whisky and pints, while finding out more and more about his operation on the pretext of being a potential owner. That was what all the snoopers said. If something seems too good to be true, he told himself, his head throbbing as he watched the lads and lasses take the string out—it was a foul winter morning of horizontal sleet, not properly light yet—it probably is. And that this funny-looking posh fellow from London would just show up and pay £10,000 for a half share in the mare did seem too good to be true. And yet here he was, a week later, with his mate, and the money.
‘What d’you think?’ Simon said, eyeing them.
James stuck out his lower lip and nodded appraisingly. Freddy had a nervous swig from his hip flask.
The transaction transacted, they went into the house and had a heart-stopping fry-up prepared by Mrs Miller. It was an awkward meal. When James asked about the name Absent Oelemberg—what did it mean?—Miller just shook his head and said, ‘No idea.’
‘It’s probably French,’ James suggested politely.
Miller shrugged and went on feeding his smooth, fat face.
In London, Michael was being arrested.
The mare’s first run was in late December, in a novices’ hurdle at Huntingdon. (Though Professional Equine Investments no longer existed, and she would have to be sold, James had decided to land the touch first. Now that the service had failed he needed the money more than ever. He would be staking every penny he had on her, and he hoped to win enough to live on for a year or more, while he worked out what to do next.) Huntingdon was Miller’s local track. He had informed his new owners that it was where the touch would take place in March, and he wanted her to have run poorly there on at least one previous occasion. He also said that they should ‘have a few quid on’. When they looked at him in surprise, he said, ‘She won’t be winning. Not today.’ He said they should put the money on over the Internet, where it would leave indelible traces, so that when it was time to land the touch, if the stewards had any questions, they would be able to prove that they always followed her, win or lose. And in December she did lose. In the leathern privacy of his Range Rover, Miller had told them she wasn’t fit, and she looked unhealthily exhausted as she trailed in last with her tongue lolling out of her smoking head and the jockey standing up in his irons. His name was Tom. He was a stable insider, the son of Miller’s head lad. Later, in the pub—not the nearest pub to the track, an obscure village pub twenty miles away somewhere in the stunning flatness of the Fens—James noticed him whispering something to Miller, who nodded and patted him on the back.
Her next run was two weeks later, also at Huntingdon. She was twenty to one that day (James still had his few quid on) and she finished tenth of twelve. Miller was not keen to talk about what measures he was taking to make sure she performed so ignominiously, and anyway James had other things on his mind, or one other thing—Katherine, who he met at Toby’s wedding. The previous night he had taken her on the lamplit tour of the Sir John Soane Museum in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and then for dinner. It was nearly midnight when he walked her to the tube at Holborn. (She had declined an invitation for a nightcap at his flat.) They stopped on the pavement at the station entrance.
‘Well…’ he said. ‘I hope…’
‘Can I kiss you?’
It was so sudden that he just said, ‘M-hm,’ and she stood on tip-toe and kissed him wetly on the mouth.
A few moments later the Saturday-night hubbub of station and street swam back. ‘I’ll see you next week,’ she said.
‘Okay…’
She went into the lightbox of the station, and he watched her through the snapping ticket barriers.
The next morning he was up early to take the train to Huntingdon.
The mare had not run since that murky January day. There was a scare
‘What d’you think?’ Simon said, eyeing them.
James stuck out his lower lip and nodded appraisingly. Freddy had a nervous swig from his hip flask.
The transaction transacted, they went into the house and had a heart-stopping fry-up prepared by Mrs Miller. It was an awkward meal. When James asked about the name Absent Oelemberg—what did it mean?—Miller just shook his head and said, ‘No idea.’
‘It’s probably French,’ James suggested politely.
Miller shrugged and went on feeding his smooth, fat face.
In London, Michael was being arrested.
The mare’s first run was in late December, in a novices’ hurdle at Huntingdon. (Though Professional Equine Investments no longer existed, and she would have to be sold, James had decided to land the touch first. Now that the service had failed he needed the money more than ever. He would be staking every penny he had on her, and he hoped to win enough to live on for a year or more, while he worked out what to do next.) Huntingdon was Miller’s local track. He had informed his new owners that it was where the touch would take place in March, and he wanted her to have run poorly there on at least one previous occasion. He also said that they should ‘have a few quid on’. When they looked at him in surprise, he said, ‘She won’t be winning. Not today.’ He said they should put the money on over the Internet, where it would leave indelible traces, so that when it was time to land the touch, if the stewards had any questions, they would be able to prove that they always followed her, win or lose. And in December she did lose. In the leathern privacy of his Range Rover, Miller had told them she wasn’t fit, and she looked unhealthily exhausted as she trailed in last with her tongue lolling out of her smoking head and the jockey standing up in his irons. His name was Tom. He was a stable insider, the son of Miller’s head lad. Later, in the pub—not the nearest pub to the track, an obscure village pub twenty miles away somewhere in the stunning flatness of the Fens—James noticed him whispering something to Miller, who nodded and patted him on the back.
Her next run was two weeks later, also at Huntingdon. She was twenty to one that day (James still had his few quid on) and she finished tenth of twelve. Miller was not keen to talk about what measures he was taking to make sure she performed so ignominiously, and anyway James had other things on his mind, or one other thing—Katherine, who he met at Toby’s wedding. The previous night he had taken her on the lamplit tour of the Sir John Soane Museum in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and then for dinner. It was nearly midnight when he walked her to the tube at Holborn. (She had declined an invitation for a nightcap at his flat.) They stopped on the pavement at the station entrance.
‘Well…’ he said. ‘I hope…’
‘Can I kiss you?’
It was so sudden that he just said, ‘M-hm,’ and she stood on tip-toe and kissed him wetly on the mouth.
A few moments later the Saturday-night hubbub of station and street swam back. ‘I’ll see you next week,’ she said.
‘Okay…’
She went into the lightbox of the station, and he watched her through the snapping ticket barriers.
The next morning he was up early to take the train to Huntingdon.
The mare had not run since that murky January day. There was a scare
Similar Books
