‘Are you saying that he won’t win this evening?’ I asked.
‘Let’s just say that I’m not as confident as I was last time. But he should still run well. I’ve decided to put Tim Westlake up on him again, to make up for Lingfield. He deserves it. But this time, I’ll be in the weighing room when he weighs out, to check for myself that he’s at the correct weight.’
‘Good idea,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
We arranged to meet outside the Owners and Trainers’ Restaurant before the first race, and then we disconnected.
As I put my phone down on my desk, it started ringing.
I looked at it.
No Caller ID.
I didn’t answer, and after about six rings it stopped.
It started again, but I still didn’t answer.
It rang for a third time. I switched the phone to silent, but it went on vibrating. I ignored it.
Then a message notification popped up on the screen
Dream Filler will lose again today.
He might well lose again today, I thought — but it certainly wouldn’t be due to anything that I did.
Bath races on a warm summer’s evening is truly delightful, although the same cannot always be said of their early April or late October meetings, when an icy wind off the Atlantic can cut through you like a knife on the exposed hilltop.
The course itself is kidney shaped, which gives those in the stands a great view of the action, as the horses are never too far away. As you might expect for a track built on the top of a hill, there are numerous undulations, including a steady climb over the last three furlongs, all the way to the finish line, which can prove a severe test for even the most experienced horse and jockey.
It also has one of the prettiest approaches to any racecourse in the country, as you drive between Cotswold dry-stone walls and through the centre of Lansdown Golf Course on arrival.
I parked my Jaguar in one of the spaces reserved for owners and walked into the enclosures, collecting my owner’s badge and meal voucher on the way.
I was very early.
The first race was not for another hour, at 5.40.
But I’d had something to do in the centre of Bath beforehand, to meet someone, and it hadn’t taken as long as I’d allowed for.
I sat at a table, under a sun umbrella, on the lawn outside the owners and trainers area and made a call to Patrick Hogg, KC, the barrister from Middle Temple, whom I’d met in Jim Green’s box at Ascot.
‘Do you have time to talk?’ I asked.
‘Court adjourned early at half three today,’ he said. ‘So fire away.’
‘Can I speak to you in confidence?’
There was a pause.
‘Strictly speaking,’ he said finally, ‘the confidentiality rules exist only between a lawyer and his or her client. I am not your lawyer, and you are not my client.’
‘Can I be?’ I asked.
Another pause.
‘I am not what is known as a “public access barrister,” so I can only be instructed by a solicitor or the Crown Prosecution Service, not by members of the public.’
‘Could you give me some advice then, just as a friend?’
Yet another pause.
‘Not that you could rely on in court. And if you tell me you have been money laundering or avoiding your taxes, then I would be honour-bound to report you straight to the authorities.’
‘I haven’t been doing either of those,’ I assured him with a laugh, hoping that he didn’t ask me about race fixing.
‘So what sort of advice?’ he asked with a huge degree of wariness in his voice.
Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to contact him, after all.
‘It’s about a family matter,’ I said.
I spoke with him for the next twenty minutes or so.
‘Look, Chester,’ Patrick said, interrupting my flow. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go now. I have to get to Paddington to catch the train home. We have a family event this evening. Perhaps we can speak again tomorrow morning. Call me any time after eight and before a quarter to ten.’
At least he hadn’t said, ‘Don’t ever call me again.’
Did he say train home from Paddington? That was our direction.
‘Where do you live?’ I asked quickly.
‘Near Reading,’ he said. ‘A village called Upper Basildon.’
‘But that’s only nine miles away from my house.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I must dash now.’
He hung up.
I sat there for quite a while, thinking and staring into space.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ said a voice above my head.
I looked up. The voice belonged to Bill Parkinson, one of the Potassium syndicate.
‘Oh, hi, Bill. What are you doing here?’
‘Enjoying myself at the races,’ he said. ‘I’m a member here.’
‘Beautiful evening for it,’ I said.
‘Does Victrix have any runners?’ he asked.
‘Dream Filler in the fourth.’
‘Isn’t that the one that was disqualified at Lingfield a couple of weeks ago for weighing in light?’
‘Sure is,’ I said. ‘We’re hoping he’ll make up for that this evening.’
‘Then you’d better keep your eyes firmly fixed on his weight cloth,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘That was a rum business.’
‘It certainly was,’ I agreed.
‘Are you any closer to finding out what happened?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s all water under the bridge now, anyway.’
Thames river water, I thought, under Goring Bridge.
Owen Reynolds arrived to join us.
‘Evening, Owen,’ said Bill. ‘How’s that horse of mine?’
‘If you mean Potassium,’ Owen said, clearly not amused, ‘he’s fine.’
‘Have you two decided where he’s running next?’ Bill asked us. ‘How about the King George and Queen Elizabeth back at Ascot?’
‘He is entered for that,’ Owen said. ‘But he’s also entered for the Sussex Stakes at the Goodwood Festival, and he won’t run in both, that’s for sure, as they’re only a few days apart. He’s also still in the Eclipse, but I think that might be too soon after last week. And entries close tomorrow for the International at York in August, so I’ve already put him in that.’
‘You and I have much to talk about,’ I said to him. ‘When do we have to decide?’
‘Confirmation for the Eclipse would have to be made by noon next Monday. We have another week to decide on the others. Let’s have a proper chat about it on Sunday, when I’ve seen how he performs on the gallops this week.’
For a racehorse trainer, choosing the correct races in which to run their horses is as important as ensuring that the animals are fit and healthy. Without both of these things being just right, they will have no chance of fulfilling their potential and winning the big races.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Owen, you and I now have to talk about this evening.’
Bill took the hint.
‘Good luck later,’ he said, and wandered off.
‘He’s a real pain, that one,’ Owen said to me under his breath when Bill was far enough away not to be able to hear. ‘He’s always ringing me up at home to ask about Potassium and tell me where he should run next, or even what feed supplements I should give him. And he always refers to him as “his” horse.’
‘But I specifically instruct all my syndicates to contact only me with their concerns, and never to call the trainers direct.’
‘Well, he takes no notice of that.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll send a reminder to all the members.’
Yet another thing to add to my ‘to-do’ list.
‘So how about Dream Filler?’ I asked.
‘He should do all right,’ Owen replied. ‘But he won’t start as favourite this time. It’s that Gosden filly that’s the main danger. And I’m a bit worried that the ground may be too firm for our boy. They don’t water up here, and it’s still as hard as iron after all the hot weather we’ve been having. If it hadn’t rained early on Saturday morning, I’d have probably not declared him. But I don’t think the rain has made any difference. I just hope he comes home sound.’