Bloodline

18

On Sunday, Emily drove me along the A14 from Newmarket to Huntingdon racecourse, where I was due to commentate on the six-race card.

Racing on Sundays in England was first introduced at Doncaster on 26 July 1992 although, to start with, it was still against the law to charge for entry to a sporting occasion on a Sunday. All sorts of tricks were used, like on that first day, when people were charged to come in to the racecourse to listen to the band of the Irish Guards, and then given a free afternoon’s racing. And the situation was further confused by the fact that cash betting was then also illegal on Sundays, but using a bookmaker’s account, or even a credit or a debit card, was not.

Since those days the rules have been relaxed somewhat and Sunday is now just like any other day of the week with at least two race meetings on every Sunday of the year. Indeed, there are now only four days in the whole calendar when there is no racing on British racecourses: Good Friday, Christmas Day, and the two days before Christmas.

The public love the Sunday meetings, and Huntingdon racecourse was already filling nicely by the time we arrived at about one o’clock, over an hour before the first race.

Emily pulled her red Mercedes into the racecourse car park and followed the directions of the attendant to the next place at the end of the parked cars. Only when we had stopped did I notice with dismay and alarm that we had drawn up alongside Mitchell Stacey’s car, and he was still sitting in it.

Bugger, I thought. And moving was now impossible as we were hemmed in by more cars parked behind us with a line of 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 boot, and walked away towards 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 racecourse.

‘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 on the 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 racecourse enclosures towards 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 towards 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 around 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 boxes.

‘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 in the base of the Cromwell Stand, and then into the racecourse broadcast centre.

‘Hi, Jack,’ I said. ‘This is Emily.’

Jack Laver wiped both his hands on his tatty 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 weighing room and climbed the six flights of stairs to the commentary box. As at a number of British racecourses, the box at Huntingdon was in a shed-like structure attached to the very top of the grandstand roof, almost as if it was added as an after-thought.

The shed also contained the judge’s box and the photo-finish system as well as a position for a television camera. It gave 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 at least 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 bar stools at a high table near the window of the 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 up.’

‘Hello, Mark,’ said a voice behind me. ‘Mind if I join you?’

I stood up and turned round. ‘Not at all, Harry. Bring up a stool. Harry, can I introduce Emily Lowther. Emily, this is Harry Jacobs.’

Emily held out her hand but Harry had both of his full, a plate of seafood in one and an ice bucket plus 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 towards 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 twenty minutes.’

‘You’re no fun,’ said Harry with a pained expression. Then he smiled. ‘But at least it 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 colour drained out of Harry’s face and I thought for a moment he was going to drop his champagne.

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 it finished.

I hurried down the stairs to find them sitting on the same stools as when I’d left. The only thing that seemed to have changed was that the champagne bottle was now obviously empty, being turned upside down in the ice bucket, and the plate of seafood had been half consumed.

Harry was intently studying the floor by 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 back 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 backwards 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 around. How about the commentary box?’

‘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 round to the stairs that led up to the roof-top 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 box 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 colours. 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 racecourses for years. It was like seeing old friends again and I reckoned I knew the colours 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. In 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 football 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 were also great races for the betting public, who always believed they knew better than the officials.

The runners for this particular handicap came out onto the racecourse and I described them to the crowd as they made their way round to the two-and-a-half-mile start in the middle of the back straight.

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 colours 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 straight for the second and last time, with just two plain fences left to jump.

Then two of them fell at the second-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 in line 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 and one of the others would be in front. When it’s that close it’s down 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 favourite 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 box 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 to win a race on purpose.’

‘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.’

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What had you done?’

‘But that’s what’s so bloody stupid,’ he said. ‘I haven’t really done anything.’

‘So what were they using to blackmail you?’ I asked.

‘It was an offshore bank account I had on the Isle of Man.’

‘What about it?’

‘I opened it in a different name because I thought at one stage I might move all my assets to the Isle of Man.’

‘For tax purposes?’

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Capital gains tax, to be precise. In the end, I didn’t go through with it but I never closed the account. I’d put some money in it and I suppose I should have paid tax on the interest it earned, but it was so small I didn’t think it mattered. Also, I didn’t tell my accountant or put any offshore account details on my tax return as I didn’t want the tax people to think I was trying to fiddle my taxes.’

‘Which you were,’ Emily said.

‘Yeah, well... but not using that account.’

‘But you were fiddling your taxes somewhere else?’ I asked.

‘Not actual fiddling,’ he said, slightly affronted. ‘I avoid tax, not evade it. There’s an important difference. Avoidance is legal, evasion isn’t.’ He smiled unconvincingly. ‘But I could really do without being audited by the Revenue. Let’s just say it might be awkward, you know, over certain of my interpretations of the tax laws.’

‘Sailing close to the wind,’ said Emily.

‘Exactly,’ Harry agreed. ‘Very close.’

‘So what did the blackmail note say?’

He knew it by heart. ‘ “I know you are using an offshore bank account to evade paying tax. Just two hundred pounds will make the story go away. Get the cash together. Payment details will follow.” ’

‘Same blackmailer,’ I said. ‘When did you get the note?’

‘Nearly two years ago. At a time when it might have been very embarrassing to have had a Revenue investigation. So I paid.’

‘Were you told to leave the money under your car in a racecourse car park?’

He nodded. ‘But he demanded more. About six months later I had to pay a thousand, next it was two thousand, then I got another note yesterday demanding a further twenty thousand. Now, I think that’s rather too much.’ He sounded like someone who had just been overcharged for a meal or a hotel room.

‘Have you by any chance got the note with you?’ I asked.

He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his coat pocket. ‘I didn’t want to leave it at home in case my wife found it.’

He handed it to me and I spread it out. It was a computer printed sheet just like the others but, as on the latest one to Austin Reynolds, the last zero of the twenty thousand had been added by hand.

I glanced at my watch. The next race was due off in fifteen minutes.

‘I’ve got to go down and see the horses in the parade ring,’ I said. ‘They’re juvenile three-year-old hurdlers and some of them I haven’t seen run before. I want to see them in the paddock to help me learn the colours. You two stay right here. I’ll be back before you know it.’

I skipped down the stairs and out towards the parade ring. Dodging through the crowd, I ran straight into Mitchell Stacey almost knocking him over.

‘Sorry,’ I said automatically before I even realized who he was.

He stared at me with contempt. ‘Watch where you’re bloody going, can’t you.’

We stood facing each other for a moment.

Why, I thought, had Mitchell set up a spy camera in his bedroom to film Sarah and me? How had he known to do so?

What was it that Sarah had said to me in that last call? I should have paid the little shit. Paid who? Had Sarah also been a victim of blackmail?

Mitchell turned away towards the weighing room and I went on to the parade ring to see the horses, but my brain was elsewhere. Instead of learning the colours of the jockeys’ silks, I called the Stacey home number on my mobile.

‘Hello,’ said Sarah’s familiar voice after two rings.

‘Sarah, it’s me,’ I said.

‘I told you that it was much better for both of us if we didn’t talk again. And we had the police around here this morning asking questions about you.’ She sounded angry. ‘I’m sorry, I must go.’

‘No, please. Don’t hang up,’ I shouted quickly. ‘Listen. Were you being blackmailed?’

There was a long pause from the other end, and I wondered at one point if she had indeed hung up, but she hadn’t. I could hear her breathing.

‘Did someone ask you for two hundred pounds to make the story of you and me go away?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t pay him. Maybe it would’ve been better if I had.’

I should have paid the little shit.

‘But you do know who it was, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was that little shit of a journalist, Toby Woodley.’