At this last, Jude pouted again, pulled her betting ticket out of her pocket and tore it in two.
“Why’re you doing that?”
“He’s pulled up. He’s not going to finish.”
Meanwhile, at the head of affairs, the race was being fought out by the two second favourites, who touched down together over the final fence. But only a couple of lengths behind them loomed the grey menace of Gerry’s Tyke. He was fresher and holding something back. He overtook the two tiring horses and vindicated the form book by winning by four lengths and easing up.
Carole Seddon could not suppress a smile of satisfaction.
“I don’t know why you’re looking so pleased with yourself. You picked the winner and you hadn’t got any money on it.”
“Oh, that’s true. How much would I have won?”
“Well, say you’d put on a tenner-”
“I’d never have put on that much.”
“It makes the sums easier. And say you’d got that seven to four, you would have won…seventeen pounds fifty.”
Carole looked disappointed. “Doesn’t compare very well to three hundred and thirty.”
“No, but the big difference is that Gerry’s Tyke actually won, whereas Random Missile pulled up. It was always going to be much more likely that Gerry’s Tyke won. That’s why it was favourite, and why Random Missile was at thirty-three to one.”
“It still doesn’t sound much of a return, though.”
“One hundred and seventy-five percent? That’s a lot better than a building society.”
“Yes. I suppose it is.” Carole looked thoughtful. “Shall we go and look at the horses in the parade ring?”
Jude smiled inwardly at her friend’s newfound enthusiasm. “They won’t actually be there yet. But we can wander round. Look at the unsaddling enclosure perhaps?”
“Why would we want to do that?”
“Well, it’s the kind of place where Donal Geraghty might well hang about. And trying to find him,” Jude reminded gently, “was why we came here this afternoon.”
“Oh yes. Yes, of course,” said Carole.
But there was no sign of the missing Irishman around the unsaddling enclosure. Nor around the parade ring, where the two women again assessed the horseflesh on offer. Jude liked the look of a short chestnut horse with a white blaze on it forehead, called Missie Massie. In spite of the fact that the race card said, “having fallen on her last three starts, makes little appeal here,” Jude was convinced she was worth an each-way gamble. Carole favoured the second favourite, a fastidiously high-stepping stallion called Becktrout (“likely to give a good account of himself,” according to the race card).
At the bookies, as her form might suggest, Missie Massie ranged between forty and sixty-six to one, while the best they could see for Becktrout, seesawing for favouritism with another horse, was five to two.
“Is there any other way of betting?” asked Carole.
“Why do you need one?”
“Well, what’s to stop one of these bookmakers just running away while the race is on?”
“Carole, you have got a rather outdated image of bookies. Maybe that occasionally used to happen. Now they’re regulated like any other professional body. Anyway, if they run away today with a hundred quid from Fontwell, how’re they going to turn up and continue to make their living tomorrow at Plumpton or Haydock or Uttoxeter or wherever it happens to be?”
“Mm. I see what you mean. But I still don’t like the idea of all this money being handed over in the open air.”
“Well, there is another way of booking. You can do it on the tote. One of those windows over there.”
“Oh, that looks a lot safer. More like a bank.”
So, as Jude rushed across to grab the sixty-six to one on Missie Massie while stocks lasted, Carole went sedately across and completed her transaction with the lady behind the tote counter.
“It won’t be that different from bookies’ odds,” Jude told her when they had once again secured their position overlooking the winning post. “Sometimes the tote’s better, sometimes worse. Can be worth doing for a really long-priced outsider.”
“Like Missie Massie?”
“Maybe. I just get more of a buzz out of betting with the bookies.”
Missie Massie did better than Random Missile, in that she actually completed the course. Sadly, eight other horses completed it ahead of her. Becktrout, on the other hand, led from start to finish, and romped home by a distance.
Carole’s smile this time was more than satisfied; it was smug.
“Well done!” Jude grinned as she tore up her second betting ticket of the afternoon.
“You don’t seem to mind losing.”
“No, it’s part of the fun. I mean, the excitement I got when Random Missile was leading in the last race, even though it all subsequently fell apart, well, I certainly got my ten quid’s worth out of that.”
“Well, what did you get out of this race? Missie Massie was never better than seventh.”
“I got the excitement of possibility. The excitement of what might have happened.”
Though she didn’t say it, Carole’s face made clear that she was much more interested in the concrete-what had happened or what was definitely going to happen, than in the possible.
“Anyway, you’re ahead. You’ve cleaned up. Becktrout had drifted to three to one by the off, so the tote won’t be that different. How much did you put on him?”
“Two pounds.”
“Two pounds? Last of the big spenders. Well, never mind, now you’re on a winning streak, you can build up your stakes on the next few races.”
“Oh, I’m not going to bet again,” said Carole.
“What?” asked Jude, thunderstruck.
“No. I’ve had a winner. If I stop now, I’ll end up ahead on the afternoon-well, except for paying the entrance money.”
“But you can’t stop now, Carole. You’re just coming into your own. You’re on a lucky streak, I can tell. Go on; if you keep betting, you’re in with a chance of covering your day badge too. You must have another bet.”
“I don’t think so,” said Carole primly. “That would be tempting Providence.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” But Jude didn’t get a chance to continue explaining how Carole had failed to grasp the whole concept of gambling. Her eye was caught by something down by the rail of the track, over in the bookmakers’ area.
“Excuse me,” she said to the man next to her, “could I borrow those for a moment?” Before he could acquiesce or refuse, Jude grabbed his binoculars, still with their strap around the man’s neck, and had them to her eyes.
The enlarged image showed three people down at the rail, all looking slightly furtive. A tall woman stood almost like a lookout, while a tubby man handed a large fistful of folded notes to another man.
“Who on earth are you looking at?” asked Carole testily.
“Victor and Yolanta Brewis.”
“Who?”
“And the man with them is Donal Geraghty!”
28
“Thank you.” the binoculars were thrust back into the hands of their owner, who, given the breadth of Jude’s smile, could not fail to reciprocate with one of his own. But she didn’t see it. Already, with a querulous Carole in
