High stakes - By Dick Francis Page 0,1

apologised, the old relationship could not be re-established. Confidence, like Humpty Dumpty couldn’t be put together again.

His fierce opposition had driven me further than I had originally meant. All the same I still had the same objective, even if I had to fight harder to achieve it.

‘Whatever you do,’ I said, ‘you won’t keep my horses.’

‘You’re ruining me,’ Jody shouted.

The Press advanced a step or two.

Jody cast a quick eye at them. Maliciousness flooded through him and twisted his features with spite. ‘You big rich bastards don’t give a damn who you hurt.’

I turned abruptly away from him and went into the weighing room, and there carried out my promise to disown him officially as my trainer. I signed forms cancelling his authority to act for me, and for good measure also included a separate handwritten note to say that I had expressly forbidden him to remove Energise from Sandown Park. No one denied I had the right: there was just an element of coolness towards one who was so vehemently and precipitately ridding himself of the services of the man who had ten minutes ago given him a winner.

I didn’t tell them that it had taken a very long time for the mug to face the fact that he was being conned. I didn’t tell them how I had thrust the first suspicions away as disloyalty and had made every possible allowance before being reluctantly convinced.

I didn’t tell them either that the reason for my determination now lay squarely in Jody’s first reaction to my saying I was removing my horses.

Because he hadn’t, not then or afterwards, asked the one natural question.

He hadn’t asked why.

When I left the weighing room, both Jody and the Press had gone from the unsaddling enclosure. Racegoers were hurrying towards the stands to watch the imminent steeplechase, the richest event of the afternoon, and even the officials with whom I’d just been dealing were dashing off with the same intent.

I had no appetite for the race. Decided, instead, to go down to the racecourse stables and ask the gatekeeper there to make sure Energise didn’t vanish in a puff of smoke. But as the gatekeeper was there to prevent villainous strangers walking in, not any bona fide racehorses walking out, I wasn’t sure how much use he would be, even if he agreed to help.

He was sitting in his sentry box, a middle-aged sturdy figure in a navy blue serge uniform with brass buttons. Various lists on clip-boards hung on hooks on the walls, alongside an electric heater fighting a losing battle against the December chill.

‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I want to ask you about my horse…’

‘Can’t come in here,’ he interrupted bossily. ‘No owners allowed in without trainers.’

‘I know that,’ I said. ‘I just want to make sure my horse stays here.’

‘What horse is that?’

He was adept at interrupting, like many people in small positions of power. He blew on his fingers and looked at me over them without politeness.

‘Energise,’ I said.

He screwed up his mouth and considered whether to answer. I supposed that he could find no reason against it except natural unhelpfulness, because in the end he said grudgingly, ‘Would it be a black horse trained by Leeds?’

‘It would.’

‘Gone, then,’ he said.

‘Gone?’

‘S’right. Lad took him off, couple of minutes ago.’ He jerked his head in the general direction of the path down to the area where the motor horseboxes were parked. ‘Leeds was with him. Ask me, they’ll have driven off by now.’ The idea seemed to cheer him. He smiled.

I left him to his sour satisfaction and took the path at a run. It led down between bushes and opened abruptly straight on to the gravelled acre where dozens of horseboxes stood in haphazard rows.

Jody’s box was fawn with scarlet panels along the sides: and Jody’s box was already manoeuvring out of its slot and turning to go between two of the rows on its way to the gate.

I slid my binoculars to the ground and left them, and fairly sprinted. Ran in front of the first row of boxes and raced round the end to find Jody’s box completing its turn from between the rows about thirty yards away, and accelerating straight towards me.

I stood in its path and waved my arms for the driver to stop.

The driver knew me well enough. His name was Andy-Fred. He drove my horses regularly. I saw his face, looking horrified and strained, as he put his hand on the horn button and