‘You can search my house, if you like.’
He laughed. ‘You had nothing to gain by fixing the race.’
‘But why do you clearly think that Owen did?’
‘Owen is a gambler,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows that. But you’re not.’
That’s what he thought.
Chapter 29
I found the house quite lonely again on Friday evening.
I arrived home from Ascot about seven, having spent an hour with another prospective syndicate member discussing the minute details of the syndicate contract. By the time I managed to prise myself away, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted him as one of my future syndicate members anyway. I could see that he was going to be far too demanding, and it was trouble I could probably do without.
I took the guest-bedroom linen out of the washing machine and placed it in the tumble dryer rather than hanging it outside on the washing line. I didn’t want Brian or Victoria Perry, our nosey neighbours, telling Georgina how domesticated I had been, washing the bed sheets, while she’d been away at her parents.
But the linen made me think of Toni, in particular her naked body curled up next to mine.
I cooked myself some scrambled eggs on toast, all the time wondering what Toni was doing at that very moment.
She had given me her phone number, but she’d also specifically told me not to call it while she was in the U.K., because of the exorbitant price her cell company charged her for overseas calls.
Should I call her at the hotel instead?
I got as far as looking up the hotel phone number on the internet before good sense took over.
‘It’s over,’ I told myself. ‘It was just a two-day dalliance. Leave it.’
But I still couldn’t stop thinking about her, especially when I took my food into the sitting room to eat while I watched the television, my feet resting on the sheepskin rug.
Georgina called me at nine o’clock.
‘I’m missing you,’ she said. ‘And to be honest, I’m getting fed up with both of them.’
‘Your parents?’
‘Yes. I’ve told Mum that I’ll stay until Sunday, but I’d much rather come home tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be at Ascot all afternoon,’ I said. ‘I have a runner in the fifth race.’
‘I can always get a taxi home from Didcot station. I’ll let you know.’
‘Is everything else okay?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘What do you mean, you think so?’
‘I’ve had a few strange calls today on my mobile.’
‘What sort of calls?’ I asked slowly.
‘Calls with no one there, or at least no one who talked. Whoever it was just waited a few moments and then hung up.’
‘How many calls?’
‘Five or six. I didn’t answer them after the first three.’
‘Did the caller’s number show up on your phone?’ I asked.
‘No. It just said No Caller ID.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘They were probably auto-dial marketing calls.’
‘It’s just a bit unnerving, that’s all,’ she replied.
It certainly was.
Saturday morning dawned to grey skies and heavy rain. The hot, dry spell had definitely ended, with a weather front moving in from the Atlantic, and rain was forecast for the rest of the afternoon.
I thought about not bothering to go to the races, but Victrix had a runner, and I’d told both the trainer and the syndicate members that I’d be there.
I made my usual morning calls to all the trainers, discussing entries for the following week and making plans for the upcoming racing festivals at Newmarket, Goodwood, and York, for which some entries closed early.
Just after I finished the last of the calls, my phone rang.
No Caller ID.
I wondered if it was Jerry Parker again.
It wasn’t.
‘Chester Newton?’ said the squeaky voice.
‘Leave my wife alone,’ I shouted at him down the phone.
‘Then do as you’re told. Wayleave will lose today.’
‘Get lost.’
I hung up.
Wayleave would probably lose anyway, whatever I did. There were twenty-nine declared runners for the Wokingham Stakes, a six-furlong handicap dash, and this particular race had a reputation for being a bit of a lottery.
But how did Squeaky Voice get Georgina’s mobile number?
My number, yes — it was available on the Victrix website — but hers?
If anything, the rain was falling even heavier as I turned into Car Park 2 just before two o’clock. It was clearly going to be a very damp Royal Procession.
I had spent quite a lot of time, before I left home, remaking the guest-room bed and checking that everything was in order in the house, with no tell-tale signs of Toni’s presence, such as a discarded wineglass with lipstick on the rim, just in case Georgina did decide to come home today rather than tomorrow.
I had also looked up on the internet that Toni’s flight from Heathrow to Cincinnati had departed on time at half past eight — it had — and I felt somewhat bereft that she was, even now, hurtling through the atmosphere, away from me, at five hundred miles an hour.
Royal Ascot in the sunshine is delightful — gorgeous even. But in the rain, it can be a nightmare, especially on the Saturday with nearly seventy thousand people having bought tickets. There is simply insufficient cover for everyone.
Ladies splash through puddles in their open-toed Jimmy Choos while their male companions do their best to hold up large, plain golf umbrellas — no commercial logos or club crests allowed — to prevent the rain from making complete disasters of their wives’ expansive — and expensive — headgear.
I made my way, under my own plain umbrella, to the Owners and Trainers’ Dining Room for some lunch.
It was even busier than on Thursday, but some people were already finishing their meal and leaving, so I didn’t have to wait too long for a table.
The Wokingham Stakes was the fifth race of the day, not due off until five o’clock, and I’d arranged to meet Wayleave’s trainer outside the weighing room after the third, so I was in no hurry.
I was eventually shown to a table by the window, and thankfully this time I was on my own, so I didn’t have to answer any awkward questions about missing weights.
I also wanted time alone, to think.
Wayleave didn’t win the Wokingham Stakes, but it wasn’t from his lack of effort.
He’d been drawn right in the middle, in starting stall fifteen, and as was often the case in these large-field handicaps, the horses split into two groups, one on either side of the racetrack.
Wayleave’s jockey had the option of going either way, or even of staying alone down the centre. Having burst out of the stalls quickly to make the early running, he chose to join the group closest to the crowd, drifting to the left, towards the near running rail.
Indeed, most of the main action was taking place on the near side, with that group making the most of the better ground after the heavy rain earlier.
Wayleave held the lead until well inside the final furlong, before he was swallowed up close to the line by three from the group behind him. He finished a highly respectable fourth, collecting more than eight thousand pounds in prize money for his syndicate, all of whom seemed delighted with their horse’s performance when I met them in the unsaddling enclosure.
Overall, I was also very happy with Wayleave’s showing, but there was a bit of me that had really hoped that he would have hung on to win, just to poke Squeaky Voice firmly in the eye, and maybe also in his pocket.