Without handicaps, the best horses would always win and there would be no real point in owning a moderate horse. And, just as football teams are also grouped by their performances into ‘divisions’ where they are all roughly the same standard, so horses run in races where they all have approximately the same rating.
Not only does this give every horse in the race a chance of winning, it leads to exciting close finishes because the handicapper is attempting to create a multiple dead-heat with all the horses arriving at the winning post at exactly the same moment. Hence they were also great races for the betting public, who always believed they knew better than the officials.
The runners for this particular handicap came out onto the racecourse and I described them to the crowd as they made their way round to the two-and-a-half-mile start in the middle of the back straight.
I’d seen all of these horses racing before, some of them as many as fifteen or twenty times, and I recognized them as much from the shape of their bodies and the shade of their coats as from the colours of the jockeys’ silks. Nevertheless, I took a few minutes to make sure. I didn’t want to be complacent and end up confusing one horse with another.
‘They’re off,’ I said into the microphone as the race began.
The handicapper should have been proud of his work. All eight horses were still in contention as they turned into the finishing straight for the second and last time, with just two plain fences left to jump.
Then two of them fell at the second-last fence, bringing down a third.
‘Now, with just one to jump, it’s Twickman taking up the running from Delmar Boy and Coralstone, with Vintest and Felto both making their challenge down the outside.’
I smiled at Emily who was standing next to me, totally engrossed in the race.
‘And, as they come to the last, it’s Twickman by a length from Vintest with Coralstone third, between horses in the green.’
Emily started to jump up and down with excitement.
‘A great leap at the last from Vintest, who lands alongside Twickman and is quickly into his stride. Just two hundred yards to go now.’
It was a long run-in at Huntingdon and plenty could change between the last fence and the winning post. And today was no exception.
‘Twickman and Vintest together, but here comes the fast-finishing Felto under Paddy Dean on the outside.’ My voice rose in pitch in line with the ever-rising cheering of the crowd. ‘Into the last fifty yards and it’s still Twickman just from Vintest, but Felto is catching them with every stride.’
I clicked off my microphone as the three horses flashed past the finish line stride for stride.
‘Photograph, photograph,’ announced the judge.
‘On the nod,’ I said to Emily.
‘What?’ she said breathlessly.
‘Horses’ heads nod back and forth as they run. Those three were so close that the winner will be the one whose head happened to be nodding forward just as they crossed the line. Half a stride later and one of the others would be in front. When it’s that close it’s down to luck as to who wins.’
‘But it was so exciting,’ she said. ‘I’ve never really watched a race like that before, you know, concentrating on the horses. I’ve mostly only been to the races for the food and drink, and the hospitality.’
‘Here is the result of the photograph,’ said the judge over the public address. ‘First number four, Felto, second number seven, third number two, the distances were a nose, and a short-head.’
A great cheer had gone up from the crowd as soon as the number four had been announced. Felto had started the race as favourite and lots of bets had been riding on his particular nose.
‘What’s the difference between a nose and a short-head?’ Emily asked.
‘Not much,’ I said. ‘A nose is anything less than four and a half inches, and a short-head is between that and nine inches.’
Emily made a face. ‘It hardly seems fair to lose by a few inches after running so far.’
‘A win is a win,’ I said, ‘and, as the technology improves and the photographs get better, the margins get smaller and smaller. Dead-heats are getting rarer.’
Harry Jacobs had sat on the chair at the back of the box throughout the race, looking more miserable than drunk.
‘So, Harry,’ I said. ‘Tell us who’s been blackmailing you.’
He looked up at us with clear eyes. ‘How on earth did you know?’
‘We didn’t,’ Emily said. ‘We were discussing somebody else.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Who?’
‘Two others actually,’ I said. ‘And one of them was my sister, Clare.’ I felt I had to give him some information, in order to establish some trust. ‘Someone sent her a blackmail note demanding two hundred pounds or they would tell the racing authorities she had failed to win a race on purpose.’
‘And did she pay?’ he asked.
‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘Someone else paid for her.’
‘And did the blackmailer then ask for more?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Harry nodded. ‘Thought so.’
‘Is that what happened to you?’
He pursed his lips and went on nodding. ‘The first demand was so small, I just paid it.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What had you done?’
‘But that’s what’s so bloody stupid,’ he said. ‘I haven’t really done anything.’
‘So what were they using to blackmail you?’ I asked.
‘It was an offshore bank account I had on the Isle of Man.’
‘What about it?’
‘I opened it in a different name because I thought at one stage I might move all my assets to the Isle of Man.’
‘For tax purposes?’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Capital gains tax, to be precise. In the end, I didn’t go through with it but I never closed the account. I’d put some money in it and I suppose I should have paid tax on the interest it earned, but it was so small I didn’t think it mattered. Also, I didn’t tell my accountant or put any offshore account details on my tax return as I didn’t want the tax people to think I was trying to fiddle my taxes.’
‘Which you were,’ Emily said.
‘Yeah, well... but not using that account.’
‘But you were fiddling your taxes somewhere else?’ I asked.
‘Not actual fiddling,’ he said, slightly affronted. ‘I avoid tax, not evade it. There’s an important difference. Avoidance is legal, evasion isn’t.’ He smiled unconvincingly. ‘But I could really do without being audited by the Revenue. Let’s just say it might be awkward, you know, over certain of my interpretations of the tax laws.’
‘Sailing close to the wind,’ said Emily.
‘Exactly,’ Harry agreed. ‘Very close.’
‘So what did the blackmail note say?’
He knew it by heart. ‘ “I know you are using an offshore bank account to evade paying tax. Just two hundred pounds will make the story go away. Get the cash together. Payment details will follow.” ’
‘Same blackmailer,’ I said. ‘When did you get the note?’
‘Nearly two years ago. At a time when it might have been very embarrassing to have had a Revenue investigation. So I paid.’
‘Were you told to leave the money under your car in a racecourse car park?’
He nodded. ‘But he demanded more. About six months later I had to pay a thousand, next it was two thousand, then I got another note yesterday demanding a further twenty thousand. Now, I think that’s rather too much.’ He sounded like someone who had just been overcharged for a meal or a hotel room.
‘Have you by any chance got the note with you?’ I asked.
He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his coat pocket. ‘I didn’t want to leave it at home in case my wife found it.’
He handed it to me and I spread it out. It was a computer printed sheet just like the others but, as on the latest one to Austin Reynolds, the last zero of the twenty thousand had been added by hand.