Longshot (12 page)

“Really?”

“Her father made her out to be a sweet innocent little saint. Perhaps he even believes it. Nolan never said any different because it wouldn’t have helped him, so no one told the truth.”

“What was the truth?”

“She had no underclothes on,” Dee-Dee said calmly. “She wore only a long scarlet strapless dress slit halfway up her thigh. You ask Mackie. She knows, she tried to revive her.”

“Er ... quite a lot of women don’t wear underclothes,” I said.

“Is that a fact?” She gave me an ironic look.

“My blushing days are over.”

“Well, do you or don’t you want any coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

She went out to the kitchen and I continued reading clippings, progressing from “no action on the death at Shellerton House” to “Olympia’s father brings private prosecution” and “Magistrates refer Nolan Everard case to Crown Court.” A
sub judice
silence then descended and the clippings stopped.

It was after a bunch of end-of-jumping-season statistics that I came across an oddity from a Reading paper published on a Friday in June.

“Girl groom missing,” read the headline, and there was an accompanying photo of Tremayne, still looking cheerful.

Angela Brickell’s parents, like Olympia’s, were reported to be “distraught”

B
y the following week Angela Brickell’s disappearance had been taken up by the national dailies, who all mentioned the death of Olympia at Shellerton two months earlier but drew no significant conclusions.

Angela, I learned, lived in a stable hostel with five other girls, who described her as “moody.” An indistinct photograph of her showed the face of a child, not a young woman, and pleas to “Find This Girl” could realistically never have been successful if they depended on recognizing her from her likeness in newsprint.

There was no account in fact of her having been found, and after a week or so the clippings about her stopped.

There were no cuttings at all for July, when it seemed the jump-racing fraternity took a holiday, but they began again with various accounts of the opening of the new season in Devon in August: “Vickers Victories Continue!”

Nolan had ridden a winner on one of Fiona’s horses: “the well-known amateur now out on bail facing charges of assault resulting in death ...”

In early September Nolan had hit the news again, this time in giving evidence at a Jockey Club inquiry in defense of Tremayne, who stood accused of doping one of his horses.

With popping eyes, since Tremayne to me even on such short acquaintance seemed the last person to put his whole way of life in jeopardy for so trivial a reason, I read that one of his horses had tested positive to traces of the stimulants theobromine and caffeine, prohibited substances.

The horse in question had won an amateurs’ race back in May. Belonging to Fiona, it had been ridden by Nolan, who said he had no idea how the drugs had been administered. He had himself been in charge of the horse that day, since Tremayne hadn’t attended the meeting. Tremayne had sent the animal in the care of his head traveling lad and a groom, and neither the head lad nor Tremayne knew how the drugs had been administered. Mrs. Fiona Goodhaven could offer no explanation either, though she and her husband had attended and watched the race.

The Jockey Club’s verdict at the end of the day had been that there was no way of determining who had given the drugs or how, since they couldn’t any longer question the groom who had been in charge of the horse as she, Angela Brickell, could not be found.

Angela Brickell.
Good grief, I thought.

Tremayne had nevertheless been adjudged guilty as charged and had been fined fifteen hundred pounds. A slapped wrist, it seemed.

Upon leaving the inquiry Tremayne had shrugged and said, “These things happen.”

The drug theobromine, along with caffeine, commented the reporter, could commonly be found in chocolate. Well, well, I thought. Never a dull moment in the racing industry.

The rest of the year seemed an anticlimax after that, though there had been a whole procession of notable wins. “The Stable in Form” and “More Vim to Vickers” and “Loadsa Vicktories,” according to which paper or magazine one read.

I finished the year and was simply sitting and thinking when Tremayne breezed in with downland air still cool on his coat.

“How are you doing?” he said.

I pointed to the pile of clippings out of their box. “I was reading about last year. All those winners.”

He beamed. “Couldn’t put a foot wrong. Amazing. Sometimes things just go right. Other years, you get the virus, horses break down, owners die, you have a ghastly time. All the luck of the game.”

“Did Angela Brickell ever turn up?” I asked.

“Who? Oh, her. No, silly little bitch, God knows where she made off to. Every last person in the racing world knows you mustn’t give chocolate to horses in training. Pity really, most of them love it. Everybody also knows a Mars bar here or there isn’t going to make a horse win a race, but there you are, by the rules chocolate’s a stimulant, so bad luck.”

“Would the girl have got into trouble if she’d stayed?”

He laughed. “From me, yes. I’d have sacked her, but she’d gone before I heard the horse had tested positive. It was a routine test; they test most winners.” He paused and sat down on a chair across the table from me, staring thoughtfully at a heap of clippings. “It could have been anyone, you know. Anyone here in the yard. Or Nolan himself, though God knows why he should. Anyway”—he shrugged—“it often happens because the testing techniques are now so highly developed. They don’t automatically warn off trainers anymore, thank God, when odd things turn up in the analysis. It has to be gross, has to be beyond interpretation as an accident. But it’s still a risk every trainer runs. Risk of crooks. Risk of plain malice. You take what precautions you can and pray.”

“I’ll put that in the book, if you like.”

He looked at me assessingly. “I got me a good writer after all, didn’t I?”

I shook my head. “You got one who’ll do his best.”

He smiled with what looked like satisfaction and after lunch (beef sandwiches) we got down to work again on taping his early life with his eccentric father. Tremayne seemed to have soared unharmed over such psychological trifles as being rented out in Leicestershire as a harness and tack cleaner to a fox-hunting family and a year later as stableboy to a polo player in Argentina.

“But that was child abuse,” I protested.

Tremayne chuckled unconcernedly. “I didn’t get buggered, if that’s what you mean. My father hired me out, picked up all I earned and gave me a crack or two with his cane when I said it wasn’t fair. Well, it wasn’t fair. He told me that that was a valuable lesson, to learn that things weren’t fair. Never expect fairness. I’m telling you what he told me, but you’re lucky, I won’t beat it into you.”

“Will you pay me?”

He laughed deeply. “You’ve got Ronnie Curzon looking after that.” His amusement continued. “Did your father ever beat you?”

“No, he didn’t believe in it.”

“Nor do I, by God. I’ve never beaten Perkin, nor Gareth. Couldn’t. I remember what it felt like. But then, see, he did take me with him to Argentina and all round the world. I saw a lot of things most English boys don’t. I missed a lot of school. He was mad, no doubt, but he gave me a priceless education, and I wouldn’t change anything.”

“You had a pretty tough mind,” I said.

“Sure.” He nodded. “You need it in this life.”

You might need it, I reflected, but tough minds weren’t regulation issue. Many children would have disintegrated where Tremayne learned and thrived. I tended to feel at home with stoicism and, increasingly, with Tremayne.

About midafternoon, when we stopped taping, he lent me his Volvo to go to Didcot to fetch the parcel of books from the station and to do the household shopping, advising me not to slide into any ditches if I could help it. The roads however were marginally better and the air not so brutally cold, though the forecasters still spoke of more days’ frost. I shopped with luxurious abandon for food and picked up the books, getting back to Shellerton while Tremayne was still out in his yard at evening stables.

He came into the house with Mackie, both of them stamping their feet and blowing onto their fingers as they discussed the state of the horses.

“You’d better ride Selkirk in the morning,” Tremayne said to her. “He’s a bit too fresh these days for his lad.”

“Right.”

“And I forgot to tell Bob to get the lads to put two rugs on their mounts if they’re doing only trotting exercise.”

“I’ll remind him.”

“Good.”

He saw me in the kitchen as I was finishing stowing the stores and asked if the books had arrived. They had, I said.

“Great. Bring them into the family room. Come on, Mackie, gin and tonic.”

The big logs in the family-room fireplace never entirely went cold: Tremayne kicked the embers smartly together, adding a few small sticks and a fresh chunk of beech to renew the blaze. The evening developed as twice before, Perkin arriving as if on cue and collecting his Coke.

With flattering eagerness Tremayne opened the package of books and handed some of them to Mackie and Perkin. So familiar to me, they seemed to surprise the others, though I wasn’t sure why.

Slightly larger than paperbacks, they were more the size of videotapes and had white shiny hard covers with the title in various bright black-edged colors:
Return Safe from the Jungle
in green,
Return Safe from the Desert
in orange,
Return Safe from the Sea
in blue,
Return Safe from the Ice
in purple,
Return Safe from Safari
in red,
Return Safe from the Wilderness
in a hot rusty brown.

“I’ll be damned,” Tremayne said. “Real books.”

“What did you expect?” I asked.

“Well ... pamphlets, I suppose. Thin paperbacks, perhaps.”

“The travel agency wanted them glossy,” I explained, “and also useful.”

“They must have taken a lot of work,” Mackie observed, turning the pages of Ice and looking at illustrations.

“There’s a good deal of repetition in them, to be honest,” I said. “I mean, quite a lot of survival techniques are the same wherever you find yourself.”

“Such as what?” Perkin asked, faintly belligerent as usual.

“Lighting fires, finding water, making a shelter. Things like that.”

“The books are fascinating,” Mackie said, looking at Sea, “but how often do people get marooned on desert islands these days?”

I smiled. “Not often. It’s just the idea of survival that people like. There are schools where people on holiday go for survival courses. Actually the most lethal place to be is up a British mountainside in the wrong clothes in a cold mist. A fair number of people each year don’t survive that.”

“Could you?” Perkin asked.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t be up there in the wrong clothes in the first place.”

“Survival begins before you set out,” Tremayne said, reading the first page of
Jungle:
he looked up, amused, quoting, ‘“Survival is a frame of mind.”’

“Yes.”

“I have it,” he said.

“Indeed you do.”

All three of them went on reading the books with obvious interest, dipping into the various sections at random, flicking over pages and stopping to read more: vindicating, I thought, the travel agency’s contention that the back-to-nature essentials of staying alive held irresistible attractions for ultra-cosseted sophisticates, just as long as they never had to put them into practice in bitter earnest.

Gareth erupted into the peaceful scene like a rehearsing poltergeist.

“What are you all so busy with?” he demanded, and then spotted the books. “Boy, oh
boy.
They’ve come!”

He grabbed up
Return from the Wilderness
and plunged in, and I sat drinking wine and wondering if I would ever see four people reading
Long Way Home.

“This is pretty earthy stuff,” Mackie said after a while, laying her book down. “Skinning and degutting animals ... ugh.”

“You’d do it if you were starving,” Tremayne told her.

“I’d do it
for
you,” Gareth said.

“So would I,” said Perkin.

“Then I’ll arrange not to get stranded anywhere without you both.” She was teasing, affectionate. “And I’ll stay in camp and grind the corn.” She put a hand to her mouth in mock dismay. “Dear heaven, may feminists forgive me.”

“It’s pretty boring about all these jabs,” Gareth complained, not being interested in gender typing.

“‘Better the jabs than the diseases,’ it says here,” Tremayne said.

“Oh well, then.”

“And you’ve had tetanus jabs already.”

“I guess so,” Gareth agreed. He looked at me. “Have you had all these jabs?”

“Afraid so.”

“Tetanus?”

“Especially.”

“There’s an awful lot about first aid,” he said, turning pages. “How to stop wounds bleeding ... pressure points. A whole map of arteries. How to deal with poisons ... swallow
charcoal
!” He looked up. “Do you mean it?”

“Sure,” I said. “Scrape it into water and drink it. The carbon helps take some sorts of poison harmlessly through the gut, if you’re lucky.”

“Good God,” Tremayne said.

His younger son went on reading. “It says here you can drink urine if you distill it.”