She turned round in surprise.
‘Mr Halley!’
‘Hop in.’
She hopped. That is to say, she opened the door, picked up the Brinton file which was lying on the passenger seat, sat down, tidily folded her coat over her knees, and pulled the door shut again. The bad side of her face was towards me, and she was very conscious of it. The scarf and the hair were gently pulled forward.
I took a pound and a ten shilling note out of my pocket and gave them to her. She took them, smiling.
‘The taxi-man told our switchboard girl you gave him that for bringing the leaflet. Thank you very much.’ I swung out through the traffic and headed for Finchley.
She answered obliquely. ‘That wretched chicken is still in the oven, stone cold. I just turned the gas out yesterday, after you’d gone.’
‘I wish I could stay this evening instead,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got a job on for the agency.’
‘Another time,’ she said tranquilly. ‘Another time, perhaps. I understand that you couldn’t tell me at first who you worked for, because you didn’t know whether I was an… er, an accomplice of Mr Bolt’s, and afterwards you didn’t tell me for fear of what actually happened, that I would be upset. So that’s that.’
‘You are generous.’
‘Realistic, even if a bit late.’
We went a little way in silence. Then I asked ‘What would happen to the shares Kraye owns if it were proved he was sabotaging the company? If he were convicted, I mean. Would his shares be confiscated, or would he still own them when he came out of jail?’
‘I’ve never heard of anyone’s shares being confiscated,’ she said, sounding interested. ‘But surely that’s a long way in the future?’
‘I wish I knew. It makes a good deal of difference to what I should do now.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well… an easy way to stop Kraye buying too many more shares would be to tell the racing press and the financial press that a take-over is being attempted. The price would rocket. But Kraye already holds twenty-three per cent, and if the law couldn’t take it away from him, he would either stick to that and vote for a sell out, or if he got cold feet he could unload his shares at the higher price and still make a fat profit. Either way, he’d be sitting pretty financially, in jail or out. And either way Seabury would be built on.’
‘I suppose this sort of thing’s happened before?’
‘Take-overs, yes, several. But only one other case of sabotage. At Dunstable. Kraye again.’
‘Haven’t any courses survived a take-over bid?’
‘Only Sandown, publicly. I don’t know of any others, but they may have managed it in secrecy.’
‘How did Sandown do it?’
‘The local council did it for them. Stated loudly that planning permission would not be given for building. Of course the bid collapsed then.’
‘It looks as though the only hope for Seabury, in that case, is that the council there will act in the same way. I’d try a strong lobby, if I were you.’
‘You’re quite a girl, Miss Martin,’ I said smiling. ‘That’s a very good idea. I’ll go and dip a toe into the climate of opinion at the Town Hall.’
She nodded approvingly. ‘No good lobbying against the grain. Much better to find out which way people are likely to move before you start pushing!’
Finchley came into sight. I said. ‘You do realise, Miss Martin, that if I am successful at my job, you will lose yours?’
She laughed. ‘Poor Mr Bolt. He’s not at all bad to work for. But don’t worry about my job. It’s easy for an experienced stockbroker’s secretary to get a good one, I assure you.’
I stopped at her gate, looking at my watch. ‘I’m afraid I can’t come in. I’m already going to be a bit late.’
She opened the door without ado and climbed out. ‘Thank you for coming at all.’ She smiled, shut the door crisply, and waved me away.
I drove back to my flat as fast as I could, fuming slightly at the traffic. It wasn’t until I switched off the engine down in the garage and leaned over to pick it up that I discovered the Brinton file wasn’t there. And then remembered Miss Martin holding it on her lap during the journey, and me hustling her out of the car. Zanna Martin still had Brinton’s file. I hadn’t time to go back for it, and I couldn’t ring her up because I didn’t know the name of the owner of the house she lived in. But surely, I reassured myself, surely the file would be safe enough where it was until Friday.
TWELVE
Chico and I sat huddled together for warmth in some gorse bushes and watched the sun rise over Seabury Racecourse. It had been a cold clear night with a tingle of nought degrees centigrade about it, and we were both shivering.
Behind us, among the bushes and out of sight, Revelation, one-time winner of the Cheltenham Gold Cup, was breakfasting on meagre patches of grass. We could hear the scrunch when he bit down close to the roots, and the faint chink of the bridle as he ate. For some time Chico and I had been resisting the temptation to relieve him of his nice warm rug.
‘They might try something now,’ said Chico hopefully. ‘First light, before anyone’s up.’
Nothing had moved in the night, we were certain of that. Every hour I had ridden Revelation at a careful walk round the whole of the track itself, and Chico had made a plimsole-shod inspection of the stands, at one with the shadows. There had been no one about. Not a sound but the stirring breeze, not a glimmer of light but from the stars and a waning moon.
Our present spot, chosen as the sky lightened and some concealment became necessary, lay at the furthest spot from the stands, at the bottom of the semi-circle of track cut off by the road which ran across the course. Scattered bushes and scrub filled the space between the track and boundary fence, enough to shield us from all but closely prying eyes. Behind the boundary fence were the little back gardens of the first row of bungalows. The sun rose bright and yellow away to our left and the birds sang around us. It was half past seven.
‘It’s going to be a lovely day,’ said Chico.
At ten past nine there was some activity up by the stands and the tractor rolled on to the course pulling a trailer. I unshipped my race glasses, balanced them on my bent up knees, and took a look. The trailer was loaded with what I guessed were hurdles, and was accompanied by three men on foot.
I handed the glasses to Chico without comment, and yawned.
‘Lawful occasions,’ he remarked, bored.
We watched the tractor and trailer lumber slowly round the far end of the course, pause to unload, and return for a refill. On its second trip it came close enough for us to confirm that it was in fact the spare hurdles that were being dumped into position, four or five at each flight, ready to be used if any were splintered in the races. We watched for a while in silence. Then I said slowly, ‘Chico, I’ve been blind.’
‘Huh?’
‘The tractor,’ I said. ‘The tractor. Under our noses all the time.’
‘So?’
‘So the sulphuric acid tanker was pulled over by a tractor. No complicated lifting gear necessary. Just a couple of ropes or chains slung over the top of the tanker and fastened round the axles. Then you unscrew the hatches and stand well clear. Someone drives the tractor at full power up the course, over goes the tanker and out pours the juice. And Bob’s your uncle!’
‘Every racecourse has a tractor,’ said Chico thoughtfully.
‘That’s right.’
‘So no one would look twice at a tractor on a racecourse. Quite. No one would remark on any tracks it left. No one would mention seeing one on the road. So if you’re right, and I’d say you certainly are, it wouldn’t necessarily
