Читать книгу Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 31

The Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket racecourse was the first classic of the English flat-racing season, and the weather honoured the occasion with a cornflower-blue sky and a beautiful morning light that made the turf gleam like emeralds. Away from the Millennium Grandstand where a glittering crowd was anticipating some of the finest racing of the season, Oswald Balcon was pacing by the saddling boxes, lecturing the trainer of his horse about tactics for the big race.

‘We’d better be in for a result today, Broadbent,’ rumbled Oswald, slapping the gleaming chestnut rump of Fierce Temper, his favourite toy. He kicked the heel of his brogue into the turf, barely making an impression. ‘Are you sure Temper can run on this? Bit bloody firm this ground, don’t you think? Too firm if you ask me. It’d better not be a waste of money adding him to the racecard.’

Barry Broadbent merely inclined his head and nodded sympathetically. He was a trainer of the old school, his crinkled sun-weathered face had seen everything the racing game had to offer, and overprotective owners were just part of the scenery. He tipped the brim of his conker-brown trilby towards Oswald and smiled.

‘You know how competitive it is these days, your lordship,’ he said. ‘With the likes of the Coolmore and Godolphin stableyards out there we’ve got to pick races where we think we have a great chance. The ground could do with a bit more juice, but I think we’ve got a great chance today.’

Oswald snorted dismissively and looked over to their young jockey, Finbar O’Connor, a nineteen-year-old Irish boy who had recently been signed up by Barry.

‘Yes, but what about him?’ said Oswald. ‘You know my thoughts on this. The boy is too bloody young. Where’s the experience there, eh? Why can’t you get someone like Kieran Fallon or Dettori locked into your yard? I’m paying you enough, I want quality!’

Broadbent shrugged, but stood his ground.

‘Finbar may be young, sir, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be a champion jockey. Remember Walter Swinburn? He was still a teenager when he won the Derby with Shergar. You see sir, Temper is a fantastic horse,’ he smiled affectionately, stroking the white blaze of the chestnut’s nose, ‘but you need someone who can control you, don’t you boy? And Finbar has that in spades.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Oswald, and stalked off.

For once, Oswald’s ill temper hid a real nervousness about the day. Horse racing was the one thing the tenth baron had a genuine and enduring passion for. Since his days at Cambridge in the late fifties when he would skip lectures to take the short hop to Newmarket, he had dreamt of a day like today when he would stand by a winner in the paddock, a winner that actually belonged to him. Well, part-owned, anyway. The fact that he shared Fierce Temper with Nicholas Charlesworth and Philip Watchorn under the name of BWC Holdings Limited was a constant source of annoyance to Oswald; he wanted both ownership of the horse and the glory. OK, so going in with Charlesworth and Watchorn had eased the financial load of owning a world-class racehorse, but what had they brought to the party except money? He was the expert, he was the one with the vision.

Oswald had suggested the idea to Philip and Nicholas twelve months ago. Not that it was much of a hard sell: fellow gambler Charlesworth had taken little persuading, while Watchorn could easily see the corporate hospitality opportunities that came with being an important owner. As soon as the others were on board, Oswald had immediately dispatched Aidan O’Donnell, a respected Irish bloodstock agent, to find them a suitable horse. They had picked up Fierce Temper, son of Triple Crown winner Danes Hill, for a decent price, because the horse had been having a mixed season in his juvenile year and didn’t show any obvious signs of becoming a champion. Aidan O’Donnell had, however, thought otherwise and, having secured the horse, he had brought in Barry Broadbent, a former Derby-winning trainer who, after a bout of prostate cancer ten years ago, had retired from the business. O’Donnell had talked him into returning to the turf and Fierce Temper had become the jewel in the crown of Barry’s new small yard in Epsom. He was the most promising horse he’d seen in years; it was to be his career swansong.

Philip Watchorn had taken a hospitality marquee opposite the Millennium Grandstand from where his guests could have lunch before the race and which would give them a magnificent viewpoint of the Rowley Mile. Oswald sauntered across the ground, revelling in the feeling of being an owner rather than just a punter. He felt like he’d won already.

‘Oswald!’ boomed Philip Watchorn as he walked into the marquee. Thrusting a glass of Moët into his hand, Watchorn introduced Oswald to his guests who, along with Venetia and Jonathon, were sipping champagne and talking excitedly about the bets they had placed for the earlier race, the One Thousand Guineas. Oswald curled his mouth in distaste. Didn’t these people understand how important racing was? It was more than a day out and some free booze.

‘Don’t say you have been harassing Broadbent again,’ said Philip. ‘Can’t you leave the poor man alone?’

‘I hope we made the right decision with him,’ grumbled Oswald, taking a small sip of the champagne. ‘Why didn’t we go to one of the big Newmarket super-yards where all the important owners keep their horses?’ he continued, almost talking to himself.

‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong,’ chortled Philip, helping himself to a quail’s egg canapé, ‘but didn’t you talk glowingly of Barry nine months ago? According to you he had a fantastic record and reputation before he got ill – and he’s built up a great yard since we persuaded him out of retirement, hasn’t he? I thought you wanted an Epsom yard – it’s a damn sight nearer to where we all live. I don’t know about you, but I enjoy popping down there to watch Fierce Temper train.’

Oswald secretly knew that he had been premature in dismissing Broadbent’s capabilities. Since he had started looking after Fierce Temper they had won two important Group Two races and he had come third in the top juvenile race, the Dewhurst Stakes – considered to be a training ground for three-year-old champions the next season. Oswald looked around the marquee sourly and made the decision to avoid Philip’s sister-in-law Elizabeth, who was here yet again and wearing her usual predatory gleam. He also had little desire for polite chit-chat with the chairman of a Japanese electronics company and his wife, no doubt invited by Philip as some sort of business sweetener. Bloody freeloading Japs, he thought sourly, they come halfway around the world and stand around in a tent grinning and bowing for no reason – makes you sick.

He moved outside where he found Venetia and Jonathon leaning on the white rails that overlooked the racecourse, sipping Pimms and studiously avoiding eye contact. Venetia, looking beautiful if a little gaunt in an Escada eau-de-nil tulle dress, was studying the racecard intently, and flinched when Oswald moved to her side.

‘Oh, hello Daddy. I thought Maria would be joining us today,’ said Venetia, turning around to face Oswald, shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

Oswald shook his head slightly.

‘No, she’s in Verona this weekend. She’s an incredibly busy woman. Anyway, where’s Camilla, I thought we’d extended an invitation to her? Don’t tell me she has something more important to do than support Fierce Temper?’

‘Actually, I think she’s swotting,’ said Venetia.

‘Whatever for?’ guffawed Oswald.

‘I think she has some Conservative Party selection day this week. Not quite sure how she will swot for it, mind you,’ said Venetia. ‘Read a load of Anthony Trollope? Absorb Maggie Thatcher’s memoirs?’ She took another sip of Pimms, letting the slice of cucumber touch her lips. She noticed with some concern that her father’s face looked like thunder.

‘What does she want to do that for?’ he growled softly. ‘She’s earning good money at the Bar. Paid a fortune for that girl’s education and now she’s wasting her time with her little games. She’s just not cut out for politics.’

‘So, how do you think the race is going to go?’ interrupted Jonathon, unbuttoning his cream linen jacket. ‘Don’t really understand all this form business,’ he said, waving the Racing Post.

Oswald stamped an angry foot on the turf. ‘It’s pretty firm,’ he said, ‘which is OK for us, although God only knows what tactics our so-called trainer is going to employ. He’s a law unto himself.’

‘How much have you got on the horse?’ asked Jonathon, eager to steer the conversation around to money, something he did understand.

‘Only a couple of grand,’ said Oswald, ‘but at ten to one, that should bring home a tidy sum.’ Oswald stepped forward and leant both elbows of his green tweed jacket onto the railings, looking out at the enormous crowd opposite in the grandstand.

‘Today’s not the day, obviously,’ he said without even looking at Venetia, ‘but we do need to talk about business some time over the next few days.’

‘Daddy, look, I really don’t think it’s a good idea –’

‘I’m obviously looking forward to joining the board of my daughter’s company,’ continued Oswald, ignoring Venetia’s protests, ‘but I’ve been over the recent board minutes and accounts with that Geoffrey fellow and I have to say I’m a little concerned about expanding into New York at this point.’ He took a cigar out of his top pocket and cut the top with his Dunhill guillotine, as if the subject was closed.

Venetia pulled herself upright into a taller, more determined line. ‘The New York expansion is non-negotiable,’ she bristled, banging her palm onto the rail for emphasis. ‘I already have a small concession in Bergdorf Goodman which is doing really good business. I think Manhattan is ripe for our line of interiors on a bigger scale.’

‘Non-negotiable?’ queried Oswald, blowing a cloud of smoke. ‘I think I had better explain business to you, my dear. Any investment over one million pounds can only go ahead with the passing of a special resolution. For that, you need Jonathon’s approval and, as such, under the new arrangement, you need mine.’

Venetia grabbed hold of the railing so hard that her nails began to sink into the wood. ‘I’m not talking about this now, Daddy,’ she said, her even voice disguising the real fear she felt, ‘but I will fight you all the way. You’re in this to protect Jonathon’s investment, not undermine it,’ she snarled.

‘Oh, I realize that,’ he said, almost laughing. ‘And I shall do whatever is best for Jonathon. You can be sure of that.’

After a generous lunch and numerous bottles of champagne, Philip and Nicholas left the marquee to wander over to watch the parade. Grudgingly, Oswald went along to join them, unable to keep from watching the beautifully groomed Fierce Temper trot around the ring. He was a magnificent horse, his muscles rippling under a shining chestnut coat. He looked alert and impatient, pawing the ground and tossing his head. Finbar sat regally in the saddle in the amber and red silks of BWC Holdings, patting Fierce Temper’s neck and whispering in his ear. Oswald couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride. It was his horse. Finally he was going to get a taste of the sport of kings from the owners’ enclosure.

‘Hey, Oswald old man,’ said Nicholas, breaking the spell, ‘you know I don’t study the form. What do you really reckon Fierce Temper’s chances are this afternoon?’

Oswald began stroking his chin in a superior manner, enjoying the knowledge he had over his friend.

‘That’s the one we’ve got to watch: Warhorse.’ He pointed at an enormous ebony colt dancing nervously sideways, his flanks already darkened with sweat. ‘He’s big, powerful, and he’s damned fast. And look at the jockey. Tiny fellow, but he controls him with an iron fist. And I reckon Eastern Promise is going to be pretty useful too,’ he said, nodding at a wiry grey. ‘Belongs to another bloody Arab, of course. These so called sheikhs are taking over racing, just throwing all their oil money at the turf.’

Nicholas Charlesworth slapped Oswald on the back. ‘Don’t say the Arabs are bad for the sport, old boy. Look at all the Dubai races: enormous purses! Don’t say you wouldn’t like a piece of that action!’

‘Vulgar. That’s what I call that Arab circuit, and I’m not letting Fierce Temper anywhere near them.’

Fierce Temper trotted gracefully around the paddock, swishing his finely groomed tail and nodding his nose up and down in a confident fashion. Satisfied, Oswald began to amble back to the marquee in preparation for the big race. The racecourse rumbled with excitable murmurs as the thousands of fans, owners, trainers and gamblers waited for the race to begin.

Finding himself a place at the rail, Oswald pulled out his binoculars and waited for the flag. Suddenly the stalls burst open and the runners shot off down the Rowley Mile. Fierce Temper had been drawn in Gate Six on the faster side of the ground, and Oswald craned his neck, anxious to see Fierce Temper’s position. The thunderous noise of hooves pounding on the turf was drowned as Philip’s marquee exploded into a frenzy of excitement: Fierce Temper had edged into the lead.

‘Come on! Come on!’ screamed Venetia, jumping up and down in her delicate Roger Vivier stilettos, waving her crossed fingers around in the air. Philip Watchorn was going slightly red in the face, while Barry Broadbent stood silently, his mouth in a grim, determined line as he watched the action.

‘Get a move on, get a move on!’ growled Oswald, still peering through his binoculars, his eyebrows furrowed into a jagged crease. There were five horses now in a tightly grouped pack, including Fierce Temper, Warhorse and Eastern Promise. With a sinking feeling, Oswald trained his binoculars on Warhorse and saw the powerful ebony racehorse start edging towards the front with only three furlongs to go. The crowd roared as Warhorse and Eastern Promise moved a length clear of the pack. Oswald saw Finbar raise his whip and give his mount another swipe and then another. Oswald flashed a glance at Barry Broadbent who was staring silently out at the course. ‘There’s no point whipping him so much,’ snarled Oswald.

As the seconds ebbed away, and the outcome of the race looked more and more clear, the buoyant and excitable mood began to leave the marquee. Finbar urged his mount for one last effort, bending down over the horse’s neck in one last big push to catch up. But it was no good, Warhorse was now three lengths ahead and two horses were passing Fierce Temper as they approached the post. And then it was over.

Oswald flung his binoculars down onto a mock-gilt chair. ‘Jesus Christ! Fifth?’ he shouted. ‘Not even a place!’ he spat over at Barry Broadbent.

‘Oh, but that was fast!’ said Barry, shaking his head slowly. ‘That was a great horse having a brilliant race.’

‘Forget Warhorse!’ shouted Oswald. ‘What about Fierce Temper? I told you! I told you you’d cock it up with your bloody tactics!’

Philip Watchorn walked over and put an arm around his friend’s shoulders. ‘Come on, Oswald, fifth place in a classic isn’t too bad. It’s more than we’d have dreamt of twelve months ago.’ Watchorn turned to the trainer for support. ‘He’s still young, eh Barry? Still has lots to learn, I should think?’

‘I know I’m pleased,’ said Broadbent.

‘Well, you would be!’ snarled Oswald, rounding on him. ‘We’re not paying you thousands in trainer’s fees to make worse decisions than I can!’ shouted Oswald, taking a long swig of Moët.

Barry Broadbent turned and walked out of the marquee, but Oswald stomped after him.

‘You promised us results, Broadbent, but then again,’ he laughed cruelly, ‘I was warned that you were past your prime.’

Barry Broadbent stopped and turned to Oswald, his face taut. ‘You know as well as I do that our horse is getting better and better all the time,’ he said, struggling to be as professional as possible. ‘Twelve months ago he wouldn’t even have been entered in a Group Three race. And now he’s coming in barely a length behind Warhorse! I tell you, we will have a Group One winner by the end of the season.’

‘I have every faith in my horse,’ said Oswald, his voice still raised, so that people were turning around to watch. ‘But I’m not so sure I have such faith in you. You’re not dealing with an idiot here, so don’t treat me like one. What was all that whipping? Was he trying to kill the horse?’

‘You need to trust me about my jockeys,’ said Barry, going a little pink in the cheeks. ‘Temper is a lively, intelligent horse and not an easy one to handle.’

‘Don’t give me excuses,’ hissed Oswald, ‘I am the owner. You’re only the trainer, remember that!’ he added through clenched teeth, pointing a stubby finger at Barry.

Broadbent just shook his head and walked over to where Finbar was still sitting on Fierce Temper, his chin down towards his chest. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said in a small voice. ‘It just wasn’t our day today.’

‘Too sodding right it wasn’t!’ said Oswald. ‘You shouldn’t have pushed him so early. Anyone could see he couldn’t sustain that level of speed for the whole mile. No wonder all the others caught up with him!’

‘With all due respect, sir,’ answered Finbar back, his head rising, ‘this horse has speed and stamina. It just wasn’t his day today.’

‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ he laughed out loud, taking a step towards Barry Broadbent threateningly. Slightly startled, Barry lurched back and lost his footing on the turf. He stumbled backwards, and Martin, Fierce Temper’s groom, ran forward, just catching Barry before he fell headlong.

The old man drew a hand across his forehead and stared grimly at Oswald. ‘You may pay our yard training fees, but that doesn’t give you the right to behave like a spoilt child,’ he said, lifting his cane in the air to point at Oswald.

Undeterred, Oswald swiped a hand at the wavering cane, knocking it from Barry’s hand.

Suddenly Fierce Temper gave a loud snort and reared up on his hind legs, his hooves coming down just inches from Oswald’s head.

‘Damn you, man! Can’t you control him?’ he yelled at Finbar, who was struggling to stay in the saddle as the horse kicked out backwards, whinnying and rolling his eyes.

At that moment, Jennifer and Philip Watchorn arrived, along with Venetia trotting along beside them in her high heels. ‘Come on now, stop all this,’ said Philip Watchorn, seeming to address the horse as much as the two men.

Venetia went over to Fierce Temper and, with soft words and gentle hands, began to calm him down again. ‘You did wonderfully boy, didn’t you?’ she cooed, lovingly stroking his nose. ‘There are greater things to come for you, I’m sure.’ She looked up at Finbar and smiled at the jockey, who was just grateful to be in one piece.

‘Well, we’re not in the winner’s enclosure just yet,’ smiled Philip Watchorn, timidly putting out a hand to pat the gleaming rump of his horse, ‘but we soon will be, won’t we lad, eh Barry?’ He helped the old man to his feet and handed him his cane.

‘Now come on, everyone, let’s get this young man unsaddled. Then let’s all go for a glass of champagne. I think we deserve it.’

‘I still bloody can’t believe it,’ said Oswald once again as he settled back into the passenger seat of Philip Watchorn’s helicopter. They were preparing to go back to the heliport in Battersea. ‘I knew he’d get a race ban, that bloody jockey,’ he grumbled to himself.

‘Will you just stop it?’ laughed Jennifer Watchorn, patting him on the knee good-naturedly as she buckled his safety belt. ‘I think Fierce Temper is doing incredibly well, considering the majority of the horses belong to rich Arabs and come from the super-yards.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Philip, ‘you know we weren’t getting into this particularly seriously. We’ve got one horse, not three hundred. We were supposed to be doing this for friendship, for the hobby, a bit of hospitality. Remember?’

The helicopter blades chopped into life and whirled into the air, leaving Newmarket behind; a tiny black dot in the sky as it made its journey south towards London. Oswald’s mood began to calm as they passed over the green belts of Cambridgeshire and Bedfordshire towards the metropolis. Oswald was staying that night at his Cadogan Garden house rather than making the two-hour journey down to Huntsford. Epsom really is so much more convenient, he thought, shaking his head as he put his key into the royal-blue front door.

He walked in and flung his jacket over a Chippendale chair and stalked into the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief that Gretchen, the forgetful Ukrainian housekeeper, had remembered he was coming and had filled the fridge accordingly. He helped himself to some big chunks of granary bread and a thick slab of venison pâté and went to sit down in the drawing room with a bottle of claret.

The house, which was only used four or five evenings a month, felt cold and unlived-in. A little bit chilly, he thought, stoking up the fire. He put on his sheepskin-lined slippers and reclined back on the mustard damask sofa to read that day’s Racing Post. That horse had better start earning some money, he thought, shaking his head slowly. Watchorn might not be in this seriously, Oswald mused, but he certainly was. OK, so he wasn’t the Aga bloody Khan with six hundred horses, but if the one he did have was a winner, he would be up there with the best.

Even though the yard fees and training costs were split three ways, Oswald was still feeling the enormous financial burden of ‘just’ one world-class racehorse. It was about time they started winning some decent purses. He knew that Barry Broadbent did not like to field a runner without it having some hope of success. But sod that, he thought angrily, he would tell him to put Fierce Temper in for as many races as possible this season. After all, if you don’t shoot, you don’t score. So the bloody creature might be knackered by the end of the season, but a good run could make BWC Holdings upwards of half a million pounds.

Oswald was just beginning to doze off, having downed the bottle of wine and polished off at least half a pound of the pâté. He was disturbed from his light slumber by the irritating ring of his mobile phone. He picked it up and heard a soft, almost muffled voice. Was that an Irish accent, he wondered, as the caller said his name.

‘Yes? Yes?’ replied Oswald, ‘who is this?’

There was a long silence, disturbed only by some buzzing interference on the line.

‘Is there anyone there?’ snapped Oswald, irritated now, rubbing one eye groggily.

‘Oswald Balcon had better learn some manners,’ said the voice softly but menacingly, ‘Or else –’

‘Or else what?’ asked Oswald shortly, his voice raised to get over the crackling line.

‘Or else,’ said the voice quietly, ‘we’re going to kill you.’