‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Usual controls. I’ve already checked that your monitor’s working. No problems.’
‘Right; thanks, Jack. See you later.’
Emily and I went out of the weighing room and climbed the six flights of stairs to the commentary box. As at a number of British racecourses, the box at Huntingdon was in a shed-like structure attached to the very top of the grandstand roof, almost as if it was added as an after-thought.
The shed also contained the judge’s box and the photo-finish system as well as a position for a television camera. It gave a great view of the course but was not ideal for anyone who didn’t have a head for heights, especially when the wind blew hard, which tended to make the whole structure sway slightly.
‘Wow,’ said Emily, moving to the open side, ‘it’s quite high.’
Not as high, I thought, as the fifteenth floor of the Hilton Hotel.
‘Don’t you like heights?’ I asked.
‘Not much,’ she said, hanging on tight to the rail as she looked over. ‘I prefer my feet firmly planted on the ground.’
‘You get used to it,’ I said. ‘And this is much lower than some.’
I removed my binoculars from my bag and then checked the non-runners, making notes on my copy of the Racing Post that we had stopped to buy in Newmarket. Everything seemed in order for another day at the office.
‘Fancy some lunch?’ I asked.
‘Have we got time?’
There was still at least half an hour until the first race.
‘Plenty,’ I said.
We descended again to ground level and I bought some smoked salmon sandwiches, which we ate perched on bar stools at a high table near the window of the Hurdles Bar.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, you know, about the blackmail notes and that film.’
‘And?’ Emily said between mouthfuls of sandwich.
‘You couldn’t just send blackmail notes to everyone. It would be ridiculous.’
‘You don’t have to,’ she said. ‘Suppose you only have a slight suspicion that someone has been up to no good. If you sent them a blackmail note asking for a couple of hundred quid, it would sure as hell confirm your suspicions if they then paid up.’
‘I wonder if that was the case with Clare. Perhaps whoever sent it to her was merely fishing, and got more than just a bite when Austin paid up.’
‘Hello, Mark,’ said a voice behind me. ‘Mind if I join you?’
I stood up and turned round. ‘Not at all, Harry. Bring up a stool. Harry, can I introduce Emily Lowther. Emily, this is Harry Jacobs.’
Emily held out her hand but Harry had both of his full, a plate of seafood in one and an ice bucket plus bottle of champagne in the other. He put them down on the table and shook her hand.
‘Delighted to meet you, my dear,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll get glasses.’
‘No private box today, Harry?’ I said.
‘No, not here. I’m on my own today, anyway. No runners. I only popped along because I was bored at home. Last-minute decision and all that.’
He disappeared back towards the bar.
‘Who is he?’ Emily mouthed at me.
‘Racehorse owner,’ I said quietly in reply. ‘I rode a horse for him years and years ago when I was eighteen. We’ve been friends ever since. Nice enough chap, but a bit eccentric. He’s got pots of money, but I don’t know where from.’
Harry returned with three champagne flutes and proceeded to pour golden bubbles into them.
‘Not much for me,’ said Emily. ‘I’m driving.’
‘And not much for me either, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m commentating in twenty minutes.’
‘You’re no fun,’ said Harry with a pained expression. Then he smiled. ‘But at least it means there’s more for me. Cheers.’
We raised our glasses and clinked them together. Emily and I sipped graciously while Harry downed a hefty slug before refilling his glass.
‘Now then,’ he said, ‘what were you two so intent about? I waved at you, Mark, through the window but you completely ignored me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t notice you.’ I laughed. ‘We were busily talking about sending someone a blackmail note.’
The colour drained out of Harry’s face and I thought for a moment he was going to drop his champagne.
Rather annoyingly, at that point, I’d had to go to commentate on the first race so I’d left Emily looking after Harry in the bar, promising to be back straight after it finished.
I hurried down the stairs to find them sitting on the same stools as when I’d left. The only thing that seemed to have changed was that the champagne bottle was now obviously empty, being turned upside down in the ice bucket, and the plate of seafood had been half consumed.
Harry was intently studying the floor by his feet.
‘Did you see the race?’ I asked.
‘On the television,’ said Emily, pointing to one on the wall. She smiled. ‘And I could hear your voice over the speakers.’
‘So, Harry,’ I said, sitting back down on the third stool. ‘Tell me.’
He looked up slowly. ‘Tell you what?’ His voice was ever so slightly slurred. I wasn’t surprised after the quick consumption of nearly a whole bottle of fizz. He again looked down at the floor.
‘Tell me who is blackmailing you,’ I said quietly but distinctly, leaning forward to speak directly into his left ear.
‘No one,’ he said. He suddenly sat up straight and almost toppled backwards off the stool.
‘I tried to get him to eat something to soak up the booze,’ Emily said. ‘But he seems intent on drinking himself into oblivion. I had to restrain him from getting another bottle.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I’m not drunk. I’m just a little tipsy, that’s all.’
‘Yes, Harry,’ I said. ‘Of course you are. Now, where can we take him?’ I asked Emily. ‘Even if we could get him to tell us who’s blackmailing him, he’s not going to do it here, not with all these people around. How about the commentary box?’
‘Will he get up the stairs?’ Emily asked.
‘I should think so. I’m quite surprised a single bottle has had such a large effect on him. He’s drunk me under the table before now. I’d always assumed he had hollow legs and could drink for England.’
‘Perhaps he started before he arrived at the races.’
I stood up and put my hand under his right elbow. ‘Come on, Harry, let’s go.’
‘OK,’ he said, standing up. ‘Fine by me.’
He walked quite steadily out of the bar, Emily and I guiding him round to the stairs that led up to the roof-top shed. Without any hesitation, he followed Emily up quite happily, with me climbing behind him so he couldn’t suddenly change his mind and retreat.
There was one chair at the back of the commentary box and Harry sat down on it.
‘I’m fine,’ he said again. ‘Perfectly fine.’
‘I know you are, Harry,’ I said. ‘But just sit there for a bit while I commentate on the next race.’
Hell, I thought, I hadn’t been to see the horses in the parade ring or check on the colours. But the second race was a moderate two-and-a-half-mile handicap steeplechase with eight runners and all of them had been regulars on racecourses for years. It was like seeing old friends again and I reckoned I knew the colours already.
Handicaps are the staple of British racing, accounting for more than half of all races. They give the best chance for most owners to have a winner.
All horses in training are given an official rating in a list that is published each week by the British Horseracing Authority. In handicaps, the horses carry different weights according to their official rating: the higher the rating, the greater the weight. In this way, based on previous performance, all horses should have an equal chance of winning.