by Simon Brett
“Oh?”
“1.40 at Wincanton. Hasn’t raced for over two hundred days. Gonna romp home.”
Jude looked out of the window. Still the sleet fell relentlessly. But Gulliver, under his sheltering roof, had lain down with his front paws forward and looked perfectly content. Maybe she could leave him out there a little longer. “Which horse are you talking about?” she whispered, knowing that Sonny wouldn’t broadcast his tip to the entire room.
He pointed up to the screen displaying the odds for the Wincanton race. “Seven down,” he murmured. “Number Four.”
The horse’s name was Nature’s Vacuum.
“If you’re going to bet, do it quickly. That twenty to one won’t last.”
Jude looked at the central screen, where the horses were ambling their way towards the start. Down in Wincanton the weather looked almost springlike. She wished she were there rather than Fethering.
“Go on, are you going to have a punt?”
She took one more dutiful look out of the window. In spite of the ice bouncing off the pavement only feet away from him, Gulliver’s tail was actually wagging. He really did have a very nice nature.
“Why not?” replied Jude.
∨ Blood at the Bookies ∧
Two
As she sat down and looked around her at the punters trying to read the runes of the racing pages spread over the walls, Jude reflected on the unique egalitarianism of betting shops. She had encountered a few that had been silent and dour, but she’d never been in one where she’d felt uncomfortable. True, a less secure soul might have objected to the casual sexism that was the norm in such places, but she had never found the remarks flung at her less than good-natured. With an inward giggle, she wondered whether Carole would feel equally at ease in the environment.
Her bet was placed. Five pounds on Nature’s Vacuum. And she had managed to get the twenty to one – Nikki had written the price on her slip. As Sonny predicted, the odds on the horse had come down in the minutes before the off. Somebody knew something. The twenty to one gave way to sixteen to one. Fourteen to one. The starting price might even be twelves.
With the instinctive reaction of all punters, Jude was already beginning to feel that she was in profit. At fourteen to one, a fiver on the win would only bring in seventy pounds. Whereas the fiver she’d put on at twenty to one would bring in a hundred. She was thirty quid up even before the race started. That there was a hot odds-on favourite called Girton Girl and that Nature’s Vacuum remained a rank outsider were irrelevant details. In the mind of a punter the law of probability never carries as much weight as the law of possibility. And in the extraordinarily unlikely event of Nature’s Vacuum not winning, Jude reckoned the rush of excitement she was feeling at that moment was well worth a fiver.
She looked around at the betting shop’s other occupants and recognized plenty. There was a pair of decorators whose names she knew from overhearing their conversation to be Wes and Vie. The spatters of fresh paint on their overalls suggested that they were actually working, but the frequency with which they rushed in and out of the betting shop made Jude glad they weren’t working for her. Over the years she’d seen them almost every time she had been in, which prompted the bizarre idea that they only took on decorating commissions within walking distance of the place. Wes and Vie were not men who kept their emotions to themselves. Every hope and disappointment was vocalized. Horses and greyhounds, subjects of veneration and hope before their races, were quickly and loudly vilified when they lost.
The other infallible attendees were the waiters from Fethering’s only Chinese restaurant, the Golden Palace. There were never less than two and sometimes as many as five, all young, dressed in their uniform of black shirts and trousers, constantly chattering to each other in high chopped tones.
Another regular was a grey-haired man, dressed unfailingly in a suit and sober tie and carrying a briefcase. He looked like an accountant, who in retirement had chosen to continue working in a variation of his former profession, turf accountancy. And, according to Sonny Frank, that’s what he was. He noted his bets, successes and failures in an old·fashioned ledger, and his face remained impassive, regardless of the outcome. Though he had never spoken directly to her, Jude had overheard him placing bets at the counter. His accent was extremely cultured.
There was also a female regular, whose presence might have reassured a less confident woman than Jude about entering such a predominantly male enclave. A dumpy, white-haired woman, whom again Jude had seen whenever she’d been in. Every day the woman sat in the same chair and, without being particularly outgoing, seemed to be perfectly friendly with everyone. Her name was Pauline, and she was habitually surrounded by scraps of racing pages torn out of newspapers. In the early days Jude had always seen her with a fag in her mouth and a full ashtray in front of her, but now the woman was obedient to the smoking ban. The attraction of betting was apparently stronger than that of tobacco.
Sonny Frank, who always spoke nostalgically of the past history of bookmaking, and thought things had gone downhill since the days when his father and he took illegal bets in the back rooms of pubs, reckoned the smoking ban was another nail in the coffin of the industry he loved. “Punters just won’t come in,” he’d say. “And now they can do it all at home online, anyway. Soon won’t be any high street betting shops left.”
While his prognostication might be true in the long term, Jude reckoned the Fethering business still looked fairly healthy. And, from her own point of view, she thought the smoking ban was an inestimable improvement. It was now possible to spend five minutes in a betting shop without emerging reeking of tobacco.
As the horses on the screen lined up for the 1.40, a change came over the room. Even with the number of races scheduled – at least three meetings for the horses, interspersed with the greyhounds, not to mention computer-generated virtual racing – there was still a moment of intense concentration before the ‘off’ of each one.
“Come on, Girton Girl, you can do it,” said the decorator Wes.
“No way,” said Sonny Frank. “Iffy jumper if ever I saw one. Game down three out last time out at Uttoxeter.”
“But that was the jockey,” Vie, the other decorator, countered. “Useless apprentice. She’s got McCoy up today.”
“Which is why she’s down to eleven to eight,” Wes contributed.
“Still an iffy jumper.”
“What you on then, Sonny?”
“The winner.”
“Oh yeah? So you’re on Girton Girl too, are you?”
The globular old man chuckled. “No, no, I recognize rubbish when I see it. Remember – bookies never lose.”
“Ex-bookies do,” said Wes.
“Ssh, they’re away,” said Vie.
There was an animated exchange between the Chinese waiters and then a moment of relative silence – interrupted only by the endless jingles from the slot machines and the hiss of the sleet-storm outside – descended on the room as the punters listened to the race commentary. One horse had got left at the start and, by the time it got into its running, was some seven lengths away from its nearest rival. The horse was Nature’s Vacuum. Oh dear, thought Jude.
The odds-on favourite, Girton Girl, meanwhile, seemed contemptuous of her opposition and swept over the first fence four lengths ahead of the rest of the field.
“Gone too soon,” shouted Sonny Frank.
“Cobblers,” came the riposte from Wes. “That horse stays like the mother-in-law.”
“Others never going to catch her,” Vie agreed.
“Don’t you believe it,” said Sonny.
Amongst the desultory cries of ‘Yes, yes!’ and ‘Move it, you lump of cat’s meat!’ Jude was vaguely aware that a new customer had come into the betting shop. He was a man in his twenties, his face pale and pinched. The reddish hair was cut very short and he was muffled up in a dark blue overcoat that looked almost naval. His head and shoulders were frosted with ice. He stood by the do
orway, as though looking for someone. He swayed slightly. Perhaps he’d had too good a lunch at the Crown and Anchor. Jude was too preoccupied with the race to take much notice of him. And a shout from Sonny Frank of ‘What did I tell you, Jude?’ brought her attention firmly back to the screen.
And yes, after that pathetic start, Nature’s Vacuum was slowly picking his way through the field. First past the exhausted stragglers, then the one-paced hopefuls, till he’d got himself up to fourth place.
Jude found herself instinctively joining in the shouts of encouragement. “Come on, Nature’s Vacuum!” she yelled.
Three fences to go. Nature’s Vacuum looked full of running. But then so did the favourite. The distance between Girton Girl and the second horse was increasing rather than diminishing. She avoided the fate that had ended her hopes at Uttoxeter, and sailed over the third from last like a gazelle.
“Hang on in there, Nature’s Vacuum!” shouted Jude. But for the first time she was assailed by doubt. Sonny’s tip had been right in a sense. Nature’s Vacuum was a good prospect, certainly much better than the odds suggested, and maybe he’d soon win a race. But it didn’t look like being this one at Wincanton.
The contest wasn’t over yet, though. With an effort of will she clamped down on her negative thoughts. Her horse remained upright, she was still in with the chance of a hundred quid. “Come on, Nature’s Vacuum! You can do it!”
At the penultimate fence the horse came up alongside the long-time second, and put in a flying leap which gave him a length advantage. But he still had five lengths to make up on the leading filly, who looked to be coasting home.
“That’s the way, Gertie!” shouted Wes.
“Go on, my son!” roared Vie. (People in racing have never been too specific about the names and genders of horses.)
Sonny Frank and Jude just sat and watched.
Running up to the last, Nature’s Vacuum maybe picked up half a length, but it looked like being too little, too late. Wes and Vic’s beams threatened to split their faces, “Come on, my son!” they roared together. There was no way Girton Girl could lose.
National Hunt racing, though, is an unpredictable sport. The favourite approached the last at a slight angle, cleared it fine, but then veered alarmingly off towards the rail. Nature’s Vacuum took a dead straight line and put in a superb jump. That, together with Girton Girl’s detour, meant that by the time the two horses were again together on the run-in, the second was less than a length behind. Both jockeys flashed away with their whips and used every ounce of their own energy to drive their horses forward. Nature’s Vacuum drew alongside, then Girton Girl seemed to find a new reservoir of strength and regained the lead. But neither wanted to come second, and Nature’s Vacuum surged again.
They crossed the line together and the photograph was called.
“Which one was it?” shrieked Jude.
“Gertie got there,” declared Wes with dispiriting certainty.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Sonny. “The angle’s deceptive at Wincanton. I think the other one’s the winner.” Still he didn’t declare an interest in either horse.
“And I think the result’s coming…” the commentator announced.
“Number Four,” boomed over the racecourse’s PA system. “The winner was Number Four. Second, Number Seven. Third, Number Two. The distances were a short head and seven lengths.”
Jude turned with glee to look at Sonny Frank. The old bookie winked at her.
“Always knew it was a crap horse,” said Wes, crumpling up his betting slip.
“Iffy jumper,” Vie agreed, doing the same.
And the two of them went off to do a few minutes’ decorating before the next race. Outside, the sleet had stopped as suddenly as it had started.
In a state of euphoria Jude rushed towards the counter. The young man in the naval overcoat was still swaying by the doorway. She grinned at him, feeling benevolent towards the entire world, and was rewarded by a weak but rather charming smile which revealed discoloured teeth.
Jude went to collect her hundred and five pounds (a hundred winnings, five pound stake) from an impassive Nikki and once again turned to thank Sonny.
“Going to have a flutter on the next?” he asked, as he folded a large pile of winnings into his back pocket.
Like all punters, she was tempted. Maybe this wasn’t just a one-off win…? Maybe ft was the beginning of a winning streak…? Maybe her luck was in…?
But a glimpse of Gulliver outside reminded her of her priorities. The hailstorm might have ended, but the poor dog must be feeling pretty cold. No, she wouldn’t bet again. She would do what all gamblers intend – and almost always fail – to do: stop after a big win. She thanked Sonny Frank profusely for the tip and, picking up her Allinstore carriers, made for the door.
The young man in the blue naval overcoat was no longer there. Off to lie down somewhere, sleep off the booze, Jude conjectured.
And then she saw it. A circle of dark fluid seeping into the carpet tiles by the door. Against the blue the red turned almost purple. She didn’t have to touch it to recognize it was blood.
More drips had stained coin-sized marks, tracing the man’s exit from the betting shop. Without a word to anyone, Jude followed them.
Outside, she freed Gulliver from the ring he’d been tied to and held his lead tightly. As she pulled him in the direction the red spots on the pavement indicated, the Labrador sniffed at one and then almost pulled her arm out of its socket as he followed the track. His first experience of being a bloodhound, and Gulliver liked it.
The trail of blood, though diluted by the melting sleet, was still easy to follow.
They didn’t have far to go. Alongside the betting shop was a narrow alley which led round the back of the building to a small area of scrub that gave access to Fethering Beach.
He hadn’t made it all the way down the alley. The bloodspots grew bigger and bigger until they coalesced into a widening stream.
At the end of which lay the man in the navy overcoat.
He hardly breathed and his eyes were glazing over. As Jude knelt down beside him, he murmured something in a heavily accented voice. It sounded like ‘Fifi…’
A moment later the man was dead.
∨ Blood at the Bookies ∧
Three
Jude had rung Carole on the mobile to say she would be delayed in bringing her shopping back, though she didn’t specify the reason. And when she finally got back to Woodside Cottage after being questioned by the police, she rang again on the landline. They had long ago exchanged spare keys, but Jude knew that her neighbour never liked being surprised by an unannounced visit, even from her. Carole Seddon endeavoured to organize her life so that it involved the minimum of surprises. The slipping in and out of people’s houses in which some people indulged was anathema to her. It was one of those habits for which Carole reserved one of her adjectives expressing major disapprobation: northern.
Inside High Tor, Jude, having served Gulliver a large helping of his long-wished-for Pedigree Chum, went upstairs to see the invalid.
It was a measure of the severity of Carole’s flu that, having granted permission for the visit, she hadn’t got out of bed to greet her guest. And in her reduced state even the news of a suspicious death in Fethering High Street didn’t bring the animation it usually would have done. The questions she asked were listless, and Jude almost had to insist on telling her the known details of what had happened.
“As ever, the police didn’t volunteer much information, but then I don’t think they had much information to volunteer. Until they’ve established the identity of the dead man, they haven’t really got anything to go on. I can tell you, though, that he wasn’t a regular at the betting shop.”
Jude waited to be asked how she knew that, but with no question forthcoming, continued her monologue. “The detectives took me back into the shop after I’d shown them the body, and they asked general questions to everyone who was there. Most
of the punters hadn’t even noticed the guy, but Ryan the Manager – who I guess makes it his business to clock everyone who comes in – said he’d never seen him before.”
She waited for a further prompt, but didn’t get one. “Obviously, having only seen him in the overcoat, I don’t know which part of his body the blood was coming from, and it could be something natural…a haemorrhage of some kind…but I’m afraid my first thought was murder.”
This word did bring a small spark to Carole’s pale blue eyes. Probably the activity she’d most enjoyed since her retirement to Fethering had been the investigation of murders with Jude.
“If it was murder,” her neighbour went on, “then the most obvious thought would be that it was a stabbing. I suppose it could also be a gunshot wound…Either way, the actual attack didn’t happen in the betting shop.”
“Are you sure?” asked Carole, intrigued in spite of herself.
“Positive. He came in through the front door.”
“Is it just the one room?” asked Carole, who prided herself on never having been inside a betting shop.
“Well, there are offices behind the counter…and there are the toilets…and presumably there is a back entrance,” Jude added thoughtfully. “But he definitely came in at the front. It was as if he was looking for something…Or maybe someone.” The skin around her brown eyes tightened as she tried to work it out. “And I’m pretty sure he must have put the overcoat on after he was stabbed – or shot or whatever it was.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The lack of visible blood. It was a thick coat. If he’d put it on after he’d been wounded, then it would have taken a while for the blood to seep through.”
“There’s one odd thing…” mused Carole, now firmly hooked in spite of her illness.
“What?”
“Why didn’t he ask for help?”
“Sorry?”
“Here’s this man, seriously wounded – mortally wounded, as it turned out – and he must know that he’s hurt…and he staggers into a public place, the betting shop, surrounded by people…and he doesnt say a thing. You’d have thought, in those circumstances, almost anyone would have said something…would have asked for a doctor to be called, or an ambulance…But he didn’t say anything. Or did he, Jude? Did he say anything to you?”
