‘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.
Tipper was flying after the Irish Oaks. He persuaded Sam to stay up for the night and they got properly lashed up. But his joy was cruelly cut short the next morning as he made his befuddled way into the yard.
‘That filly’s knackered,’ Dermot Quigley sneered as Tipper approached her stable. ‘Near fore tendon. She won’t race again. Think you gave her enough to do yesterday?’
Tipper wanted to smack his head off, but he just ignored the chippy little bastard and pushed past him into Red’s stable. Her front legs were bandaged up so there was nothing to see. But Tipper realized she was in pain when she turned towards him. Tipper felt sick. He knew there and then that Quigley was right and her career was over. He felt gutted. His stomach tightened up like it had when Mr Power had told him about his Ma. Like something was being ripped out of him. As soon as he was on his own he rang Sam.
‘Jesus Sam, you won’t believe it. The filly’s got a leg. Done her tendon. It’s my fault. I was too hard on her yesterday,’ Tipper whispered into the phone.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. A race is a race. You have to ask for everything. Okay it’s a fucker. But you won an Oaks on her and no-one can ever take that away from you. Shit happens Tipper, but that filly has made you.’
Thaddeus Doyle barely congratulated Tipper after the race. The only remark he passed was something like ‘you got out of jail there’. The injury was no fault of his and Doyle knew that. But Quigley took the opportunity to poison Tipper’s pill. He really hated Tipper. It had begun when Red dumped Quigley on the ground. Now Quigley made it his mission to make sure that, champion apprentice or not, there would be no more Group race appearances for this boy, who dared to succeed where he had failed. Tipper would in future be legged-up on nothing but also-rans.
‘Let me give you the lowdown on that little shite,’ Quigley told Doyle. ‘You can’t trust him. None of the lads like him. He grew up in a Dublin slum and, from what I hear, he got himself a criminal record as long as the River Shannon. It wouldn’t surprise me now if he’s off with the bookies all the time getting backhanders. Come to think of it, I’ve a notion that late jump-off in the Oaks was him trying to throw the race, only the horse was too good on the day to be stopped. And there’s another thing.’ Quigley held up his finger to emphasize a clinching argument. ‘The little runt can’t hold his drink.’
None of these facts were true, except the last. But Doyle didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Quigley—or, more to the point, of his daughter Mrs Quigley—so he silently restricted Tipper to rides at third-rate meetings till the end of the season. Irish racing has its glittering prizes, but a lot of it is small-time. Tipper still got some winners—and he still emerged top apprentice on his tally of overall victories in the season. But, without the glamour of Red to console him, kicking a series of low-rated scrubbers round Listowel or Kilbeggan started to get him down.
Red’s injury had not been life threatening and after a couple of weeks Tipper had learnt that she was to be shipped to England to get ready for a career at stud. When it came to getting her up the loading ramp onto the lorry, Red was having none of it. Tipper had wanted to make himself scarce. Having not had the chance to say good-bye to the only other person in the world he’d ever loved, he now didn’t want to say good-bye to Red. Well, not in front of a load of impatient lads. But without his re-assurance she was going nowhere. So he had to lend a hand.
‘Come on littlun,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Don’t be messing me about. You’ll be grand where you’re going.’ He was lying. He feared for her wherever she went. Because he was the only person she trusted. And now he had to mislead her. There was nothing else he could do.
It should have helped that, by the standards of the Dublin estate where he’d grown up, he had a few euros in his pocket. After the Oaks he’d moved out of the stable lads’ hostel and bought himself a complete