CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Joe Nantwich found the sniper first.
Eight days after Lodge's visit I drove down to West Sussex races, having put in a short morning at the office. My bruises had faded and gone; the ribs and collarbone were mended and in perfect working order, and even my stubborn headache was losing its grip. I whistled my way into the changing-room and presented to Clem my brand new crash-helmet, bought that morning from Bates of Jermyn Street for three guineas.
The weighing room was empty, and distant oohs and ahs proclaimed that the first race was in progress. Clem, who was tidying up the changing-room after the tornado of getting a large number of jockeys out of their ordinary clothes, into racing colours, past the scales, and out to the parade ring, greeted me warmly and shook hands.
'Glad to see you back, sir,' he said, taking the helmet. With a ball-point pen he wrote my name on a piece of adhesive tape and stuck it on to the shiny shell. 'Let's hope you won't be needing another new one of these in a hurry.' He pressed his thumb firmly on to the adhesive tape.
'I'm starting again tomorrow, Clem,' I said. 'Can you bring my gear? Big saddle. There's no weight problem, I'm riding Admiral.'
'Top flipping weight,' said Clem, resignedly. 'And a lot of lead, which Admiral isn't used to. Major Davidson hardly ever needed any.' Clem gave me an assessing sideways look and added, 'You've lost three or four pounds, I shouldn't wonder.'
'All the better,' I said cheerfully, turning to the door.
'Oh, just a minute, sir,' said Clem. 'Joe Nantwich asked me to let you know, if you came, that he has something to tell you.'
'Oh, yes?' I said.
'He was asking for you on Saturday at Liverpool, but I told him you'd probably be coming here, as Mr Gregory mentioned last week that you'd be riding Admiral tomorrow,' said Clem, absent-mindedly picking up a saddle and smoothing his hand over the leather.
'Did Joe say what it was he wanted to tell me?' I asked.
'Yes, he wants to show you a bit of brown wrapping paper with something written on it. He said you'd be interested to see it, though I can't think why – the word I saw looked like something to do with chickens. He had the paper out in the changing-room at Liverpool, and folded it up flat on the bench into a neat shape, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Giggling over it, he was. He'd had a drink or two I reckon, but then most people had, it was after the National. He said what was written on the paper was double Dutch to him, but it might be a clue, you never knew. I asked him a clue to what? But he wouldn't say, and anyway, I was too busy to bother with him much.'
'I'll see him, and find out what it's all about,' I said. 'Has he still got the paper with him, do you know?'
'Yes, he has. He patted his pocket just now when he asked me if you were here, and I heard the paper crackle.'
'Thanks, Clem,' I said.
I went outside. The race was over, the winner was being led towards the unsaddling enclosure in front of the weighing-room, and down from the stands streamed the hundreds of chattering racegoers. I stood near the weighing-room door, waiting for Joe and catching up with the latest gossip. Liverpool, I learned, had been disappointing, fabulous, bloody, a dead loss, and the tops, according to who told it. I had not been there. I had been too busy getting intensive treatment on my shoulder muscles to help my strength back.
Sandy clapped me soundly on the back as he passed, remarking that it was 'Bloody good to see your old physog on the horizon again, even if you do look like an understudy for Scarface.' He went on, 'Have you seen Joe? The little drip's been squealing for you.'
'So I hear,' I said. 'I'm waiting for him now.'
A couple of press men asked me my riding plans, and made notes about Admiral for their morning edition. Sir Creswell Stampe noticed my existence with a nod of his distinguished head and the characteristic puffing up of his top lip which passed with him for a smile.
My content at being back in my favourite environment was somewhat marred by the sight of Dane strolling across the grass, talking intently to a slender, heart-catchingly beautiful girl at his side. Her face was turned intimately towards his, and she was laughing. It was Kate.
When they saw me they quickened their steps and approached me smiling, a striking pair evenly matched in grace and dark good looks.
Kate, who had got used to my battered face over lunch some days earlier, greeted me with a brisk 'Hi, there,' from which all undertones of love and longing were regrettably absent. She put her hand on my arm and asked me to walk down the course with her and Dane to watch the next race from beside the water jump.
I glanced at Dane. His smile was faint, and his dark eyes looked at me inscrutably, without welcome. My own muscles had tensed uncontrollably when I saw him and Kate together; so now I knew exactly how he felt about me.
It was as much unease over the low ebb of our friendship as desire to chase Claud Thiveridge which made me say, 'I can't come at this instant. I must find Joe Nantwich first. How about later on- if you'd like to walk down again?'
'All right, Alan,' she said. 'Or maybe we could have tea together?' She turned away with Dane and said, 'See you later,' over her shoulder with a mischievous grin, in which I read her mockery of the jealousy she could arouse in me.
Watching them go, I forgot to look out for Joe, and went in to search for him through the weighing- and changing-rooms again. He wasn't there.
Pete towered over me as I returned to my post outside the door and greeted me like a long-lost friend. His hat tipped back on his big head, his broad shoulders spreading apart the lapels of his coat, he gazed with good humour at my face, and said, 'They've made a good job of sewing you up, you know. You were a very gory sight indeed last time I saw you. I suppose you still can't remember what happened?'
'No,' I said, regretfully. 'Sometimes I think- but I can't get hold of it-'
'Perhaps it's just as well,' he said comfortingly, hitching the strap of his race glasses higher on to his shoulder and preparing to go into the weighing-room.
'Pete,' I said, 'have you seen Joe anywhere? I think he's been asking for me.'
'Yes, he said. 'He was looking for you at Liverpool, too. He was very keen to show you something, an address I think, written on some brown paper.'
'Did you see it?' I asked.
'Yes, as a matter of fact I did, but he annoys me and I didn't pay much attention. Chichester, I think the place was.'
'Do you know where Joe is now?' I asked. 'I've been waiting for him for some time, but there isn't a sign of him.'
Pete's thin lips showed contempt. 'Yes, I saw the little brute going into the bar, about ten minutes ago.'
'Already!' I exclaimed.
'Drunken little sod,' he said dispassionately. 'I wouldn't put him up on one of my horses if he was the last jockey on earth.'
'Which bar?' I pressed.
'Eh? Oh, the one at the back of Tattersall's, next to the Tote. He and another man went in with that dark fellow he rides for- Tudor, isn't that his name?'
I gaped at him. 'But Tudor finished with Joe at Cheltenham- and very emphatically, too.'
Pete shrugged. 'Tudor went into the bar with Joe and the other chap a few steps behind him. Maybe it was only coincidence.'
'Thanks, anyway,' I said.
It was only a hundred yards round one corner to the bar where Joe had gone. It was a long wooden hut backing on to the high fence which divided the racecourse from the road. I wasted no time, but nonetheless when I stepped into the building and threaded my way through the overcoated, beer-drinking customers, I found that Joe was no longer there. Nor was Clifford Tudor.