Bloodline

Without handicaps, the best horses would always win and there would be no real point in owning a moderate horse. And, just as football teams are also grouped by their performances into ‘divisions’ where they are all roughly the same standard, so horses run in races where they all have approximately the same rating.

Not only does this give every horse in the race a chance of winning, it leads to exciting close finishes because the handicapper is attempting to create a multiple dead-heat with all the horses arriving at the winning post at exactly the same moment. Hence they were also great races for the betting public, who always believed they knew better than the officials.

The runners for this particular handicap came out onto the racecourse and I described them to the crowd as they made their way round to the two-and-a-half-mile start in the middle of the back straight.

I’d seen all of these horses racing before, some of them as many as fifteen or twenty times, and I recognized them as much from the shape of their bodies and the shade of their coats as from the colours of the jockeys’ silks. Nevertheless, I took a few minutes to make sure. I didn’t want to be complacent and end up confusing one horse with another.

‘They’re off,’ I said into the microphone as the race began.

The handicapper should have been proud of his work. All eight horses were still in contention as they turned into the finishing straight for the second and last time, with just two plain fences left to jump.

Then two of them fell at the second-last fence, bringing down a third.

‘Now, with just one to jump, it’s Twickman taking up the running from Delmar Boy and Coralstone, with Vintest and Felto both making their challenge down the outside.’

I smiled at Emily who was standing next to me, totally engrossed in the race.

‘And, as they come to the last, it’s Twickman by a length from Vintest with Coralstone third, between horses in the green.’

Emily started to jump up and down with excitement.

‘A great leap at the last from Vintest, who lands alongside Twickman and is quickly into his stride. Just two hundred yards to go now.’

It was a long run-in at Huntingdon and plenty could change between the last fence and the winning post. And today was no exception.

‘Twickman and Vintest together, but here comes the fast-finishing Felto under Paddy Dean on the outside.’ My voice rose in pitch in line with the ever-rising cheering of the crowd. ‘Into the last fifty yards and it’s still Twickman just from Vintest, but Felto is catching them with every stride.’

I clicked off my microphone as the three horses flashed past the finish line stride for stride.

‘Photograph, photograph,’ announced the judge.

‘On the nod,’ I said to Emily.

‘What?’ she said breathlessly.

‘Horses’ heads nod back and forth as they run. Those three were so close that the winner will be the one whose head happened to be nodding forward just as they crossed the line. Half a stride later and one of the others would be in front. When it’s that close it’s down to luck as to who wins.’

‘But it was so exciting,’ she said. ‘I’ve never really watched a race like that before, you know, concentrating on the horses. I’ve mostly only been to the races for the food and drink, and the hospitality.’

‘Here is the result of the photograph,’ said the judge over the public address. ‘First number four, Felto, second number seven, third number two, the distances were a nose, and a short-head.’

A great cheer had gone up from the crowd as soon as the number four had been announced. Felto had started the race as favourite and lots of bets had been riding on his particular nose.

‘What’s the difference between a nose and a short-head?’ Emily asked.

‘Not much,’ I said. ‘A nose is anything less than four and a half inches, and a short-head is between that and nine inches.’

Emily made a face. ‘It hardly seems fair to lose by a few inches after running so far.’

‘A win is a win,’ I said, ‘and, as the technology improves and the photographs get better, the margins get smaller and smaller. Dead-heats are getting rarer.’

Harry Jacobs had sat on the chair at the back of the box throughout the race, looking more miserable than drunk.

‘So, Harry,’ I said. ‘Tell us who’s been blackmailing you.’

He looked up at us with clear eyes. ‘How on earth did you know?’

‘We didn’t,’ Emily said. ‘We were discussing somebody else.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Who?’

‘Two others actually,’ I said. ‘And one of them was my sister, Clare.’ I felt I had to give him some information, in order to establish some trust. ‘Someone sent her a blackmail note demanding two hundred pounds or they would tell the racing authorities she had failed to win a race on purpose.’

‘And did she pay?’ he asked.

‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘Someone else paid for her.’

‘And did the blackmailer then ask for more?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

Harry nodded. ‘Thought so.’

‘Is that what happened to you?’

He pursed his lips and went on nodding. ‘The first demand was so small, I just paid it.’

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What had you done?’