‘Only Tristan de Montigny screeching down the drive in that fuck-off car, nearly running me down. Here’s Isa! Please don’t tell him I’ve been gossiping — I might want a reference.’
Gablecross had long hero-worshipped Jake Lovell, as a show-jumper then a trainer, and no jockey had captured the public’s imagination more than his son. Other riders feared Isa, whispering of the risks he took, how he slithered through gaps of which no-one else was capable, how he hurtled past uttering gypsy curses, turning dark evil eyes on the opposition until it melted away.
But as he got out of a second-hand Merc, chewing gum and dressed in patched black jeans and a nettle-green shirt, dark glasses hiding the evil eyes, he looked harmless enough. About five foot eight, the same height as Rannaldini but half the width, he stood watching them, as narrow and dark as a cypress at noon.
Having taken in Karen’s beauty, he ignored her, addressing all his remarks to Gablecross, who immediately softened him up by congratulating him on winning the Grand Annual in Australia last week. Gablecross then displayed so much knowledge about The Prince’s form last winter that Isa took him over to be introduced.
Having ruffled The Prince’s mane and scratched him behind his ears, Isa removed his muzzle before giving him a Polo. But as Gablecross approached, his equine hero darted huge teeth at him with a furious squeal.
‘Shurrup.’ Isa cuffed The Prince affectionately on his black nose. In his soft Birmingham accent, he confirmed Janice’s statement that he’d dropped in on Sunday night to check the horses and his wife, who he hadn’t seen since his return from Australia in June.
‘Long time to leave such a beautiful young woman,’ chided Karen.
‘Times are hard for jump jockeys,’ snapped Isa. ‘You go where the work is.’
At first he flatly denied taking any calls at the yard.
‘We have evidence’, Gablecross flipped back through Karen’s notebook, ‘that your mobile rang around nine thirty, and you cancelled an arrangement to meet someone because the coast wasn’t clear.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Isa was feeling The Prince’s legs for swelling. He had a bad habit of galloping round on this hard ground. ‘People seem to know more about my life than I do.’
‘Who were you talking to?’
There was a pause.
‘I don’t remember, my mobile rings all day — probably my father, and me telling him Rannaldini was at home and we couldn’t remove a horse.’
‘Which horse?’
‘Sparkling — that grey on the left. Rannaldini had a bee in his bonnet the horse wasn’t doing well enough, wanted to give it a blood transfusion before its next race in the autumn. Sometimes it peps them up, more often it wrecks them.’
‘Can we have your father’s number, so we can check on the time?’ said Karen.
Creating a convenient diversion The Prince lunged at Karen’s notebook, sending her scuttling across the yard.
‘He’s ex-directory. I’ll get him to call you.’
‘How was Mrs Lovell when you got back?’ asked Gablecross idly.
‘I missed her. She left a message on my machine saying she was going back to Penscombe because Rannaldini’d found her stepmother’s dog and she’d be back around midnight.’
‘Have you got the tape?’
‘Yes, but the message will have been wiped by now.’
‘You must have been disappointed.’
Isa didn’t answer. His hands tested The Prince’s back.
‘Your cleaner’, Karen peered at her notebook, ‘said there was evidence that Mrs Lovell had been, er, dolling herself up, make-up unscrewed, powder spilt on the dressing-table, place reeking of perfume, new dress, packaging and labels on the floor,’ Karen was taunting Isa now, ‘and, more unusual, the bed was made.’
‘First time since we were married,’ said Isa.
‘Why d’you think she made it?’
‘Turning over a new leaf, perhaps. She wasn’t domesticated.’ He took another piece of green chewing-gum out of his hip pocket.
‘Or expecting someone else? What did you do while you were at the cottage?’
‘Opened a can of Diet Coke, ate a chicken leg, fed Sharon, read my mail and the racing pages of the Sundays — there was a good piece on the Grand Annual in the
He bolted The Prince’s door and moved on to the grey, Sparkling, who greeted him with evident pleasure.
‘I also picked up my washing,’ he added bitchily, ‘which my wife hadn’t touched since before I left for Oz, and took it home to my mother.’
He had been spending most of his time over at Jake’s yard because of his father’s deteriorating strength.
‘He can’t look after thirty horses on his own. Baby’s horses are here,’ he pointed to a bay, and two chestnuts down the row, ‘but I’m thinking of taking them back to Warwickshire. The grass is better there.’
‘Friend of Baby’s, are you?’
‘I find horses and ride for him.’
‘No idea who he might have been meeting at Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons on Sunday night?’
‘None,’ said Isa flatly. ‘Our relationship is strictly business.’
‘How did you get on with Rannaldini?’
‘He was an owner. They’re always easier when you win for them.’
‘Did you argue a lot?’
‘Yes.’
