I sat thinking of Ellis and the wasteland he had made of my year. I thought of Rachel Ferns and Silverboy, and lymphoblasts. I thought of the press, and especially The Pump and India Cathcart and the orchestrated months of vilification. I thought of Ellis’s relentless jokes.
I thought for a long time about Archie Kirk, who had drawn me to Combe Bassett and given me Norman Picton. I wondered if it had been from Archie that Norman had developed a belief in a heavy presence behind the scenes. I wondered if it could possibly be Archie who had prompted Davis Tatum to engage me to find that heavyweight. I wondered if it could possibly have been Archie who told Davis Tatum about my run-in with the bad hat at the Jockey Club, and if so, how did he know?
I trusted Archie. He could pull my strings, I thought, as long as I was willing to go where he pointed, and as long as I was sure no one was pulling his.
I thought about Gordon Quint’s uncontrollable rage and the practical difficulties his fencing post had inflicted. I thought of Ginnie Quint and despair and sixteen floors down.
I thought of the colts and their chopped-off feet.
When I went to bed I dreamed the same old nightmare.
Agony. Humiliation. Both hands.
I awoke sweating.
Damn it all to hell.
Chapter 9
In the morning, when I’d failed yet again to get an answer from Kevin Mills, I shunted by subway across central London and emerged not far from Companies House at 55 City Road, E.C.
Companies House, often my friend, contained the records of all public and private limited companies active in England, including the audited annual balance sheets, investment capital, fixed assets and the names of major shareholders and the directors of the boards.
Topline Foods, I soon learned, was an old company recently taken over by a few new big investors and a bustling new management. The chief shareholder and managing director was listed as Owen Cliff Yorkshire. There were fifteen non-executive directors, of whom one was Lord Tilepit.
The premises at which business was carried out were located at Frodsham, Cheshire. The registered office was at the same address.
The product of the company was foodstuffs for animals.
After Topline I looked up Village Pump Newspapers (they’d dropped the ‘Village’ in about 1900, but retained the idea of a central meeting place for gossip) and found interesting items, and after Village Pump Newspapers I looked up the TV company that aired Ellis’s sports program, but found no sign of Tilepit or Owen Yorkshire in its operations.
I traveled home (safely) and phoned Archie, who was, his wife reported, at work.
‘Can I reach him at work?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no, Sid. He wouldn’t like it. I’ll give him a message when he gets back.’
Please try later.
I tried Kevin Mills later and this time nearly got my eardrums perforated. ‘At last!’
‘I’ve tried you a dozen times,’ I said.
‘I’ve been in an old people’s home.’
‘Well, bully for you.’
‘A nurse hastened three harpies into the hereafter.’
‘Poor old sods.’
‘If you’re in Pont Square,’ he said, ‘can I call round and see you? I’m in my car not far away.’
‘I thought I was The Pump’s number one all-time shit.’
‘Yeah. Can I come?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Great.’ He clicked off before I could change my mind and he was at my door in less than ten minutes.
‘This is nice,’ he said appreciatively, looking around my sitting room. ‘Not what I expected.’
There was a Sheraton writing desk and buttoned brocade chairs and a couple of modem exotic wood inlaid tables by Mark Boddington. The overall colors were grayish-blue, soft and restful. The only brash intruder was an ancient slot machine that worked on tokens.
Kevin Mills made straight towards it, as most visitors did. I always left a few tokens haphazardly on the floor, with a bowl of them nearby on a table. Kevin picked a token from the carpet, fed it into the slot and pulled the handle. The wheels clattered and clunked. He got two cherries and a lemon. He picked up another token and tried again.
‘What wins the jackpot?’ he asked, achieving an orange, a demon and a banana.
‘Three horses with jockeys jumping fences.’
He looked at me sharply.
‘It used to be the bells,’ I said. ‘That was boring, so I changed it.’
‘And do the three horses ever come up?’
I nodded. ‘You get a fountain of tokens all over the floor.’
The machine was addictive. It was my equivalent of the psychiatrist’s couch. Kevin played throughout our conversation but the nearest he came was two horses and a pear.
‘The trial has started, Sid,’ he said, ‘so give us the scoop.’
‘The trial’s only technically started. I can’t tell you a thing. When the adjournment’s over, you can go to court and listen.’
‘That’s not exclusive,’ he complained.
‘You know damned well I can’t tell you.’
‘I gave you the story to begin with.’
‘I sought you out,’ I said. ‘Why did The Pump stop helping the colt owners and shaft me instead?’
He concentrated hard on the machine. Two bananas and a blackberry.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Policy.’
‘Whose policy?’
‘The public wants demolition, they gobble up spite.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Look, Sid, we get the word from on high. And don’t ask who on high, I don’t know. I don’t like it. None of us likes it. But we have the choice: go along with overall policy or go somewhere else where we feel more in tune. And do you know where that gets you? I work for The Pump because it’s a good paper with, on the whole, fair comment. OK, so reputations topple. Like I said, that’s what Mrs Public wants. Now and then we get a request, such as “lean hard on Sid Halley.” I did it without qualms, as you’d clammed up on me.’
He looked all the time at the machine, playing fast.
‘And India Cathcart?’ I asked.
He pulled the lever and waited until two lemons and a jumping horse came to rest in a row.
‘India…’ he said slowly. ‘For some reason she didn’t want to trash you. She said she’d enjoyed her dinner with you and you were quiet and kind. Kind! I ask you! Her editor had to squeeze the poison out of her drop by drop for that first long piece. In the end he wrote most of her page himself. She was furious the next day when she read it, but it was out on the streets by then and she couldn’t do anything about it.’
I was more pleased than I would have expected, but I wasn’t going to let Kevin see it. I said, ‘What about the continued stab wounds almost every week?’
‘I guess she goes along with the policy. Like I said, she has to eat.’
‘Is it George Godbar’s policy?’
‘The big white chief himself? Yes, you could say the editor of the paper has the final say.’
‘And Lord Tilepit?’
He gave me an amused glance. Two pears and a lemon. ‘He’s not a hands-on proprietor of the old school. Not a Beaverbrook or a Harmsworth. We hardly know he’s alive.’
‘Does he give the overall policy to George Godbar?’
‘Probably.’ A horse, a demon and some cherries. ‘Why do I get the idea that you are interviewing me, instead of the other way round?’