Simon Brett - The Stabbing in the Stables

“Mm. I see what you mean. But I still don’t like the idea of all this money being handed over in the open air.”

“Well, there is another way of booking. You can do it on the tote. One of those windows over there.”

“Oh, that looks a lot safer. More like a bank.”

So, as Jude rushed across to grab the sixty-six to one on Missie Massie while stocks lasted, Carole went sedately across and completed her transaction with the lady behind the tote counter.

“It won’t be that different from bookies’ odds,” Jude told her when they had once again secured their position overlooking the winning post. “Sometimes the tote’s better, sometimes worse. Can be worth doing for a really long-priced outsider.”

“Like Missie Massie?”

“Maybe. I just get more of a buzz out of betting with the bookies.”

Missie Massie did better than Random Missile, in that she actually completed the course. Sadly, eight other horses completed it ahead of her. Becktrout, on the other hand, led from start to finish, and romped home by a distance.

Carole’s smile this time was more than satisfied; it was smug.

“Well done!” Jude grinned as she tore up her second betting ticket of the afternoon.

“You don’t seem to mind losing.”

“No, it’s part of the fun. I mean, the excitement I got when Random Missile was leading in the last race, even though it all subsequently fell apart, well, I certainly got my ten quid’s worth out of that.”

“Well, what did you get out of this race? Missie Massie was never better than seventh.”

“I got the excitement of possibility. The excitement of what might have happened.”

Though she didn’t say it, Carole’s face made clear that she was much more interested in the concrete-what had happened or what was definitely going to happen, than in the possible.

“Anyway, you’re ahead. You’ve cleaned up. Becktrout had drifted to three to one by the off, so the tote won’t be that different. How much did you put on him?”

“Two pounds.”

“Two pounds? Last of the big spenders. Well, never mind, now you’re on a winning streak, you can build up your stakes on the next few races.”

“Oh, I’m not going to bet again,” said Carole.

“What?” asked Jude, thunderstruck.

“No. I’ve had a winner. If I stop now, I’ll end up ahead on the afternoon-well, except for paying the entrance money.”

“But you can’t stop now, Carole. You’re just coming into your own. You’re on a lucky streak, I can tell. Go on; if you keep betting, you’re in with a chance of covering your day badge too. You must have another bet.”

“I don’t think so,” said Carole primly. “That would be tempting Providence.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” But Jude didn’t get a chance to continue explaining how Carole had failed to grasp the whole concept of gambling. Her eye was caught by something down by the rail of the track, over in the bookmakers’ area.

“Excuse me,” she said to the man next to her, “could I borrow those for a moment?” Before he could acquiesce or refuse, Jude grabbed his binoculars, still with their strap around the man’s neck, and had them to her eyes.

The enlarged image showed three people down at the rail, all looking slightly furtive. A tall woman stood almost like a lookout, while a tubby man handed a large fistful of folded notes to another man.

“Who on earth are you looking at?” asked Carole testily.

“Victor and Yolanta Brewis.”

“Who?”

“And the man with them is Donal Geraghty!”

“Thank you.” the binoculars were thrust back into the hands of their owner, who, given the breadth of Jude’s smile, could not fail to reciprocate with one of his own. But she didn’t see it. Already, with a querulous Carole in tow, she was trying to weave a speedy way through the melee leaving the grandstand down towards the railing.

When they got there, inevitably, Donal had filtered away into the crowd, but Victor and Yolanta Brewis were still at trackside. Though she knew who they were, Jude couldn’t really claim acquaintance. It was extremely unlikely that they’d even noticed her on the occasion they’d all three been at Long Bamber Stables. So, with a cautionary gesture to Carole, Jude slowed to within earshot of the couple, and became suddenly intrigued in the race-card details of the next set of runners.

The sight of Yolanta suggested that Carole’s anxieties about being overdressed had been unwarranted. She loomed, icily beautiful, over her husband, and wore a long wide-skirted, white sheepskin coat tied at the front with strings and bobbles. Thigh-length brown leather boots followed the shapely line of her legs down to unfeasibly sharp pointed toes, and on her magenta head was a brown leather hat with a two-foot radius. Her hands were encrusted with gemstone rings like mussels round the edge of a rock pool.

Victor too had pushed the sartorial boat out. Over bright yellow corduroy trousers and stout brown shoes, he wore a long coat in a bold tweed of ginger and bog green. The hat he wore exactly matched his wife’s, making his head look like an apoplectic ringed Saturn.

Jude had only seen them twice, but she got the feeling the couple didn’t possess any old clothes. Everything they wore seemed to have just come out of the cellophane, and gave the impression, like old music hall stars, of making “one appearance only.”

Though the Brewises’ appearance did everything to draw attention to them, their conversation, as overheard by Carole and Jude, was almost furtive.

“Do you think that will be enough to keep him quiet?” asked Yolanta in her heavily accented English.

“For the time being,” Victor replied.

“But if he gets nasty?”

“I may have to get nasty too,” said her husband grimly. Then he smiled at his wife. “If he makes trouble, at least we know where to find him. Couldn’t be handier.”

She chuckled. Victor Brewis opened his race card and spoke suddenly louder, all affability. “Now the horse George Tufton recommended is in the next race. We want to take a close look at him.”

“You are going to buy him, my darling?”

“If he wins, yes. If not, forget it. Let’s go and have a look in the parade ring.”

And they wandered off through the milling crowd, unaware of the sniggers that their appearance prompted.

“Who on earth are those people?” Carole asked.

Jude gave a quick resume of the Brewises and their connection to Long Bamber Stables.

“So Donal’s blackmailing them too, is he?”

Jude rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Or maybe they’re the only ones he’s blackmailing. A wealthy couple who have a connection to Long Bamber Stables-well, the Brewises fit that description just as well as the Dalrymples.”

“But isn’t it a huge risk, handing over blackmail money in a public place like this?”

Jude chuckled. “No, I would say it’s about the safest place in the world. Nobody thinks twice at a racecourse when they see a large wodge of cash handed over. It happens all the time.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. So what do we do next?”

“What we came to do, Carole. Find Donal. Now we definitely know he’s here.”

“Where do we look?”

“Well, he could be round the stables or the horse boxes. But knowing him, I’d have thought it’s more likely he’s round one of the bars.”

Jude knew that Fontwell Park racecourse boasted a lot of bars. She was familiar with the large one, the National Spirit Bar, on the ground floor under the Kerman stand; the Comedy of Errors Bar nearby, and the Salmon Spray Bar next to the on-course betting shop. But she had to explore to find the Premier Bar and the Garden Bar under the premier stand, and the exclusive Owners’ and Trainers’ Bar at the back of the Salmon Spray. Alcohol was also available in the hospitality suites, but Jude didn’t think Donal Geraghty would be invited to any of those. He would have looked out of place amongst the suited executives and giggly wives enjoying their corporate freebie.