Decider Page 22

  It looked an uneventful race from the stands, though no doubt not from the saddle. The runners stayed bunched throughout the first circuit, clattered safely over the flights of hurdles, swept in an overlapping ribbon past the winning post for the first time and set off again into the country.

  Down the far side the less fit, the less speedy, fell back, leaving Rebecca in third place round the last bend. Dart’s genuine wish for his sister to win couldn’t be doubted. He made scrubbing, encouraging movements with his whole body, and when she reached second place coming towards the last flight he raised his voice like the rest and yelled to her to win.

  She did. She won by less than a length, accelerating, a thin streak of neat rhythmic muscle against an opponent who flapped his elbows and his whip but couldn’t hang onto his lead.

  The crowd cheered her. Dart oozed reflected glory. Everyone streamed down towards the winner’s unsaddling enclosure where Dart joined his parents and Marjorie in a kissing and back-slapping orgy. Rebecca, pulling off the saddle, ducked the sentiment and dived purposefully into the Portakabin weighing room to sit on the scales. Very professional, fairly withdrawn; rapt in her own private world of risk, effort, metaphysics and, this time, success.

  I took myself over to the office door and found four boys faithfully reporting there.

  ‘Did you have lunch OK?’ I asked.

  They nodded. ‘Good job we went early. There were no tables left, pretty soon.’

  ‘Did you see Rebecca Stratton win that race?’

  Christopher said reproachfully, ‘Even though she called us brats, we wanted to back her with you, but we couldn’t find you.’

  I reflected. ‘I’ll pay you whatever the Tote pays on a minimum bet.’

  Four grins rewarded me. ‘Don’t lose it,’ I said.

  Perdita Faulds and Penelope, passing, stopped by my side, and I introduced the children.

  ‘All yours?’ Perdita asked. ‘You don’t look old enough.’

  ‘Started young.’

  The boys were staring at Penelope, wide-eyed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Have I got mud on my nose?’

  ‘No,’ Alan said frankly, ‘you look like Mummy.’

  ‘Like your mother?’

  They all nodded, and they moved off with her, as if it were natural, to go and look at the horses walking round for the next race.

  ‘Like your wife, is she, my Pen?’ Perdita said.

  I dragged my gaze back. Heart thudded. Idiotic.

  ‘Like she was then,’ I said.

  ‘And now?’

  I swallowed. ‘Yes, like now, too.’

  Perdita gave me a look born of long, knowing experience. ‘You can never go back,’ she said.

  I would do it again, I thought helplessly. I’d marry with my eyes and find an unsuspected stranger inside the package. Did one never grow up?

  I wrenched my mind away from it and said to Perdita, ‘Did Lord Stratton happen to know – and tell you – what it was that Forsyth Stratton did that has tied the whole family into knots?’

  Her generous red mouth formed an O of amused surprise.

  ‘You don’t mess about, do you? Why should I tell you?’

  ‘Because if we’re going to save his racecourse, we have to unravel the strings that work the family. They all know things about each other that they use as threats. They blackmail each other to make them do – or not do – what they want.’

  Perdita nodded.

  ‘And as a part of that,’ I said, ‘they pay people off, to keep the Stratton name clean.’

  ‘Yes, they do.’

  ‘Starting with my own mother,’ I said.

  ‘No, before that.’

  ‘So you do know!’

  ‘William liked to talk,’ she said. ‘I told you.’

  ‘And… Forsyth?’

  Penelope and the boys were on their way back. Perdita said, ‘If you come to see me in my Swindon shop tomorrow morning, I’ll tell you about Forsyth… and about the others, if you think up the questions.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Keith’s rage, when he discovered that the runners in the second race would be jumping the open ditch as scheduled, verged on the spectacular.

  Henry and I happened to be walking along behind the caterers’ tents when the eruption occurred (Henry having had to deal with a leak in the new water main) and we hurried down a caterer’s passage towards the source of vocal bellowing and crockery-smashing noises; into the Strattons’ private dining room.

  The whole family had clearly returned, after their victory, to finish their lunch and toast the winner, and typically, but perhaps luckily, had invited no outsiders to join them.

  Keith, legs astride, shoulders back, mane of hair flying, had flung the entire dining table over and swept an arm along the line of bottles and glasses on the serving sideboard. Tablecloths, knives, plates, cheese, champagne, coffee, whipped-cream puddings, lay in a mess on the floor. Wine poured out of opened bottles. The waitresses pressed their hands to their mouths and various Strattons grabbed napkins and tried to clean debris from laps, trousers and legs.

  ‘Keith!’ screeched Conrad, equally furious, quivering on his feet, thunderous as a bull before charging. ‘You lout’

  Victoria’s cream silk suit ran with coffee and Bordeaux. ‘I’m presenting the Cup,’ she yelled, wailing, ‘and look at me.’

  Marjorie sat calm, unspattered, icily furious. Ivan, beside her, said, ‘I say, Keith, I say…’

  Hannah, trifle dripping down her legs, used unfilial language to her father and also to her son, who turned ineffectively to help her. The thin woman who sat beyond Ivan, unconcernedly continuing a relationship with a large snifter of brandy, I provisionally guessed to be Imogen. Dart wasn’t there. Forsyth, sullenly seeming to be relieved that someone other then he was the focus of family obloquy, made his way to the doorway into the main passage, where we’d arranged a flap of canvas that could be fastened across to give privacy.

  People were pulling the flap aside, trying to see in, to find out the cause of the commotion. Forsyth shouldered his way out, telling people rudely to mind their own business which, of course, they didn’t.

  The whole scene was laughable but, not far below the farcical surface, as each family member uneasily knew, lay the real cause of destructive violence, the melt-down in Keith that had so far gained most expression in hitting his wives and taking a belt at Lee Morris, but would one day go too far for containment.

  Marjorie was holding in plain sight the copy of Harold Quest’s confession; the cause of the débâcle.

  Keith suddenly seized it out of her hand, snatched the brandy glass rudely from his wife, poured the alcohol over the letter, threw down the glass and with economic speed produced a lighter from his pocket and put a flame to the paper. Harold Quest’s confession flared brightly and curled to ash and was dropped and stamped on, Keith triumphant.

  ‘It was only a copy,’ Marjorie said primly, intentionally goading.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ Keith said to her, his lower jaw rigid. His gaze rose over her and fastened on me. The animosity intensified, found a more possible, a more preferred target, ‘I will kill you,’ he said.

  In the small following silence I turned and went out the back way with Henry, leaving the poor waitresses to clear up the garbage.

  ‘That was only half funny,’ Henry said thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want to be careful. He might just kill you next time. And why? You didn’t bring Harold Quest here. You didn’t suss out the hamburger.’

  ‘No,’ I sighed. ‘My pal Dart Stratton says logic never interferes with instinct, in Keith. But then, half the world’s like that.’

  ‘Including murderers,’ Henry said.

  ‘How inflammable,’ I asked, ‘is the big top?’

  Henry stopped walking. ‘You don’t think he’d try –? He’s pretty handy with that lighter. And burning the fence…’ Henry looked angry but after a m
oment shook his head.

  ‘This big top won’t go on fire,’ he said positively. ‘Everything I brought here is flame-retardant, flame-resistant or can’t burn, like all the metal poles and the pylons. There were disasters in circuses in the past. The regs now are stringent. This big top won’t burn by accident. Arson… well, I don’t know. But we’ve got extinguishers all over the place, as you know, and I ran a bit of water main up to the roof in a sort of elementary sprinkler system.’ He took me along to see. ‘That bit of rising main,’ he pointed, ‘the pressure’s pretty good in it. I fed a pipe up and connected it to a garden hose running along inside, below the ridge. The hose has small holes in it. The water squirts out OK.’

  ‘Henry! You’re a genius.’

  ‘I had a bit of time yesterday, when you went off to London, and I reckoned the racecourse couldn’t afford another calamity like the stands. A good precaution’s never wasted, I thought, so I rigged up this very basic sprinkler. Don’t know how long it would work. If ever flames got that high, they could melt the hose.’ He laughed. ‘Also, I, or someone who knows, has to be around to turn the tap on. I had to stick tape and those labels all over it, saying, “DO NOT TOUCH THIS” in case someone turned it on while all the crowds were inside tucking into their smoked salmon sandwiches.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘Roger knows about it and Oliver, and now you.’

  ‘Not the Strattons?’

  ‘Not the Strattons, I don’t trust them.’

  Keith, definitely, would have soaked the paying customers to ruin their day.

  Henry went on, trying to reassure me. ‘But Keith won’t actually try to kill you, not after he said in public that he was going to.’

  ‘That wasn’t public. That was the Stratton family.’

  ‘But I heard him, and the waitresses did.’

  ‘They would pay off the waitresses and swear you misheard.’

  ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘I’m certain they’ve done that sort of thing often. Maybe not for murder, but other crimes, certainly.’

  ‘But… what about newspapers?’

  ‘The Strattons are rich,’ I said briefly. ‘Money will and does buy more than you’d think. Money’s for using to get what you want.’

  ‘Well, obviously.’

  ‘The Strattons don’t want scandal.’

  ‘But they can’t bribe the Press!’

  ‘How about the sources that speak to the Press? How about suddenly blind waitresses with healthy bank balances?’

  ‘Not these days,’ he protested. ‘Not with our insatiable tabloids.’

  ‘I never thought I’d feel older than you, Henry. The Strattons can outbid the tabloids.’

  Henry’s mind I knew to be agile, practical, inventive and straight, but of his homelife and background I knew nothing. Henry the giant and I had worked together in harmony over a stretch of years, never intimate, always appreciative; on my part, at least. Henry’s junk dealings had found me a whole untouched Adam room once, and dozens of antique fireplaces and door frames. Henry and I did business by telephone – ‘Can you find me…’ or ‘I’ve come across this…’ These Stratton Park days were the first I’d spent so much in his company and they would, I thought contentedly, lead to a positive friendship.

  We rounded the far end of the big top and watched the runners for the second race walk by on their way out onto the track. I found I was liking more and more to watch them, having given them little thought for most of my life. Imagine the world without them, I thought: history itself would have been totally different. Land transport wouldn’t have existed. Mediaeval battles wouldn’t have been fought. No six hundred to ride into a valley of death. No Napoleon. The seafarers, Vikings and Greeks, might still rule the world.

  Horses, fleet, strong, tamable, had been just the right size. I watched the way their muscles moved under the groomed coats; no architect anywhere could have designed anything as functional, economical, supremely proportioned.

  Rebecca rode by, adjusting her stirrup leathers, her attentions inward on the contest ahead. I had never wanted to ride, but at that moment I envied her: envied her skill, her obsession, her absolute commitment to a physical – animal – partnership with a phenomenal creature.

  People could bet; they could own, train, breed, paint, admire, write about thoroughbreds: the primaeval urge to be first, in both runner and rider, was where the whole industry started. Rebecca on horseback became for me the quintessence of racing.

  Henry and I stood on the ex-circus stands and watched the race together. The whole field jumped the restored open ditch without faltering. Rebecca finished well back, not taking part in the finish.

  Henry said racing didn’t grab him like rugger and went away to patrol his defences.

  The afternoon passed. ‘There were the usual disasters,’ Roger said, dashing about.

  I came across the racecourse doctor taking a breather between casualties. ‘Come to see me on Thursday,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll take all those clips out. Save you waiting around in the hospital.’

  ‘Great.’

  Oliver, in the office, dealt with enquiries and wrathful trainers and arranged for a Stewards’ enquiry into an objection to the winner to take place in the inner office among the computers, copier and coffee machine.

  On the whole, the pros whose business was everyone else’s pleasure made allowances for the stop-gap provisions, though it was interesting, as the day wore on, that they took the truly remarkable conjured-up arrangements more and more for granted and began to complain about the cramped weighing room and the inadequate view from the improvised stands.

  ‘You give them a man-made miracle,’ Roger complained, ‘and they want the divine.’

  ‘Human nature.’

  ‘Sod them.’

  I spent some of the time with Perdita and Penelope, feeling disjointedly crazy, and some with my sons, thrust back into adulthood and paternity; but no more, thankfully, being told I was for the fairly immediate chop.

  I did speak to Marjorie, who stood in for Victoria in the Cup-presenting ceremony, her neat upright little figure being protected through the throng by the solicitous bulks of Conrad and Ivan. Photographs flashed, a hand-held microphone produced fuzzy noises; the winning owners floated, the trainer looked relieved, the jockey prosaic (his tenth pair of cufflinks) and the horse, excited. A regular prizewinning; irregular day.

  ‘Lee,’ Marjorie said, beginning to make her way back to the big top but pausing when she saw me nearby. ‘A cup of tea?’

  I went with her obediently, though the tea idea was quickly abandoned in favour of vintage Pol Roger from Stratton Hays’ cellars. Dismissing Conrad and Ivan, she took me alone into the tidied up dining room, where the trusting staff had righted the table and laid it freshly with crustless cucumber sandwiches and small coffee eclairs.

  Marjorie sat on one of the chairs and came straight to the point.

  ‘How much is this all costing?’ she peremptorily enquired.

  ‘What is it worth?’

  ‘Sit down, sit down.’ She waited while I sat. ‘It is worth, as you well know, almost anything your huge friend asks. We have been flooded with compliments all afternoon. People love this tent. The future of the racecourse, no less, has been saved. We may not make a cash profit on the day, but we have banked priceless goodwill.’

  I smiled at her business metaphor.

  ‘I have told Conrad,’ she said collectedly, ‘not to quibble about the bills. Oliver Wells is so busy, I’m giving you this message for him instead. I’ve called for a family meeting on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow. Can you and Oliver and the Colonel draw up a list of costs and expenses for me before then?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Do it,’ she said, but more with persuasion than bossiness. ‘I’ve told Conrad to instruct our accountants to present an up-to-date realistic audit of the racecourse as soon as possible and not to wait for the end of its financial year. We need a survey of our pr
esent position, and it’s imperative we sort out what we intend to do next.’ The clear voice paused briefly. ‘You have shown us today that we should not rebuild the old stand as it was before. You have shown us that people respond to a fresh and unusual environment. We must build some light-hearted stands.’

  I listened in awe. Eighty-four, was she? Eighty-five? A delicate-looking tough-minded old lady with a touch of tycoon.

  ‘Will you come to the meeting?’ she asked, far from sure.

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Will Mrs Faulds?’

  I looked at her dryly. ‘She said you recognised her.’

  ‘Yes. What did she say to you?’

  ‘Not a great deal. She said chiefly that if the racecourse can be run prosperously, she won’t press for the land to be sold.’

  ‘Good.’ Marjorie’s interior relief surfaced in a subtle loosening of several facial muscles that I hadn’t realised were tight.

  ‘I don’t think she’ll want to come to the meeting,’ I added. ‘She had read about the family disputes in the newspapers. She just wanted to know how things stood.’

  ‘The newspapers!’ Marjorie shook her head in disgust. ‘I don’t know how they heard of our arguments. Those reports were disgraceful. We cannot afford any more discord. What’s more, we cannot afford Keith’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said tentatively, ‘you should just let him… sink.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said at once. ‘The family name…’

  The dilemma remained, age old; unresolvable, from their point of view.

  At the end of the day the crowds straggled off, leaving litter in tons. The big top emptied. The caterers packed their tables and chairs and departed. The afternoon sun waned in deep yellow on the horizon, and Henry, Oliver, Roger and I sat on upturned plastic crates in the deserted expanse of the members’ bar, drinking beer from cans and holding anti-climactic post-mortems.

  The five boys roamed around scavenging, Toby having joined them belatedly. The Strattons had left. Outside, horseboxes were loading the last winner and losers. The urgency was over, and the striving, and the glories. The incredible weekend was folding its wings.

  ‘And for our next act…’ I declaimed like a ringmaster, waving an arm.