Syndicate

Chapter 9

‘Why have you been so long?’ Georgina wailed as I walked into the kitchen.

‘I haven’t been long,’ I replied, somewhat miffed. ‘As it was, I turned down an invitation to stay for a barbecue, in order to be back here for you.’

‘But James is being nasty towards me,’ she said.

‘In what way?’

‘He keeps telling me to pull myself together and to stop crying.’

He had a point, I thought.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a word with him. Where is he?’

‘Up in his room.’

With a sigh, I climbed the stairs and knocked on James’s bedroom door. He didn’t immediately shout ‘Come in,’ so I waited, and after a few moments, he opened it.

‘Can I have a word?’ I asked.

‘What about?’

‘Mum says you’ve been giving her a hard time.’

‘That’s rich,’ James said. ‘It’s her that’s been giving me a hard time.’

‘Why?’

‘For playing music. She said it was inappropriate. God knows why. It’s not as if Amanda’s still missing. She’s just gone to live with her boyfriend, and I don’t blame her. Life in this house is rubbish at the moment. In fact, I’m also going back to Bristol in the morning. Gary’s collecting me.’

‘I thought term had ended for the summer,’ I said.

‘It has for me, but not for Gary. Medical School term goes on for longer. But I’m going back anyway. It’s more fun there. There’s another three weeks to go on our lease, and Gary and I need to find a flat for next year.’

‘Can’t you stay where you are?’

‘No chance. Five of us shared this year, but we are both fed up with that. We’re going to find a place for just the two of us. That’s provided I’ve passed my exams.’

‘When do you find that out?’ I asked.

‘I get the results at the end of this week. That’s another reason for going.’

‘Don’t you get them online?’

‘Yeah. But if there’s a problem, I’d be able to talk to my tutor.’

‘Do you think there might be a problem?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Mathematics isn’t easy, you know. I’ll have to wait and see, but I should have worked harder than I did.’ He pulled a face. ‘But as long as it’s all okay and we sort out a flat, Gary and I might go away for a bit in August. Italy possibly, or Spain. Definitely somewhere in Europe.’

‘How can you afford that?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘I can’t really. That’s why we’re only going to Europe. We have a little money saved, and we’re planning to hitchhike and camp. If our cash runs out, we’ll just have to find some work in bars or restaurants.’

‘Don’t you need a visa to work in Europe these days?’ I asked.

‘Not if you’re paid in cash.’ He smiled. ‘A couple of our mates went to Italy last year and they said there were plenty of jobs available if you’re prepared to work very late in the nightclubs. Or you could always give me a sub. Especially after yesterday at Epsom.’ He smiled again.

I laughed. ‘Trust me. There’s absolutely no chance of that if you’re going to be nasty to your mother. So go down and make peace. It’s not her fault that her hormones are up the creek.’

‘But her hormones have been up the creek for years. Don’t they have a paddle?’

We laughed together — for the first time in a very long while.

He wasn’t really a bad kid. Not always, anyway.

On Monday morning I was at my desk, as usual, by seven thirty, having made myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen on the way through.

I glanced through the digital version of the Racing Post on my computer, to see if there was any news I needed to know — there wasn’t — and then set about contacting the eleven trainers of the Victrix horses.

Entries for most horse races have to be made by noon, six days before the race, or five days before those on Saturdays. Only for the most valuable races, such as Group 1 races like the Derby, did entries close at least a month or more earlier.

Having entered a horse, it was possible for me to look online at the list of other entrants, discuss them with the trainer, and decide if we wanted the horse to run. If so, we had to declare it as a runner by ten AM two days before the race, and advise the name of our jockey by one PM the same day. If we decided against or if we failed to declare in time, the horse wouldn’t run, and the entry stake money would be forfeited.

With currently forty horses under Victrix management, there were decisions to be made almost every day about entries and declarations.

I normally spent a couple of hours each morning at my desk, phoning or emailing the trainers. Many of the calls or emails were short, just confirming an entry or declaration, which would then be actioned by the trainer; while others would be much longer as we discussed future strategy for a given horse.

On average, a flat racehorse will take part in six or seven races each year, but many run as often as ten times, and the record is more than twice that. It is often the case that the better the horse, the less it races — maybe only three or four times a year, but that is not always true.

Frankel ran fourteen times in three years, winning every one, and the great Australian mare, Black Caviar, won every one of her twenty-five races over a four-year period — including travelling halfway around the world to land the Jubilee Stakes at Royal Ascot. And another stellar Australian mare, Winx, ran forty-three times over five years, winning thirty-seven of them — the last thirty-three in a row — amassing an incredible fourteen million pounds of prize money.

My syndicate members obviously liked their horses to race as often as possible, and preferably on Saturdays. That gave them more chance to go and watch their horses run, and I tried to accommodate their wishes where I could, provided it was the best thing for the horses.

Consequently, there were Victrix horses running somewhere every week — sometimes two or three of them on a single day — and finding the perfectly rated race for each horse, at an appropriate distance and carrying a favourable weight, such that it maximized its chance of winning, was like a game of three-dimensional chess. And of course, everyone else was doing exactly the same to try and make their horse the winner.

I employed two female assistants to help me, both working remotely on computers in their own homes. Every day, they would update the detailed spreadsheets, one for each Victrix horse, to ensure that entry deadlines weren’t missed, and all bills were paid on time. And every morning I would receive an email from each, showing me what I needed to do on that day. I was nominally their boss, but it was clearly they who bossed me, and I couldn’t imagine how I could now operate without them.

At ten past nine, I called my final trainer, Owen Reynolds, when I knew he would be back in his own office after an early summer morning spent on the gallops.

‘How was the barbecue?’ I asked.

‘Great,’ he replied. ‘But a few of the lads had sore heads this morning, especially for first lot at five thirty.’

‘How is Potassium today?’

‘He ate up really well last night. He just had a short loosening canter this morning, but he seems great.’

‘Good. So what’s next for him?’ I asked.

‘Depends on whether we want to stay at a mile and half, like the Derby, or drop down to a mile and a quarter.’

‘After Saturday’s close shave, I’d be happier at a mile and a quarter, especially against older horses.’

‘Me too,’ said Owen. ‘Shame, really. I’ve always wanted to win a King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes or a Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe. Not to mention the Breeders’ Cup Turf. All those are a mile and a half.’ I could hear him sigh down the line. ‘So, are we then agreed that the plan is to go for the International Stakes at York in August and, provided that goes well, the Champion Stakes at Ascot in October? Both at a mile and a quarter.’

‘How about the Breeders’ Cup Classic instead of the Champion Stakes?’ I said. ‘That’s also a mile and a quarter, and winning at York would give him automatic free entry to the Classic, and the Americans will even pay the travel costs for both the horse and connections.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Owen said with a laugh. ‘We’ll only consider the Breeders’ Cup if, and after, he wins at York. And remember, he’s never run on a dirt track before — always on turf.’

‘It’s a long time from now until the International Stakes in the second half of August. Are we ruling out Royal Ascot completely? The St James’s Palace Stakes is over only a mile, but it might suit him.’

‘He’s not entered for that. Entries closed at the beginning of May, and I think we decided against at the time. Maybe that was a mistake.’

Or an oversight, I thought.

The Group 1 St James’s Palace Stakes was run on the first day of Royal Ascot, in the third week in June, in just fifteen days’ time.

‘We could always supplement him.’

A supplementary entry was made only five or six days before a big race, when normal entries had closed early, and it was a very expensive way of getting a horse into a race late.

A normal entry for the St James’s Palace Stakes cost £8,125, paid in three separate tranches — £2,845 to enter in early May, £3,250 unless scratched by the end of May, and £2,030 on confirmation by noon six days before the race. Supplementary entry, however, cost a whopping £46,000.

A supplemented horse would have to finish in the first three just to recover its entry costs. But, if it won, it collected more than three hundred and sixty thousand in prize money, so it might be worth it.

‘We have some time to think about that,’ Owen said. ‘We’ll see how he recovers over the next week. And we could always consider the Eclipse at Sandown at the beginning of July, or even the Sussex Stakes at Goodwood — that’s also only a mile — and he’s provisionally entered for both of those.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s make a decision on the St James’s Palace next week. Meanwhile, enter him for the International, and let’s keep him in the others for now, other than the Arc. And we’ll also definitely skip the King George.’

‘I agree,’ said Owen.

We went on to discuss the three other Victrix horses in his yard, but those conversations were somewhat mundane in comparison to that of Potassium, including into which race to enter a late-developing three-year-old gelding called Dream Filler at the upcoming Saturday evening meeting at Lingfield. Our choices were either a Class 5 Novice Stakes, over seven furlongs, or a mile-long Class 6 Handicap — prize to the winner £4,100 or £3,250, respectively.

We opted for the Class 6 Handicap as the better chance for a win, a mere nine steps down the race-quality ladder from the Epsom Derby.

Such were most of my discussions and decisions with trainers.

Potassium was the exception, not the rule.

After speaking with Owen, I took DS Royle’s business card from my wallet and called her on her direct line.

‘DS Royle, Thames Valley Police,’ she said, answering at the first ring.

‘Good morning, Detective Sergeant,’ I said. ‘This is Chester Newton, Amanda Newton’s father. I am calling to see if you have made any progress with your investigations.’

‘I’m afraid I have nothing more to tell you since yesterday. Clearly, we are delighted that your daughter turned up safe and well, with no signs of any form of abuse.’

‘What about the injection in her neck?’ I asked. ‘Is that not a form of abuse?’

‘Minor abuse, I agree. But I really meant that there was no evidence that she had been sexually abused.’

‘Have you searched through any CCTV from Pangbourne that might show how she arrived there?’ I asked.

‘No,’ replied the detective. ‘That would take many man-hours to collect and then to examine.’

She didn’t exactly say out loud that she didn’t think it would be a good use of her limited resources, but her tone certainly implied that.

‘Have you made any house-to-house enquiries in Pangbourne?’

‘No.’

‘Are you, in fact, still investigating Amanda’s abduction?’

‘Her case remains open,’ she said. ‘But I have more pressing enquiries to make elsewhere at present. Perhaps you might have heard on local radio that there were further serious disturbances in Oxford last night, and a critical incident has now been declared by the chief constable.’ She paused. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, Mr Newton, I have to go and interview a man whose home was set ablaze by the rioters and whose wife is still unaccounted for.’

She disconnected.

I suppose I couldn’t really blame her for her choice of priority.

I finally put my phone down on my desk at a quarter to ten.

I then sent emails to the syndicates for those horses that the trainers and I had agreed today to enter for races over the coming weekend, or to declare to run in two days’ time, to give the members the maximum time to arrange to attend or not, and to apply through Victrix Racing for entrance badges.

I prided myself on the amount of time I spent communicating with all my syndicate members, either by phone or email. I wanted each of them to feel that they were as involved with the horses as if they had wholly owned them individually, and I was sure it was one of the chief reasons for my success. It was certainly a major factor in attracting so many repeat Victrix shareholders year on year.

I stood up and stretched.

Very often, it would now be nearly time for me to be off to the races to watch a Victrix horse in action during the afternoon, but this day I was attending the evening meeting at Windsor, so I wouldn’t have to leave until after four o’clock.

My phone rang and I looked down at it.

No caller ID was displayed on the screen, and my heart missed a beat.

I picked the phone up and slid my finger across the screen to answer it.

‘Hello.’

‘Is that Chester Newton?’ asked the squeaky voice.

‘Yes,’ I replied angrily. ‘What the bloody hell do you want?’

‘You will enter Potassium into the Ascot Gold Cup.’

‘What?’

He repeated. ‘You will enter Potassium into the Ascot Gold Cup.’

I almost laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘You will do as I say.’

‘I can’t. Quite apart from the fact that entries for that race closed a month ago, it is reserved for horses aged over four, while Potassium is only three.’

The Ascot Gold Cup was also run over two and a half miles, twice the distance Owen and I considered appropriate for our horse.

There was a long pause from the other end of the line, and then whoever was there disconnected without saying another word.

I stood there holding my phone.

I was clearly dealing with an idiot — but he still might be a very dangerous idiot.