Simon Brett - The Stabbing in the Stables

Inside the premier enclosure there was another expense to be dealt with. “We’ve got to get race cards,” Jude insisted.

“But we’re here to look for Donal, not waste the afternoon watching horses.”

“Carole, we’re here at the races. It would be sacrilege for us not to have a bet.”

The look prompted by that suggested there were many things in life more sacrilegious, but the race cards were duly bought.

“Hm. First race is a two-mile-six and a half-hurdle, so we’ll watch from the grandstand.”

“I’m sorry? What do you mean?”

“Fontwell’s got two courses. The hurdles go round in an oval; the steeplechase course is a figure-of-eight. On the chases, it’s quite fun to go and watch from the middle. You can get very close to the jumps.”

Carole looked at Jude in bewilderment. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“I have been racing before.”

“Yes, but not here.”

“Of course here.”

“Why?”

“Well, you move into an area, you look around for things. You want to see what the place has to offer, don’t you?”

Carole didn’t reply. When she’d first arrived in Fethering, she had looked around for a supermarket, a doctor, a dentist, and left it at that. The idea of checking out the local racecourse was completely alien to her.

“Anyway, let’s go and look at the runners.”

“Why?”

“Because we want to know what they look like. Might get an idea of which one will win.”

“Do you actually know anything about racehorses, Jude?”

“I know as much as the average punter does.”

“Which is?”

“I know if I like the look of one; I know if I like its name, or the colours it’s wearing, or its jockey’s bottom.”

“And you actually bet according to that kind of…whim?”

“Yes. That’s what most people do. And you have as good a chance of winning as by any other method.”

“It doesn’t sound very logical.”

“Carole, logic and gambling are two words that don’t fit in the same sentence.”

All that got was a sniff.

“And another reason for going to the parade ring is that it’s exactly the kind of place where we might see Donal.”

As Jude knew, Fontwell Park was a small racecourse, with its parade ring to the left just inside the entrance. Behind it were the large stalls where the horses were saddled before being led round the brick oval, in the grassy centre of which their owners and “connections” stood and speculated. All of them dreamed of winning, but a convention amongst them dictated that no one ever said anything more optimistic than, “So long as the horse gets round all right-that’s the only thing I’m worried about.”

Carole and Jude wriggled through the growing crowds around the parade ring to find a foothold on the paved viewing steps. For a while, Carole scanned the jovial sea of faces for the elusive Donal, but soon she found that her eyes were drawn to the horses. Someone who had rarely been near to a real horse could not fail to be impressed by the sheer size and elegance of the creatures. In a few moments all but three of them would be condemned by the punters as useless donkeys, but now, clip-clopping beside their stable lads (mostly female), they did look truly beautiful.

And it was a nice sharp day, whose thin sun suggested spring wasn’t that far away. The fact that they were now into March was comforting; it was so much more optimistic a month than February. Carole, as she had done so many times since she had moved to Fethering, thawed a little. Maybe going to the races wasn’t such a pointless pastime, after all.

“Well, I’m Random Missile,” said Jude.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Random Missile. Number Four. Going to walk it.”

“Do you know something? Do you have inside information?” asked Carole, like a character out of early Le Carre.

“No, I told you. There’s no science to it. I just like the look of the horse.”

“I’m sure there could be science applied to it. If you assessed all the variables-you know, the horse’s fitness, where it had run before, who it had beaten, who it had lost to…”

“Carole, don’t go down that road. The world is full enough already of people who’ve worked out infallible systems for getting winners, and let me tell you, none of them work.”

“But if one were going to bet”-doing one’s supermarket shopping on Mars sounded a likelier option-“wouldn’t it be better to do it in an informed manner?”

“Depends on how you get your thrills. What I like about betting is that it’s random. That’s why I’m going to back Random Missile.”

“Just because of the name?”

“Yes, and the fact that I like the look of him…and the fact that his stable girl has a nice-coloured scrunchy in her hair.”

“Sometimes I just don’t believe you, Jude. You’re really going to put money on it?”

“Of course I am. Come on, you just look at the horses. Tell me which one you think’ll win.”

“‘Think’ll win’ or ‘like the look of’?”

“Whichever. It comes to the same thing.”

Carole scrutinised all the circling horses with calculating care. Then she pointed to a tall grey. “That one.”

“Number Seven.” Jude consulted her race card. “Gerry’s Tyke. Not a bad choice. Will probably start favourite.”

“You mean I’ve picked the winner?”

“You’ve picked the one most people think’ll win.”

“Oh?”

“Which is a very different thing. Come on, let me show you where the bookies are.”

They dismounted from the viewing steps. As they moved away, the jockeys in their bright silks were starting to appear on the central green of the parade ring, chatting with eager politeness to their paymasters and eyeing up the opposition. As Carole and Jude walked up towards the stands, aromas of curry and onions and chips wafted from the high vans dispensing them. Large men with beer in plastic glasses milled around, but nothing threatened. The atmosphere remained benign, anticipatory, everyone having a good day out.

Jude led Carole through the milling bodies in a passage between the stands that led to the trackside area. Here two rows of bookies plied their trade, the more modern with the horses’ names and odds red on electronic displays, but the majority still relying on printed cards, a felt pen to write up the odds and a finger to wipe them away.

“You can bet on the tote, but I much prefer doing it with the bookies. You can see the odds change from minute to minute.”

Carole nodded, as if she had a clue what she was being told. Jude pointed up at a bookie’s board. “See, Random Missile’s at twenty-fives. Gerry’s Tyke’s eleven-to-eight favourite.”

“Ah.”

“Ooh.” Jude suddenly darted along the row. By the time Carole struggled her way through the crowd to catch up, she saw her friend holding up a ten-pound note to another bookie. “Tenner on Random Missile.”

“Three hundred and thirty pound to ten, Number Four,” said the bookmaker, for the benefit of the recorder behind him, and waited till a ticket was printed out to hand to Jude.

“Why that bookmaker rather than the other one?” asked Carole.

“Because he was offering thirty-three to one. The other was only at twenty-fives.”

“Ah.”

“Which means I win 330 quid.”

“If the horse wins.”

“He will win. I know it.”

“How do you know it?”

“I just do.”

“Hmph,” said Carole.

“Ooh, look! They’re offering seven to four on yours over there.”

“What?”

“Seven to four on Gerry’s Tyke. Go on, grab it; won’t last long.”

“Are you suggesting that I should actually bet on the horse?”