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would be either his wife
or girlfriend. I raised my binoculars. Roscoe was fairly young, early thirties
maybe, and, from his  styled hair to his brown Gucci shoes, impeccably
dressed. Arms out of the sleeves, he wore his coat like a cloak.
    A handful of pressmen surrounded him and
the blonde who looked older, maybe forty. I tilted the glasses slowly: good
legs, good figure, good dentist. Her mouth got a lot of exercise between
smiling, pouting and talking and I decided she was Roscoe’s girlfriend.
    The MC for the presentation put me right
when he picked up the microphone. ‘Your Royal Highness, ladies and gentlemen,
unfortunately the winning owner, Mr Louis Perlman, cannot be here today and so
I now call on Mrs Basil Roscoe to receive the Champion Hurdle Challenge Cup on
his behalf.’
    The blonde minced forward, her stiletto
heels murdering a few worms as she crossed the lawn. Her husband watched,
smiling smugly, and I wondered what kind of owner Louis Perlman was and what
pleasure he took from his horses if he never watched them run.
    What was Roscoe’s past history? He was a
new one on me. The press bar was only one floor below me so I put my glasses
down and went looking for some information.
    I found Joe Lagota of The Sportsman in the press bar and he told me little more about Harle and Roscoe than the Racing
Post article had. He said Harle had only been riding for Roscoe for about
six months. According to Joe none of the press guys liked Roscoe mainly because
he’d never tell them anything. They’d all given up asking about his owner,
Louis Perlman.
    When Joe started asking me questions about my interest, I knew it was time to leave.
    There wouldn’t
be a chance of getting near Harle while he was celebrating so I bought a card
from one of the stalls, scribbled a congratulatory message and asked a passing
jockey to give it to him.
    I walked on through to the ring, the
bookmakers’ stronghold. The next race was fifteen minutes away and I had
decided to go on to the course and watch it from ground level at the last
fence. A stroll among the betting boys would pass the time nicely.
    I knew a few of the bookies and some
nodded recognition as I wandered among them. None looked surprised to see me. I
walked to the rails where the real big money boys bet, most of their customers
were known to them by name and bank account number.
    At the end of this line was an old and very
familiar face which opened in a wide smile when it saw me.
    ‘Eddie, my old son, come ‘ere!’ The
battered voice hadn’t changed. I walked up smiling and shook hands with Wilbur
Slacke. He clasped my hands in both of his which were cold and white with thick
blue veins.
    ‘Still skinning the punters then, Will?’
I said.
    ‘Just enough to keep the wolf from the
door as usual, Eddie, though the bugger’s getting a bit too close to the front
gate recently!’
    ‘Does that mean you’ll have to sell one of
the Mercs? My heart bleeds.’
    He smiled even wider, showing his own
teeth still. His eyes watered in the cold wind as he stepped rheumatically off
the stool to lean on the railings. ‘How’s business?’ I asked.
    ‘Not so bad, Eddie. Can’t complain
really.’
    ‘The big winner must have been a good
one for you?’
    ‘Brilliant result. Best one I can
remember in the Champion for a long time. We all won a few quid except that big
bugger at the end.’ He nodded down the line of bookies toward a sour looking
character handing someone a wad of notes as thick as a sandwich.
    ‘The big guy with the black hair?’
    Will nodded, still smiling. ‘A right
mean bastard.’
    ‘I don’t remember him from when I was
riding.’
    Will coughed raggedly and turned away to
spit. ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘Johnny-come-lately from up North, shouldn’t even be
here. He’s never been on the waiting list for that pitch. Claims he’s operating
it on behalf of Sammy Wainwright but I’m sure he bought Sammy off. Still, he’s
took a few doings with