Skeleton Hill

‘Shall we join them?’ Diamond said.

‘It’s a private party.’

‘Anyone with a horse like that is a friend of ours.’

‘I couldn’t,’ Paloma said. ‘Let’s buy our own.’

When they’d got their glasses, he raised his and said, ‘To My Stylist.’

She seemed to enjoy some joke at his expense as they clinked glasses. Whatever it was, he didn’t mind. Her eyes were still shining.

He remarked that she’d clearly been racing before.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘For a start, you picked the winner.’

‘Luck,’ she said.

‘And some judgement, I suspect. When we saw them parading you seemed to know what to look for.’

‘There are too many variables for anyone to get it wholly right,’ she said in a more serious tone, confirming his impression that she knew more than she’d said up to now. She was such a different personality from Steph, who’d never concealed anything. In his mind he immediately rejected the notion of concealment. Paloma wasn’t sneaky. Rather, she chose not to air her knowledge unless and until it was useful. Hidden depths was a better way of putting it.

‘You mean the weights they carry?’

‘The going, the form they’ve shown in previous outings, the jockey and whether they’re blinkered or tongue- strapped for the first time.’

‘Sounds like a medieval torture.’

‘Funnily enough, it can give them confidence. Then there’s another factor: the stable. On a course like this one, which isn’t as highly rated as some, you get expensive and blue-blooded young horses from top stables at places like Lambourn being sent here to win. They start at odds-on and tend to win by small margins to nurse their handicaps.’

‘Was mine trained at Lambourn?’

She smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter, does it? If they won’t start, they can’t win.’

‘Did you know it was highly strung?’

And now she laughed. ‘Of course not. I’d have told you to save your money.’

‘You advised me to bet on Lady Policeman.’

‘For fun.’

‘I’m not sure what to believe now. You know your horses.’

She glanced down and thoughtfully traced her finger around the rim of the glass. ‘There’s a reason I haven’t told you about. Gordon, my ex, was a compulsive gambler. He knew practically nothing about racing except that you sometimes get lucky.’

‘Sometimes, but not enough times.’

‘Exactly. I soon found out he wasn’t going to come to his senses, so I thought if I took the trouble to learn the basics the bets might be better informed.’

‘And were they?’

‘Immeasurably.’ Another laugh. ‘And it didn’t make a blind bit of difference. My system was no better than Gordon’s. But that’s how I can bluff with the best.’

‘You’re telling me this win was down to luck?’

‘Nothing else.’

Later in the evening, back at Paloma’s house on Lyncombe Hill, Diamond got lucky, too.

6

Two days later the police were alerted to a man trying to break into cars in the small car park behind the stands at Bath racecourse. It wasn’t a race day so there weren’t many vehicles parked there – just a few belonging to staff.

‘Deal with it, will you?’ the sergeant on duty radioed to a patrol car in the city.

‘You want us to bring him in?’

‘You heard what I said.’ The modern police are knee deep in paper. Bringing in a suspect would indicate an intention of charging him and about two hours of filling in forms. ‘What we have is a call from a Major Swithin who noticed what was going on and reported it.’

PC Andy Sullivan, the driver, was thankful for the job. He’d been stuck all week with a new ‘oppo’ who thought silence was the eighth deadly sin. He already knew more than he needed about Denise Beal’s admiration for David Beckham. Even when he had the two-tone siren going she didn’t stop. She simply raised her voice.

The sight of Major Swithin did the trick. When they drove up the approach to the racecourse, Denise went silent in mid-sentence. The major was in the middle of the road waving a shotgun.

‘Doesn’t it fill you with confidence?’ Andy Sullivan said. He lowered the window and said, ‘I hope you have a certificate for that, sir.’

‘What? This? Of course.’ The major was probably closer to eighty than seventy, a short, stout, silver-haired man in a Barbour and flat cap. ‘Good thing I had it in the car. If you need some support arresting this scum, you can count on me.’

‘Right now, I’m counting on you to step off the road and put the gun on the path. Is it loaded?’

‘You can bet your life it is. I was a regular officer for thirty years. Served in six different war zones. I know about firearms.’

‘Then you know it’s illegal to have a loaded shotgun in a public place. Do as I say. Now!’

‘For the love of Mike!’ The major obeyed the instruction. ‘Anyone would think I was the criminal.’

‘Thank you, sir. Stand back, please.’ Sullivan stepped out of the car, retrieved the gun, opened the breech and removed two cartridges. ‘You are Major Swithin, I take it?’

‘Who else would I be, looking out for you? I wasn’t proposing to shoot you – or the car thief, come to that.’

‘What’s the gun for, then?’

‘In case I spot a fox. The Socialists stopped the hunt from destroying them, so it’s down to public-spirited people like me.’

Sullivan returned the gun and cartridges. ‘Keep the breech open and unloaded. This man you saw. Is he still in the car park?’ ‘I expect so.’

‘What exactly was he doing?’

‘Trying to steal a car.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘It was blatantly obvious. He was going from vehicle to vehicle trying the doors. A rough-looking herbert, unshaven, shabbily dressed.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Ten or fifteen minutes maximum. He won’t get far. My wife has him in her sights.’

‘Your wife? Is she armed as well?’

‘With the field-glasses. I left her observing him. She may have more to report by now. Shall I meet you in the car park?’

‘You’d better get in the car. How old is your wife?’

‘Does that have any bearing? She’s a senior citizen, and well capable of looking after herself.’

With the major in the back seat they drove off at speed while he continued to justify his actions. ‘These days John Citizen has to pitch in and help with law and order.’

‘Up to a point,’ Andy Sullivan said as they approached the lineup of cars in front of the turnstiles.

‘That’s Agnes looking out of the sun roof of my Land Rover.’

Agnes must have been standing on the seat, for she was very obvious, an elderly woman in a deerstalker peering through binoculars.