Crisis

21

Racing on Friday afternoon at the Rowley Mile course was somehow more methodical and less glamorous than it had been on the previous evening. The weather was not as kind for a start, with threatening dark clouds having replaced the warm sunshine. Hence there were fewer people in the crowd, although today’s gathering gave the air more of being here strictly for the serious business of racing and betting, rather than for drinking and having a good time.

I also thought it was less fun, but that may have had something to do with the fact that Kate wasn’t with me. I had decided that asking her to accompany me today would have been inappropriate, even if she’d been able to get the time off work. I had business of my own to complete, and it might get nasty.

Over breakfast, I’d looked at the hotel copy of the Racing Post. According to the paper, both Ryan and Declan had runners declared here today and Tony was also riding one. Plus I thought it highly likely that Oliver would be here as well. And I had every intention of letting them know that I was here too, and that I was watching them.

As it turned out, however, the first person I saw as I walked towards the entrance was not a Chadwick but Joe, Declan’s travelling head lad.

‘Hi, Joe,’ I said. ‘Nice short journey for you today.’

‘Yes,’ he said, without any amusement. ‘I was meant to be at Newbury but the guv’nor decided he’d go there instead, so I’m now here. Suppose you can’t blame him. This is too bloody close to home.’ We could almost see Declan’s yard from where we were standing. ‘Too many wagging tongues.’

I couldn’t think that it would be much better for him at Newbury but I was just glad that he hadn’t hidden himself away altogether.

‘Thank God Trevor’s back tomorrow.’

‘Trevor?’ I said.

‘The guv’nor’s assistant. Been at his grandmother’s funeral in some godforsaken spot in the Scottish Highlands. Not that we’ve got any runners tomorrow, anyway. Chrissie never made the declarations.’

That had been my fault, I thought, but decided not to say so.

‘Do you have runners every day?’ I asked.

‘Not every day,’ he said, ‘but we usually do on a Saturday during the season. Many owners like their horses running on Saturdays. Makes it easier for them to be there.’

Joe said it in a way that made me think that he didn’t really like the owners getting in the way. I wondered if Mr Reardon’s horse had been one of those due to run. That wouldn’t have done anything to placate him either.

So, with Declan out of the equation, that just left the three remaining Chadwick men for me to hassle. There was something they were all hiding. I was sure of it.

It will all come out. I can’t stand the shame.

I decided it was time to confront that directly.

I’d arrived at the racecourse well before the first race so I paid my entrance fee and then wandered around the enclosures getting my bearings.

On the previous evening, for obvious reasons, I hadn’t been properly concentrating on the racing. I hadn’t appreciated, for example, how the horses for each race are brought from the stables to the pre-parade ring before being taken to be saddled in one of the nearby line of saddling boxes. Then they are led into the parade ring proper for the punters to gawp at like contestants in a beauty pageant.

Except these beauties had to run fast rather than simply look good, although Kate had told me that a fit horse was also an attractive horse.

Attractive?

I would have to take her word for it.

As the time for the first race approached, I bought a racecard and checked that I’d remembered correctly that Ryan had a runner. He did. A horse called Momentum, number 8, and, to my surprise, it was also listed to be ridden by Tony Chadwick.

Several horses were already being led around the preparade ring by their grooms but I had no way of knowing which one, if any, was Momentum as they were not yet wearing their numbers and I was clearly no tout, nor Lester Piggott. So I hung around outside the saddling boxes waiting for the trainer to arrive.

However, it was not Ryan but Oliver I saw first, walking towards me with what appeared to be a minuscule saddle over his arm. There was a fractional hesitation in his stride when he spotted me but then he came on over.

‘Hello, Harry,’ he said quite amicably. ‘Having a good time?’

‘Yes, thank you, Oliver,’ I replied. ‘Are you?’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It feels good to be back on a racecourse after the week we’ve had. What with the fire, then Zoe and now Arabella. Never mind annus horribilis, this has definitely been a week to forget.’

I, on the other hand, would remember it fondly, but for a different reason.

‘Where’s Ryan?’ I asked.

‘He’s bringing Momentum over from the stables with the stable lad. This particular horse can be a little skittish so we’re leaving it as late as possible.’

I held up my racecard. ‘I see Tony is down to ride it.’ My voice gave away the surprise I felt.

‘Yes,’ Oliver said slowly. ‘Ryan had declared the jockey before.’

He didn’t have to explain that it was before Tony had told his brother he was a fucking idiot. And I remembered how Ryan had come into the yard office on Wednesday morning when I’d been talking to Janie. He had sent the declarations off without checking the information first, trusting Janie to have got it right. And she would have put Tony down as the rider.

‘Couldn’t Ryan have changed the jockey?’ I asked.

‘He could have done easily up to one o’clock Wednesday afternoon, but he obviously forgot. After that you have to get permission from the stewards, and a family tiff is unlikely to be a good enough reason in their eyes. Anyway, they’re both over it now.’

I wondered if that was true, or was it just Oliver’s wishful thinking. It would be interesting to watch the body language when Ryan had to give his younger brother a leg-up.

Oliver and I stood side by side waiting for Ryan and the horse to arrive and it seemed to me to be too good an opportunity to miss.

‘Why did Ryan break Declan’s nose at Doncaster?’ I asked.

Oliver jumped as if I’d stabbed him with an electric cattle prod.

‘Where did you hear that nonsense?’ he said, trying to force a laugh.

‘Ryan told me.’ I paused while that bit of news sank in, before I hit him with my next question. ‘And, if they hate each other so much, why didn’t Declan press charges?’

Oliver was silent for a moment as he clearly thought what to say.

‘Because it was an accident,’ he stated finally.

‘It didn’t sound like an accident to me,’ I retorted. ‘According to the police report, Ryan punched Declan square in the face. Laid him out proper.’

‘Yes,’ said Oliver, back-pedalling madly. ‘But it was nothing more than a misunderstanding.’

‘Over what?’ I asked.

‘Nothing important,’ Oliver said.

‘So tell me,’ I said.

‘Ah, here they are.’ The relief in Oliver at seeing Momentum and Ryan arriving was palpable and he rushed forward towards them.

Ryan, however, was not so keen to see me, and well might he not be.

‘Hello, Ryan,’ I said. ‘Have you insulted anyone else today? Or maybe you punched them in the face instead.’

Oliver looked at me with horror.

‘Harry,’ he said sharply. ‘That was not called for.’

No, I thought, it probably wasn’t, but I had to do something to get them riled up, to get them to say something they’d regret, to reveal their big secret.

Ryan, however, was calmness personified. He appeared to completely ignore what I’d just said and went about the task of readying Momentum for his race, a task he performed with the speed and ease of someone well practised in the art.

First, off came the horse’s rug, then a thin chamois leather was placed on the horse’s bare back. ‘To prevent slippage,’ Oliver explained. That was followed by a saddle pad, weight cloth, number cloth and then, finally, the tiny saddle, all held in place by a wide girth pulled tight around the horse’s belly and connected to the saddle on each side by substantial buckles.

All the while this was going on further back, Momentum’s head was being held firmly by his stable lad, not that it stopped him trying to tear himself free, and only quick reactions by the lad prevented huge chunks of the poor boy’s hands and arms being bitten off.

Momentum had a small white star in the middle of its forehead and it somehow gave the horse an even more manic look, as if it had three eyes.

Skittish, Oliver had said. I thought that was a rather mild description. In my eyes, the animal was completely off its rocker and I kept well out of reach of both the chomping teeth and the flailing hooves.

Satisfied that all was finally in order, Ryan gave the horse an encouraging slap on its hindquarters and almost got a kick on the knee in return. Ryan then told the unfortunate stable lad to lead him out of the saddling box and into the parade ring, not that the horse was making that an easy task as it constantly tried to pull itself free while, at the same time, kicking out wildly at anything remotely within reach.

Oliver and Ryan followed the horse at a safe distance and, much to Ryan’s obvious annoyance, I tagged along with them.

There were a couple waiting for us on the pristine grass of the parade ring.

‘Hello, you two,’ Oliver called out as we approached. ‘Lovely to see you.’ He kissed the woman on each cheek and shook hands warmly with the man.

‘We couldn’t find you in the pre-parade ring so we came through here,’ the woman said.

‘We brought the horse over late from the stables,’ Oliver explained. ‘I thought it best to keep him away from the others for as long as possible.’ He laughed nervously, clearly hoping that they agreed with him.

The two of them looked at me.

‘Sorry,’ Oliver said. ‘This is Harry Foster. Michelle and Mike Morris.’

The three of us shook hands. Michelle was an attractive blonde with sparkling blue eyes and she was elegantly attired in a figure-hugging double-breasted black coat plus calf-length suede boots. Mike wore a sober suit with a blue tie and had neat short dark hair that was going slightly grey at the temples.

‘They own Momentum,’ Oliver said to me.

‘We don’t just own him,’ Michelle said with a certain degree of pride. ‘We bred him too.’

‘So do you have your own stud farm?’ I asked.

‘Nothing that grand,’ Mike said with a laugh. ‘My business is construction but, as a hobby, Michelle and I keep a few brood mares at the National Stud here in Newmarket. Momentum was one of our foals. We just kept him to race.’

We all watched as the animal in question continued to twist and turn his head in an attempt to break free.

‘Lively, isn’t he?’ Michelle said.

‘Dangerous more like,’ I replied.

‘Oh, no,’ she said with a smile. ‘He’s only playing.’

It didn’t look much like playing to me, I thought, as the horse tried once again to take a chunk out of his hapless groom’s arm.

‘He’s an entire colt,’ Mike said to me. ‘But Oliver thinks we should geld him. Reckons it might calm him down a bit. Michelle is dead against it. His breeding is excellent and she thinks he still might have a future at stud.’

Oliver gave me a sideways look that said no chance, but he was much too diplomatic to say that out loud.

‘We can’t cut our poor baby’s balls off,’ Michelle said in horror. ‘How would you like it?’

Good point, I thought, but I wasn’t trying to bite the hand that fed me.

‘I think we should have a good chance today,’ Oliver said. ‘I believe Momentum is well handicapped in this company.’

My face must have given away the fact that I didn’t understand what he meant.

‘This race is a handicap,’ Oliver explained. ‘So the horses carry different weights according to their ability.’

‘Who decides which is the most able?’ I asked.

‘The official handicapper. Every Thoroughbred racehorse in the world is rated each Tuesday.’

‘What, every horse?’ I asked.

‘Just about. Other than a few young ones that haven’t run enough times.’

‘But that’s amazing.’

‘It certainly is,’ Oliver agreed. ‘There are fourteen thousand racehorses in training in this country alone, never mind the rest of the world. The official rating determines how much weight the horse will carry in a handicap. Take this race, for example. It’s a Class Five handicap over a mile for three-year-old horses with an official rating of less than seventy-five. The top weight has an official rating of seventy-two but Momentum’s is only sixty-three. That’s nine less, hence he carries nine pounds less weight on his back.’

‘And you think that will make a difference?’

‘Certainly should,’ he said. ‘About a length per pound over a mile. It’s like Momentum having a nine-length start over the highest-rated horse. And I tend to think that he’s better than the official handicapper does.’

It sounded simple but it was, in fact, far more complicated than I’d imagined. No wonder Ryan had needed to concentrate to do his entries — choosing the right horse with an appropriate rating to enter into a given class of race over a suitable distance at the most advantageous racecourse on a specific day, and all to give it the best chance of finishing in front.

The five of us stood and watched as the nine runners circled around us and, presently, we were joined by Tony wearing racing silks with a green body, light-blue arms and a matching light-blue cap. The Morris’s colours, I assumed.

Tony touched the peak of his cap in deferential greeting to the owners but without acknowledging his brother one iota. The atmosphere between them was cool, to say the least.

‘Hold him in the pack until the two-furlong pole and then let him go,’ Ryan ordered. Tony nodded. ‘And don’t get boxed in on the rail.’ Tony nodded again and grunted something I didn’t catch.

At least the two were communicating, even if the exchange lacked any social niceties.

An official rang a bell and Oliver, Tony and Ryan walked over towards Momentum. The horse was still doing its best to pull itself free from the lad but, eventually, Tony managed to collect the reins in his hands, and Ryan tossed him up onto the saddle.

‘It’s so exciting to have a runner,’ Michelle said to me as we stood some way off, out of range of both snapping teeth and thrashing feet.

‘Yes,’ I said. And it must be, I thought, with all the years of effort she and Mike must have put in to get their ‘baby’ to the racecourse, balls and all. But I wasn’t sure that the horse’s jockey was finding the prospect of the contest quite as thrilling as its owner.

Rather you than me, I thought, as Tony tried to control half a ton of crazy racehorse with nothing more than a few small pieces of leather, and with no seat belt.

‘Don’t mess it up,’ Ryan said to his brother as a farewell comment.

I watched as Tony mouthed an obscenity back along the lines that Ryan should go forth and multiply. The two might be communicating but it was clearly not the happiest of working relationships.

At least Momentum seemed to have calmed down a bit now that he had someone on his back, although he still gave a couple of token bucks as he left the paddock.

‘Do you think we’ll win?’ Michelle eagerly asked Oliver.

‘I hope so,’ he said, although without much enthusiasm. ‘Some of our results recently have been rather a disappointment.’

And the result of this race was a bit of a disappointment too.

Surprisingly, both owners and trainer remained in the parade ring to watch the race unfold on a large-screen television set up nearby, so, I stayed with them. Ryan didn’t like it one bit and he had a scowl on his face as if he’d swallowed a wasp.

Oliver and Ryan were very unalike, I thought. Oliver had charm and charisma whereas Ryan was coarse and uncouth. Ryan was also a bit of a thug, used to getting his own way and to hell with everyone else.

But I presented them with a major problem. I was the personal representative of one of, if not the most important of their owners. I had a direct line to Sheikh Karim, who they could hardly afford to lose at any time, and certainly not in their present circumstances.

Oliver was playing the game, swallowing his pride and being polite, explaining things to me when he’d probably prefer me to get lost. For Ryan, however, the situation was more of a challenge and, as he had so clearly demonstrated the previous evening, his natural aggression readily prevailed over logic and reason.

And, on top of everything else, Ryan was failing to measure up to his father’s reputation as one of the great Newmarket trainers. And both of them knew it.

Momentum jumped out of the stalls in line with the other runners and then Tony positioned him towards the rear of the pack.

‘Come on, baby,’ Michelle shouted at the screen, hardly able to resist jumping up and down. Mike just smiled and held her hand.

‘He’s too far back,’ Ryan hissed. ‘In the pack, I said, not at the back of it.’

The horses were running on the straight mile directly towards the grandstand, the camera angle tending to foreshorten the distance from first to last. Nevertheless, even I could see that the lead horse was getting away from the others.

‘Hopeless,’ Oliver said, seemingly unaware that Mike and Michelle Morris were hanging on his every word.

We watched as Tony pulled Momentum out from behind the horse immediately in front of him and started to make some headway. As they passed the two-furlong pole, Tony went for his whip and gave his mount a couple of reminders to get going faster. But sadly for him, and despite all his considerable efforts, the horse just plodded on at the same steady pace, passing the winning post a frustrating sixth of the nine.

The official handicapper had been right all the time.

Ryan was apoplectic with rage. ‘That wretched Tony. Why didn’t he do as he was bloody told?’

I personally thought he had done so but, on this occasion, I decided not to say something provocative. I rather valued the straightness of my nose.

Oliver, meanwhile, just sighed heavily and kicked the turf in frustration.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Better luck next time.’

If there is a next time, I thought. The owners were obviously unhappy. Their earlier optimism had been crushed, leaving nothing but frustration and anger, much of it clearly directed towards the trainer and his father.

The five of us went, not to the winner’s enclosure as hoped, but to the place reserved for the unsaddling of the also-rans and waited for the horse and jockey to return. Ryan was working himself up into a real state again, just like on the previous evening. Thankfully, this time, it wasn’t me in his sights.

I didn’t fancy being in Tony’s stirrups.

‘You were far too far back,’ Ryan complained loudly when Tony slid down off the horse. ‘You never gave him a chance.’

‘I gave him every chance,’ Tony replied icily, removing his saddle. ‘When I asked him for an effort at the two-pole there was nothing left. Tank empty.’

‘Nonsense,’ Oliver said. ‘You just didn’t ride him well enough.’

The three of them seemed oblivious to the presence of me and the Morrises, who stood there in shocked silence listening to the Chadwick family confrontation.

Tony faced his brother and father. ‘I won’t ride for you ever again. In your opinion, every horse you run these days seems to be underperforming. I suggest you both look in the mirror before you start blaming everyone else.’ And, with that still ringing in their ears, he turned away and disappeared into the weighing room.

I wondered if now might be a good time to ask him if he knew why Ryan had broken Declan’s nose.