Citizen. Charlie Brooks

Tipper had no more than three seconds to play with. Red was all but biting the quarters of the front two when, suddenly, the gap between one of them and the rail widened a fraction. Red seemed to lengthen her neck as well as her stride as she dived through it. All three horses crossed the line together. Tipper didn’t know if he’d got up. A length after the line Red was clearly in front, but actually on the line? It would be decided on the nod of a head.

      ‘I think we got there!’ Robinson shrieked, jumping up and down in frantic ecstasy.

      ‘Did we fuck,’ Doyle growled. ‘How in Christ’s name he lost that I’ll never know.’

      ‘No, no,’ insisted the owner, ‘I think O’Reilly might have got her up.’

      But Doyle was cursing through gritted teeth.

      ‘The bollocks! The little shite! I’ll cut the tripes out of him when I see him.’

      Tipper pulled Red up. They were both exhausted. His breath was heaving, and Red’s nostrils were working like bellows to suck in the air. She had pushed herself a long way through the pain barrier in the last furlong, and she was still hurting.

      The race result was imminent and Tipper knew he was either a hero or a villain. No one would be interested in excuses. As far as the grandstand jockeys would be concerned he’d either ridden a tactical race of genius, or he’d blown it. And not many promising young careers would come back after blowing an Irish Oaks. But his fate was now in the hands—or the eye—of the judge, who was studying a freeze-frame of the finish. Coming down from his adrenaline rush, Tipper could not even recall the number they were carrying. As Doyle’s lad dodged out of the crowd and took Red’s head, Tipper looked back at the cloth under his saddle. Number six.

      ‘Please, God, let him call out six,’ Tipper prayed.

      Unlike the early days of photo-finishes there was no need now to develop a print. Video technology makes it possible to decide close results almost instantaneously, except in the very hardest cases. And this was one of those, because as Tipper walked Red off the track and entered the walkway that led to the winner’s enclosure, there had still been no announcement.

      The delay was long enough for a betting market to develop on the result. From somewhere in the tightly packed crowd he heard a bookie shouting odds, but missed which of the three finishers he was taking money on. Meanwhile the lad was chattering away at him, convinced they’d won. Tipper was too exhausted to answer. Looking ahead he saw a TV reporter with a microphone trying to interview the rider of one of the others in the finish. He saw the jockey’s head shake: did that mean he’d lost, or he didn’t know?

      Tipper saw Sam leaning against the rail as he was led towards the unsaddling enclosure. Tipper looked at Sam’s expression to get some re-assurance. But there was none there. Sam’s face was blank. He shrugged both shoulders and held both hands out flat in front of him.

      As they reached the winner’s enclosure, with its berths reserved for the first, second and third horses, there had still been no announcement. The place was surrounded by an unnatural hush. Usually there would have been a roar from the crowd, but everyone seemed to be collectively holding their breath. In the enclosure none of the three jockeys knew where to go and, unwilling to tempt fate, they hung back. They slipped from their saddles and began attending to the girth straps. Tipper had just lifted the saddled from Red’s back when the PA system briefly crackled. He froze.

      ‘The result of the photograph,’ the announcer said, before pausing dramatically.

      Tipper looked round. There was Kerly, the Head Lad, and Doyle. Both looked grim. But Red’s owner, with a daft artificial smile on his face, was giving Tipper the thumbs-up. He waited. The PA crackled again.

      ‘First, number six…’

      The order in which the others had finished was drowned in the gigantic roar of the crowd. They didn’t care who was second, and nor did Tipper.

       10

      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.’