a half mill’s still a lot…’
Shaunsheys made a show of considering, cocking his head towards the ceiling.
‘I tell you what, though,’ he went on. ‘I’ll give you a million for her right now. No risk. You can have the money tomorrow, in any account you like.’
Robinson shook his head in disbelief.
‘But you can’t—I can’t do that. She’s entered in the sale.’
‘So? She’ll stay in the sale. No one will ever know you sold her to me. She’ll go through the ring and what she makes will no longer be your worry, it’ll be mine.’
‘But what if she makes more than that?’
‘Then I’m laughing. But if she makes less, it’s you rolling in the aisles. There aren’t many buyers for a filly like her at the top end, and if those jokers happen not to turn up, she’ll go for a few hundred thou. This offer guarantees you a return which, in my opinion, you can’t turn down. My professional opinion, Rupert.’
Now it was Robinson’s turn to consider. Or to try to think, at least. Christ, if only a some bastard hadn’t infiltrated his skull with a pair of pliers.
‘One and a half,’ he said, ‘and we split anything on top fifty-fifty.’
‘You can’t have your cake and eat it, Rupert,’ sneered Shaunsheys. ‘Sell the horse to me now for a million. It’s terrible what accidents horses can have just before they go to the sales.’
‘That is bloody extortion.’
‘Really? I would say I’m making you a very generous offer. Yes or no?’
Rupert Robinson looked out of the window. An old lady was struggling with her shopping over the zebra crossing. Suddenly a car hurtled past, narrowly missing her. He winced. He couldn’t afford anything to go wrong with Stella Maris before the sale. He needed a million pounds. He just had to get it. And Shaunsheys was right, he might not if the horse went through the ring.
‘I’ll take one and a quarter,’ he muttered, trying to sound cool, though he felt as if he had a raging fever.
‘The offer is one million, Rupert. Yes or no.’
Robinson turned from the window, his fists clenched.
‘Damn you, Shaunsheys! Where will you get the money? It’s not really you, is it? You’re acting for someone.’
Shaunsheys stood up, a satisfied smile playing over his lips.
‘Good, so it’s a deal. If you just tell me where you want the money, it will be with you tomorrow. I was sure you’d see sense, so I took the liberty of printing off a little contract. Just so you don’t forget.’
Shaunsheys pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and took out two pages, both with the same agreement printed on them. It was that Stella Maris was sold to Shug Shaunsheys by Rupert Robinson for one million pounds. With the bookie’s biro that Shaunsheys fished from his trousers, Robinson reluctantly signed both copies. Shaunsheys took back one of them, carefully folded it and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
‘There you are,’ he said, in the voice of a dentist to a child. ‘That didn’t hurt. There are just a couple of small points in addition. You’re never to tell anyone that we’ve done this. It would be most distressing for your uncle if it ever got out. He might even have to resign from the Jockey Club. Where would he go for lunch then? As far as everyone’s concerned you are still the seller, and you will of course be at Newmarket for the sale. You will even remember to buy us a drink if we buy her, won’t you Rupert? I don’t want you forgetting those nice manners you learnt at Eton.’
‘Us? Who is us?’
‘You’ll see.’
Slowly his befuddled brain had pieced together Shaunsheys’s scam. It was the middleman’s revenge, playing both ends. He must be certain his client would go over the million, so the difference would be clear profit for Shaunsheys. Rupert knew that, if the fraud squad got to hear about it, they’d all be in the shit, including himself now that he’d signed Shaunsheys’s contract.
The bloodstock agent held out his hand and clicked his pudgy fingers.
‘Now, your bank details.’
Wearily Robinson walked over to his desk and took out his cheque book from the top right hand drawer. On a post-it note he copied the account name and number from a blank cheque.
‘If it’s not there by close of play tomorrow, the deal’s off,’ Robinson hissed as he marched sulkily into the hall and yanked open the front door. He stood leaning on the doorframe with his eyes closed, holding out the post-it note. It wasn’t that he was all that disappointed with the amount he was getting for Stella Maris. What really tweaked his wick was the fact that a slug like Shaunsheys was driving the deal, and making himself rich in the process.
Shaunsheys picked the bank details from Robinson’s fingers as he walked through the door. His face wore a smug smile.
‘Nice doing business, Rupert,’ he smirked.
But the door had already slammed behind him.
Shaunsheys didn’t mind. He had twenty-four hours to find someone who’d lend him the million. It wouldn’t exactly be at bank rate, of course, but Shaunsheys wasn’t worried about that.
Newmarket after dark in December can feel like the coldest place on earth. And it’s not just the people. The wind that comes whipping in off the North Sea was originally refrigerated in Siberia.
Stanislav Shalakov swept into the Newmarket thoroughbred sales in a convoy of blacked-out Mercedes. A detail of bodyguards in bulky overcoats spilled out of the first of these, as the rest of them pulled up. The entrance to the sales was weakly lit, and it was surrounded by pitch darkness.
Shalakov had plenty of enemies, but he had no intention of suffering a demise similar to Alexander Litvenenko. If anyone wanted to get at him with Polonium they’d have to get past Martin Harrison and Alexei first. Harrison, with his army training, had swept the ground around the entrance. Now he stepped out of the shadows and approached the stocky, thickset bodyguard standing by the door of the third car. He gave him a nod. Alexei looked around suspiciously. He was out of his territory. Bodyguards don’t much like the unknown. After a third and final check he knocked twice on the door. A couple of seconds later he pulled it open.
Shalakov got out of the car stiffly in his long black leather coat. Years of severe Siberian winters had left their legacy with the General. If he sat in a car for too long his back seized up, which did nothing for his mood. Neither had the journey from London on the traffic-clogged M11.
‘This had better be worth my while,’ he barked at Nico, who was hovering by the door of the third car, clutching his sales catalogue and trying to smile. His credibility as a bloodstock fix-it was on thin ice tonight.
Shalakov and his entourage had barely walked through the gate when Shaunsheys, wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap, sidled up like a crab. Shalakov looked him up and down. There was nothing remotely trustworthy about the man, and Shalakov knew it.
‘Why can’t you English do something with your roads?’ Shalakov growled. ‘Do you understand how much time I have wasted? When will this horse go through the ring?’
‘Oh, not long, General,’ Shaunsheys said humbly. ‘She’s in the ring in a couple of lots time.’
‘So, we are nearly late? Show me the way.’
Shalakov may not have liked Shaunsheys and certainly didn’t trust him, but he didn’t need to. Shalakov was used to working with people he despised. And, as long as the bloodstock agent had seized this last