Behind him, the waitresses hurried efficiently between the tables, setting up. He ignored them. For the racecourse staff this was just another day. For him it was momentous.
And Steve Warwick was late.
Nothing entirely unusual in that, of course. Steve always did like to be a law unto himself but today of all days . . .
A voice from inside the restaurant filtered out to him. “Hey sweetheart, any chance of some fresh coffee down in the private boxes?” Lytton hadn’t heard that voice for quite a while but it was one he recognised immediately. “The amount you’re charging for them, I’d like a pot—make it hot and strong.”
He turned just as Harry Grogan stepped out on the balcony in an immaculate grey suit with a pale tan overcoat unbuttoned over the top. All he needed was a slanted trilby on his shaven head and he’d be the archetypal gangster.
“Matthew old son,” Grogan greeted him. “Not brought that nice little filly of yours today.”
“Grogan,” Lytton returned calmly. “I didn’t think it was sporting to enter her in a race where I’m the main sponsor.”
“Probably best—not enough bone,” Grogan dismissed. “Wouldn’t stay the distance.” A glimmer of something that might have been humour flickered in those flat grey depths. “Should have thought of that when you were setting up this race of yours.”
“A mile and four furlongs is the same as the Derby.”
“Got your sights set on the classics have you?” Grogan pursed his lips. “Ambitious. I like that in a man.”
“You should know.” He looked over into the man’s eyes and could read nothing there.
“Oh, I think between you and your partner there’s more ambition than I’d want to have.” Grogan stepped forwards to the railing and looked down at the massing crowds. “Going to be an interesting day,” he said. “Let’s hope we all come out of it winners, eh?”
With that he turned and walked away leaving Lytton with the feeling he’d just been given a message—a warning.
He pulled out his cellphone and punched in Warwick’s number. It rang without reply, eventually clicking over to voicemail.
“Come on Steve,” he muttered under his breath. “What the hell are you playing at?”
116
“I don’t know what you’re planning, Kelly love, but it had better be good.”
Ray McCarron was staring out of the side-glass of one of the works’ vans at what seemed to be an inordinately large number of coppers patrolling the area immediately surrounding the racecourse.
“When I think of something,” she murmured from behind the wheel, “I’m sure it will be.”
She was wearing logoed coveralls that were far too large and had a company baseball cap pulled down low over her face. The hat didn’t do a bad job of disguising both her features and the bruises she’d picked up over the past few days. They were just blooming to full glory. McCarron was sure she was only too aware that the marks on her face alone would cause people to take a second glance. A second glance that might make them realise who she was.
Between the two of us we look like we’ve been worked over by professionals.
Sometimes, it seemed, appearances were not deceptive after all.
He eased himself in the seat and recalled the parting advice of the doctors at the hospital when he’d prematurely discharged himself. “Get plenty of rest Mr McCarron—nothing too strenuous.”
He wondered how this ranked.
“Head for the service entrance,” he said. “It’s just behind the stands.”
Kelly put the van into gear. “You’ve been here before,” she said.
“Once or twice,” he admitted. “A few times as a punter and then we got called in to deal with a vermin problem a couple of years ago.”
“You mean rats?”
“Well rats and horses tend to go together, what with the feedstuffs and all that.” He smiled. “Some bright spark put down poison and when they came in a couple of days later, the rats had not only trailed the poison everywhere, they’d corpsed it all over the place. Must have been fifty—big buggers some of them. We had to sanitise the whole lot.”
“Does that mean you have friends in high places?”
McCarron shook his head somewhat sadly. “The manager got the boot as soon as it was dealt with,” he said. “Shame really, I would have enjoyed a season ticket for our trouble.”
Kelly swung the van towards a gate. “So apart from the fact you know the layout, how does that help us?” she asked, eyes fixed on the security guard who stepped out to meet them.
“We’ll see,” McCarron said, winding down his window as the guard approached. “Morning mate,” he called in a booming cheery voice. “Where do you want us?”
The guard looked about twenty, with a prominent Adam’s apple above the pinched knot of his collar and tie. He trailed down his clipboard with a forefinger, frowning.
“You sure you got the right place?”
McCarron looked up at the stands looming over them. “Only one racecourse round here isn’t there?”
“Yeah I guess,” the guard said. He squinted at the name on the side of the van. “Cleaning? I thought all the cleaning was done last night.”
“Normal cleaning, yes,” McCarron said not letting his cheerful demeanour slip. “We’re more in the nature of an emergency crew. For your unexpected nasty stuff.”
The guard almost took a step back. “Like what?”
“Don’t know until we get in there. We were just told it was bubbling or something, giving off some noxious fumes.” He smiled. “You should be all right down here though. Unless the wind changes direction.”
“I dunno.” The guard hovered, looking round as if hopeful of more senior intervention. “You’re not on my list, see.”
“Won’t be—nobody expects an emergency do they?” McCarron said. “Tell you what, don’t you worry.” He patted the van door casually and didn’t miss the way the guard’s eyes were drawn to the bold-font list of services written there. “We’ll stick this in the public car park and take the gear in the front door. We’ll be suited up of course but it shouldn’t cause too much of a panic.”
“No, no!” Alarm flared in the guard’s face. “Don’t do that. They’ll have my guts for garters. Come in this way. Just park it somewhere out of sight will you?”
“’Course we will,” McCarron said, smiling more broadly now. “Discretion is my middle name.”
“Thanks,” the guard said. “Oh, what happened to your face?”
“Mugged—just round the corner from here as it happens,” McCarron lied just for the hell of it. “Not safe anywhere nowadays is it?” He gave the guard a wave. Kelly drove the van through the gate and threaded it across a car park filled with exhibitors’ vehicles.