'Well, I hope so.' I waited while he sold a newspaper to an elderly man with enormous race glasses. Then I said, 'Do you remember the taxi-drivers fighting at Plumpton?'
'Couldn't hardly forget it, could I?' He beamed.
'You told me one lot came from London and one from Brighton.'
'Yes, that's right.'
'Which lot were which?' I said. He looked mystified.
I said, 'Which lot came from London and which came from Brighton?'
'Oh, I see.' He sold a paper to two middle-aged ladies wearing thick tweeds and ribbed woollen stockings, and gave them change. Then he turned back to me.
'Which lot was which, like? Hm- I see 'em often enough, you know, but they ain't a friendly lot. They don't talk to you. Not like the private chauffeurs, see? I'd know the Brighton lot if I could see 'em, though. Know 'em by sight, see?' He broke off to yell 'Midday Special' at the top of his lungs, and as a result sold three more papers. I waited patiently.
'How do you recognize them?' I asked.
'By their faces, o'course.' He thought it a foolish question.
'Yes, but which faces? Can you describe them?'
'Oh, I see. There's all sorts.'
'Can't you describe just one of them?' I asked.
He narrowed his eyes, thinking, and tugged his moustache. 'One of 'em. Well, there's one nasty-looking chap with sort of slitty eyes. I wouldn't like a ride in his taxi. You'd know him by his hair, I reckon. It grows nearly down to his eyebrows. Rum-looking cove. What do you want him for?'
'I don't want him,' I said. 'I just want to know where he comes from.'
' Brighton, that's it.' He beamed at me. 'There's another one I see sometimes, too. A young ted with sideboards, always cleaning his nails with a knife.'
'Thanks a lot,' I said. I gave him a pound note and his beam grew wider. He tucked it into an inside pocket.
'Best of luck, sir,' he said. I left him, with 'Midday Special' ringing in my ears, and went in to the weighing room, pondering on the information that my captors with the horse-box came from Brighton. Whoever had sent them could not have imagined that I had seen them before, and could find them again.
Preoccupied, I suddenly realized that Pete Gregory was talking to me. '- Had a puncture on the way, but they've got here safely, that's the main thing. Are you listening, Alan?'
'Yes, Pete. Sorry. I was thinking.'
'Glad to hear you can,' said Pete with a fat laugh. Tough and shrewd though he was, his sense of humour had never grown up. Schoolboy insults passed as the highest form of wit for him; but one got used to it.
'How is Palindrome?' I asked. My best horse.
'He's fine. I was just telling you, they had a puncture-' He broke off, exasperated. He hated having to repeat things. 'Oh well- do you want to go over to the stables and have a look at him?'
'Yes, please,' I said.
We walked down to the stables. Pete had to come with me because of the tight security rules. Even owners could not visit their horses without the trainer to vouch for them, and stable boys had passes with their photographs on, to show at the stable gate. It was all designed to prevent the doping or 'nobbling' of horses.
In his box I patted my beautiful 'chaser, an eight-year-old bay with black points, and gave him a lump of sugar. Pete clicked his tongue disapprovingly and said, 'Not before the race,' like a nanny who had caught her charge being given sweets before lunch. I grinned. Pete had a phobia on the subject.
'Sugar will give him more energy,' I said, giving Palindrome another lump and making a fuss of him. 'He looks well.'
'He ought to win if you judge it right,' said Pete. 'Keep your eyes on that Irishman, Barney. He'll try to slip you all with a sudden burst as you go into the water so that he can start up the hill six lengths in front. I've seen him do it time and again. He gets everyone else chasing him like mad up the hill using up all the reserves they need for the finish. Now, either you burst with him, and go up the hill at his pace and no faster, or, if you lose him, take it easy up the hill and pile on the pressure when you're coming down again. Clear?'
'As glass,' I said. Whatever one might think of Pete's jokes, his advice on how to ride races was invaluable, and I owed a great deal to it.
I gave Palindrome a final pat, and we went out into the yard. Owing to the security system, it was the quietest place on the racecourse.
'Pete, was Bill in any trouble, do you know?' I said, plunging in abruptly.
He finished shutting the door of Palindrome's box, and turned round slowly, and stood looking at me vaguely for so long that I began to wonder if he had heard my question.
But at last he said, 'That's a big word, trouble. Something happened-'
'What?' I said, as he lapsed into silence again.
But instead of answering, he said, 'Why should you think there was any- trouble?'
I told him about the wire. He listened with a calm, unsurprised expression, but his grey eyes were bleak.
He said, 'Why haven't we all heard about it before?'
'I told Sir Creswell Stampe and the police a week ago,' I said, 'but with the wire gone they've nothing tangible to go on, and they're dropping it.'
'But you're not?' said Pete. 'Can't say I blame you. I can't help you much, though. There's only one thing- Bill told me he'd had a telephone call which made him laugh. But I didn't listen properly to what he said – I was thinking about my horses, you know how it is. It was something about Admiral falling. He thought it was a huge joke and I didn't go into it with him to find out what I'd missed. I didn't think it was important. When Bill was killed I did wonder if there could possibly be anything odd about it, but I asked you, and you said you hadn't noticed anything-' His voice trailed off.
'Yes, I'm sorry,' I said. Then I asked, 'How long before his accident did Bill tell you about the telephone call?'
'The last time I spoke to him,' Pete said. 'It was on the Friday morning just before I flew to Ireland. I rang him to say that all was ready for Admiral's race at Maidenhead the next day.'
We began to walk back to the weighing room. On an impulse I said, 'Pete, do you ever use the Brighton taxis?' He lived and trained on the Sussex Downs.
'Not often,' he said. 'Why?'
'There are one or two taxi-drivers there I'd like to have a few words with,' I said, not adding that I'd prefer to have the words with them one at a time in a deserted back alley.
'There are several taxi lines in Brighton, as far as I know,' he said. 'If you want to find one particular driver, why don't you try the railway station? That's where I've usually taken a taxi from. They line up there in droves for the London trains.' His attention drifted off as an Irish horse passed us on its way into the paddock for the first race.
'That's Connemara Pal or I'm a Dutchman,' said Pete enviously. 'I took one of my owners over and tried to buy him, last August, but they wanted eight thousand for him. He was tucked away in a broken-down hut behind some pigsties, so my owner wouldn't pay that price. And now look at him. He won the Leopardstown novice 'chase on Boxing Day by twenty lengths and would have blown a candle out afterwards. Best young horse we'll see this year.' Pete's mind was firmly back in its familiar groove, and we talked about the Irish raid until we were back in the weighing room.
I sought out Clem, who was very busy, and checked with him that my kit was all right, and that he knew the weight I was due to carry on Palindrome.
Kate had told me she was not coming to Cheltenham, so I went in search of the next best thing: news of her.
Dane's peg and section of bench were in the smaller of the two changing rooms, and he was sitting only one place away from the roaring stove, a sure sign of his rise in the jockeys' world. Champions get the warmest places by unwritten right. Beginners shiver beside the draughty doors.
He was clad in his shirt and pants, and was pulling on his nylon stockings. There was a hole in each foot and both his big toes were sticking comically out of them. He had long narrow feet, and long, narrow delicately strong hands to match.