Читать книгу Citizen - Charlie Brooks - Страница 15

Nico had a few drinks with Johnny the Fish after Shaunsheys left the Partridge, and then accepted Johnny’s offer of a bed. The rooms in the Partridge weren’t up to Nico’s normal haunts, but he decided a little time spent in reconnaissance might not be wasted.

He was up with the lark and in the public car park at the top of Warren Hill gallops before any of the horses were out on the Heath. When Sinclair’s horses came along, they weren’t difficult to spot with DS initialled on the horses’ blankets. Nico was impressed. Sinclair’s string looked the business. It was easy to pick Sinclair out on his hack, slightly detached from his horses, barking instructions at lads who didn’t say much back. Sinclair had a slightly fat face, biggish nose and dark hair sticking out of the back of his riding helmet. He looked generally overweight and his facial complexion was just a little redder than it should have been.

Nico picked out a moody looking woman at the back of the string who definitely wasn’t a stable lass. Mrs Sinclair, he thought to himself. Her jodhpurs looked like they’d been spray-painted onto her large thighs.

He then followed Sinclair’s string back to his yard at a safe distance. There was a convenient wood along one side of it to give him some cover. Nico peered through the hedge into the yard. Again, he was impressed and re-assured. If Shalakov ever comes to look round this place, he’ll be happy, he thought to himself. Shalakov’s military brain will like the order of this place. The lawns had stripes in them, the stable doors were white and gleaming, and there were men everywhere with brooms sweeping up. Nico was happy as he trudged back up the hill to his car.

Nico spent the rest of the day in Cambridge. He was half interested in familiarizing himself with the place, in case he ever had to pass himself off as a graduate; and he was curious to see what a gram of coke was being knocked out for there. It was as good a way as any to kill time before he formally met Sinclair in the Partridge.

Shelley was in her normal spot when Nico got back to the pub. Nico had a furtive look around to check there were no prying ears.

‘I think we have a friend in common,’ he said to Shelley smoothly.

‘Really?’

‘The Duke told me to pass on his compliments. Said you’d be sure to look after me.’ He smiled leaving the innuendo hanging in the air.

‘Did he just,’ Shelley replied frostily.

Before the conversation went any further Sinclair came breezing in. Shelley couldn’t stand him. As far as she was concerned he was an arrogant prick. And she hated the way he mentally undressed her. But as he and Nico slid into the armchairs by the fire she had food for thought.

‘So, I understand you have a man,’ Sinclair smiled, cutting straight to the chase. ‘And he wants some horses.’

‘Yes,’ said Nico smoothly. ‘That’s the situation. And I am told you may be the person to handle it.’

‘Absolutely. But I understand you’re also thinking of appointing Shug Shaunsheys? The point is, you really don’t need him. I’ll get you the horses myself. In fact I’ve already got one in the yard, a beautifully bred colt, who—’

Nico held up his hand.

‘Let me stop you there. The gentleman I act for, Mr Stanislav Shalakov, has many interests. One of them is racing, another is breeding. He has a passion for this. We are thinking that Mr Shaunsheys will help on the breeding side, while a reputable trainer such as yourself will look after the racing. There should be no conflict of interest. No need for you to work together at all.’

‘Hmm. I see. But are you sure about Shaunsheys? He’s a bit of a dubious character.’

‘I’m sure you won’t mind if we make up our own minds about that, Mr Sinclair.’

‘All right. Suit yourself. As long as I don’t have anything to do with him.’

‘You won’t.’

Nico mentally adjusted. He had thought these people would work amicably together. Obviously he was wrong. But it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, as far as he was concerned. At least they wouldn’t be conspiring together.

‘Since you have been so frank with me,’ he went on, ‘there’s one thing just between ourselves. I’m doing you a bit of a favour putting you in touch with my client, and I have no doubt you’ll be wanting to gratify me in return. You could, well…I suppose you make sure I am informed when your horses win and lose—that is, before their races are run.’

Sinclair raised his glass.

‘Of course. Just between ourselves. If we do come to an agreement, that will present no problem at all. Now, what will you eat?’

Sinclair had a rather smug, triumphal air about him as he raised his arm towards Shelley.

An hour and a half and three bottles of Gevry Chambertin later, Sinclair was driving back to the yard well satisfied with the evening’s work. He’d told Nico a string of outrageous lies: the Sinclair yard was ‘solid as a rock’, ‘business was booming’, he and Alison were ‘a creative partnership focused on success’, Shalakov’s prospects of quick success on the track, with the two horses Sinclair would initially provide for him, were ‘massive’.

‘You see, Nico, it’s a family business, in the best sense of the word. We’re a great team, Alison and I. My yard is all about team spirit.’

Sinclair had always been able to talk the talk, and Nico seemed to swallow these fantasies like a trout attacking a mayfly. Yet the reality of Sinclair’s situation was a little different. ‘My’ yard was not his but, by the grace and money of her father, entirely Alison’s. Seven years ago, not trusting his new son-in-law for a moment, Sir Godfrey had drawn up and made Sinclair sign a pre-nuptial agreement whereby, if he and Alison ever broke up, he would walk away with nothing. Whatever the old boy had originally intended, the pre-nup had done more to preserve their relationship than a year of counselling. It kept David and Alison in a marriage that otherwise had all the stickability of wet cardboard. They almost never had sex, there were no children, they were both flagrantly unfaithful, and when they got drunk they fought like cats in a sack.

When he got home he found Alison in the kitchen, rubber-gloved and gutting a pheasant. She often did this sort of thing late at night. He thought it put her in the mood for bed.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ she demanded as he came swaying in. The worktop in front of her was covered in feathers and she was now sawing the plucked carcase open with a heavy butcher’s knife. ‘I’ve had to spend all night answering the phone to sodding owners.’

She pointed with the knife.

‘Your job, David.’

‘Matter of fact I’ve been at the Partridge with a prospective new one—or at least his representative.’

The last word came out as ‘repssntive’. Alison repeated it.

‘His “repssntive”? You’re pissed.’

‘That’s as maybe. But I think I’ve landed him. This could be the big one, I’m telling you.’

Alison put down the knife and used her fingers to scoop out the intestines onto some sheets of old newspaper. She’d heard her husband talk like this before.

‘Oh yes? Hope it turns out better than that crappy boy band you had such high hopes of, until they split up three weeks after you bought them a horse. Not to mention—who was it you found before that? Oh yes, the Luton car dealer. Last known address Wormwood Scrubs.’

‘This is different, Alison. This guy wants two horses, but that’s just for starters. He’s a rich Russian, for Christ’s sake.’

She emitted a scoffing laugh.

‘Oh yeah? He’d better be. Because I’ll tell you something, I’m not paying your debts any more.’

With a certain unnerving relish Alison picked up a pair of butcher’s jointing clippers and cracked off the bird’s legs.