Coca Colas for three, splashed out of the bottles by an overworked barmaid. Chanter busily juggled the three glasses so that it was I who paid, which figured.
The bar was only half full but a great deal of space and attention was being taken up by one man, a large tough-looking individual with a penetrating Australian accent. He had an obviously new white plaster cast on his leg and a pair of crutches which he hadn’t mastered. His loud laugh rose above the general buzz as he constantly apologised for knocking into people.
‘Haven’t got the hang of these props yet…’
Chanter regarded him, as he did most things, with some disfavour.
The large Australian went on explaining his state to two receptive acquaintances.
‘Mind you, can’t say I’m sorry I broke my ankle. Best investment I ever made.’ The laugh rang out infectiously and most people in the bar began to grin. Not Chanter, of course.
‘See, I only paid my premium the week before, and then I fell down these steps and I got a thousand quid for it. Now that ain’t whistling, that ain’t, eh? A thousand bleeding quid for falling down a flight of steps.’ He laughed again hugely, enjoying the joke. ‘Come on mates,’ he said, ‘Drink up, and let’s go and invest some of this manna from Heaven on my good friend Kenny Bayst.’
I jumped a fraction and looked at my watch. Coming up to three thirty. Kenny Bayst clearly hadn’t told his good friend not to speculate. Absolutely none of my business. Telling him myself would be the worst favour I could do for Kenny Bayst.
The large Australian swung himself out of the bar, followed by the two mates. Chanter’s curiosity overcame his disinclination to show himself at a loss.
‘Who,’ he said crossly, ‘Is going to give that schmo a thousand quid for breaking his ankle?’
Nancy smiled. ‘It’s a new insurance fund, specially for people who go racing. Accident insurance. I don’t really know. I’ve heard one or two people mention it lately.’
‘Insurance is immoral,’ Chanter said dogmatically, sliding round behind her and laying his hand flat on her stomach. Nancy picked it off and stepped away. As a bodyguard, I didn’t seem to be doing much good.
Nancy said she particularly wanted to see this race properly, and left Chanter looking moody at the bottom of the staircase. Without asking her I followed her up the steps: a period alone with Chanter held no attractions.
Kenny Bayst, according to my slantways look at Nancy’s racecard, was riding a horse called Rudiments: number seven, owned by the Duke of Wessex, trained by Miss Villars, carrying olive green with silver crossbelts and cap. I watched the horse canter down past the stands on the olive green grass and reflected that the Duke of Wessex had chosen colours which were as easy to distinguish as coal on a black night.
I said to Nancy, ‘What did Rudiments do in his last race?’
‘Hm?’ she said absentmindedly, all her attention on the rose pink and white shape of her brother. ‘Did you say Rudiments?’
‘That’s right. I brought Kenny Bayst and Annie Villars here, as well.’
‘Oh. I see.’ She looked down at her racecard. ‘Last time out… it won. Time before that, it won. Time before that, it came fourth.’
‘It’s good, then?’
‘Fairly, I suppose.’ She wrinkled her nose at me. ‘I told you you’d get involved.’
I shook my head. ‘Just curious.’
‘Same thing.’
‘Is it favourite?’
‘No, Colin is. But… you can see over there, on that big board… see?… Rudiments is second favourite on the Tote at about three to one.’
‘Well…’ I said. ‘What does it mean, to lay a horse?’
‘It means to stand a bet. It’s what bookmakers do. What the Tote does, really, come to that.’
‘Can people do it who aren’t bookmakers?’
‘Oh sure. They do. Say the bookmakers are offering three to one, and you yourself don’t think the horse will win, you could say to your friends, I’ll lay you four to one; so they’d bet with you because you were offering more. Also, no betting tax. Private wager, you see.’
‘And if the horse wins, you pay out?’
‘You sure do.’
‘I see,’ I said. And I did. Eric Goldenberg had laid Rudiments the last time it had run because Kenny Bayst had agreed to lose, and then he’d gone and won. Their tempers were still on the dicky side as a result: and they had been arguing today about whether or not to try again.
‘Colin thinks he’ll win this,’ Nancy said. ‘I do hope so.’
Bonanza for