Bloodline

I had heard of the story at the time but I hadn’t actually seen the original article, so I now read through it from start to finish. There was no mention of Clare, or of any of the horses she had later ridden in any of my eleven suspect races. The piece was actually more speculative than factual, as was usually the case with the Daily Gazette, but it did seem to firmly imply that a well-known trainer was betting to lose on his horses.

Betting to lose was strictly against the Rules of Racing for certain individuals, in particular the owner and trainer of the horse. And not only were they banned from doing it directly, they were also banned from instructing others to do it on their behalf, and from receiving any proceeds from such activity.

But Toby Woodley had stated categorically that he knew of a racehorse trainer who regularly ‘layed’ his horses on the internet, and then ensured that the horses didn’t win. Needless to say, he hadn’t mentioned the trainer by name.

I was intrigued not so much by the article’s content, which I only half believed anyway, but why Clare had chosen to keep the cutting with all the others.

Perhaps she had known it was true.

I arrived at Tatiana’s party at twenty past eight to find that I was one of the last to get there. The young nowadays, it seemed, arrived at parties bang on time, just as soon as the caterers started pouring the drinks.

Getting ready in Clare’s cottage as the day had faded into night had been very difficult. Evenings had always been the best times at Stable Cottage with lots of parties and dinners. Even on quiet nights, there had always been open bottles of Pinot Grigio and Cabernet Sauvignon, even though Clare herself rarely had more than a single glass.

The whole place had seemed very quiet and lonely as I had showered and dressed in my dinner jacket so much so that I realized I’d made a big mistake in staying there. I should have accepted one of the other offers of a bed that I’d received from Newmarket friends. I wasn’t particularly relishing the thought of going back to Stable Cottage alone later, but it was too late now.

‘Hello, Mark.’ Angela greeted me at their front door. ‘Coat in the dining room, then go on through. We’re in a marquee in the garden. Nick’s out there with Brendan.’

I did as I was told, placing my overcoat on the pile in the dining room and then walking through the sitting room, out of the French doors, straight into the marquee.

I was astonished at how big it was. Even though I’d been here quite a few times before, I was amazed that the garden was large enough to hold such a structure.

‘Incredible isn’t it?’ Brendan said, standing just inside the marquee with a glass of red wine in his hand. ‘It apparently occupies the whole place. The guy-ropes are even secured over the fence in the neighbours’ gardens.’

I could see that there were flower beds down each side and a small tree appeared to grow right through the middle of the black and white dance floor.

‘Amazing,’ I agreed.

‘Had any luck with finding out what happened at the hotel on the night Clare died?’ Brendan asked.

‘None,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe the police. Someone goes away on holiday for a week and the whole investigation comes to a complete halt. It’s bloody ridiculous. Thankfully the detective is back on Monday.’

‘Let me know how you get on,’ he said, draining his glass. ‘I’m off to find a refill.’

Brendan went over towards a waiter holding a tray just as Nicholas walked over to greet me.

‘It’s fabulous,’ I said to him. ‘Absolutely fabulous.’

He beamed at me. ‘Yes, it is rather good, isn’t it?’

We stood for a moment surveying the scene.

‘So where’s the birthday girl?’ I asked.

‘Over there somewhere,’ Nicholas said, pointing at a large crowd of youngsters propping up the bar at the far end of the marquee. ‘She’s eighteen and exercising her legal right to drink alcohol.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Not that she hasn’t been drinking alcohol for ages. I know she has. They all do. And I fear I’m going to be the villain tonight by closing the bar every so often to give them a rest. I don’t want them all to get so drunk they ruin everything, not until after dinner and the speeches anyway. I’ve taken two bottles of vodka off a girl who I happen to know is only seventeen, and her breath smelled like she’d already drunk a third. And Brendan’s boys are hitting it pretty bad behind their mother’s back, and Patrick’s not even fourteen until Sunday.’

‘At least they are their parents’ responsibility, not yours.’

He laughed. ‘Brendan and Gillian seem to be well ahead of them. They’ve been here since seven as they’re staying the night with us and Brendan, in particular, is getting stuck into the red wine.’

‘I’ve seen,’ I said.

Nick waved his hand towards the group of scantily dressed girls at the bar. ‘But it’s these other young things I’m really worried about. They seem determined to get hammered, and quickly. And they are my responsibility.’

‘Good luck,’ I said with a laugh.