Pulse(56)

‘Too bloody complicated,’ he said. ‘And too many arguments about what constitutes a white Christmas – snow in the air, snow on the ground, and where. I prefer to stick to things where the outcome is black and white.’ He laughed. ‘If you’ll excuse the pun. Look, I must dash. I’m now at Southwell and I must go and set up my pitch.’

‘OK, Bill,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your time.’

We disconnected.

Maybe not with Tommy Berkley, but there were other bookmakers or betting websites where it was possible to bet on almost anything – not only the weather at Christmas, but election results, the Oscar winners, even the likelihood of intelligent alien life being found somewhere during the next year.

And ‘spread betting’ on both financial markets and sports fixtures has been around for many years, allowing wagers to be made on such things as the gains or losses in the stock-market index, or even the number of corners or throw-ins during a game of football.

Was there somewhere a gambler making bets on a horse to jump the first fence in front, and then arranging for it to happen?

Spot-fixing is what it was called. Fixing not the result, which was difficult and would usually require a conspiracy with other participants, but fixing a minor occurrence during a race or a match, something that could be achieved by a single individual working alone, and one that no one would notice.

Three Pakistani cricketers had famously been imprisoned for arranging for two ‘no-balls’ to be bowled at specific times in a match between Pakistan and England at Lord’s Cricket Ground in 2010, to corruptly allow others to profit from bets laid with a bookmaker in Pakistan.

Did the unnamed man have anything to do with spot-fixing races?

And was he perhaps not Indian, but Pakistani?

I spent the next few hours watching videos of races in which Jason Conway had ridden, making a list of those where he had jumped the first fence or hurdle in front.

So preoccupied had I become that I failed to have any lunch and completely lost track of time, only realising how late it had become when the twins arrived back from school at four o’clock.

‘Hi, Mum,’ they said in unison, ‘any food?’

I’d meant to go out and get some, hours ago.

‘I’ve got some fruit,’ I said, knowing that was not at all what they wanted. ‘Or you could go along to the village shop and get some bread.’

‘I’ve got a match debrief, like, and a team practice in twenty minutes,’ Toby said. ‘And I’ve got to change yet.’

‘I’ll go,’ Oliver said chirpily. ‘Can we have crisps?’

‘OK,’ I said, and gave him a ten-pound note from my purse. ‘Just one packet each, mind. Also get a large sliced loaf and a dozen eggs, plus some milk. I’ll make scrambled eggs on toast for supper.’

I stood at the front door and waved as he rode off down the road on his bicycle.

‘Take care,’ I shouted after him. ‘And come straight back.’

‘Leave it out, Mum,’ he called back. ‘I’m not a child any more.’

He was to me, I thought, but, in truth, he was now almost as tall as I was, and beginning to grow stubble. As I watched him go, I realised that he’d also outgrown his child bike. Maybe it would be time for a new one next birthday.

I went back into the dining room, back to my computer and to the next race in which Jason Conway had ridden. I was totally absorbed.

‘Where’s Olly?’ Toby said, coming into the dining room in his football kit. ‘I want the crisps, like, but I’ve really got to go now. I’m already late, and he should’ve been back ages ago.’

Oh, my God!

Oliver!





21


I sprinted down the road, the tears welling in my eyes so much that I couldn’t see properly.

‘Oliver! Oliver!’ I shouted his name over and over desperately as I ran.

There was a main road he had to cross to get to the village shop, a road along which cars regularly drove too fast.

Why had I let him out alone? Why? Why? Why?

He was only a boy.

I’d tried his mobile phone but it had rung on the kitchen worktop. He hadn’t taken it with him.

I arrived at the main road. There was no sign of Oliver or his bicycle, no bloody mess, nothing.

I crossed over and ran on, cursing myself for not having brought the car. It would have been so much quicker.

It was almost exactly a quarter of a mile from our house to the village shop and an Olympic athlete would have had nothing on me.

There was no sign of Oliver’s bike outside. I burst into the shop, frightening Mrs Atherton, who owned it.

‘Where’s Oliver?’ I shouted at her.

She looked at me quizzically.

‘Oliver, my son,’ I said. ‘He was coming here to buy bread, eggs and crisps.’

Mrs Atherton nodded. ‘He’s been. Served him myself.’

‘So where is he now?’

‘Sorry, dear, I’ve no idea,’ Mrs Atherton replied. ‘He took his change and left.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Not more than ten minutes.’

Ten minutes! A quarter of a mile on a bicycle would take just one, two at most. He should have been home ages ago.

I ran out of the shop and retraced my steps. I surely couldn’t have missed him.