it’s Zimbabwe.’
‘Perfect,’ I said, ‘but I hope you won’t need it.’
I watched Paddy out of the corner of my eye. He was a good sort and I felt a little guilty treating him in this way but it was important.
‘Why don’t you just tell… what’s his name?’ said Charles.
‘Paddy, Paddy O’Fitch.’
‘Well, why don’t you just tell Paddy O’Fitch what you want him to know?’
‘Because I want him to tell the right person what he knows and, unless he thinks it’s a secret, he might not do that.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Charles.
‘Secrets burn holes in Paddy’s brain until they reach his mouth. The more secret a thing is, the more likely he is to tell someone. It’s not that he’s malicious, it’s just that he absolutely loves to know something that others don’t and he can’t resist telling them.’
‘So who’s the right person?’ asked Charles.
‘A journalist called Chris Beecher.’
I could see Paddy moving over towards us. He obviously couldn’t resist any longer.
‘So Professor,’ I said loudly, so Paddy would hear, ‘what is your expert opinion?’
Before Rodney/Reginald could say anything I made great play of putting my finger to my lips.
‘Good afternoon, Admiral,’ Paddy said, arriving at our table. He had known who Charles was, but there again, Paddy knew everything. Well, almost everything.
‘Good afternoon,’ replied Charles, getting up.
Neither Charles nor I made any move to introduce Rodney. Charles sat down again and the three of us waited in silence. Paddy eventually seemed to get the message and moved away.
‘See you later then, Sid,’ he said.
‘Right.’
He went off towards the door but couldn’t resist a backwards glance as he went through it.
‘I bet you a pound to a penny that he will be hanging around outside to catch me when I leave.’
‘But I still don’t understand,’ said Charles. ‘Why do you need him to tell this journalist? Why don’t you tell the journalist yourself?’
‘If I went and told Chris Beecher something directly then he probably wouldn’t believe me in the first place and, even if he did, he wouldn’t write it in the newspaper because he would think that I only told him because I wanted him to. This way, if Paddy extracts the secret from me, which I will let him do eventually, and moreover if I tell him that under no circumstances to repeat it to anyone, he’s bound to go and blabber it to his neighbour, who just happens to be Chris Beecher, and Beecher will put it in his newspaper solely because he thinks I don’t want it there.’
‘And what is this great secret?’ asked Rodney. ‘Or can’t I know?’
‘Yes,’ said Charles, ‘can I know too?’
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘of course you can know. In fact, you should know in case you are approached by Paddy or anyone else. It’s not actually a secret at all and I want everyone to know. It just has to appear to be a secret to Paddy, and also to Chris Beecher. It’s simply that I found a second bullet at Bill Burton’s place and also that I
‘And are they?’ asked Charles.
‘Well, not exactly, but Chris Beecher won’t know that.’
‘I’m none the wiser,’ said Rodney.
‘It’s a long story. Charles will fill you in. I want to go now so that Paddy can begin to needle me. If he asks you, say I asked you to look at a second bullet. Enjoy your day at the races.’
‘I will. Do you have any tips?’ Rodney asked.
‘He’ll tell you to keep your money in your pocket,’ said Charles.
I laughed. He knew me too well.
I went out to the parade ring. As expected, Paddy came up to me as I watched the runners for the first.
‘Who’s the professor then?’ he asked.
I looked suitably appalled that he knew he was a professor. ‘None of your business.’
‘Come on, Sid. What’s he doing here?’
‘I just wanted some advice. Nothing important.’
I hoped he didn’t believe me. I moved onto the stands to watch the race and he followed, as I knew he would. He was now on a mission.
‘So what advice could he give ya that I couldn’t?’
‘You don’t know anything about ballistics.’
‘Ballistics? What the bloody hell is dat?’
‘Exactly! You know nothing about it. So I found someone who does.’
‘What is it?’
‘Look, Paddy,’ I said, ‘I told you, it’s none of your business.’
He was about to ask again when thankfully he was cut off by the public address system. ‘They’re under starter’s orders… they’re off.’
I had always enjoyed riding here and I watched enviously as others did what I longed to do. Towcester is a ‘park’ racecourse set amongst rolling green hills. The fences are inviting and fair but the real challenge for a horse is the last mile to the finish, which is all uphill. The horses passed the stands for the first time and turned right- handed and downhill to start their second circuit, all twelve still packed closely together.
I noticed that Paddy had left my side and had made his way to the end of the stand where he was in earnest conversation with someone I didn’t recognise, sadly not Chris Beecher.
On the far side of the course, one jockey kicked his mount hard in the ribs and they started to move away from the others in their bid for victory. Much too soon, I thought. Many a race had been lost here by horse and rider who have run out of puff on the long incline to the last fence and the finish line. It was an impressive break and soon the horse had established a lead of twenty lengths or more. None of the others seemed to have responded to the move, and I would not have done so either. Experienced jockeys know a thing or two, and going too soon at Towcester is one of them. It was not the way to win races.
At the second last fence, the leader was still in front but by a much-reduced margin that was diminishing with every tired stride. By the last he had been caught by the others and would not have won even if he had not come to grief in a bone-crunching fall.
Statistically, at every racecourse, more horses fall at the last fence than at any other, due mainly to tiredness. The last at Towcester has been the scene of more than its fair share of disasters, and today was no exception.
A close finish was fought out between two of the country’s leading riders who had bided their time and made their runs late. A job well done. The crowd cheered them home with enthusiasm.
Paddy reappeared at my side.
‘Now, what do ya want to know about bullets for?’ he asked.
‘How do you know I do?’
‘Dat’s what ballistics is all about,’ he said proudly.
‘So?’
‘Your professor,’ he said.
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘So which bullets are ya interested in?’ he persisted. ‘Is it the one dat killed Huw Walker or the one dat killed Bill Burton?’
‘Neither,’ I replied.
‘Well, what other ones are there, then?’
‘Never you mind.’
I watched with relief as both the horse and jockey who had fallen at the last finally rose to their respective feet and walked away from the experience, bruised but not broken.
‘So there are other bullets?’ asked Paddy
