs Schriber will pay all expenses for Long,' he said. ‘What about family – is he married?'

Foster shook his head. ‘No. He lived in quarters here. Parents are up in Newcastle. The hospital are letting them know.'

‘I'll do anything,' Isabel said. ‘Anything at all. Get the very best medical advice and treatment for him. What a dreadful thing to happen. I feel quite sick.'

Foster stood up. ‘The best thing would be to go up to the house and have a cup of coffee with Sally; she's expecting you. We hope you'll both stay to lunch. I'll walk up with you; Tim and I can go over a few details while you talk to Sally. It'll take your mind off it.'

The Fosters lived in a pleasant farmhouse some fifty yards away from the stables; Sally Foster was from the same background as her husband; hunting and eventing had brought them together. She was his second wife and ten years younger. His first marriage had ended in divorce.

Sally Foster came and kissed Isabel. She looked distressed.

‘Come in,' she said. ‘So nice to see you; what a dreadful thing – I've got some coffee ready.' Her husband laid a hand on Tim Ryan's arm as a signal not to go with Isabel. The sitting-room door closed on the two women and he jerked his head to the right.

‘In my office.'

It was a small, rather dark room, its old-fashioned oak desk a mass of papers and reference books. There were two telephones, with a direct line to the yard. Foster dropped into a shabby stuffed chair.

‘All right,' Tim Ryan said. ‘Now tell me the truth. What really happened?'

‘The bastard went in to do him over,' Foster said. ‘We found an iron bar in the straw. I got the story out of the watchman. Long came back from the pub about ten thirty; the other lads went to bed and he found the watchman and told him some cock about being worried about the Falcon. Said he wanted to make sure he was all right. The bloody fool opened the box up. Long said he'd see everything was secure and give the key back. He didn't, and the watchman admits he forgot about it. Sod probably went to sleep.'

‘Christ,' Tim muttered. ‘Christ Almighty. An iron bar. You're sure he didn't get at him?'

Foster gave a short unpleasant laugh.

‘I don't think he got within feet of the horse,' he said. ‘The Falcon went for him. He hasn't just got a broken back from one kick. He's been trampled and savaged. The bugger tried to kill him.'

‘Serves him bloody well right!' Tim said. ‘I wish it'd happen to more like him – but why, Nigel – why would Long try to do a thing like that! Had he got a grudge against you – or was it just the horse?'

‘I don't know,' Foster admitted. ‘My own feeling is it wasn't directed at me, or even at the Falcon. He's never had to do anything for him. I knew he was a dangerous bugger so I gave him to Phil to do. He can manage anything; no, I think this was a job from outside. Someone got at Long and paid him to fix the horse good and proper.'

‘Who?' Tim asked. ‘Have you any idea?' He lit a cigarette.

‘Not the bookies,' Foster answered. ‘There's not enough on him ante-post to get the wind up their skirts. Most of the money's been going on Rocket Man.'

‘So I've noticed,' Tim said. He turned his cigarette over. ‘You think there might be a connection there?' He was seeing Patsy Farrant sitting up in bed, displaying her breasts and talking about her husband's disappointment. Disappointment that Isabel hadn't drowned. It wouldn't exactly bother him to have a horse maimed.… But he wasn't going to say it. Not yet.

‘I don't know,' Foster said. ‘I don't like this sort of caper, I can tell you. It's never happened in my yard before. I shan't get a bloody wink of sleep from now on. If somebody's after the Falcon they'll try again. And there's another thing. If Long dies there'll be an inquest. The whole story will come out. I tell you something, Tim,' he leaned forward, scowling at the floor. ‘If he wasn't the best colt I've seen in my life I wouldn't have him another night in the yard. He's got the killer instinct. And now he's got the taste for it. If this gets round, there won't be a lad who'll do him, not even old Phil. And public opinion will force Mrs Schriber to withdraw him from racing if Long dies.'

‘Well, we just have to hope he doesn't,' Ryan said. Foster glanced at him quickly. Whoever said the Irish weren't cold-blooded bastards didn't know much about them.

‘In the meantime, how are you going to stop the rumours? Everyone in Lambourn knows Long got kicked and taken to hospital by now, whatever you told your lad about keeping quiet. And who found the iron bar?'

‘Phil,' Nigel Foster answered. ‘He won't say anything. He's been with me since I started. He knows we've got the Derby winner and he won't breathe a word. Nor will that bloody watchman. He's got to stick to his story about not knowing how Long got there or get the sack without a reference, and he knows it. They'll keep quiet. As for the others, well, I'll get Phil to put it round the pubs that Long came back pissed and went into the wrong box. Luckily the fellow he does is right next door. But if he dies we're sunk. I think Isabel will have to shell out to him if he doesn't, just to stop any yammer from the family.'

‘Oh, she'll do that all right,' Tim said. ‘She'll be too bloody generous, if anything. She mustn't know a word of this – she'd pull the Falcon out if she had any idea. I used to make a joke of his temper, but this isn't funny. You'd lose your Derby colt. And I'd lose a bit besides.'

‘You've backed him?' Foster asked.

‘No,' Tim said. ‘Not this time. The old man left me a present if he wins. I'd like to collect it. So fingers and legs crossed that that little shit doesn't blow the whistle on himself.' He looked at Foster. ‘Let's get down to business,' he said. ‘What's the news on the horse?'

‘As I said,' Foster remarked. ‘He's the best colt I've ever seen, let alone trained. I know he was a bloody good two-year-old, but you know as well as I do, how easy it is for them to over the top and stay there. If I had a quid for all the good two-year-olds who didn't train on, I'd be a rich man. But this one's better than I dared to hope. He's just what you said. He's still growing, and he's the toughest horse in the yard. And as for speed – I sent him out on the Downs yesterday, with Adam's Rib and Precipice.' Tim nodded. Both the horses mentioned were experienced tough milers. Precipice had won the Prix Lupin the previous year and been second in the Two Thousand Guineas. Adam's Rib was a four-year-old with an impressive list of middle-distance wins behind him.

‘Go on,' Tim said.

‘He didn't fancy staying behind Precipice,' Foster said. ‘He doesn't fancy being second to anything much. He took off with Phil on board. He was twenty lengths ahead at a half-speed gallop with Phil trying to pull him up, inside a furlong. And the other two were trying to pull after him. Christ knows what he'll do when we really ask him to gallop.'

‘So it looks like the Two Thousand Guineas then,' Tim said. ‘Do we go for the Greenham first?'

‘I don't think so,' Foster shook his head. ‘My feeling about this one is that he was trained the right way in the States. Not too often and then only the best. I think he'll run at the top of his form when he's fresh. I don't want to waste him on a Guineas Trial. We go straight for the Two Thousand. He may not win because I feel he needs the mile and a half. But we've got a bloody good chance.'

‘That'll cheer Isabel up,' Tim said. ‘This business has shaken her.'

‘I know it has,' Foster said. ‘We don't want her to lose heart; women are unpredictable enough anyway without a mess like this Long business upsetting them.'

‘Don't worry about her,' Tim said. ‘She's doing it for the old man. She made him a deathbed promise and she'll keep it. Provided that little rat recovers and she doesn't find out what happened. But you're going to have to set a twenty-four-hour watch on the Falcon. My hunch is there'll be another try before the Two Thousand Guineas. And I've another hunch. Whoever's trying to get at him doesn't give a damn about anything but the Derby.'

‘You've got an idea who's behind this, haven't you?' Foster looked at him. ‘I think you ought to tell me. I'm responsible for the horse's safety. I want to know who we're up against.'

Tim shook his head. ‘I said it was a hunch. I didn't say I was certain. All you've got to worry about is making sure that the David Longs don't get within a mile of him. And I think a couple of security guards added to your watchman wouldn't be a bad idea either. We mightn't be lucky a second time. Let's go and find the girls. I don't want Isabel ringing up that hospital or trying to go and see him.'

They didn't stay to lunch with the Fosters; Isabel hesitated, not wanting to seem ungracious when Sally Foster tried to press her, but Tim made the excuse that she had to look at rented houses later that morning.

Nigel Foster gave her the customary social kiss on the cheek; it was reserved for the wives of the richest owners.

‘Don't worry,' he said. He seemed much calmer since Ryan had talked to him. ‘Don't think about this business again. I'll let you know how Long gets on and what has to be done for him. I'm sure he'll be all right.'

He stood outside the front door, his arm linked with his wife's, and they waved the car out of sight. Sally Foster turned to him.

‘You told Ryan what had happened?'

‘Yes. He guessed there was something anyway. He's as sharp as a tack, that fellow. We've got to hire extra security for the Falcon. That's going to cause a lot of bloody comment too.' He went back inside, his wife following. They sat together on the sofa in his sitting room; she put her arm round him.