Bugger, I thought. And moving was now impossible as we were hemmed in by other cars parked behind us and with a tape in front. Perhaps Mitchell wouldn’t notice.
“Stay in the car,” I said to Emily.
“Why?”
“I really don’t want to have to talk to the man in the car next to us.”
Emily looked to her left, past my nose.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“A man called Mitchell Stacey.”
“And why don’t you want to talk to him?”
“He’s a trainer,” I said. “He’s got runners here today. And he doesn’t like me very much.”
“Why not?”
I could hardly tell her that he was my ex-girlfriend’s husband and I had cuckolded him or that he had threatened to kill me.
“He just doesn’t.”
“Kiss me, then,” she said, “and he’ll go away.”
I leaned over and kissed her, long and passionately, as Mitchell climbed out of his car, collected his coat from the trunk, and walked away toward the enclosures. I had no idea if he’d even seen us, let alone if he had recognized me.
“He’s gone,” Emily said.
We watched him go through the entrance and into the track.
“I’d rather not be here when he comes back.”
She must have detected something in my voice. “Are you frightened of him?”
“He has a very nasty temper,” I said, “and I’ve been at the wrong end of it.”
“What did you do?” she asked, “sleep with his wife?”
I looked at her in astonishment. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”
She laughed. “You men. No sense of decorum. Can’t you control your little willies?”
“It wasn’t all that little last night,” I said with a grin.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, giggling. “I’ve seen bigger.”
I decided not to continue this discussion for fear of being completely humiliated.
“Come on,” I said, getting out of the car, “I’ve got work to do.”
—
EMILY AND I walked arm in arm into the racetrack enclosures and toward the weighing room and came face-to-face with Mitchell Stacey, who was coming out with a saddle over his arm.
We all stopped, and Mitchell stared at me. If looks could kill, I would have expired on the spot. Then he turned his eyes toward Emily.
“Whose wife are you, then?” he asked sharply.
Emily said nothing but simply smiled at him, which seemed to disturb him even more.
I, meanwhile, also said nothing, although I was tempted to ask him where he’d been at eleven o’clock on the previous Friday evening. I could still feel my sore neck.
“I’ve had the police round because of you.” Mitchell sneered in my direction. “Keep me out of your sordid little business. Do you hear?”
I again said nothing, and suddenly he walked on, brushing past me and disappearing in the general direction of the saddling stalls.
“Not a very friendly chap,” Emily said as we watched him go. “He doesn’t seem to like you very much.”
“No,” I said. “But I don’t like him very much either.”
“When did you sleep with his wife?”
I said nothing.
“Recently, then, was it?”
“She’s much younger than him,” I said stupidly as if it mattered.
“Are you still sleeping with her?” Emily asked in a deadpan voice, but one with multiple undertones.
“No,” I said emphatically, “I am not. I’ve got a new girlfriend now.”
“Oh really,” she said, laughing. “Who’s that, then?”
I squeezed her waist, but she squirmed away from me.
“Don’t touch me, you . . . you . . . serial adulterer!” she cried.
“Keep your voice down,” I said, looking around to see if anyone had heard. “How can I be an adulterer when I’ve never been married? And anyway, you told me you were divorced.”
“Only decree nisi,” she said. “Technically, for another week or two, I’m still a married woman.”
“Come on, then, married woman, I’ve got things to do.”
We went into the weighing room at the base of the Cromwell grandstand and then into the broadcast center.
“Hi, Jack,” I said. “This is Emily.”
Jack Laver wiped both his hands on his tattered green sweater and then offered his right to her.
“Lovely to meet you,” Emily said, shaking it.
“Anything I should know about?” I asked Jack, making him tear his eyes away from Emily’s gorgeous figure.
“Nope,” he said. “Usual controls. I’ve already checked that your monitor’s working. No problems.”
“Right. Thanks, Jack. See you later.”
Emily and I went out of the broadcast center and climbed the six flights of stairs to the commentary booth, which at Huntingdon was in a shedlike structure attached to the very top of the grandstand roof almost as if it was added as an afterthought.
The shed also contained the judge’s booth and the photo-finish system as well as a position for a television camera. It afforded a great view of the course but was not ideal for anyone who didn’t have a head for heights, especially when the wind blew hard, which tended to make the whole structure sway slightly.
“Wow,” said Emily, moving to the open side, “it’s quite high.”
Not as high, I thought, as the fifteenth floor of the Hilton Hotel.
“Don’t you like heights?” I asked.
“Not much,” she said, hanging on tight to the rail as she looked over. “I prefer my feet firmly planted on the ground.”
“You get used to it,” I said. “And this is much lower than some.”
I removed my binoculars from my bag and then checked the non-runners, making notes on my copy of the Racing Post that we had stopped to buy in Newmarket. Everything seemed in order for another day at the office.
“Fancy some lunch?” I asked.
“Have we got time?”
There was still half an hour until the first race.
“Plenty,” I said.
We descended again to ground level, and I bought some smoked-salmon sandwiches, which we ate perched on barstools at a high table near the window of Hurdles Bar.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday—you know, about the blackmail notes and that film.”
“And?” Emily said between mouthfuls of sandwich.
“You couldn’t just send blackmail notes to everyone. It would be ridiculous.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “Suppose you only have a slight suspicion that someone has been up to no good. If you sent them a blackmail note asking for a couple of hundred quid, it would sure as hell confirm your suspicions if they then paid up.”
“I wonder if that was the case with Clare. Perhaps whoever sent it to her was merely fishing and got more than just a bite when Austin paid.”
“Hello, Mark,” said a voice behind me. “Mind if I join you?”
I stood up and turned around. “Not at all, Harry. Pull up a stool. Harry, can I introduce Emily Lowther. Emily, this is Harry Jacobs.”
Emily held out her hand, but Harry’s were both full, a plate of seafood in one and an ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne in the other. He put them down on the table and shook her hand.
“Delighted to meet you, my dear,” Harry said. “I’ll get glasses.”
“No private box today, Harry?” I said.
“No, not here. I’m on my own today anyway. No runners. I only popped along because I was bored at home. Last-minute decision and all that.”
He disappeared
back toward the bar.
Who is he? Emily mouthed at me.
“Racehorse owner,” I said quietly in reply. “I rode a horse for him years and years ago when I was eighteen. We’ve been friends ever since. Nice enough chap, but a bit eccentric. He’s got pots of money, but I don’t know where from.”
Harry returned with three champagne flutes and proceeded to pour golden bubbles into them.
“Not much for me,” said Emily, “I’m driving.”
“And not much for me either, thanks,” I said, “I’m commentating in ten minutes.”
“You’re no fun,” said Harry with a pained expression. Then he smiled. “But that means there’s more for me. Cheers.”
We raised our glasses and clinked them together. Emily and I sipped graciously while Harry downed a hefty slug before refilling his glass.
“Now then,” he said, “what were you two so intent about? I waved at you, Mark, through the window but you completely ignored me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t notice you.” I laughed. “We were busily talking about sending someone a blackmail note.”
The color drained out of Harry’s face, and I thought for a moment he was going to drop his glass.
—
RATHER ANNOYINGLY, at that point I’d had to go to commentate on the first race, so I’d left Emily looking after Harry in the bar, promising to be back straight after I finished.
I later hurried down the stairs to find them sitting on the same barstools as when I’d left. The only thing that seemed to have changed was that the champagne bottle was now empty, being turned upside down in the ice bucket, and the plate of seafood had been half consumed.
Harry was intently studying the floor at his feet.
“Did you see the race?” I asked.
“On the television,” said Emily, pointing to one on the wall. She smiled. “And I could hear your voice over the speakers.”
“So, Harry,” I said, sitting down on the third stool, “tell me.”
He looked up slowly. “Tell you what?” His voice was ever so slightly slurred. I wasn’t surprised after the quick consumption of nearly a whole bottle of fizz. He again looked down at the floor.
“Tell me who is blackmailing you,” I said quietly but distinctly, leaning forward to speak directly into his left ear.
“No one,” he said. He suddenly sat up straight and almost toppled backward off the stool.
“I tried to get him to eat something to soak up the booze,” Emily said, “but he seems intent on drinking himself into oblivion. I had to restrain him from getting another bottle.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m not drunk. I’m just a little tipsy, that’s all.”
“Yes, Harry,” I said, “of course you are. Now, where can we take him?” I asked Emily. “Even if we could get him to tell us who’s blackmailing him, he’s not going to do it here, not with all these people round. How about the commentary booth?”
“Will he get up the stairs?” Emily asked.
“I should think so. I’m quite surprised a single bottle has had such a large effect on him. He’s drunk me under the table before now. I’d always assumed he had hollow legs and could drink for England.”
“Perhaps he started before he arrived at the races.”
I stood up and put my hand under his right elbow. “Come on, Harry, let’s go.”
“OK,” he said, standing up. “Fine by me.”
He walked quite steadily out of the bar, Emily and I guiding him around to the stairs that led up to the rooftop shed. Without any hesitation, he followed Emily up quite happily, with me climbing behind him so he couldn’t suddenly change his mind and retreat.
There was one chair at the back of the commentary booth, and Harry sat down on it.
“I’m fine,” he said again. “Perfectly fine.”
“I know you are, Harry,” I said. “But just sit there for a bit while I commentate on the next race.”
Hell, I thought, I hadn’t been to see the horses in the parade ring or check on the colors. But the second race was a moderate two-and-a-half-mile handicap steeplechase with eight runners and all of them had been regulars on racetracks for years. It was like seeing old friends again, and I reckoned I knew the colors already.
Handicaps are the staple of British racing, accounting for more than half of all races. They give the best chance for most owners to have a winner.
All horses in training are given an official rating in a list that is published each week by the British Horseracing Authority. With handicaps, the horses carry different weights according to their official rating: the higher the rating, the greater the weight. In this way, based on previous performance, all horses should have an equal chance of winning.
Without handicaps, the best horses would always win and there would be no real point in owning a moderate horse. And just as soccer teams are also grouped by their performances into “divisions” where they are all roughly the same standard, so horses run in races where they all have approximately the same rating.
Not only does this give every horse in the race a chance of winning, it leads to exciting close finishes because the handicapper is attempting to create a multiple dead heat with all the horses arriving at the winning post at exactly the same moment. Hence they are also great races for the betting public, who always believe they know better than the officials.
The runners for this particular handicap came out onto the track and I described them to the crowd as they made their way around to the two-and-a-half-mile start in the middle of the back stretch.
I’d seen all of these horses racing before, some of them as many as fifteen or twenty times, and I recognized them as much from the shape of their bodies and the shade of their coats as from the colors of the jockeys’ silks. Nevertheless, I took a few minutes to make sure. I didn’t want to be complacent and end up confusing one horse with another.
“They’re off,” I said into the microphone as the race began.
The handicapper should have been proud of his work. All eight horses were still in contention as they turned into the finishing stretch for the second and last time, with just two plain fences left to jump.
Then two of them fell at the second-to-last fence, bringing down a third.
“Now, with just one to jump, it’s Twickman taking up the running from Delmar Boy and Coralstone, with Vintest and Felto both making their challenge down the outside.”
I smiled at Emily, who was standing next to me totally engrossed in the race.
“And, as they come to the last, it’s Twickman by a length from Vintest, with Coralstone third between horses in the green.”
Emily started to jump up and down with excitement.
“A great leap at the last from Vintest, who lands alongside Twickman and is quickly into his stride. Just two hundred yards to go now.”
It was a long run in at Huntingdon, and plenty could change between the last fence and the winning post. And today was no exception.
“Twickman and Vintest together, but here comes the fast-finishing Felto under Paddy Dean on the outside.” My voice rose in pitch with the ever-rising cheering of the crowd. “Into the last fifty yards, and it’s still Twickman just from Vintest, but Felto is catching them with every stride.”
I clicked off my microphone as the three horses flashed past the finish line stride for stride.
“Photograph, photograph,” announced the judge.
“On the nod,” I said to Emily.
“What?” she said breathlessly.
“Horses’ heads nod back and forth as they run. Those three were so close that the winner will be the one whose head happened to be nodding forward just as they crossed the line. Half a stride later, one of the others would be in front. When it’s that close, it’s d
own to luck as to who wins.”
“But it was so exciting,” she said. “I’ve never really watched a race like that before—you know, concentrating on the horses. I’ve mostly only been to the races for the food and drink and the hospitality.”
“Here is the result of the photograph,” said the judge over the public address. “First, number four, Felto. Second, number seven. Third, number two. The distances were a nose and a short head.”
A great cheer had gone up from the crowd as soon as the number four had been announced. Felto had started the race as favorite and lots of bets had been riding on his particular nose.
“What’s the difference between a nose and a short head?” Emily asked.
“Not much,” I said. “A nose is anything less than four and a half inches and a short head is between that and nine inches.”
Emily made a face. “It hardly seems fair to lose by a few inches after running so far.”
“A win is a win,” I said. “And as the technology improves and the photographs get better, the margins get smaller and smaller. Dead heats are getting rarer.”
Harry Jacobs had sat on the chair at the back of the booth throughout the race, looking more miserable than drunk.
“So, Harry,” I said, “tell us who’s been blackmailing you.”
He looked up at us with clear eyes. “How on earth did you know?”
“We didn’t,” Emily said. “We were discussing somebody else.”
“Oh?” he said. “Who?”
“Two others, actually,” I said. “And one of them was my sister, Clare.” I felt I had to give him some information in order to establish some trust. “Someone sent her a blackmail note demanding two hundred pounds or they would tell the racing authorities she had failed on purpose to win a race.”
“And did she pay?” he asked.
“Sort of,” I said. “Someone else paid for her.”
“And did the blackmailer then ask for more?”
“Yes,” I said.
Harry nodded. “Thought so.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
He pursed his lips and went on nodding. “The first demand was so small, I just paid it.”
Dick Francis's Bloodline (9781101600931) Page 22
