Citizen. Charlie Brooks

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      Shaunsheys was on the whole a loner who had no proper friends. He’d been sniffing around the bloodstock world for most of his adult life, and was now formally operating as a freelance bloodstock agent, matching buyers with sellers and vice versa. But he lacked the social skills that would ensure real success in this role, and much of the time he was forced to make ends meet as a stooge in the sales ring. Shaunsheys would help bid up lots on occasions when there would be only one prospective buyer and, consequently, the danger of a low sale price. In return for a substantial ‘drink’ he would take up a prominent position at the side of the ring and call entirely fictional bids, if necessary against an accomplice posted elsewhere. They would only go up to an agreed level and then drop out, leaving the genuine bidder paying an artificially inflated price.

      The trick was to know how far you could push it, and that meant knowing the market, and the target buyers. Shaunsheys was a natural spy. He spent a good deal of time shadowing prospective bidders around the sales grounds, overhearing their comments and counting how often they came back ‘for just one more look’ at a yearling.

      Technically illegal though all this was, the bloodstock world pretty much turned a blind eye. Shaunsheys was, after all, an agent; his fake bids could plausibly be passed off as those of a confidential client; and it all added up to more currency trickling onto racing’s cash carousel.

      Johnny the Fish appeared behind the bar, smart in brass-buttoned blazer and yellow bow tie, with matching silk handkerchief overflowing his breast pocket.

      ‘Glad you could make it, Shug,’ he said rather condescendingly.

      Shaunsheys was not his type but the Fish nevertheless had a feeling, however reluctantly, that they were going to be confederates; that they would be playing on the same team with this one. He picked up a glass and put it to the whisky optic.

      ‘So what’s this all about, Johnny?’ asked Shaunsheys plaintively. ‘I was just putting my feet up for a quiet night in.’

      In a swift single movement, Johnny the Fish drained his glass and applied it to the optic again. Then he turned back to Shaunsheys.

      ‘Come through to the office. You never know who’s going to walk in to this place.’

      Shaunsheys picked up his pint and followed the landlord to a small untidy room dominated by a big knee-hole desk, whose surface was littered with unpaid bills, files and form books. Johnny the Fish sat down in his revolving leather-covered chair and beckoned to Shaunsheys to sit opposite.

      ‘It’s like this, Shug,’ he began. ‘I had a call from our old friend the Duke.’

      Shug fingered his pint glass.

      ‘I hope you haven’t got me out here to meet him.’

      ‘No. I told you. There’s a Russian guy that wants to meet you. He’s been sent our way by the Duke. He’s called Nico. He’s the side kick of some Russian oligarch.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘They want to buy some horses. The Duke has put you in.’

      Shaunsheys took a considered pull on his pint.

      ‘What sort of oligarch? Roman Abramovich?’ Shug asked patronizingly.

      ‘Look are you interested, or not?’ Johnny was getting the hump with Shaunsheys’ abruptness.

      ‘Obviously I’m interested. But how did my name come up in the first place? I mean, it’s been a while since I had anything to do with the Duke; not since he froze my account, the bastard.’

      ‘He’s probably hoping you’ll make enough out of this to pay him.’

      ‘So how will I do that, exactly?’

      Johnny the Fish bent forward confidentially.

      ‘This guy wants to place a couple of good horses with a Newmarket trainer, but that’s just to test the water. He’s got more long-term plans. You mentioned Abramovich. Nico—the side kick—he reckons this guy wants to be the next Abramovich, but in racing instead of football. And if that’s right, I don’t have to tell you he’ll be thinking very big. Big string. Big breeding operation. Big brown envelopes. They’ve already picked a trainer—David Sinclair—but they want an agent.’

      Shaunsheys was still puzzled.

      ‘Okay, I’m with you so far. But it’ll be Sinclair who’ll buy him his horses, or produce a couple from his yard that he hasn’t sold on. He won’t particularly want to work with me.’

      ‘No, you’re getting me wrong, Shug. Your role’s nothing to do with Sinclair. The thing is, they also want a top-class brood mare. That’s where you come in…’ Johnny stopped in mid-sentence as the door swung open.

      ‘There’s a bloke in the bar, Johnny. Wants to see you,’ Shelley mumbled in her monotone voice. Shelley liked the Fish but she wasn’t a bloody messenger girl.

      ‘That, if I’m not mistaken, will be Nico. One thing Shug. You’ll need to look after me in this deal.’

      ‘Yeah. Of course,’ Shaunsheys concurred with a wave of his hand. In your fucking dreams, he thought, as they walked back to the bar.

       9

      During the preliminaries of the Irish Oaks at the Curragh, Tipper, who’d only just turned eighteen, had wondered if things could get any better if he lived to be a hundred. The tension at the start was almost suffocating. But, as Stella Maris jig-jogged around with the other horses, he felt elated rather than nervous. This was the most important fillies’ classic in the Irish flat racing calendar, and he was riding the most beautiful horse in the field.

      She was not just a beauty; she was arguably the best too. The Hon. Rupert Robinson had hardly been able to believe his luck watching her skip home in her two preparatory contests. If she could now land a classic, he could sell her to stud and make back ten times what he’d put in.

      It had all seemed a long-shot when she’d arrived at Doyle’s place. The word had got around that she’d needed tranquillizers just to load her into the horse-transporter. She kicked behind, she bit in front and bolted whenever she could. So what made the difference? At the Oaks Doyle was asked that very question by RTE.

      ‘It’s a great team I’ve got,’ he told the television presenter smugly. ‘Everyone’s played their part to get her here, you know?’

      He was lying, of course: the real difference was Tipper O’Reilly.

      And as Stella Maris became a hot topic in racing circles in the weeks leading up to the Oaks, Tipper had been showing what a useful jockey he was all round; able to judge pace, keep a horse balanced in a packed field and time a run to the line. As a result he’d begun to get rides from other stables. Some were even on winners and, before long, he found himself leading the field for the apprentice jockeys’ championship. But claimers—jockeys so inexperienced they get a weight advantage of seven, five or three pounds—are hardly ever entrusted with runners in Group One races. So the question round every bar table on the course was, could this downy-cheeked boy of eighteen beat the grizzled and hardened СКАЧАТЬ