Bonecrack

He gazed at me blankly, forgetting to drink.

'This is fine,' I said, 'As long as the horses do win as expected. And year after year, they do. You've been pursuing this policy in moderation for a very long time, and it's made you steadily richer. But now, this year, you've over-extended. You've bought too many. As all the part owners only pay part training fees, the receipts are not now covering the expenses. Not by quite a long way. As a result the cash balance at the bank is draining away like bathwater, and there are still three weeks to go before the first race, let alone the resale of the successful animals for stud. This dicey situation is complicated by your broken leg, your assistant being still in a coma from which he is unlikely to recover, and your stable apparently stagnating in the hands of a son who doesn't know how to train the horses; and all that is why you are scared silly of running Pease Pudding in the Lincoln.'

I stopped for reactions. There weren't any. Just shock.

'You can on the whole stop worrying,' I said, and knew that things would never again be quite as they had been between us. Thirty-four, I thought ruefully; I had to be thirty-four before I entered this particular arena on equal terms. 'I could sell your half share before the race.'

Wheels slowly began to turn again behind his eyes. He blinked. Stared at his sloping champagne and straightened the glass. Tightened the mouth into an echo of the old autocracy.

'How- how do you know all this?' There was more resentment in his voice than anxiety.

'I looked at the account books.'

'No- I mean, who told you?'

'No one needed to tell me. My job for the last six years has involved reading account books and doing sums.'

He recovered enough to take some judicious sips.

'At least you do understand why it is imperative we get an experienced trainer to take over until I can get about again.'

'There's no need for one,' I said incautiously. 'I've been there for three weeks now-'

'And do you suppose that you can learn how to train racehorses in three weeks?' he asked with reviving contempt.

'Since you ask,' I said, 'Yes.' And before he turned purple, tacked on, 'I was born to it, if you remember- I grew up there. I find, much to my own surprise, that it is second nature.'

He saw this statement more as a threat than as a reassurance. 'You're not staying on after I get back.'

'No,' I smiled. 'Nothing like that.'

He grunted. Hesitated. Gave in. He didn't say in so many words that I could carry on, but just ignored the whole subject from that point.

'I don't want to sell my half of Pease Pudding.'

'Draw up a list of those you don't mind selling, then,' I said. 'About ten of them, for a start.'

'And just who do you think is going to buy them? New owners don't grow on trees, you know. And half shares are harder to sell- owners like to see their names in the race cards and in the press.'

'I know a lot of business men,' I said, 'who would be glad to have a racehorse but who actively shun the publicity. You pick out ten horses, and I'll sell your half shares.'

He didn't say he would, but he did, then and there. I ran my eye down the finished list and saw only one to disagree with.

'Don't sell Lancat,' I said.

He bristled. 'I know what I'm doing.'

'He's going to be good as a three-year-old,' I said. 'I see from the form book that he was no great shakes at two, and if you sell now you'll not get back what you paid. He's looking very well, and I think he'll win quite a lot.'

'Rubbish. You don't know what you're talking about.'

'All right- how much would you accept for your half?'

He pursed his lips, thinking about it. 'Four thousand. You should be able to get four, with his breeding. He cost twelve, altogether, as a yearling.'

'You'd better suggest prices for all of them,' I said. 'If you wouldn't mind.'

He didn't mind. I folded the list, put it in my pocket, picked up the entry forms he had written on, and prepared to go. He held out to me the champagne glass, empty.

'Have some of this- I can't manage it all.'

I took the glass, refilled it, and drank a mouthful. The bubbles popped round my teeth. He watched. His expression was as severe as ever, but he nodded, sharply, twice. Not as symbolic a gesture as a pipe of peace, but just as much of an acknowledgment, in its way.

On Monday morning, tapping away, Margaret said, 'Susie's friend's mum says she has just happened to see Alessandro's passport.'

'Which just happened,' I said dryly, 'to be well hidden away in Alessandro's bedroom.'

'Let us not stare at gift horses.'

'Let us not,' I agreed.

'Susie's friend's mum says that the address on the passport was not in Italy, but in Switzerland. A place called Bastagnola. Is that any use?'

'I hope Susie's friend's mum won't lose her job.'

'I doubt it,' Margaret said. 'She hops into bed with the manager, when his wife goes shopping in Cambridge.'

'How do you know?'

Her eyes laughed. 'Susie's friend told me.'

I telephoned to an importer of cameras who owed me a favour and asked him if he had any contacts in the town of Bastagnola.

'Not myself. But I could establish one, if it's important.'

'I want any information anyone can dig up about a man called Enso Rivera. As much information as possible.'

He wrote it down and spelled it back. 'See what I can do,' he said.

He rang two days later and sounded subdued.

'I'll be sending you an astronomical bill for European phone calls.'

That's all right.'

'An awful lot of people didn't want to talk about your man. I met an exceptional amount of resistance.'

'Is he Mafia, then?' I asked.

'No. Not Mafia. In fact, he and the Mafia are not on speaking terms. On stabbing terms, maybe, but not speaking. There seems to be some sort of truce between them.' He paused.

'Go on,' I said.

'Well- As far as I can gather- and I wouldn't swear to it- he is a sort of receiver of stolen property. Most of it in the form of currency, but some gold and silver and precious stones from melted down jewellery. I heard- and it was at third hand from a high-up policeman, so you can believe it or not as you like- that Rivera accepts the stuff, sells or exchanges it, takes a large commission, and banks the rest in Swiss accounts which he opens up for his clients. They can collect their money any time they like- and it is believed that he has an almost world-wide connection. But all this goes on behind a supposedly legitimate business as a dealer in watches. They've never managed to bring him to court. They can never get witnesses to testify.'

'You've done marvels,' I said.

'There's a bit more.' He cleared his throat. 'He has a son, apparently, that no one cares to cross. Rivera has been known to ruin people who don't immediately do what the son wants. He only has this one child. He is reputed to have deserted his wife- well, a lot of Italian men do that-'

'He is Italian, then?'

'By birth, yes. He's lived in Switzerland for about fifteen years, though. Look, I don't know if you're intending to do business with him, but I got an unmistakable warning from several people to steer clear of him. They say he's dangerous. They say if you fall foul of him you wake up dead. Either that, or- well, I know you'll laugh- but there's a sort of superstition that if he looks your way you'll break a bone.'

I didn't laugh. Not a chuckle.

Almost as soon as I put the receiver down the telephone rang again.

Dainsee.

'I've got your X-ray pictures in front of me,' he said. 'But they're inconclusive, I'm afraid. It just looks a pretty ordinary fracture. There's a certain amount of longitudinal splitting, but then there often is with cannon bones.'

'What would be the simplest way to break a bone on purpose?' I asked.

Twist it,' he said promptly. 'Put it under stress. A bone under stress would snap quite easily if you gave it a bang. Ask any footballer or any skater. Stress, that's what does it.'

'You can't see stress on the X-rays-'