High stakes - By Dick Francis Page 0,6

Energise back to his own small transit yard overnight and ferry him on in a day or two to whichever trainer I decided to send him.

‘A dark brown horse. Almost black,’ I said. ‘The gate-keeper will tell you which box he’s in. But I don’t suppose he’ll have a lad with him.’

The owner-driver, it transpired, could provide a lad to look after Energise. ‘He’ll be right as rain,’ he said. ‘No need for you to worry.’ He had brought two other horses to the course, one of which was in the last race, and he would be away within an hour afterwards, he said. We exchanged telephone numbers and addresses and shook hands on the deal.

After that, more out of politeness than through any great appetite for racing, I went back to the private box of the man who had earlier given me lunch and with whom I’d watched my own horse win.

‘Steven, where have you been? We’ve been waiting to help you celebrate.’

Charlie Canterfield, my host, held his arms wide in welcome, with a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigar in the other. He and his eight or ten other guests sat on dining chairs round a large central table, its white cloth covered now not with the paraphernalia of lunch, but with a jumble of half full glasses, race cards, binoculars, gloves, handbags and betting tickets. A faint haze of Havana smoke and the warm smell of alcohol filled the air, and beyond, on the other side of snugly closed glass, lay the balcony overlooking the fresh and windy racecourse.

Four races down and two to go. Mid afternoon. Everyone happy in the interval between coffee-and-brandy and cake-and-tea. A cosy little roomful of chat and friendliness and mild social smugness. Well-intentioned people doing no one any harm.

I sighed inwardly and raised a semblance of enjoyment for Charlie’s sake, and sipped champagne and listened to everyone telling me it was great that Energise had won. They’d all backed it, they said. Lots of lovely lolly, Steven dear. Such a clever horse… and such a clever little trainer, Jody Leeds.

‘Mm,’ I said, with a dryness no one heard.

Charlie waved me to the empty chair between himself and a lady in a green hat.

‘What do you fancy for the next race?’ he asked.

I looked at him with a mind totally blank.

‘Can’t remember what’s running,’ I said.

Charlie’s leisured manner skipped a beat. I’d seen it in him before, this split-second assessment of a new factor, and I knew that therein lay the key to his colossal business acumen. His body might laze, his bonhomie might expand like softly whipped cream, but his brain never took a moment off.

I gave him a twisted smile.

Charlie said ‘Come to dinner.’

‘Tonight, do you mean?’

He nodded.

I bit my thumb and thought about it. ‘All right.’

‘Good. Let’s say Parkes, Beauchamp Place, eight o’clock.’

‘All right.’

The relationship between Charlie and me had stood for years in that vague area between acquaintanceship and active friendship where chance meetings are enjoyed and deliberate ones seldom arranged. That day was the first time he had invited me to his private box. Asking me for dinner as well meant a basic shift to new ground.

I guessed he had misread my vagueness, but all the same I liked him, and no one in his right mind would pass up a dinner at Parkes. I hoped he wouldn’t think it a wasted evening.

Charlie’s guests began disappearing to put on bets for the next race. I picked up a spare race card which was lying on the table and knew at once why Charlie had paid me such acute attention: two of the very top hurdlers were engaged in battle and the papers had been talking about it for days.

I looked up and met Charlie’s gaze. His eyes were amused.

‘Which one, then?’ he asked.

‘Crepitas.’

‘Are you betting?’

I nodded. ‘I did it earlier. On the Tote.’

He grunted. ‘I prefer the bookmakers. I like to know what odds I’m getting before I lay out my cash,’ And considering his business was investment banking that was consistent thinking. ‘I can’t be bothered to walk down, though.’

‘You can have half of mine, if you like,’ I said.

‘Half of how much?’ he said cautiously.

‘Ten pounds.’

He laughed. ‘Rumour says you can’t think in anything less than three noughts.’

‘That was an engineering joke,’ I said, ‘which escaped.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I sometimes use a precision lathe. You can just about set it to an accuracy of three noughts… point nought nought nought one. One