Field of Thirteen - Dick Francis [48]
‘They’re too easily identified. Tattoo marks and registrations see to that. But foals, now. Newborn foals. Who’s to say which is which? So we take a top-class mare, now in foal by the best sire, and we drive her a long way off and sell her at the end of the journey to some owner or trainer who is glad to get a fabulously bred foal for a fraction of what it would cost him at auction.
‘The star foal is swapped soon after birth with any other one handy, and is registered and tattooed in its new identity. Its new owner knows what he’s really got, so after racing it he keeps it for stud. Some of my clients in the past have made millions out of these foals. I always collect a small percentage.’
Johnnie Duke listened with his mouth open.
‘This is not casual thieving,’ Martin Retsov said with a certain pride. ‘This is like stealing the Mona Lisa.’
‘But what happens to the brood mare afterwards? And to the other foal?’
‘Some of my clients have consciences. For these, for a consideration, I collect the mare and foal and dump them in any convenient field. If the owner of the field is honest, she gets identified and sent home.’
Johnnie Duke did not ask what happened when the client had no conscience. He swallowed.
‘Do you already have a buyer for the two we’re taking tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Of course. You don’t steal a Leonardo da Vinci on spec’ Martin Retsov laughed at the idea, showing a strong row of teeth. ‘When we’ve got the mares I’ll tell you where to go. You will go alone. And you will bring back the money.’
Johnnie Duke was again surprised. ‘Can you trust me?’ he asked.
‘I want to find out.’
The following evening at dusk they collected the newly-bought car and hitched on the trailer. Martin Retsov had difficulty manoeuvring the two linked vehicles in the small courtyard which enclosed the lock-up garage, and Johnnie Duke, trying to be helpful, went to the rear of the trailer to report how much space there was for reversing.
‘Get away from there,’ Martin Retsov said sharply. ‘Get away at once.’ He stood up out of the car and Johnnie Duke saw that he was shaking.
‘I was only…’ he began.
‘You are never to go behind the trailer. Understand? Never.’
‘Well, all right. If you say so.’
Martin Retsov took several deep breaths and wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers. He was horrified at the strength of his own reaction. Three years, he thought, had hardly blunted the terror at all. He wondered whether, if his nerves were so jumpy, it might not be better to abandon the whole project. He wondered whether the fact that it had taken him three years to get back to his business meant that deep down he was afraid to get back.
He licked his lips. His heart-beat settled down. This time there would be no ambush when he took the horses. That last time his potential client had betrayed him to the police, but this time it was perfectly safe. This client had bought three top-grade foals in the past and had been delighted to hear he could now have two more. Martin Retsov eased himself back into the car, and Johnnie Duke climbed in beside him.
‘What’s the matter?’ Johnnie asked.
‘I saw an accident once. Man fell behind a horsebox.’
‘Oh.’
Martin Retsov shut his mouth on the untellable details, but they rolled on inexorably through his mind. The ambush. Police spotlights suddenly shining out before his father was safe up beside him in the horsebox’s cab. He’d had to reverse a yard or two to get a clear run at the only space left between the police cars and the fence. He’d thrown the lever, stamped on the accelerator, shot backwards – he would never forget his father’s scream. Never.
Just one scream, cut short. He’d jumped from the cab and seen the tyre cutting into the belly, seen the blood pouring out of the dying mouth… and the other man, the policeman, standing there looking down and doing nothing to help.
‘Help him!’ Retsov had said frantically.
‘Help him yourself.’
He leaped back to the cab, climbed panic-stricken into the driving seat, knowing even as he pushed at the gear lever with a disembodied