Bloodline

‘But he could tell the authorities about me laying the horse.’

‘Indeed, he could,’ I said, ‘but I don’t believe he has any evidence to back up his claims.’ I thought about Toby Woodley’s stolen briefcase. ‘In fact, I don’t really believe that the person who sent you the note last week has the faintest idea what he’s blackmailing you over. I think he’s just an opportunist who’s taking advantage of something he found.’

And, I thought, he’s being far too greedy. If he’d asked Austin Reynolds and Harry Jacobs for a thousand or two, they would have probably just paid and would never have said anything about it to me, or to anyone else. It had been the size of the most recent demand that had been the all-consuming factor in their behaviour.

‘Are you certain about that?’ Austin asked.

‘No,’ I replied, ‘I’m not, but I am certain about something else. If you pay the ten thousand, the next demand will be for even more.’

He looked absolutely miserable.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked pitifully.

‘I want you to pass the payment instructions to me as soon as you get them, and then do nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ he said. ‘How about the money?’

‘There will be no money,’ I said. ‘You’re not paying.’

‘But... what if you’re wrong? What if he has got the evidence?’

‘What evidence could he have anyway?’ I asked. ‘How did you lay the horse in the first place?’

‘I used my wife’s credit card account. It’s still in her maiden name.’

‘But isn’t her billing address the same as yours?’

He said nothing but just looked down at his feet.

How stupid could you get? I thought.

The bloody man deserved to be blackmailed.

Next I went into Newmarket, to the offices of the Injured Jockeys Fund in Victoria Way. I’d already called them and spoken to Mrs Green, the lady who had organized the dinner at the Hilton Hotel on the night that Clare had died.

‘Did you have a nice holiday?’ I’d asked her.

‘Oh, yes, wonderful, thank you,’ Mrs Green had replied. ‘The weather in Portugal was fantastic, just like high summer here.’

‘Good,’ I’d said, laying on the charm.

‘But I was so sorry to hear about your dear sister. It was a real shock, especially as I was quite used to seeing her around the town. I live down near Mr Grubb’s stables. She was always so lovely.’

‘Thank you,’ I’d said to her, meaning it. ‘But the reason I called was that I was hoping you might be able to help me.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m trying to obtain the guest list for your charity night at the Hilton.’

‘Oh.’ There had been a slight pause. ‘I suppose it would be all right to give it to you. The seating plan was on display on the night so it can hardly be confidential, can it? One has to be so careful these days with that damned Data Protection Act. I wouldn’t be able to give you their addresses.’

‘Just the names will be great.’

‘I’d rather not e-mail it to you, if you don’t mind.’ Mrs Green had clearly not been completely convinced that she wasn’t breaking some rule or other. ‘But I could print out another copy of the seating plan, if you’d like. After all, we never had them back at the end of the evening and you could’ve just taken it off one of the boards in the hotel.’

‘Indeed, I could have,’ I’d said, playing along with her game.

I had arranged to collect it from the charity’s offices, and it was waiting for me at the reception desk, sealed in one of those ubiquitous white envelopes.

I sat outside in the car and opened it.

I didn’t really know what I was looking for, so I wasn’t too disappointed that nothing leapt out at me from the sheet of paper.

Not that I didn’t recognize most of the names. I did.

They included many of the great and the good of British racing, coming together to support one of the sport’s major charities.

Mr and Mrs Mitchell Stacey were listed, as expected, but the other guests at their table were not, at least not by name, simply being denoted as (+10) after the Staceys.

And that was true for lots of the tables, many of which had been taken by the evening’s sponsors or by other companies, with only the company name shown.

I went back inside the offices to ask Mrs Green if she had a complete list of everyone who had attended the event.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘The seating plan is all I have. The table hosts put their own name-place cards out.’

I thanked her anyway, and drove the Honda back to Clare’s cottage to find that the man from the builder’s was just finishing the repair to the front door.

‘It looks great,’ I said, inspecting his handiwork. ‘Thank you.’

‘Where shall I send the bill?’

‘Send it to Austin Reynolds.’ I started to give him the address but he already knew it.

‘Yeah, we do lots of work for Mr Reynolds,’ he said, packing up his tools. ‘The firm is currently building some new stables at his yard.’

I wondered whether Austin would keep his trainer’s licence long enough to use them.

‘Well?’ said DS Sharp. ‘Do you recognize anyone?’

‘Quite a few,’ I said.