Bloodline

I didn’t even properly learn the jockeys’ colours as the horses circled at the start and, suddenly, the race was under way. I had to keep glancing down to my racecard to see which horse was which as they jumped the two hurdles in the straight for the first time.

Had it been one of Toby Woodley’s blackmail victims that had done us all a favour?

It was not proving to be my greatest ever commentary. Concentrate, I told myself as the horses swept right-handed away from the grandstand to start their second circuit. For God’s sake, concentrate!

But how could Toby Woodley have sent a blackmail note to Austin Reynolds on Thursday when he’d been murdered on Wednesday night?

The horses galloped down the back of the course and on at least two occasions I called one of them by the wrong name, using ‘Woodley’ when the horse was properly called ‘Woodmill’.

Could Toby Woodley have posted the note on Wednesday evening after the last collection so that it hadn’t been franked until Thursday?

The horses turned into the finishing straight for the second and final time and, by now, even the crowd knew the colours better than I did. But, thankfully, I called the correct names of the leading pair as they jumped the last hurdle together up-sides.

But Harry Jacobs had said that he’d only received his latest note yesterday. Could that note really have taken three days to arrive?

The two horses fought out another close finish, flashing past the winning post with hardly a cigarette paper between them.

‘Photograph, photograph,’ called the judge once more.

Or, had Toby Woodley had an accomplice, who was now acting on his own?

Harry Jacobs insisted on going back to the bar after the third race.

‘I need another drink,’ he said.

‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Harry?’ I said. ‘Especially if you’re driving later.’

‘I have a driver. I haven’t got a licence.’

Probably lost it, I thought, from having too many boozy days at the races.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘But a couple of things first. Are you sure that note arrived at your home yesterday?’

‘Absolutely certain,’ Harry said. ‘It’s the sort of thing you remember.’

‘Do you still have the envelope it came in?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I threw it away. Why?’

‘I wanted to see when it was posted and whether it was sent first or second class.’

‘First class, I think,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t be certain. Sorry.’ He stood up. ‘Now, where’s that drink?’

All three of us went down the stairs from the grandstand shed but, while Harry peeled off towards the bar to order more champagne, Emily and I went through the betting hall to the parade ring to see the horses for the next race, a tricky handicap hurdle with eighteen runners.

‘Are all your days as thrilling as this?’ Emily asked as I stood silently by the paddock rail making notes on my racecard.

I looked sideways at her. ‘Do I detect a touch of sarcasm?’

‘Would I?’ she said, smiling broadly.

‘It’s not every day you come across blackmail,’ I said.

‘No,’ she said laughing. ‘Only every other day.’

‘Real blackmail, I mean, not that stuff you watch on the television.’

‘At least that’s exciting.’

‘How about if I told you that I knew who’d been sending the notes.’

‘Who?’ she said, her eyes opening wider in anticipation.

‘I’ll tell you over dinner.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘tell me now.’

‘Over dinner,’ I said firmly. ‘I need to concentrate on the horses.’

‘Well, in that case, I’ll go and join Harry in the bar.’

‘I thought you said you were driving,’ I said.

‘So?’ She turned and walked away, looking back just once and waving before she disappeared into the bar.

I turned my attention back to the eighteen different sets of silks in front of me and started to sort out which set belonged to which horse.

We stopped at six thirty for an early dinner at the Three Horseshoes, a charming thatched pub at Madingley, near Cambridge.

‘How lovely,’ Emily said as we walked in. ‘A romantic dinner for two. I can’t remember when I last did this.’

‘What about last night?’ I said.

‘I’d hardly call a take-away from the local Chinese a romantic dinner.’

I smiled at her. ‘But, if I remember correctly, it became quite romantic afterwards.’

She laughed. ‘You just got lucky.’

We were shown to a quiet table by the window overlooking the garden and the car park beyond amongst the trees.

After the unwanted attentions of Harry Jacobs all afternoon, I was really looking forward to a couple of hours of uninterrupted time of just the two of us. I’d even left my phone in Emily’s car.