I wondered if race fixing was fraud, and decided it probably was.
‘Prosecuting or defending?’ I asked.
‘Both,’ he said. ‘But obviously not in the same case. It depends on which side’s solicitors instruct me first. But I also do quite a lot of prosecution work for the government — tax evasion cases mostly.’
‘Do you always win?’ I asked.
‘What sort of question is that from someone involved in horseracing?’
‘I’ll take that to be a “no” then.’
‘Some juries just don’t seem to understand what I’m telling them.’
He laughed again, and I laughed with him.
I liked him, and I felt that the feeling was mutual.
‘Here,’ he said, smiling. ‘Take this.’
He handed me one of his business cards — Patrick J Hogg, KC, Middle Temple. I took it and put it in my pocket.
‘Thanks, Patrick,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in touch about the yearling parade.’
Malcolm Galbraith was at the Owners and Trainers’ Bar ahead of me.
‘What are you having?’ he asked as I arrived. ‘A pint?’
He held up his own.
‘No, thanks. Just some fizzy water. I have to drive later.’
And I hadn’t got out of Jim Green’s box without having a second large glass of red wine thrust into my hand, even though I’d hardly touched it.
The two-mile five-furlong Summer Plate Trial Handicap Chase was the feature race of the day at Market Rasen.
As its name suggested, this race was a trial for the Summer Plate Handicap Chase, the premier steeplechase of the summer months, which would be run at the same course in four weeks’ time. A good showing in today’s trial might encourage Malcolm and me to enter Casillero for the main one.
In the past, jump racing had always been a winter sport while flat racing took place in the summer, but both now occur pretty much throughout the year.
When I was a child, the thought of there being a jumps fixture on the same day as Royal Ascot would have been laughable, yet this year, three of the five days were now shared with a jump meeting somewhere in the country.
‘How do you think Cassy will go?’ I asked Malcolm.
‘Fair to middling,’ he replied.
Malcolm was never one to be overly confident about any of his horses’ chances. ‘Fair to middling’ was about as good as I could have expected, and was certainly a step up from his other favourite prediction: ‘Should get round.’
Market Rasen is a slightly undulating, right-handed, ten-furlong oval track, with sharp bends at either end. There are four fences in the back stretch, two of which are open ditches, and three more plain fences in the home straight.
The two-mile five-furlong start is in front of the grandstands, and the ten runners in this race therefore had to negotiate two complete circuits of the course, jumping each of the seven fences twice, making fourteen in total.
Malcolm and I watched on one of the television screens as the horses circled before being called into line by the starter.
Unlike in flat racing, where starting stalls are used, jump races are started behind a tape, and there is no draw for starting position. When the starter was satisfied that all were ready, he lowered his flag and released the tape, and ‘They’re off!’
The early pace was rather pedestrian, and the group of ten were bunched closely together around the first bend, with Casillero running in fifth or sixth. They all negotiated the first plain fence in the back straight with no problem. Next up was an open ditch, but the fences at Market Rasen are considered fairly easy, and it also caused no concerns.
Only when the group turned into the home straight for the first time, did the tempo really pick up, and that was because Casillero’s jockey took the initiative and pushed her to the front.
‘About bloody time,’ Malcolm said under his breath. ‘I told him not to let it go too slow for too long. Cassy is well placed in the handicap, and we need to make sure that lower weight has its full effect.’
The injection of pace quickly spread out the field such that there were twenty lengths or more from first to last as they made their way along the back straight for the second and last time.
Casillero was still in front as they turned for home, but she hadn’t shaken off two of the others, and one of those came past her going into the last fence, in spite of it carrying six pounds more on its back.
‘Second,’ Malcolm said as they crossed the finish line. ‘Not too bad, I suppose.’
But I could tell he was disappointed.
‘They went too slow on that first circuit,’ he said. ‘I should have been there.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ I said. ‘Second is good. I think we should enter her for the Summer Plate next month.’
‘It’s quite a step up,’ Malcolm said, always being cautious. ‘Today’s trial was only rated as a Class 3 contest. The Plate itself is a Class 1.’
‘I think we should still give it a go. Especially if she remains favourably handicapped.’
I had to be careful, though. Consistently aiming a fairly average horse too high could easily produce a string of mediocre results. No syndicate member would prefer their horse to be fourth or fifth out of twelve runners in a Class 1 contest, when they could have won at Class 4.
In horseracing, winning was everything, even if the prize money was small. And my number-one priority was keeping my syndicate members happy, to keep them coming back to me, year on year.
‘Are you here tomorrow?’ I asked Malcolm. ‘Victrix has a four-year-old called Wayleave running in the Wokingham.’
He laughed. ‘Well, good luck with that,’ he said. ‘I’m taking a rare day off from the gee-gees tomorrow. I’m going to a wedding. Mind you, I’ll still be dressed up like this.’ He waved up and down at his morning dress. ‘Barbara’s nephew is getting married in Bath.’
‘Aren’t you wearing a kilt?’
He looked at me. ‘You’d do well to mind your language.’ He laughed again. ‘Actually, I do have a kilt somewhere, but the waistband is a good eight inches too short for me these days. Can’t imagine why. It must have shrunk in the wash.’
He took another large swig of beer, and I reckoned I knew the real culprit.
My phone rang.
I looked at it: No Caller ID.
Oh God, I thought. Not again.
‘I’d better take this,’ I said to Malcolm, turning and walking away from him.
‘What the bloody hell do you want?’ I said, answering the call.
‘I just wanted to know if you liked my piece about you in the Post yesterday,’ said a normal voice.
‘Oh, Jerry,’ I replied. ‘I’m so sorry — I thought you were someone else.’
‘I should hope so.’
‘The piece was lovely, thank you. Although I wasn’t so happy with your front-page article.’
‘I’m sure. And I have more news on that. I’ve managed to acquire a copy of the CCTV footage from the Lingfield weighing room from that day, and it clearly shows that Tim Westlake weighed out correctly at nine stone seven pounds. So Owen Reynolds assertion that they must have made a mistake weighing him out is definitely not correct.’
‘So what are you going to do about it?’ I asked, trying hard to keep the worry out of my voice.
‘Not much I can do,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked the online gambling companies, in particular the exchanges, to tell me if there was any unusual betting recorded on that race, especially any evidence of anyone taking large number of lays on Dream Filler or offering better lay odds than everyone else. I’m still waiting to hear. The lawyers won’t let me accuse anyone without cast-iron proof, and short of searching people’s houses, I won’t get that.’