in Malcolm’s ear. ‘Get Joyce to drop you at a railway station, and I’ll see you in the Savoy. Don’t move until I get there.’
Malcolm, looking slightly dazed, put on the chef’s coat and hat and pulled out his wallet. The chef looked delighted with the result and went back to slicing his turkeys in temporary shirtsleeves. Malcolm and the catering director left through the bar’s rear door and set off together through the racecourse buildings to go outside to the area where the caterers’ vans were parked. I waited quite a long anxious time in the bar, but eventually the catering director returned, carrying the white disguise, which he restored to its owner.
‘Your father got off safely,’ he assured me. ‘He didn’t see anyone he knew. What was it all about? Not really an elopement, was it?’
‘He wanted to avoid being assassinated by his disapproving children.’
The caterer smiled, of course not believing it. I asked where he would like the fizz sent and he took out a business card, writing his private address on the back.
‘Your father lunched with the Directors, didn’t he?’ he said. ‘I thought I saw him up there.’ His voice implied that doing favours for people who lunched with the Directors was doubly vouched for, like backing up a cheque with a credit card, and I did my best to reinforce further his perception of virtue.
‘He’s just bought a half share in an Arc de Triomphe runner,’ I said. ‘We’re going over for the race.’
‘Lucky you,’ he said, giving me his card. He frowned suddenly, trying to remember. ‘Didn’t Rosemary tell me something about your father’s present wife being pointlessly murdered some weeks ago? His late wife, I suppose I should say. Dreadful for him, dreadful.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well… some people connected with her turned up here today unexpectedly, and he wanted to escape meeting them.’
‘Ah,’ he said with satisfied understanding, in that case, I’m glad to have been of help.’ He chuckled. ‘They didn’t really look like elopers.’
He shook my hand and went away, and with a couple of deep breaths I left the Members’ bar and walked back to the weighing-room to pick up my gear. There was still one more race to be run but it already felt like a long afternoon.
George and Jo were there when I came out carrying saddle, helmet, whip and holdall, saying they’d thought they’d catch me before I left.
‘We’ve decided to run Young Higgins again two weeks tomorrow at Kempton,’ Jo said. ‘You’ll be free for that, won’t you?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘And Park Railings, don’t forget, at Cheltenham next Thursday.’
‘Any time, any place,’ I said, and they laughed, conspirators in addiction.
It occurred to me as they walked away, looking back and waving, that perhaps I’d be in Singapore, Australia or Timbuktu next week or the week after; life was uncertain, and that was its seduction.
I saw none of the family on my way to the exit gate, and none between there and my car. With a frank sigh of relief, I stowed my gear in the boot and without much hurry set off towards Epsom, a detour of barely ten miles, thinking I might as well pick up my mail and listen to messages.
The telephone answering machine did have a faculty for listening to messages from afar, but it had never worked well, and I’d been too lazy to replace the remote controller which, no doubt, needed new batteries anyway.
With equally random thoughts I drove inattentively onwards, and it wasn’t until I’d gone a fair distance that I realised that every time I glanced in the rear-view mirror I could see the same car two or three cars back. Some cars passed me: it never did, nor closed a gap to catch up.
I sat up, figuratively and literally, and thought, ‘What do you know?’ and felt my heart beat as at the starting gate.
What I didn’t know was whose car it was. It looked much like the hired one I was driving, a middle-rank four-door in underwashed cream; ordinary, inconspicuous, no threat to Formula One.
Perhaps, I thought sensibly, the driver was merely going to Epsom, at my own pace, so at the next traffic lights I turned left into unknown residential territory, and kept on turning left at each crossroads thereafter, reasoning that in the end I would complete the circle and end up facing where I wanted to go. I didn’t hurry nor continually look in the rear-view mirror, but when I was back again on a