herself, and had a good blowout last week at Larkminster racecourse.’
‘Course not going in that deep,’ reassured Simon Claisse, the genial Clerk of the Course.
‘Bend’s under water,’ Rafiq, who’d already walked the course twice, told an increasingly terrified Amber.
The five-star racecourse stables, with their little white clock tower topped by a galloping golden horse weathercock, accommodated three hundred horses in Gold Cup week. Ilkley Hall had just spent half an hour in the solarium. Mirrors had been provided in Internetso’s box so he wouldn’t be lonely. In the past, walls had been knocked through between boxes, so an uptight horse could converse with its stable mate. Horses were offered ordinary or organic water. Nothing was too much trouble.
Many horses overnighted before Gold Cup day. Many of the Irish runners, avoiding a rough ferry crossing, had been there for several days and were as relaxed as Priceless.
To his staff’s disappointment, Marius refused to let them or his horses overnight, unlike Harvey-Holden, who even booked himself into the grooms’ hostel, pretending it gave him immediate access to his beloved horses but in actuality because it was cheap and gave him a chance to pull stable lasses.
As runners set off for the third race, the excitement really kicked in as Gold Cup horses were given a final polish. Michelle, polishing her own face for the parade, was debriefing Tresa on last night’s party, emphasizing how badly, released from Jude’s watchful eye, Harvey-Holden had behaved. This was to discourage a tendresse Michelle suspected was developing between H-H and Tresa, who she frequently caught whispering in corners.
The only person who had evidently behaved worse than Harvey-Holden was Rupert Campbell-Black’s grandson, Eddie Alderton. Still celebrating winning the Bumper on Wednesday, he had got into several fights after getting off with other jockeys’ girlfriends.
‘Such a pity Marius won’t let us overnight,’ grumbled Tresa, as usual leaving Tommy to do all the work, ‘but he’s still convinced someone nobbled Bullydozer at Leopardstown. If we were allowed to overnight, Tommy would sleep in Wilkie’s box.’
‘Only thing prepared to sleep with Tommy,’ sneered Michelle.
‘Shut up, you beetch,’ hissed a voice. It was Rafiq, come to check on the horses, his face so contorted with fury that Michelle dropped her eyeliner.
‘My my, someone did get out of the wrong pigsty this morning,’ observed Tresa, as Rafiq disappeared into Wilkie’s box.
Chisolm was having a ball, hooves up on the stable half-door, sporting a new green suede collar, being photographed and stroked. Everyone was in hysterics because Dora had muddled the copy for Rupert’s column in the Racing Post with Chisolm’s in the Mirror, so Rupert’s readers had been urged to ‘gobble up the polyanthus round Best Mate’s statue and butt Ilkley Hall and Lusty on their delicate legs if they got the chance’.
The stables seethed with the rumour of non-runners, shifting odds and jockey changes. With the rain, Wilkie’s odds had drifted and Lusty and Ilkley Hall had become joint favourites.
Word had also got round that Furious had a stunning new lass. Heads kept popping over the half-door to admire her as she attempted to plait up her fractious charge, hugely embarrassed that, even with Rafiq’s help, she’d been unable to clip all his coat. With her own dark hair in a long plait, her colt legs in tight black jeans, Trixie was wearing a snazzy jacket Valent had given her, striped in his dusty green and violet colours, fur-lined against the cold and long enough to conceal any bump.
At least the going would suit Furious the mudlark. Described in the Racing Post as ‘an alpha mule who couldn’t be relied on to start’, Furious was 50–1.
Half an hour to the parade, Tommy the equable gave a howl of rage.
‘Someone’s shaved off Wilkie’s whiskers, who the hell’s done that? It must have happened in the last hour. I was only away twenty minutes changing for the parade. Did you touch her?’ She turned on Tresa and Josh.
‘I did not, I wouldn’t dare touch your precious baby,’ taunted Tresa.
‘Someone must have done it, someone she knew well.’
‘Probably Rafiq,’ said Josh.
‘Don’t be fatuous.’
‘He was down checking Furious. Feels uncomfortable in the weighing room with the real men,’ said Michelle nastily.
Tresa was peering into the bin. Reaching down, she pulled out a razor with its orange lid off.
‘Rafiq uses these because they’re cheap. Look,’ she waved it triumphantly, ‘it’s got black whiskers in it. You better fingerprint it. I’ve just touched it, so my prints are on it already. I expect Master Rafiq doesn’t want