I had already decided not to approach him before the firstrace, a novice hurdle event with only five runners. I knew that it was going tobe won by a very short-priced favourite, ridden by the champion jockey, andthat most of the punters on the track would have picked it. To go up to someoneclaiming to know the future and then tip them a 4/9F would be laughable.
After the race, in which the favourite duly obliged amidraucous cheers from the crowd, I followed Josh and his family inside where theyheaded straight for the bar.
Josh’s father looked quite pleased with himself as heordered three pints of lager. He’d obviously lumped onto the winner, though hecouldn’t have won a fortune at the price. In contrast, Josh did not lookpleased.
There were quite a few punters jostling for position at thebar. I had managed to manoeuvre myself in behind them, just as Josh’s brotherexcused himself to go to the toilet.
This gave me the opportunity I needed to squeeze myself innext to them at the bar where I caught Josh’s eye. “Bit of a dead cert, thatone, eh?” I said, hoping to spark off a bit of banter.
“That’s what my dad said,” replied Josh. “He had fifty quidon it. I went for the second favourite, though.”
“I told you it was nailed on,” said Josh’s dad. “Youwouldn’t listen.”
“Yeah, but I don’t like backing horses at such short odds,”replied Josh. “What you’ve won will barely cover the cost of these drinks. Iwant a bit of value.”
“Value doesn’t put food on the table, son. You’ll learn,”replied his dad.
He was a big bloke, with plenty of muscle. I knew that heran a building firm and it wasn’t difficult to imagine him working on abuilding site. He also struck me as a bit of a know-it-all. Funnily enough,that was one of the things Lauren had said about Josh when she was listing herreasons for splitting up with him. Perhaps it ran in the family.
Well, I certainly knew more about today’s racing than eitherof them did. This was the ideal opportunity to set my plan in motion.
“Well, if it’s value you’re after, I’ve got a very decentpriced selection for the next,” I said. “Believe me, this one can’t lose.”
Josh’s dad intervened. “Don’t be fooled, son. Racecoursesare full of people claiming to have inside information and giving out tips.I’ve heard it all before: take no notice.”
“Sorry, mate, I should have introduced myself,” I said,thinking quickly. “My name’s Thomas Scott, I’m from Lambourn.”
Josh’s dad’s ears perked up at this, “Geoff Gardner,” hereplied, “and this is my son, Josh. So, Lambourn, eh? I suppose you are goingto tell me you know all the trainers?”
“Nothing like that,” I replied. “But I do know which horseis going to win the next race. It’s Mercury Wells, 8/1. Trust me.”
“Experience has taught me not to trust people who say trustme,” said Geoff, a cynical look on his face.
I held my ground and reiterated what I’d said before. “Look,believe me or not, I am telling you that Mercury Wells will win the next.”
By now, they had got their drinks and the brother hadreturned.
“There’s only four runners, Dad,” said Josh. “Got to beworth a couple of quid, surely?”
“It’s your funeral, son,” said Geoff. “Nice to meet you,Thomas,” he said, and then added sarcastically, “Give my love to everyone inLambourn.”
And with that they headed off outside to put their bets onfor the next race. I followed at a discreet distance, trying not to be seen.What I was doing fell very much into the “stalker” category, and I didn’t wantthem to get too suspicious.
The betting market for the race was dominated by the fronttwo horses in the market but halfway round the favourite unseated his rider togroans from the crowd. The second favourite then got very tired in the heavyground and was passed by Mercury Wells on the run-in.
Watching from afar, I was amused to see Geoff shouting “Forfuck’s sake” when the favourite fell, screwing up his ticket and throwing it tothe ground. Josh, on the other hand, was jumping up and down cheering asMercury Wells made the best of his way home.
Everything was going according to plan, so as they headedback inside, I followed, ready to accost them again.
They sent Josh’s brother to the bar, whilst they grabbed aseat in the corner and began poring over the Racing Post. I casuallysauntered over to them, hoping that I might get a more friendly reaction fromGeoff. However, it was the exact opposite.
Far from congratulating me on my tip, Geoff was in aconfrontational mood. “Oh, look, here he is,” he sneered, as I approached “Thechampion tipster.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked. “I’ve just tipped you an 8/1winner.”
“You must think I was born yesterday, mate,” respondedGeoff. “Don’t think I don’t know your game.”
“And what’s that exactly?” I asked, wondering what hethought I was up to.
“It’s the oldest trick in the book. You come and give us atip for a race. Then you go round and find three other mugs and tip them adifferent horse each. You then go back to whoever you tipped the winning horse,tell them you have an even bigger cert for the next race, but you need to putthe money on for them. Then we hand over our cash and you scarper.”
“Did that happen to you once, then, Dad?” asked Josh. “Isthat how you know?”
“No, son, I saw it in a film,” replied Geoff, though I wassure I saw him turn a slightly deeper shade of red. I’d have bet good moneythat he hadn’t seen it in a film. He must have been conned at some point in thepast.
“I can assure you I am not going to ask you for any money,”I replied. “But as it happens, I do know what is going to win the next race.”
This was my big chance to really convince. The next race wasa very
