‘Apart from that, is everything else okay?’
He smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ I replied. ‘Are you going to eat?’ I pointed behind me at the Owners and Trainers’ Restaurant.
‘No time. I have another runner in the second. I had a cheese sandwich before I came out.’
‘All right, then. I’ll see you later.’
I went inside the restaurant and used the meal voucher to collect from the buffet my free supper of cod in a white wine sauce.
As I was sitting down, I was approached by two members of Dream Filler’s syndicate, plus their wives.
‘Hello, Chester,’ one said. ‘May we join you?’
‘Of course,’ I said with a forced smile.
They pulled across some chairs and another table to abut the one where I was sitting.
In truth, I would rather have been left alone to think, especially when I found out that the sole topic of discussion between them was the disqualification of Dream Filler last time out.
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again today,’ one of the wives said.
‘I don’t think it will,’ I replied.
In fact, I was quite certain it wouldn’t.
Chapter 32
I went to the saddling boxes before the fourth race, but I didn’t go in.
Owen had help from his assistant and from the stable lad, so I wasn’t needed. Instead, I walked over to the parade ring to meet up with the syndicate, and presently we were joined, first by Owen, and then by Tim Westlake wearing the Victrix silks.
‘All set?’ I asked.
Tim nodded at me, but Owen still wanted to give his final instructions.
‘Remember,’ he said earnestly to Tim, ‘the track falls away slightly after the start, and then there’s a very sharp turn back towards home. Try and get to the inside rail before the turn, and then stick to it all the way round. Some of the others farther out may have difficulty negotiating the bend, so you can gain an advantage on them. But leave something in reserve. It’s quite a stiff climb up to the line. Got it?’
Tim nodded again.
The bell was rung, and Owen went over to Dream Filler with Tim and gave him a leg up into the saddle, while the owning syndicate and I went along to the viewing areas on the grandstand to watch the race.
Tim Westlake followed Owen’s instructions to the letter, sticking like glue to the inside rail around the turn, but it wasn’t quite enough. The four extra pounds that Dream Filler had been forced to carry because of the increase in his rating by the handicapper was the deciding factor.
The Gosden filly beat him into second place by half a length, it only drawing ahead within the last fifty yards.
I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it.
Was I disappointed? Or relieved?
Perhaps a bit of both.
I’d certainly done nothing to adversely affect the result, and for that alone I was happy. And the syndicate members seemed relatively content too, in spite of some obvious disappointment. They’d all been able to cheer for their horse in a close finish — which is what it was all about. And it gave them hope for future successes.
On this occasion, there was no objection by the Clerk of the Scales.
Tim Westlake had weighed in at the correct poundage.
I arrived home at quarter past nine to find Georgina in her dressing gown, lying flat out on her back on the sheepskin rug in the sitting room, with her eyes shut.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, slightly perturbed at finding my wife in such a state, and particularly on that specific spot.
‘Mindfulness,’ she replied without opening her eyes. ‘There’s a post on Instagram that says it should be good for my anxiety. It said that meditating should help me to always remain calm.’
‘And does it?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think I’m doing it right. I mostly just seem to nod off.’
We both laughed together. A first for ages.
‘Did you win?’ she asked.
‘Second. But he ran well.’
‘Good. Have you eaten?’
‘I had some fish around five. But I’m quite hungry. I think I’ll make myself a slice of toast, maybe with some of that pâté I bought.’
She stood up. ‘I’ll get it. Do you want a glass of wine as well?’
‘That would be lovely.’
Maybe her mindfulness meditating was working after all, but was it too little too late?
Georgina went up to bed at ten o’clock while I stayed downstairs to watch the television news and enjoy a second glass of red wine. However, after listening to the headlines, I flicked the TV off. The news was all bad, and I was quite distressed enough without adding to it any further.
But I had one more thing to do before I went to bed, so I took my wine through to my office and sat at my desk to do it.
I composed a text to my children concerning the state of my marriage to their mother and demanding that they come to a meeting to discuss matters. It took me a long while, but in the end I was happy with it, or as happy as I could be under the circumstances, and I pushed ‘Send.’
Now, only time would tell if it had been a good idea or not.
I phoned the barrister Patrick Hogg at five past eight, in between my calls to the Victrix trainers.
‘I’ve been thinking quite a lot about what you told me yesterday,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure you need my advice. You’re doing fine on your own.’
I could hear an announcement being made in the background: ‘The next station is Reading.’
He was on a train, and it reminded me of where he lived.
‘Could you do me a huge favour?’ I asked.
‘Depends on what it is.’
‘What are you doing this evening at seven o’clock?’
I explained what I was planning to do and asked him to be there.
‘I will try,’ he said. ‘It all depends on whether the judge finishes in good time today.’
‘What sort of case are you on?’ I asked.
He hesitated, as if deciding whether that information was confidential, and obviously decided it wasn’t.
‘Insurance fraud,’ he said. ‘Six years ago, the defendant reported to police that his classic Ferrari had been stolen, and he claimed on his car insurance policy for half a million pounds. But the man subsequently found in possession of the vehicle insists he paid the defendant for it, and in cash.’
‘Half a million in cash?’
‘He says that he paid the defendant three hundred thousand.’
‘That’s still a huge amount of cash. Where did he get it from?’
‘Drug dealing. He used to control much of the London cocaine market, mostly by using extreme violence against his opposition.’
‘Used to?’ I said.
‘Let’s just say that when he came to the Old Bailey to give evidence, it was in a prison van from Belmarsh Prison. That’s how the police found the car. It was part of a proceeds of crime seizure at the man’s house.’
‘Is the defendant guilty?’ I asked.
‘Quite possibly. But the Crown’s case relies solely on the testimony of a violent drug dealer. Someone who is serving a twenty-year stretch behind bars. And the jury know it.’
‘Are you prosecuting or defending?’ I asked.
‘Defending. The judge starts his summing up this morning. That will take a couple of days, and then it’ll be up to the jury. My job is basically finished now. Unless he gets convicted. Then I’d make representations to the judge on his behalf prior to sentencing.’