Pulse(51)

I stood and watched him as he took banknotes from his customers, adding them to the large wedge in his left hand. He shouted out the bet to his assistant behind him, who entered it into a computer. A printer produced a slip showing the bet details, which was then passed to the punter. Each transaction took only a second or two to complete and Tommy was looking for his next customer even before the slip was handed over – a slip just like the one DC Filippos had found in the unnamed man’s pocket.

All the bookmakers were doing brisk business as the time approached for the main event of the day, indeed the main event of the week, if not the whole year. The Cheltenham Gold Cup was the absolute pinnacle of jump racing, the stuff of dreams and legends, and the atmosphere in the betting ring was alive with the static of hope and expectancy.

I looked closely at the names and odds on Tommy Berkley’s board.

Card Reader was quoted at three-to-one, his name flashing on and off to indicate he was the favourite in the market. I wondered how Dave Leigh was feeling, doing his piece to camera in the jockeys’ changing room for the TV broadcaster with his broken collarbone, while Mike Sheraton donned the silks that Dave believed were rightly his.

But it was another horse’s name on the board that really caught my eye.

I looked something up in the racecard, then took out my mobile phone and dialled a number.

‘DC Filippos.’

‘What was the name of the London railway station on the piece of paper in the envelope?’ I asked.

‘Dr Rankin,’ he said firmly, ‘DS Merryweather told you to leave everything to us. Please do as he asks.’

‘I only want the name of the station.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Was it Liverpool Street?’ I asked.

There was a long pause from the other end of the line.

‘And was the train time three-thirty?’

Another pause.

‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘How do you know?’

‘It’s not a station and a train time,’ I said. ‘Liverpool Street is the name of a horse running in the Gold Cup, a race due off at three-thirty.’

I waited while the information sank in.

‘And Jason Conway is its jockey.’

There was the customary huge cheer from the crowd as the starter lowered his flag and set the twelve runners in the field for the Gold Cup on their way at three-thirty precisely.

Jason Conway went straight to the front on Liverpool Street, jumping the first fence a good two lengths clear of the rest of the field before reining back and settling down at the front of the pack.

The race is run over two complete laps of the course, three and a quarter miles with twenty-two fences to be jumped, and the twelve runners remained well bunched throughout the first circuit, which was run at a steady tempo.

Only going down the backstretch on the second circuit did the race begin to finally unfold with the pace hotting up as the jockeys made their bids for glory.

Card Reader led the field rapidly down the hill towards the third-last fence, stealing a lead of three or four lengths on the rest. This was where the race could be won and lost. Taking the downhill fence without a heartbeat of hesitation could gain an advantage that a rival could not recover in the run to the line.

Mike Sheraton asked Card Reader for a long stride, to stand off from the fence. The horse responded, clearing the obstacle in a huge leap that took it farther away from his pursuers, and the crowd cheered their approval. Just the final straight to go and glory would surely be his.

But horseracing is a funny game and has a well-deserved reputation for producing the unexpected.

Card Reader cleared the second-last with ease and was quickly into his stride. He was now some six or seven lengths in front and going away.

His race was won.

The other runners were nowhere.

Just one fence to go.

Mike Sheraton asked the horse again for a big jump, but carrying eleven stone ten pounds over three and a quarter miles in soft ground saps the stamina of even the greatest of steeplechasers.

Card Reader caught the jockey unawares by putting in an extra stride. To indrawn gasps from the crowd, the horse was now far too close to the fence and he ploughed through the top eighteen inches of the birch, catapulting Mike Sheraton forwards out of the saddle, before following him down in a sprawling mass onto the bright green turf.

Horse and rider were quickly up on their feet but their chance of winning had long gone as the others swept past.

Dave Leigh and his collarbone would be delighted, I thought.

Those behind, who had previously thought their chances of victory were nonexistent, were suddenly spurred on by the realisation that the big prize was still up for grabs.

Liverpool Street ran out of puff just twenty-five yards short of the winning post and was caught on the line by two other horses in a thrilling blanket finish that had the crowd in raptures.

I stood and watched as the horses walked back down in front of the packed grandstand, the winner being led in by his beaming trainer, Peter Hammond. They received a deserved standing ovation. It may not have been the favourite, but it had been well backed and was a popular winner.

Popular, that was, with the crowd.

Jason Conway, however, looked anything but happy as he went past. He must have thought he would win until the very last stride of the run-in, and had actually finished third. I wondered if the horse might have been able to hang on to win if he hadn’t wasted his energy at the start by setting off so quickly.