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more surprising than Harle, who’d at least had the experience of riding
round the gaffs. But here was Roscoe, up with the guys who’d been training
festival winners before he could keep his nappy dry for a night, training a
Champion Hurdle winner. How long had he known Harle?
    As for the elusive Mr Perlman, I’d heard
of one or two shy owners in my riding days but they’d never stuck the game
long. They were the people who’d inherited horses or rich folks pressed into it
by poorer friends. Owning racehorses was not a pastime for shrinking violets.
    It stretched credibility to
breaking-point to believe that Perlman wouldn’t make at least a token
appearance to be presented by the Queen Mum with the Champion Hurdle winner’s
trophy. If he were patronising one of the big stables I’d have been inclined to
believe he was simply an eccentric but the fact that Harle and Roscoe were
involved made me sceptical.
    Perlman had to have something serious to
hide. Maybe under another name he’d been warned off. If so, what offence had he
committed?
    Harle would be staying at the Duke’s
Hotel in Cheltenham. The racing snobs never stayed anywhere else. Roscoe was
certain to be bedding down there with Mrs Roscoe and where he was, Harle
wouldn’t be far behind.
    There would be a party tonight with the
Champion Hurdle under their belts and everybody who thought they were anybody
would be there. The tales passing among the loose tongues would be worth
hearing. I decided to invite myself.
    It was 7.30. My glass was almost empty.
I swallowed the last of the whisky and decided to sleep for a couple of hours
before tidying myself up to gatecrashing standard.
     
    The
Rover’s twin beams lit up the narrow twisting hilly roads which didn’t
straighten till near the outskirts of Cheltenham. The town was busy. The
population must treble during festival week. 
    The white front of the Duke’s Hotel was
illuminated by a row of floodlights in the gardens. This was my first time
through its doors for six years. Inside, nothing had changed: twenty guineas a
roll wallpaper and thirty quid a yard carpet. Teak, leather, brass and silk in
dignified doses.
    At reception a dark-eyed, cream-bloused
girl told me Mr Roscoe had taken the Directors Suite for the evening, that it
was on the third floor and if I was Mr Glenn I was to go right up.
    The suite was big enough to hold maybe
fifty or sixty people. It seemed to me there were at least a hundred packed in
there.
    They had all dressed for a party, some
of the women with much care, but that had been hours ago. By now there were
signs of staleness; a carelessly rubbed eye leaving a mascara smear, a few
straggling tendrils escaping from a blonde bun, a vee-shaped frock front which
had taken an uneven dive showing a tanned, wrinkled cleavage. If all the
jewellery were real there was a million pounds’ worth.
    I recognised a number of jockeys, many
conspicuous anyway by their short stature. The other men were all shapes and
sizes and in varying stages of undress, some missing ties or jackets or both.
Everyone held a drink. It was warm and stuffy from too many bodies. A sweaty
affair.
    I sidled through the throng to where I’d
guessed the bar was. Three staff in black uniforms were pouring champagne at a
hot pace. I lifted a glass.
    Someone spoke in my right ear. ‘Take
two.’ A note in the voice zoomed straight into my memory bank and locked on
immediately. I knew who it was before I started turning round, a girl I hadn’t
seen since I was fifteen years old, a beauty I’d had such a crush on at school
I hadn’t even been able to speak to her.
    I faced her. Charmain. The auburn hair
was pinned up showing small ears and the fine jawline, as I remembered it,
along with the green eyes and the wide lips, just thick enough to give the
impression of a permanent pout. She was lightly made-up, a natural flush
colouring her cheeks.
    I had never forgotten her. She’d been my
first love and it hadn’t