She turned away and headed back through the throng. After showing her pass to the steward on the gate for the private enclosure and entering, she stopped to tuck her ticket, headed JACK JONAS, in her purse. It was only then she noticed there was a second, flimsy slip of paper beneath it.
A receipt, she presumed at first, but then she saw the shadow of handwriting on the reverse. She turned the slip over and read the words, written in ink in very neat handwriting.
Then stood, stock-still, shaking.
40
Saturday 11 May
Is your daughter having a great time in Ecuador with her friend, Cassie? Laura is such a pretty name. I really hope she stays safe.
Meg had to read the note twice. Was she dreaming? Had the bookie written it? What did he mean by it?
Her stomach heaved with sudden fear. She turned, barged past the steward, back out of the enclosure gate, then knelt and threw up on the grass.
‘Are you OK, madam?’ a kindly male voice behind her asked.
‘God,’ said a disgusted, haughty female voice. ‘Don’t people know how to behave any more these days? I mean, really. This is a race meeting, not a chavs’ day out.’
Ignoring both, and the commentary over the speakers announcing they were under starter’s orders, she ran, stumbling her way back through the crowd towards the bookies.
‘It’s Spartan from Blue Dancer, Alcazam, Made of Honour, then Colin’s Brother, Gemini, What-a-Boy, Gunslinger.’ The commentary rang out, echoing, across the entire racecourse. Increasingly, people were stopping whatever they were doing and listening.
‘Made of Honour is a faller. It’s now Spartan from Blue Dancer, Alcazam making ground, then Colin’s Brother, What-a-Boy, Gunslinger on the rails.’
To Meg, as she hurried on, it was just noise, it meant nothing, her bet forgotten. To her relief there was no queue now for Jack Jonas. The bookie was tapping an electronic device.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, breathlessly, as she reached him.
He looked up at her, blankly.
‘I placed a bet with you a few minutes ago,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, darling, no more bets, the race has started.’
‘No, that’s not what I want to talk about. I placed a bet — £150 — on Colin’s Brother, do you remember?’
‘I’m sorry, darling.’ His tone was turning increasingly unpleasant. ‘Don’t think you heard me the first time. I said, no more bets.’
‘I don’t want to place another bet. I want you to explain this.’ She held up the slip of paper.
‘Look, clear off, lady, I’m busy.’
‘You gave it to me, underneath the betting slip,’ she persisted.
He made a show of studying it for some seconds then shook his head. ‘Never seen it before in my life.’
‘I’m telling you, you gave me this — with my betting slip.’
‘And I’m telling you, darling, I ain’t never seen this in my life. Are you sure you placed your bet with me?’ He stared hard at her and jerked a finger to his right. ‘Wasn’t with any of them?’
She stared equally hard back at him. ‘No.’ She produced the ticket bearing his name. ‘I put a £150 bet with you on Colin’s Brother. Don’t you remember?’
‘Darling, I’m a bookmaker, not a bleedin’ circus Memory Man.’ He looked back down at his electronic device and tapped keys on it.
Conversation over.
Meg continued to stand there, fighting off tears. ‘Please help me. Maybe it was your assistant — the guy sitting behind you?’
‘Beg pardon?’ he said, without looking up from his device.
‘Someone put this note with the betting slip — ticket — whatever. Could it have been your colleague? Shall I ask him?’
Jack Jonas looked up, suddenly, his face full of menace. ‘Colin’s Brother you bet on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Each-way or win?’
‘To win.’
‘Wouldn’t have mattered.’ His expression morphed into a smug smile. ‘Came fourth, you’d have lost anyway. Now stop bothering me before I call security.’
‘Call them,’ she challenged, standing her ground.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m very sure.’
‘Before I do, darling,’ he sneered, ‘let me just tell you that vomit down the front of your jacket really doesn’t become you... Not a good look at a nice race meeting.’ He nodded at her badge. ‘Had a fancy lunch in the owners’ enclosure restaurant, did you? A bit too much of the posh sparkles? Happens all the time. Know what I suggest?’
She faced him off.
‘You’re pissed. I suggest you get out of here, before I get security to throw you out. That would be really undignified.’
41
Saturday 11 May
Shortly after 6 p.m., as they were on their way back to Brighton from the racecourse, the rain had finally begun. The grey sky and the screech-clunk of the wipers contributed to Meg’s gloom, as she sat in the rear of the Prius behind Peter Dean and his girlfriend, a concert violinist, whose name she, embarrassingly, couldn’t remember. They’d picked Meg up earlier and were now kindly giving her a lift home before heading up to London, where they both lived.
Dean turned into Meg’s street and pulled up outside her house. He politely declined her invitation to come in for a coffee, explaining he had a complex and harrowing inquest starting on Monday and had to get back to read through a ton of paperwork in preparation, and that Jonquil was playing a new piece tomorrow night and needed to rehearse.
She walked up to her front door, waved them goodbye as they drove off then entered the house. Daphne greeted her with a glare.
She knelt and stroked her. ‘Hungry? I’ll get some food in a minute, OK?’
Meg was still going over and over in her head the encounter with the vile bookmaker earlier, and fretting about the note. A note passed along with a betting slip. The bookmaker, Jack Jonas, had to have known, it must have been deliberate. To give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe it was his clerk, or someone else at the race track who had given it to him to pass to her? But it was still completely creeping her out.
She’d not said anything to Peter or Daniel about it — not really sure what to tell them. Much of their conversation after the race had revolved around how their jockey had got himself boxed in on the rails. Daniel had said, darkly, that it smacked of race-fixing between the jockeys, which did sometimes happen at the point-to-point level of racing in order to get the odds higher on a future race. But she hadn’t really been able to focus on what they were saying.
Just what the hell had that note been all about? Who had written it? For what reason? How did they know about Laura and where she was? How had they known she was going to place a bet with them?
Deep in thought, she slung her jacket on the Victorian coat stand inside the front door, made her way into the kitchen and went straight to the fridge. Removing a bottle of sparkling water, she took a large gulp.
The cat gave a loud miaowwwwww.
‘OK, I hear you, patience!’ She walked over towards the cupboard where she kept the cat food and was about to pull out a tin when something on the kitchen table, lying near Sussex Life and some other magazines, caught her eye. A photograph.
It had not been there when she left the house this morning. Had it?
Puzzled, she stepped over to the table and looked down at the 5 x 3, brightly coloured picture of Laura and Cassie on the Equator. The one Laura had WhatsApped her.