None of them seemed to entertain the notion that death had been rather an extreme penalty for Ryder’s alleged wrongdoing, even if he had been shot for attacking Bob Wade rather than giving his horses prohibited drugs.
I personally found all the backslapping and high fives a bit tasteless, what with Hayden Ryder’s body still cooling in the county coroner’s morgue.
Hence I left them to it.
Instead I went up to my room and watched as a local Louisville TV newsreader echoed the same sentiments, blatantly accusing the dead trainer of serial drug abuse and the wilful maltreatment of his horses.
I knew that freedom of speech and honest opinion were enshrined in the First Amendment of the US Constitution but, even so, the claims seemed somewhat outrageous.
I had a political journalist acquaintance who once told me that there was nothing better than finding out that some detested fat cat had died. ‘You can’t libel the dead,’ he would say, while gleefully filling his column with some lurid tales of wrongdoing that may have been mildly suspected of the deceased, but were far beyond any actual proof.
‘Do you have no compassion?’ I’d said. ‘Surely it’s disrespectful to speak ill of the recent dead?’
‘Maybe,’ he’d replied with a smile, ‘but it sells papers.’
No wonder some people tell you never to believe what you read in the newspapers.
I used the remote control to flick through the other TV news channels and found much the same fare on all of them. In the end, I lay on my bed watching a quiz show where, bizarrely, the contestants had to give the question, having been shown the answer.
It wasn’t long before it caused me to drift off to sleep.
I was woken almost immediately by someone hammering on the door.
I opened it to find Norman Gibson standing there with a large brown envelope in his hand, but he didn’t hand it over. Instead, he pushed past me and marched through into the apartment living room, where he stood in the middle of the space with his feet firmly set about eighteen inches apart as if ready for action.
He was far from a happy man. Steam was almost emanating from his ears and he had obviously been working himself up into quite a fury.
‘Now, fella,’ he said loudly, jabbing at my chest with his right index finger, ‘you had better explain to me what the fuck’s going on here.’ He emphasised the expletive with raw anger in his voice. ‘What makes you so important that you can get to see all our bank statements, while I get to look like a fool?’ He waved the brown envelope right into my face.
He was so furious that I seriously thought he might hit me, and I was considerably relieved to see that he didn’t still have his Glock 22C holstered on his hip. But, no doubt, it would be hiding somewhere beneath his jacket.
I’d had to deal with this sort of confrontation before, in Afghanistan, when boiling-over tempers of local village elders could easily end up messily with bullets flying around. I had been trained to keep control of my emotions and to maintain my composure, but I knew from experience that nothing provoked an angry response more than belittling or ignoring someone’s grievance.
I had found that an apology usually helped to defuse difficult situations, even if there was nothing for me to actually be sorry for. Consequently, I was a serial apologiser and had, over time, expressed my personal remorse and sorrow for everything from Adam’s consumption of the forbidden fruit to the Nazi Holocaust.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to Norman, doing my best to sound sincere. ‘You should have been made aware of the true purpose of my visit.’
I didn’t mention that it had been my idea not to tell him.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ I said, indicating towards one of the armchairs.
Norman hesitated. Sitting down clearly had not been on his agenda, but he slowly lowered himself into the seat. I relaxed a little. It was far more difficult, if not impossible, to hit someone from a seated position in a deep armchair.
I then sat down opposite him, making sure I was well out of reach.
How much did I really trust him?
Enough, perhaps, to talk about being invited by Tony Andretti to try to find the section mole — he already knew that by now — but maybe not enough to apprise him of my future plans.
‘Tony Andretti approached my boss in London and requested some help in finding a mole in your organisation. It clearly was a mistake not to involve you and, for that, I am very sorry.’
My apology tactic seemed to be working. Norman’s ire was placated and the high-pressure steam in his head slowly abated.
‘So what have you discovered?’ he asked, his voice full of sarcasm.
‘Precisely nothing,’ I said.
I wasn’t able to read in his face whether he was pleased or disappointed. Either way would not have been incriminating. In his place, I wouldn’t have been particularly happy if the new kid on the block had found out something in just three days when he’d been trying without success for months.
He simply nodded knowingly. He hadn’t expected anything else and I wondered if Norman actually believed there was a mole in the first place.
‘Mr Andretti asked me to give you these.’ He tossed the envelope he had been carrying into my lap. ‘What do you want them for anyway?’
‘To see if anyone in FACSA’s racing section is receiving money from someone they shouldn’t. Payment in exchange for a tip-off.’
‘Do you really think one of us is selling confidential information?’
‘Why else would someone be forewarning your targets?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe out of cussedness.’
I thought that most unlikely. Especially if Tony was correct and Jason Connor had been killed because of it. It was my belief that sane people didn’t kill just out of cussedness; they did it for one of four other reasons — money, revenge, jealousy, or a political cause.
Which one was it here? Surely it had to be for money.
‘So what are you going to do now?’ Norman asked.
‘Keep my eyes and ears open, and enjoy the Derby.’
I’d also be watching my back.
11
The rest of my time in Louisville was considerably less stressful, although equally exciting, but for different reasons.
The Kentucky Derby was the most hyped sporting event I think I had ever attended and easily outshone the Epsom version for glamour and glitz.
While the Derby at Churchill Downs could not match the pomp and circumstance and the genuine royalty of the original, it attracted the Hollywood ‘royalty’ in abundance, complete with red-carpet entrance where the public was encouraged to stand and idolise the screen superstars as they made their way to Millionaires Row, as the upper level of the grandstand is officially known.
I reflected on the differing attitudes to money that existed on either side of the Atlantic. In the UK, serious wealth is mostly played down by those who have it. To do otherwise is considered rather vulgar. In the United States huge riches are to be applauded, and flaunted at every opportunity.
And Kentucky Derby Week was certainly one of those.
Accompanying the two minutes of the race itself were several days of celebrations with a succession of parties and dinners to satisfy every taste and wallet. Those in the inner circle, and those with the greatest wealth, could secure an invitation to the exclusive black-tie eve-of-Derby gala, an event that regularly creates a lengthy traffic jam of stretch limousines throughout downtown Louisville.
For my part, I spent most of my time shadowing Frank Bannister and, fortunately for me, he enjoyed the good things in life and was not averse to using his federal-special-agent status to gain entry to occasions and activities where his presence was hardly warranted.