Decider - By Dick Francis Page 0,29

animal was controlled by a rider.

The horses, to my eyes, weren’t fine-boned enough to be racehorses, nor were the riders as light as the average stable lad, and when I swung down from the cab Roger came hurrying across from his house, side stepping round massive hindquarters, to tell me these were Conrad’s working hunters out for their morning exercise. They were supposed to be out on the road, Roger said, but they’d been practically attacked by the six or seven woollen hats still stubbornly picketing the main gates.

‘Where do they come from?’ I asked, looking around.

‘The horses? Conrad keeps them here on the racecourse in a yard down near the back entrance, where you came in.’

I nodded. I’d seen the back of what could well have been the stables.

‘They’re trotting up and down the inner road instead,’ Roger said. ‘It’s not ideal, but I won’t let them out on the course, where they sometimes go, because everything is ready for Monday’s meeting. Wouldn’t your boys like to get out and see them?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Since the slaughter at the open ditch last Saturday they are a bit afraid of them. They were very shocked, you know, by that dead spectator’s injuries.’

‘I’d forgotten they’d seen him, poor man. Will they just stay in the bus, then, while you and I go over the stands? I’ve spread out some of the original drawings in my office. We’ll look at those first, if you like.’

I suggested driving bus and boys as near to the office as possible, which resulted in our parking where the Stratton family’s cars had been gathered two days earlier. The boys, relieved by the arrangement, asked if they could play a hide-and-seek game in the stands, if they promised not to do any damage.

Roger gave assent doubtfully. ‘You’ll find many of the doors are locked,’ he told them. ‘And the whole place was cleaned yesterday, ready for Monday, so don’t make any mess.’

They promised not to. Roger and I left them beginning to draw up rules for their game and made our way to a low white-painted wooden building on the far side of the parade ring.

‘Is it pirates again?’ Roger asked, amused.

‘I think it’s storming the Bastille this time. That’s to say, rescuing a prisoner without being captured yourself. Then the rescued prisoner has to hide and not be recaptured.’

I looked back as Roger unlocked his office door. The boys waved. I waved back and went in, and began to sort my way through ancient building plans that had been rolled up so long that straightening them out was like six bouts with an octopus.

I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, so as to come to grips with things more easily, and Roger made a comment about the warmth of the spring day and hoped the sunshine would last until Monday.

Most of the plans were in fact working drawings, which gave detailed specifications for every nut and bolt. They were thorough, complete and impressive, and I commented on it.

‘The only problem is,’ Roger said, with a twisting smile, ‘that the builder didn’t stick to the specs. Concrete that should be six inches thick with the reinforcing bars well covered has recently proved to be barely four and a half inches and we’re having endless trouble with the private balcony boxes with water getting in through cracks and rusting the bars, which then of course expand because of the rust and crack the concrete more. Crumble the concrete, in some places.’

‘Spalling,’ I nodded. ‘Can be dangerous.’

‘And,’ Roger went on, ‘if you look at the overall design of the water inlets and outlets and sewer lines, the drawings make very good sense, but the water and drain pipes don’t actually go where they should. We had one set of ladies’ lavatories backing up for no reason we could think of and flooding the floor, but the drain seemed clear, and then we found we were checking the wrong drain, and the one from the lavatories went in an entirely different direction and was blocked solid.’

It was familiar territory. Builders had minds of their own and often ignored the architect’s best instructions, either because they truly thought they knew better or because they could make a fatter profit by shaving the quality.

We uncurled a dozen more sheets and tried to hold them flat with pots of pens for paperweights, a losing battle. I acquired, all the same, an understanding of