Private Dublin

Chapter 86

The Irish Derby is one of the world’s most popular racing fixtures. People travel there from all over the globe and they like to dress up for the event. I joined them, filing into the Curragh after purchasing a new suit and shoes from a menswear store near the hotel. I couldn’t afford to look out of place and needed to pass unnoticed now my photograph was all over the news.

The sky had cleared after the storms of the previous night and the sun was bright and high, so I completed my look with a pair of oversized black sunglasses that matched my suit and shoes. The shades concealed much of my face, and only an astute observer would recognize me.

I hoped the throng of people would prevent police and security guards from identifying me, and expected the sport’s enthusiasts to be so enthralled by the day’s racing they wouldn’t notice an alleged murderer in their midst.

“Are you still there?” I asked, speaking for the benefit of the mic in my Bluetooth earpiece.

It wasn’t the most sophisticated wire, but it was adequate in the circumstances. I’d purchased a new phone and headset when I’d bought the suit and was on an open call with Mo-bot, who was monitoring my location and recording audio.

“I can hear you loud and clear,” she replied. “Sounds like a fun place.”

“On any other day, I might enjoy a pint, some Irish hospitality and the ponies, but not today,” I replied.

The Curragh looked magnificent in the sunshine, and the crowds for the Derby easily surpassed those for the Airlie Stud Stakes. I was swept along until I reached the main grandstand, where I found a tout who sold me a general pass for five times face value.

My heart jumped a gear when I thought I saw recognition in the steward’s eye, but he waved me through the gate without hesitation and I filed onto the course, on my way to the grandstand.

“I’m in,” I said for Mo-bot’s benefit.

“I know,” she replied. “I can see your phone.”

“We’re watching the key exchanges,” Sci chimed in. He was referring to online bookies and spread betting exchanges.

Mo-bot had used an artificial intelligence program to identify betting patterns at the 1000 and 2000 Guineas and zero in on sites used by Lawrence Finch to launder Propaganda Tre money. Apparently, these were easy to spot once she knew what to look for.

“Are we ready to make bets?” I asked.

“Everything is set to go,” Sci replied.

We’d set up accounts on the key exchanges, and Private had put up a total of half a million dollars in stake money.

“We’ll start placing bets as soon as we see Finch’s people make their moves,” Mo-bot said.

I went into the main grandstand, which was heaving. All the men were in suits and the women wore fine dresses, and most of them were loud and rowdy, which was perfect because it meant no one paid attention to me as I scanned the owners’ boxes for Lawrence Finch.

I finally spotted him with Jackson Kyle at his side. Finch was surrounded by a group of twenty or so people, many of whom I recognized from my confrontation with him in the winners’ enclosure bar. They were all standing on a terrace above the main grandstand, laughing, chatting and enjoying drinks from the private bar in Finch’s box.

I settled into my seat near the very front of the grandstand, which allowed me to keep watch on him as I waited for racing to start.