He smiled at me and I smiled back. Alfie Hart had trained the winner of the previous October’s Breeders’ Cup Mile and I could tell he was pleased that I knew.
“I’m surprised to see you at a jumps meeting,” I said to him. “I thought you trained exclusively on the flat.”
“I do,” he said. He looked about him and lowered his voice. “But one never says no to Derrick.”
“No,” I agreed. And not, I thought, when Derrick has more than a dozen seriously good horses in one’s stable.
Alfie went back inside the box to get himself a refill of champagne, but I was not alone for long. Derrick returned with the tall gray-haired man I’d seen with him the previous week.
“This is Sir Richard Reynard,” Derrick said.
“We met at Newbury.”
“Yes, of course you did. Sir Richard is fairly new to racing and I’m trying to convince him to buy a horse.”
“Derrick’s just been telling me about your exploits at Ascot,” Sir Richard said. “I’m very impressed.”
“Thank you,” I said, “I was only doing my job.”
“And what job is that?” he asked.
“I’m an investigator for the British Horseracing Authority,” I said.
“Is there much in horseracing to investigate?”
“Some,” I said. “Maybe not as much as some people would have you believe, but enough to keep me occupied.”
He smiled. “So is it safe enough for me to invest in a horse?”
“It depends on what you mean by safe,” I said. “Very few racehorse owners make a positive return on their investment. Most do it for the love of the sport and the thrill of winning races—even if the prize money doesn’t usually cover the training fees, let alone the capital outlay.”
I could tell he didn’t think much of that.
“But Derrick says there are fortunes to be made from breeding.”
“Only if you are lucky enough, like him, to have owned a Derby winner,” I said. “Almost all male horses in the jumping game are geldings.”
“I wasn’t considering the jumping game,” he said, staring into space.
From the look on his face, I imagined he was visualizing himself leading the winner into the famous Derby unsaddling circles at Epsom or Churchill Downs. It was a fantasy that most owners entertained at some point in their lives yet only a handful of them ever fulfilled it in reality.
“Jeff,” said Gay Smith, taking my arm. “Come and meet some friends of ours from the Cayman Islands.”
She guided me to the other end of the balcony, where a smartly dressed suntanned couple were standing together holding half-full glasses of champagne. I would have put them both in their early to mid-forties.
“Theresa and Martin,” Gay called to them, “meet Jeff Hinkley.”
We shook hands.
“Gay says you live in the Cayman Islands,” I said.
“That’s right,” said Theresa. “We have a house on Seven Mile Beach not that far from Gay and Derrick’s place.”
“Have you been there long?” I asked.
“Ten years now,” Theresa replied. “We love it there, don’t we, Martin?”
Martin didn’t say anything, but I was used to him not replying.
Martin was the man who had turned away from me on the balcony of the hospitality room at Newbury on Hennessy Gold Cup day. The man who was then being told that he was a total fucking idiot.
11
We sat down to lunch just before noon, by which time some other guests had arrived, making twenty of us in all in the box.
“I’m sorry we have to eat so early,” said Derrick, ushering everyone in from the balcony. “It’s high time they installed some floodlights at Sandown so that racing could be later in the day during the winter.”
We were seated at two round tables for ten and I found myself placed between Gay Smith and an attractive young woman in a smart tweed suit who I had been spying from afar ever since she’d arrived.
“Hello,” she said. “My name’s Henri—Henrietta Shawcross.”
“Jeff Hinkley,” I replied, shaking her hand.
“Oh, I know who you are,” Henri said. “I think everyone here does. You’re Derrick’s superhero.”
“He exaggerates.”
“How did you do it?” she asked.
“What?”
“Save his horse.”
“I merely uncovered a conspiracy to steal the horse and set a trap to catch the villains in the act. It was nothing very special.”
She looked disappointed. “It must have been a tiny bit exciting.”
I thought back. It had been far more worrying than exciting, as I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that it would happen and I’d mobilized the whole of the BHA integrity team plus several members of the Thames Valley police force.
We had secretly lain in wait outside the Ascot racetrack stables for nearly two hours and I was worried that I’d been wrong and would look foolish if nothing happened. But, thankfully, right on cue, the bad guys had turned up just as Secret Ways was being unloaded from the trailer that had brought him to the racetrack.
One of them had managed to knock over the groom and even had his hand on the horse’s halter when the trap was sprung.
In truth, it had been very satisfying and, yes, rather exciting.
“A tiny bit,” I agreed with a smile. “What do you do?”
“I work for a recruitment agency,” she said. “We recruit chefs, waiters and waitresses for the catering business.”
“And is that a tiny bit exciting?” I asked.
“Don’t poke fun at me,” she said, slightly offended. “I work hard at my job and I enjoy it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to be rude.” Just funny. And it had backfired. “So how long have you known Derrick?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“I met him for the first time today,” she said. “I’m here with my uncle.” She pointed at Sir Richard Reynard, who was sitting at the other table.
I must have involuntarily raised a questioning eyebrow.
She laughed. “No, really, he is my uncle. I promise you. He’s my mother’s elder brother. I’m only here because my aunt Mary couldn’t make it. She’s organizing a Christmas fair in their local church hall, so Uncle Richard asked me to come with him instead.”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
“Shut up,” she said, laughing and bashing me playfully on the arm. “It’s true, I tell you.”
“OK, I believe you,” I said between guffaws. “But countless others might not.”
“What are you two laughing at?” asked Gay Smith, turning toward us.
“Miss Goody Two-shoes here is trying to tell me she came with her uncle while I’m convinced he’s actually her sugar daddy.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Gay said, “Henrietta Shawcross doesn’t need a sugar daddy. And, yes, Sir Richard Reynard is indeed her uncle.”
That put me in my place.
“Sorry,” I said again.
“Don’t be,” Henri said. “That’s the best laugh I’ve had in ages.”
“Do you know anyone else here?” I asked her.
“A few,” she said.
I dropped my voice. “How about the suntanned couple at the other table. The wife is sitting next to your uncle.”
“You mean Theresa and Martin.”
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”
“Martin’s my cousin. Uncle Richard is his father. Martin’s the one who’s mad keen on racing. He’s the real reason why we’re all here. Martin and Theresa want Uncle Richard to start owning racehorses. They’ve roped Derrick Smith in to help them convince him it’s a good idea.”
I nodded. “Your cousin and Derrick both have houses in the Cayman I
slands,” I said.
“Yes. I’ve been there often. It’s lovely.”
A waitress placed a shrimp cocktail in front of me. I wanted to go on talking with Henri about Martin Reynard, but Gay put her hand on my arm as if to indicate she wanted my full attention.
“So you work for the Jockey Club?” she said, taking a mouthful of the shrimp.
“Sort of,” I replied. “Not actually for the Jockey Club, but I do work for the racing authorities. I’m an investigator.”
“I wouldn’t have thought there was enough to investigate for it to be a full-time job.”
“There’s plenty to keep me busy, believe me, and the other four investigators in my team. There is always someone trying to beat the system and, if it’s against the rules, our job is to stop them.”
“Is it possible to beat the system without breaking the rules?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “And some trainers are very good at it.”
“How?” Gay asked.
“It’s called beating the handicapper,” I said. “Other than those just starting out on their racing careers, every horse in training in the UK is given an official handicap rating each Tuesday depending on how it has run and how those it has raced against have also performed. If a horse runs well compared to others, its rating will go up, and if it runs badly the rating will go down. And the rating is used to determine the weight it has to carry in handicap races.”
“So?” she asked, puzzled.
“For a horse to be officially rated, it has to either win a race or it has to have run in three races and be placed in the first six in at least one of them. Suppose a trainer has a horse that has been specifically bred to be good at middle and long distances. He runs it in three moderate sprints over just five furlongs as a young, green two-year-old and, predictably, it doesn’t do very well but it does manage to come in sixth in one of them, maybe out of only six or seven runners. So the horse gets an official rating that is very low, but, crucially, it is now qualified to run in handicaps.
“The trainer then doesn’t run the horse again until the following year, by which time it has fully developed and is ready to race over a much greater distance. The trainer now places it in a mile-and-a-half handicap for horses with similarly poor ratings and, not surprisingly, it wins easily. If the trainer goes on entering the horse in the right races, it can run up a whole series of wins against moderate opposition before the handicapper catches up and raises its rating to a more appropriate value.”
“Is that legal?” Gay asked.
“Yes, completely legal. It’s simply the trainer playing the handicap system to his advantage.”
I looked across the table at Alfie Hart. He was one of the best exponents of the practice.
“How fascinating,” Gay Smith said, yet I feared I was boring her as she turned away to talk to the person on her far side.
I finished my shrimp and turned back to Henri, but she was chatting away merrily to another lady beyond her, so I spent some time studying the afternoon’s race program. I noticed that Bill McKenzie was still down to ride two horses, one of them in the first race and the other in the fourth.
“Trying to pick a winner?” Henri said. “Do tell.”
“Don’t ask me, I’m hopeless at choosing winners,” I said. “My best tip of the day is to keep your money in your pocket.”
“Boring!” Henri said loudly. She received a stern glare from her uncle at the other table.
She blushed.
“Now look what you’ve made me do,” she said to me.
“Don’t blame me,” I said.
“Why not?” She smiled. “Are you married?”
“No,” I said.
“Are you gay?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Most men I know of my age are either married or gay.”
“Well, I’m neither,” I said. “How about you?”
“That’s a secret.”
She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I’d already checked.
She opened her race program. “Come on, pick me a winner.”
“Autumn Statement,” I said, “in the second.”
She looked down at the printed race details.
“Why that one?” she asked, clearly unimpressed by the horse’s lowly status.
“He ran on Tuesday at Southwell. I was there and watched the race. He was only beaten a short head by a very good horse that’s not running today. His rating is sure to rise considerably this coming week, but he can still run today on the old rating, which means he’s very well handicapped.”
“I thought you said you were hopeless at picking winners.”
“He hasn’t won yet and he’ll probably start at fairly short odds.”
“How about in the first race? Do you fancy Medication? He’s the favorite.”
“I’ve no idea, but you had better be quick if you want to make a bet because they’re already at the start.”
She stood up and rushed out of the box, along with some of the other guests.
I looked up at the television screen in the corner of the room. Bill McKenzie was indeed riding as advertised, which meant that he wasn’t concussed. I wondered if the confusion he had exhibited in the medical room the previous evening had been because his mind had been on other matters—like how long he would be banned from riding if anyone knew he had lost the race on purpose.
—
AUTUMN STATEMENT won the second race by two lengths at the surprisingly long price of six-to-one. Obviously, the betting public hadn’t appreciated his potential as much as I had.
“Three hundred quid!” squealed Henri as we watched the finish on the television in the box during our dessert. “I’ve just won three hundred quid.”
“How much did you put on?” I asked.
“Fifty pounds on the nose.”
“You’re crazy,” I said. “Either that or you’ve more money than sense.”
“Maybe I am a bit crazy,” she said, laughing. “And what if I do have more money than sense. You’re the one who tipped it. Surely you backed it as well.”
I hadn’t. In fact, I very rarely had any bet at all. Even though there was no rule actually preventing me from gambling on the races, I was concerned that some people might think there was a conflict of interest if I wanted one horse to win more than another. The Authority was meant to be impartial in all matters.
Or maybe it was because my tipping skills were generally so poor and I didn’t like losing my hard-earned cash.
“Actually, no,” I said. “But I’m pleased for you that it won.” I smiled at her.
“You’re a strange bird, aren’t you?”
“Am I?” I said, slightly taken aback. “In what way?”
“Do you always live within the rules?”
“Rules or laws?”
“Both,” she said. “The laws of the land and the rules of convention and polite society.”
“Are you implying that you don’t?”
“Dead right, I don’t. But I’m on my best behavior today. I was warned by Uncle Richard not to make what he calls a scene. Otherwise, he’d be bloody cross and take me straight home.” She mimicked an angry male voice.
“And would he then spank you for being a naughty girl?”
She blushed again and, I daresay, I did as well.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, hugely embarrassed. “I’m not sure what came over me. It must be the champagne. Please forget I ever said that.”
“My,” she replied. “You’re even stranger than I thought.”
How could I have said it? It was so out of character. Had I been trying to break away from the live within the rules of polite society classification in which Henri had so accurately placed me? Or, maybe I was just frustrated. Either way, I’d made a complete fool of myself.
I stood up. “I think I had better be going.”
“Don’t go,” commanded Gay Smith from my other side, turning briefly toward me. “I haven’t spent enough time talking to you. And we haven’t had our coffee yet.”
I sat down again slowly and, to add to my discomfiture, Henri was shaking from a fit of giggles.
“Stop it,” I said to her quietly.
She took a deep breath and stopped laughing.
“And what are you going to do if I don’t? Spank me?”
She started giggling again immediately, this time twice as badly. And giggles are highly infectious. It was as much as I could do not to join in.
The rest of the lunch was a torment as I tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to ignore Henri, who went on sniggering throughout.
Although, to be honest, part of me didn’t want to ignore her at all.
—
I WATCHED the third race from the balcony with Gay Smith and then made my apologies and left, going down to the weighing room and the paddock, to my more familiar surroundings on the racetrack.
“Do come back for afternoon tea after the fifth,” Gay had said as I departed. But we’d only just finished an enormous lunch. Many more days like this would see my waistline expand, but I suppose it was better than spending every day trying to keep one’s body weight at twenty pounds below what was natural, as Dave Swinton had done.
Even six days after the event, the main topic of conversation was still his suicide. He had been expected to ride Ebury Tiger, the red-hot favorite in the Tingle Creek Chase later in the afternoon, having ridden it on each of its nine previous victories over hurdles and fences.
There was a general acceptance that it had been a good thing for the racing authorities to have canceled all race meetings for the following Monday, the day of Dave’s funeral, as a mark of respect for the loss of one of the sport’s greats. Very many racing fans had lost their hero, and the Morning Line on Channel 4 that day had broadcast such a gushing obituary that all the newscasters had been in tears.
I, meanwhile, was not feeling quite so reverential about the late champion jockey, but, there again, he had tried to kill me. And I was still having nightmares about my time in that sauna.
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