Peter Lovesey - Skeleton Hill

About the length of an earth worm.

‘Proof positive that she isn’t ancient,’ Lofty said.

‘What is it?’

‘It could do with cleaning up and then you’ll know for sure. I think it’s a zip fastener.’

The two-year-olds cantered down to the start for the main race of the evening and Paloma was looking at the filly she’d backed at 17 to 2, called My Stylist. ‘Mine’s moving well,’ she said, holding the binoculars to her eyes.

‘You’ve done this before,’ Diamond said.

‘Mm?’

‘I said you’ve done this before. Are you sure these badges belong to your rich client?’

‘I don’t know about yours. It’s looking nervous.’

‘You’re not listening, are you?’

‘Not now, Peter. This is the exciting part.’

He’d been under pressure from Paloma to put his ten pounds on a runner called Lady Policeman at 25 to 1. Instead he’d preferred Best Brew, the 11 to 8 favourite. As a rare visitor to racecourses, he knew enough about gambling not to fritter away his money on a name with a chance connection to his life. Sentimental betting wasn’t clever. Best Brew had the form, a top jockey and was tipped in the papers. It wasn’t a bad name either, but that was not a factor, he’d made very clear to Paloma.

The course looked velvet in the evening sun. On a clear, windless day, Lansdown is unequalled. All three enclosures were well filled and there was a buzz of expectation about the main race of the meeting.

Down at the start the handlers were having difficulty persuading some of the young fillies into the stalls. Bucking and whinnying, one pulled back for the second time.

‘I think it’s yours,’ Paloma said.

‘I’m not worried,’ he said, determined to stay calm. ‘The frisky ones start the best.’

‘If they start at all,’ she said. ‘It is yours, I’m certain.’

‘It’s the favourite. It’s got to start.’

‘It’s the favourite. It’s got ‘Tell that to the horse.’

His calm was beginning to evaporate. ‘May I borrow the glasses?’

Now he had the magnified view of another attempt to steer Best Brew forward. All the others were in position and the starter was gesturing to the handlers to hurry. They tried covering the filly’s eyes and it reared up, almost unseating the jockey.

‘For God’s sake!’ he said.

One of the lads slipped and fell.

Under pressure himself, the starter spread his hand and gestured at the reluctant horse and appeared to say something. His hand went to the lever.

‘I think he’s ruled her out,’ Diamond said in disbelief. ‘That’s my money gone before they start.’

The gates crashed open and the field – apart from Best Brew – hurtled from the stalls for the five-furlong dash.

Diamond handed back the binoculars. ‘So much for my ten pounds. See if yours comes in.’

Eleven runners thundered away to the loop at the far side of the course, their spindly forelegs thrusting them forward, urged on by their jockeys and the crowd’s roar. Over the public address came the measured commentary of the track announcer. ‘The early leader is Bluestocking, followed by Lady Be Good and My Stylist.’

‘Go, baby!’ Paloma said.

‘Bluestocking still leads. My Stylist is moving up. Lady Be Good now third. Extra Portion and Reefer showing… Coming to the two furlong marker, nothing to choose between Bluestocking and My Stylist. Going well in third is Extra Portion… One furlong out, it’s still My Stylist and Bluestocking…’

‘Go, go, go!’ Paloma shouted, and Diamond joined in.

‘In the last hundred yards, My Stylist leads. Bluestocking fading. Lady Policeman is finishing fast on the outside… My Stylist and Lady Policeman. Photograph.’

Paloma was making little jumps. ‘I think she got it. What was the other horse?’

‘Lady Policeman – the one you told me to back.’

‘We could have had a winner for sure.’

‘And I didn’t listen.’

‘But it could have started an argument. Let’s see them being led in. I feel sure mine stayed in front.’

‘Have you still got your betting slip?’

‘In my bag.’

They threaded their way through to the winner’s enclosure. Everyone seemed to have an opinion which horse had won until the announcement settled the matter.

‘The result of the Tipping Group Fillies race…’

The talking everywhere stopped.

‘… first, My Stylist.’

Shouts of joy.

Paloma grabbed Diamond and embraced him. ‘She won! She did it!’

They both did some jumping. ‘Nice one.’

Feeling a big debt of gratitude to the horse, they watched her led in by her lady owner in a peacock blue hat and pink suit.

‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ Paloma said in a carrying voice.

The owner took it as a personal compliment and beamed at them, unaware that the hat had been decorated with a ball of foam from My Stylist’s mouth.

Over the public address it was announced that the presen -tation of the Tipping Group Trophy would be made by Sir Colin Tipping.

‘Local sponsor,’ Paloma told Diamond. ‘Heads a firm of chartered surveyors. Once owned a horse called Hang-glider that won one of the classics.’

Well informed, as well as a winner, he thought, wondering where she’d learned so much racing lore.

‘And by a happy coincidence,’ the announcement continued, ‘the winning owner is Sir Colin’s daughter, Mrs Davina Temple-Smith.’

‘Talk about keeping it in the family,’ Paloma said.

The grey-haired and grey-suited Sir Colin duly handed over a sterling silver model of a galloping horse on a black marble plinth. There were coos of delight from some of the women in the crowd as the winning owner also got a kiss that gave a tilt to the peacock hat.

‘Let’s collect your winnings,’ Diamond said in Paloma’s ear.

‘You think I’m heading straight for the champagne bar after that,’ she said. ‘Well, you’re a smart detective. I am.’

Two long rows of bookies were standing in the betting ring among discarded betting slips paying out to the successful punters. Paloma found the right man and collected. Before they moved off, someone shouted, ‘Watch out.’

The shout had come from beside the course.

The bookie turned to look and said, ‘Flaming hell, what a twat!’

A scruffy-looking man in jeans and a hooded jacket had climbed the rail and was ambling across the racecourse from the centre to the Paddock Enclosure oblivious of the horses being cantered past for the start of the next race. A jockey yelled at him. People in the crowd were getting angry, too.

‘A few beers too many,’ Diamond said.

‘Or he’s found a way to get in free,’ Paloma said.

If that was the object, it worked – up to a point. The man was grabbed by one of the police and dragged over the rail and into the exclusive section, so close to Diamond and Paloma that they heard him say in quite a refined drawl, ‘Thank you, officer, I’ll be on my way then.’

‘What the hell were you up to?’ the constable asked.

‘Crossing over for a bite to eat. All the food seems to be this side.’

‘You must be nuts. What’s your name?’

‘Noddy.’

‘Definitely drunk,’ Diamond said to Paloma. ‘And a stupid drunk. He could have been killed.’

‘Serve him bloody right if he had been,’ the bookie said. ‘More serious, he could have damaged a horse. He’s trouble, that one. He’s been here and acting daft since I set up two hours ago. I don’t think he paid to get in.’

‘Neither did we,’ Paloma murmured to Diamond as they moved off.

‘But we’re not misbehaving.’

‘Yet,’ she said. ‘What will happen to him?’