‘Reported to who?’
‘How do I know?’
‘You ought to find out. Look where he’s got you. Out of a cushy job with Wilton Young and into a nasty prosecution for fraud. You’re a bloody fool to let someone you don’t know get you into such a mess.’
‘You got me into the mess,’ he yelled.
‘You bash me, I bash back.’
The message at last got through, and the result on him was the same as it had been on me. Aggression created counter-aggression. The way full-scale wars started. He expressed no sorrow. Made no apologies. No offer of amends. Instead he said again and with increased intention, ‘I’ll kill you.’
Nicol said, ‘What are you going to do next?’
‘Pork pie and a bottle of coke.’
‘No, you ass. I mean... about Vic.’
‘Stoke up his kitchen fire.’ Nicol looked mystified. I said, ‘He told me once if I didn’t like the heat...’
‘To stay out of the kitchen.’
‘Right.’
The cold dank winter afternoon seeped under my anorak and my feet were freezing. Nicol’s face looked pale blue. A little kitchen heat would have come as no harm.
‘How?’
‘Not sure yet.’
It had been comparatively easy to break up the entente between Wilton Young and Fynedale, for the two hotheaded Yorkshire tempers had needed only a small detonation to set them off. Detaching Constantine from Vic might take longer. Constantine was not as bluntly honest as Wilton Young, and in his case face-saving might have priority.
‘There’s also someone else,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t know. Someone helping Vic. Someone who engaged Fred Smith to do the dirty work. I don’t know who... but I won’t stop until I find out.’
Nicol looked at me speculatively. ‘If he could see the look on your face he’d be busy covering his tracks.’
The trouble was, his tracks were far too well covered already. To find him, I’d have to persuade him to make fresh ones. We went into the snack bar for the warmth as much as the food and watched the fifth race on closed-circuit television.
Nicol said, ‘Do you know of any other fiddles Vic and Fynedale have got up to?’
I smiled. ‘One or two.’
‘What?’
‘Well... there’s the insurance premium fiddle.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I shouldn’t be telling you.’
‘Things have changed. You don’t owe them a scrap of loyalty any more.’
I wryly agreed. ‘Well... Say you sell a horse to an overseas customer. You tell him you can arrange insurance for the journey if he sends the premiums. So he sends the premiums, and you pocket them.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
‘But what happens if the horse dies on the way? Surely you have to pay up out of your own money?’
I shook my head. ‘You say you were very sorry you couldn’t arrange the insurance in time, and you send the premiums back.’
‘By God.’
‘By the time you’ve finished you should be more clued up than your father,’ I said with amusement.
‘I should damn well hope so. Vic’s been taking him for one almighty ride.’
‘Caveat emptor,’ I said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Buyer beware.’
‘I know one buyer who’ll beware for the rest of his life, and that’s me.’
The next week at the Newmarket Mixed Sales I bought a two-year-old colt for Wilton Young.
He was there himself.
‘Why that one?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve looked him up. He’s run in three races and never been nearer than sixth.’
‘He’ll win next year as a three-year-old.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Scorchmark’s progeny need time to grow. It’s no good being impatient if they don’t win at two. He’s being sold by an impatient owner and he’s been trained by a two-year-old specialist. They both wanted quick results, and Singeling wasn’t bred for that. Next summer he’ll win.’
‘He didn’t cost very much,’ he said disparagingly.
‘All the better. One good prize and he’ll be making you that profit.’
He grunted. ‘All right. I said buy me a horse, and you’ve bought it. I won’t go back on my word. But I don’t think that Singeling is any bloody good.’
Owing to the natural loudness of his voice this opinion was easily overheard, and a little while later he sold Singeling himself to someone who disagreed with him.
With typical bluntness he told me about it. ‘He offered me a good bit more than you paid. So I took it. I didn’t reckon he’d be much good, that Singeling. Now, what do you have to say to that?’
‘Nothing,’ I said mildly. ‘You asked me to buy you a horse which would give you a good return in cash terms. Well... it has.’
He stared. He slapped his thigh. He laughed. Then a new thought struck him and he looked suddenly suspicious. ‘Did you find another buyer and send him to offer me a profit?’
‘No,’ I said, and reflected that at least he seemed to be learning.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said grudgingly. ‘This chap I sold it to... when we’d shaken hands on it and it was too late for me to back out, he said... I tell thee straight... he said any horse Jonah Dereham picked as a good prospect was good enough for him.’
‘Flattering,’ I said.
‘Ay.’ He pursed his mouth and screwed up his eyes. ‘Maybe I was too hasty, getting rid of that Singeling. I reckon you’d better buy me another one, and I’ll keep it, even if it’s got three legs and a squint.’
‘You positively ask to be cheated,’ i said.
‘You won’t cheat me.’
‘How do you know?’
He looked non-plussed. Waved his arm about. ‘Everybody knows,’ he said.
Vic was not his confident cheerful self. He spent a great deal of his time drawing people into corners and talking to them vehemently, and in due course I learned that he was saying I was so desperate for clients I was telling outright lies about sincere men like Fynedale, and that I had a fixed obsession that he, Vic Vincent, had set fire to my stables, which was mad as well as wicked because the police had arrested the man who had really done it. I supposed the extent to which people believed his version was a matter of habit: his devotees never doubted him, or if they did they kept it to themselves.
Vic and Pauli Teksa stood alone together on the far side of the collecting ring, with Vic’s tongue working overtime. Pauli shook his head. Vic spoke faster than ever. Pauli shook his head again.
Vic looked around him as if to make sure he was not being overheard, then advanced his head to within three inches of Pauli’s, his red-brown forward-growing hair almost mingling with Pauli’s crinkly black.
Pauli listened for quite a while. Then he drew back and stood with his head on one side, considering, while Vic talked some more. Then slowly again he shook his head.
Vic was not pleased. The two men began to walk towards the sale building: or rather Pauli began to walk and Vic, unsuccessfully trying to stop him, had either to let him go or go with him. He went, still talking, persuading, protesting.
I was standing between them and the sale building. They saw me from four paces away, and stopped. Vic looked as lividly angry as I’d ever seen him, Pauli as expressionless as a concrete block.
Vic gave Pauli a final furious look and strode away.
Pauli said, ‘I plan to go home tomorrow.’
There were some big American sales the next week. I said, ‘You’ve been here a month, I suppose...’
‘Nearer five weeks.’
‘Has it been a successful trip?’
He smiled ruefully. ‘Not very.’
We went together for a cup of coffee, but he seemed preoccupied.