Citizen. Charlie Brooks

on your mind, my man?’ Sam coaxed.

      ‘Jesus, I’m not sure Sam. I’m just not sure. But I think Sinclair’s wife fancies me.’

      Sam burst into laughter.

      Tipper took no notice and told about his conversations with Sinclair and Mrs Sinclair coming down off the gallops. A sly lecherous smile crept across Sam’s face as he listened.

      ‘Now Tipper, are you sure you’ve got this straight. She gave you the come-on, and the husband said go?’

      ‘I swear, Sam. I just thought Mrs Sinclair was being a bit over-friendly. I’ve never had a bad word out of her over anything else.’

      Sam was still chuckling.

      ‘This is deadly! I’ve seen that woman and I wouldn’t mind a spin on her myself. She’d win a little race somewhere.’

      ‘She’s not my type,’ whispered Tipper desperately.

      ‘Maybe not. But what must be done, must be done.’

      ‘Jesus, Sam, me and her? Are you off your fockin’ head or what?’

      ‘No. Think about it. All you’ve bloody done for the last few weeks is fockin’ whinge about not getting any rides. Well now we know why, don’t we? You told me before she wore the trousers. So now you’ve got to pull them down, son.’

      ‘Ah no.’

      Sam thought he’d said something very funny. His shoulders were shaking as he took a fresh mouthful of Guinness. Tipper stared forlornly into his scotch.

      ‘Look I’m not joking,’ Sam went on when he’d swallowed. ‘It’s got to be done. And anyway, you’re not exactly doing a lot of riding elsewhere. Now there’s something else I need you to do for me.’

      ‘Sure Sam, ask away.’ Tipper was only too happy to change the subject.

      ‘Well, boy. You know this Covey Club, where the lads get together for a bit of a craic. Well I think you should join it. I know you’ve got your doubts but quite a few of the top work riders are in it. You never know. They could put a good word in with their guvnors; maybe get you a few spare rides.’

      Tipper had already given the club some thought. He shook his head.

      ‘No way, Sam. Don’t you remember what Delaney told us?’

      ‘Jesus Tipper. These guys are work riders. Not gamblers. It’s fine. Look you need to meet a few more people to get on.’

      ‘So where do you think the information goes then?’

      Sam paused. This wasn’t going to plan. He hadn’t thought that Tipper would be bothered at all. Then he thought of Shelley pulling her T-shirt off and unbuttoning his shirt.

      ‘Look Tipper,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve fockin well given up a lot for you, I left a good job at home. I’m sitting on some stud farm in Newmarket to help you out. At least I might get to back the odd winner if you just join the Covey Club. All of the top work riders are in it for focks sake. No-one’s giving them any grief.’

      Tipper was quite taken aback by the urgency and abruptness of Sam’s annoyance. He’d never seen his cousin so wound up, and he was also stung by Sam’s talk of compromising his life for Tipper. Sam had been there for him when his mother died. Tipper had never forgotten that. And Sam was the only real friend he had in the world. He couldn’t deny his cousin. He didn’t want to upset his mate.

      ‘Jesus Sam. Consider it done. You’re right,’ Tipper said quickly, embarrassed that he’d caused his cousin so much annoyance. Maybe Sam was right. It was no big deal. And he might make some good contacts.

       15

      In the normal course of events, Shalakov would have completely forgotten the existence of the pretty little hooker he’d bundled so hastily out of his penthouse. But, as it turned out, he had cause to remember her a few months later.

      Shalakov had described his racehorse operation to Ana as disappointing. In fact, things had been going well enough in Moscow, where the rebuilt Hippodrome was complete and fully operational. And other facilities on the Russian side were on target. The problems lay in England, so Shalakov called a meeting to sort things out.

      Sinclair and Shaunsheys were both summoned to the Shalakov penthouse, as well as Nico who, with his perfect command of English, had been drafted in to conduct the meeting. The General sat in on it, though, silently smoking, drinking coffee and listening. A disconcerting presence for the two Englishmen, who could never determine how much of the dialogue he was actually able to follow.

      Taking his cue from notes he’d made during a prior briefing with Shalakov, Nico spoke first to Sinclair.

      ‘Mr Sinclair. General Shalakov has asked you here because he is wondering why he should not dispense with your services.’

      Sinclair took this like a sharp blow to the solar plexus. He had to force his face not to crumple.

      ‘Well, I haven’t had much of a chance,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I can explain—’

      Nico flipped the palm of his hand towards Sinclair to shut him up.

      ‘The General has had a total of nine horses with you this season,’ he went on, his voice turning pleasurably steely, his glasses glinting. ‘One of them, Salammbo, won a Group One before she broke down and had to be destroyed. Two others, Inquirer and Mr Thatcher, were placed in no less than five Group races between them, but they didn’t win any. Of the others, none were Group class, although two, Colorado Lode and Jedediah, were supplemented for classic races after you reported they showed exceptional speed on your gallops.’

      Nico had a few silent misgivings of his own about grilling Sinclair, since he’d personally done pretty well out of the information that he’d received from him over the past year. But this was what Shalakov had specifically told him to convey to the trainer. And now he was rather enjoying himself.

      ‘Now, naturally, the General is very disappointed with these results. You assured him that his English racing operation would be self-financing through prize money, sales of successful horses and eventually stud fees. This would not seem to be where things are heading at the moment. So can you please explain why General Shalakov should not move to another, more successful trainer?’

      Sinclair cleared his throat. Failure in racing is not necessarily open to rational explanation, but owners rarely accept this. So trainers become expert in manufacturing plausible excuses. The horse scoped dirty after the race; the mare was coming into season; there was a filly in season in the race that put our fellow off; the colt ran into traffic on the final bend and was barged out of it; the overnight rain; the lack of overnight rain; the bloody handicapper; the jockey disobeying my orders.

      But something told him that, in this case, off-the-peg mitigations like this would hardly wash. He smiled at Nico and turned directly to Shalakov. He had decided on a bold strategy—with him, an almost unheard of one. He would risk telling the honest truth.

      ‘General, the fact is we’ve had a desperately unlucky season. Salammbo was a very good horse indeed; her accident could not have been foreseen. If she’d lived I have every reason to believe she would have been one of the race-mares of the decade. Inquirer and Mr Thatcher each had a good season. Not winning a single Group One race between them was pure bad luck. As you know in some cases they were touched off by only a few inches. If the dice had fallen even very slightly in our favour these three horses would have fulfilled all your requirements. We would have had real success at the top level, with no less than a quarter of the string. Anyone will tell you that would have been sensational. So I ask you to continue to be patient. On the other hand, General, if you want to ensure success I would urge you to do more.’

      He took a deep gulp of coffee and an even deeper breath. What