Bloodline

‘But I really do care that Clare was driven to kill herself and, quite possibly, the blackmailer might have been doing the driving. So I want to know who is demanding money from Austin Reynolds, and me going to the racing authorities and telling them what a naughty boy Austin’s been will not help. The blackmailer would simply walk away.’

‘He can’t be much of a blackmailer anyway,’ Emily said.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘What blackmailer worthy of the name asks someone for two hundred pounds?’ She laughed. ‘That’s a joke amount. Two thousand, at least, or maybe five. Not so much that you drive the victim to the police, but enough to make it worth your while.’

‘I didn’t know you were such an expert on blackmail,’ I said.

‘There’s lots of things you don’t know about me,’ she said, cuddling up and putting her hand down between my legs.

‘No, hold on,’ I said, pushing her hand away and sitting up straight. ‘How come you know so much about blackmail?’

‘Mark,’ she said. ‘Don’t be so serious. I know because I read Agatha Christie books and watch murder mysteries on the television, that’s all.’

I leaned back next to her.

‘Blackmailers in those stories always ask for a lot. But, I suppose, that’s why they usually get murdered. If they only asked for a little bit, no one would bother to murder them, they’d just pay.’

Exactly as Austin Reynolds had done, I thought. Was that why the amounts had been so small?

‘I saw a film once,’ Emily went on, ‘about an American high school where one of the pupils sends blackmail notes to every one of his year group demanding a single dollar or he would inform the school principal that they had cheated in their exams.’

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Nearly all of them hadn’t cheated and they just threw the notes away, but four members of the group actually had, and those four each gave him the dollar.’

‘So?’

‘The blackmailer then knew which of his classmates had cheated, and he then demanded more from them. Pretty clever, eh?’

18

On Sunday, Emily drove me along the A14 from Newmarket to Huntingdon racecourse, where I was due to commentate on the six-race card.

Racing on Sundays in England was first introduced at Doncaster on 26 July 1992 although, to start with, it was still against the law to charge for entry to a sporting occasion on a Sunday. All sorts of tricks were used, like on that first day, when people were charged to come in to the racecourse to listen to the band of the Irish Guards, and then given a free afternoon’s racing. And the situation was further confused by the fact that cash betting was then also illegal on Sundays, but using a bookmaker’s account, or even a credit or a debit card, was not.

Since those days the rules have been relaxed somewhat and Sunday is now just like any other day of the week with at least two race meetings on every Sunday of the year. Indeed, there are now only four days in the whole calendar when there is no racing on British racecourses: Good Friday, Christmas Day, and the two days before Christmas.

The public love the Sunday meetings, and Huntingdon racecourse was already filling nicely by the time we arrived at about one o’clock, over an hour before the first race.

Emily pulled her red Mercedes into the racecourse car park and followed the directions of the attendant to the next place at the end of the parked cars. Only when we had stopped did I notice with dismay and alarm that we had drawn up alongside Mitchell Stacey’s car, and he was still sitting in it.

Bugger, I thought. And moving was now impossible as we were hemmed in by more cars parked behind us with a line of tape in front. Perhaps Mitchell wouldn’t notice.

‘Stay in the car,’ I said to Emily.

‘Why?’

‘I really don’t want to have to talk to the man in the car next to us.’

Emily looked to her left, past my nose.

‘Who is it?’ she asked.

‘A man called Mitchell Stacey.’

‘And why don’t you want to talk to him?’

‘He’s a trainer,’ I said. ‘He’s got runners here today. And he doesn’t like me very much.’

‘Why not?’

I could hardly tell her that he was my ex-girlfriend’s husband and I had cuckolded him, or that he had threatened to kill me.

‘He just doesn’t.’

‘Kiss me, then,’ she said, ‘and he’ll go away.’

I leaned over and kissed her, long and passionately, as Mitchell climbed out of his car, collected his coat from the boot, and walked away towards the enclosures. I had no idea if he’d even seen us, let alone if he had recognized me.

‘He’s gone,’ Emily said.

We watched him go through the entrance and into the racecourse.

‘I’d rather not be here when he comes back.’

She must have detected something in my voice. ‘Are you frightened of him?’

‘He has a very nasty temper,’ I said, ‘and I’ve been on the end of it.’

‘What did you do?’ she asked, ‘sleep with his wife?’

I looked at her in astonishment. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.’

She laughed. ‘You men. No sense of decorum. Can’t you control your little willies?’

‘It wasn’t all that little last night,’ I said with a grin.

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she said, giggling. ‘I’ve seen bigger.’