"It wants exposing," said the rabble-raiser belligerently.
"Who runs this place?"
"Bloke called Humber," said the pretty boy, 'he couldn't train ivy up a wall. and he has about as many winners as tits on a billiard ball. You see his head travelling-lad at the meetings sometimes, trying to press gang people to go and work there, and getting the brush off, right and proper. "
"Someone ought to do something," said the rabble- raiser automatically: and I guessed that this was his usual refrain: 'someone ought to do something'; but not, when it came to the point, himself.
There was a general drift into the canteen, where the food proved to be good, unlimited, and free. A proposal to move on to a pub came to nothing when it was discovered that the nearest was nearly two bus less miles away and that the bright warm canteen had some crates of beer under its counter.
It was easy enough to get the lads started on the subject of doping, and they seemed prepared to discuss it endlessly. None of the twenty odd there had ever, as far as they would admit, given 'anything' to a horse, but they all knew someone who knew someone who had. I drank my beer and listened and looked interested, which I was.
'. nob bled him with a squirt of acid as he walked out of the bleeding paddock. "
'. gave him such a whacking dollop of stopping powder that he died in his box in the morning. "
"Seven rubber bands came out in the droppings…"
'. overdosed him so much that he never even tried to jump the first fence: blind, he was, stone blind. "
'. gave him a bloody great bucketful of water half an hour before the race, and didn't need any dope to stop him with all that sloshing about inside his gut. "
"Poured half a bottle of whisky down his throat."
'. used to tube horses which couldn't breathe properly on the morning of the race until they found it wasn't the extra fresh air that was making the horses win but the cocaine they stuffed them full of for the operation. "
"They caught him with a hollow apple packed with sleeping pills…"
'. dropped a syringe right in front of an effing steward. "
"I wonder if there's anything which hasn't been tried yet?" I said.
"Black magic. Not much else left," said the pretty boy.
They all laughed.
"Someone might find something so good," I pointed out casually, 'that it couldn't be detected, so the people who thought of it could go on with it for ever and never be found out. "
"Blimey," exclaimed the cheerful lad, 'you're a comfort, aren't you?
God help racing, if that happened. You'd never know where you were.
The bookies would all be climbing the walls. " He grinned hugely.
The elderly little man was not so amused.
"It's been going on for years and years," he said, nodding solemnly.
"Some trainers have got it to a fine art, you mark my words. Some trainers have been doping their horses regular, for years and years."
But the other lads didn't agree. The dope tests had done for the dope-minded trainers of the past; they had lost their licences, and gone out of racing. The old rule had been a bit unfair on some, they allowed, when a trainer had been automatically disqualified if one of his horses had been doped. It wasn't always the trainer's fault, especially if the horse had been doped to lose. What trainer, they asked, would nobble a horse he'd spent months training to win? But they thought there was probably more doping since that rule was changed, not less.
"Stands to reason, a doper knows now he isn't ruining the trainer for life, just one horse for one race. Makes it sort of easier on his conscience, see? More lads, maybe, would take fifty quid for popping the odd aspirin into the feed if they knew the stable wouldn't be shut down and their jobs gone for a burton very soon afterwards."
They talked on, thoughtful and ribald; but it was clear that they didn't know anything about the eleven horses I was concerned with.
None of them, I knew, came from any of the stables involved, and obviously they had not read the speculative reports in the papers, or if they had, had read them separately over a period of eighteen months, and not in one solid, collected, intense bunch, as I had done.
The talk faltered and died into yawns, and we went chatting to bed, I sighing to myself with relief that I had gone through the evening without much notice having been taken of me.
By watching carefully what the other lads did, I survived the next day also without any curious stares. In the early afternoon I took Sparking Plug from the stables into the paddock, walked him round the parade ring, stood holding his head while he was saddled, led him round the parade ring again, held him while the jockey mounted, led him out on to the course, and went up into the little stand by the gate with the other lads to watch the race.
Sparking Plug won. I was delighted. I met him again at the gate and led him into the spacious winner's unsaddling enclosure.
Colonel Beckett was there, waiting, leaning on a stick. He patted the horse, congratulated the jockey, who unbuckled his saddle and departed into the weighing room, and said to me sardonically, "That's a fraction of his purchase price back, anyway."
"He's a good horse, and absolutely perfect for his purpose."
"Good. Do you need anything else?"
"Yes. A lot more details about those eleven horses… where they were bred, what they ate, whether they had had any illnesses, what cafes their box drivers used, who made their bridles, whether they had racing plates fitted at the meetings, and by which blacksmiths… anything and everything."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"But they had nothing in common except that they were doped."
"As I see it, the question really is what was it that they had in common that made it possible for them to be doped." I smoothed Sparking Plug's nose. He was restive and excited after his victory.
Colonel Beckett looked at me with sober eyes.
"Mr. Roke, you shall have your information."
I grinned at him.
"Thank you; and I'll take good care of Sparking Plug he'll win you all the purchase price, before he's finished."
"Horses away," called an officiaclass="underline" and with a weak- looking gesture of farewell from Colonel Beckett's limp hand, I took Sparking Plug back to the racecourse stables and walked him round until he had cooled off.
There were far more lads in the hostel that evening as it was the middle night of the two-day meeting, and this time, besides getting the talk around again to doping and listening attentively to everything that was said, I also tried to give the impression that I didn't think taking fifty quid to point out a certain horse's box in his home stable to anyone prepared to pay that much for the information was a proposition I could be relied on to turn down. I earned a good few disapproving looks for this, and also one sharply interested glance from a very short lad whose outsize nose sniffed monotonously.
In the washroom in the morning he used the basin next to me, and said out of the side of his mouth, "Did you mean it, last night, that you'd take fifty quid to point out a box?"
I shrugged.
"I don't see why not."
He looked round furtively. It made me want to laugh.
"I might be able to put you in touch with someone who'd be interested to hear that for a fifty per cent cut."
"You've got another think coming," I said offensively.
"Fifty per cent… what the hell do you think I am?"
"Well… a river, then," he sniffed, climbing down.
"I dunno…"
"I can't say fairer than that," he muttered.
"It's a wicked thing, to point out a box," I said virtuously, drying my face on a towel.
He stared at me in astonishment.
"And I couldn't do it for less than sixty, if you are taking a river out of it."
He didn't know whether to laugh or spit. I left him to his indecision, and went off grinning to escort Sparking Plug back to Yorkshire.