and if they were more than one thousand, and however much more, the win factor score would not increase at all. The least successful horses would therefore score most highly on that particular point. The weighting was topsy- turvy and the answers would come out wrong.
With the hollow certainty of what had happened staring me in the face, I loaded the Epsom file and searched the Lists of the programs for the four races on which Angelo had lost. In two cases the weightings for prize money were upside down.
Tried Goodwood. In three of the five listed races, the same thing.
Depressed beyond measure, I loaded the files for Leicester and Ascot, where races were to be held during the week ahead. Typed in the names of all the races to be run there and found there were programs for eight of them: one at Leicester, seven at Ascot. Listed each of the eight programs in sections, and found that in four of them the score for amassing much prize money was nought, and the score for prize money of under one thousand pounds was anything up to 20.
There were programs for some races at all the tracks which I knew for a certainty were not fourteen years old. Modern races, introduced since Liam O'Rorke had died.
The programs were no longer pure O'Rorke, but O'Rorke according to Pitts. O'Rorke updated, expanded, renewed. O'Rorke, on these particular tapes, interfered with, falsified, mangled. Ted Pitts- one had to face it- had wrecked the system before he'd handed it to me… and had delivered me defenceless to the wrath of Angelo Gilbert.
I thanked the frustrated and brilliant Miss Quigley for her day-long patience and drove home to Cassie.
'What's the matter?' she said immediately.
I said wearily, The ess aitch I tee has hit the fan.'
'What do you mean?
'Angelo thinks I've tricked him. That the betting system I gave him is wrong. That it produces too many losers. Well so it does. Normally it must be all right but on these tapes it's been altered. Ted Pitts has rigged so many of the programs that anyone using them will fall flat on his greedy face.' And I explained about the reversed scores for winning, which produced scatty results. 'He may also have changed some of the other weightings to get the same effect. I've no way of knowing.'
She looked as stunned as I felt. 'Do you mean Ted Pitts did it on purpose?
'He sure did.' I thought back to the time he'd taken to make me 'copies'; to the hour I'd spent sitting by his pool talking to Jane, leaving him, at his own request, to work alone.
'But why?' Cassie said.
'I don't know.'
'You didn't tell him, did you, what you wanted the tapes for?'
'No, I didn't.'
She said doubtfully, 'Perhaps it might have been better if you'd said how vital they were.'
'And perhaps he wouldn't have given them to me at all if he'd known I had Angelo locked in the cellar. I mean, I thought he might not want to be involved. Most people wouldn't, with something like that. And then, if he was like Jonathan, he might have changed the weightings anyway, just to prevent Angelo from profiting. You never know. Jonathan himself would somehow have tricked Angelo again. I'm sure of it.'
'You don't think Ted Pitts asked Jonathan what he should do, do you?'
I thought back and shook my head. 'It was before nine in the morning when I went to the Pitts's house. That would make it about one a.m. in California. Even if he had his number, which I doubt, I don't think he would have telephoned Jonathan in the middle of the night… and Jonathan anyway sounded truly disappointed when I told him I'd given Angelo the tapes. No, Ted must have done it for his own reasons, and by himself.'
'Which doesn't help much.'
I shook my head,
I thought of the certainty with which I'd gone to Harry Gilbert's house on the previous day. Hell's teeth, how wrong could one be, how naive could one get?
If I warned Angelo not to use the tapes in the week ahead he would be sure I had tricked him and was scared to death of his revenge.
If I didn't warn him not to use the tapes, he would most likely lose again and be more sure than ever that I'd tricked him…
If I wrung the right answers out of Ted Pitts and told them to Angelo, he would still think I had deliberately given him useless tapes – on which he had already lost.
Ted Pitts was in Switzerland walking up mountains.
'Would you care,' I said to Cassie, 'for a long slow cruise to Australia?'
CHAPTER 19
Jane Pitts on the telephone said, 'No, terribly sorry, he moves about and stops in different places every night. Quite often he sleeps in his tent. Is it important?'
'Horribly,' I said.
'Oh dear. Could I help?'
'There's something wrong with those tapes he made for me. Could you by any chance lend me his own?'
'No, I simply can't. I'm frightfully sorry but I don't know where he keeps anything in that room and he positively hates his things being touched.' She thought for a few minutes, puzzled but not unwilling, friendly, anxious to help. 'Look, he's sure to call me one day soon to say when he'll be home. Would you like me to ask him to ring you?'
'Yes please,' I said fervently. 'Or ask him where I can reach him, and I'll call him. Do tell him it's really urgent, beg him for me, would you? Say it's for Jonathan's sake more than mine.'
'I'll tell him,' she promised, 'as soon as he rings.'
'You're unscrupulous,' Cassie said as I put down the receiver. 'It's for your sake, not Jonathan's.'
'He wouldn't want to weep on his brother's grave.'
'William!'
'A joke,' I said hastily. 'A joke.'
Cassie shivered, however. 'What are you going to do?'
'Think,' I said.
The basic thought was that the more Angelo lost, the angrier he would get, and that the first objective was therefore to stop him betting. Taff and the others could hardly be persuaded not to accept such easy pickings, which left the source of the cash, Harry Gilbert himself. Precisely what, I wondered, could I say to Harry Gilbert which would cut off the stake money without sending Angelo straight round to vent his rage?
I could tell him that Liam O'Rorke's system no longer existed: that I'd got the tapes in good faith but had been tricked myself. I could tell him a lot of half-truths, but whether he would believe me, and whether he could restrain Angelo even if he himself were convinced, of those imponderables there was no forecast.
Realistically there was nothing else to do.
I didn't particularly want to try to trap Angelo into being sent back to jail: fourteen years was enough for any man. I only wanted, as I had all along, for him to leave me alone. I wanted him deflated, defused… docile. What a hope.
A night spent with my mind on pleasanter things produced no cleverer plan. A paragraph in the Sporting Life, read over a quick breakfast after an hour with the horses on the Heath, made me wish that Angelo would solve my problems himself by bashing someone else on the head: about as unlikely as him having a good week on the system. Lancer the bookmaker, said the paper, had been mugged on his own doorstep on returning from Newbury races on Friday evening. His wallet, containing approximately fifty-three pounds, had been stolen. Lancer was OK, police had no leads: poor old Lancer, too bad.
I sighed. Who, I wondered, could I get Angelo to bash?
Besides, of course, myself.
On account of the knee-groper, I was driving Cassie to work whenever possible, and on that morning after I'd
