Field of Thirteen - Dick Francis [83]
Five’, said the radio quietly; and later ‘Ten’. And, duly, numbers five and ten were given the verdict by the judge.
The judge, now shaking his head over Darling Boy and Pickup and deciding he could put off the moment no longer, handed his written-down result to the waiting official, who leaned forward and drew the microphone to his mouth.
‘First, number eleven,’ he said. ‘A dead heat for second place between numbers two and eight. First Jetset. Dead heat for second, Darling Boy and Pickup. The distance between first and second a short head. The fourth horse was number twelve.’
The judge leaned back in his chair and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Another photo-finish safely past… but there was no doubt they were testing to his nerves.
Arnold Roper picked up his binoculars the better to see the winning punters collect from the bookmakers. His twenty-one trusty men had certainly had time today for a thorough killing. Greg Simpson, in particular, was sucking honey all along the line; but then Greg Simpson, with his outstanding managerial skills, was always, in Arnold’s view, the one most likely to do best. Greg’s success was as pleasing to Arnold as his own.
Billy Hitchins handed Greg his winnings without a second glance, and paid out, too, to five others whose transistor hearing aids were safely hidden by hair. He reckoned he had lost, altogether, on the photo betting; but his book for the race itself had been robustly healthy. Billy Hitchins, not displeased, switched his mind to the next event.
Jamie Finland laughed aloud and banged his table with an ecstatic fist. Someone, somewhere, was talking through an open microphone, and if Jamie had had the luck to pick up the transmission, why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he? He thought of the information as an accident, not a fraud, and he waited with uncomplicated pleasure for another bunch of horses to finish nose to nose.
Betting on certainties, he decided, quietening his voice of conscience, was not a crime if you came by the information innocently.
After the fourth race he telephoned to bet on number fifteen, increasing his winnings geometrically.
Greg Simpson went home at the end of the afternoon with a personal storage problem almost as pressing as Arnold’s. There was a limit, he discovered, to the amount of ready cash one could stow away in an ordinary suit, and he finally had to wrap the stuff in a newspaper and carry it home under his arm, like fish and chips.
‘Two in one day,’ he thought warmly. ‘A real clean-up. A day to remember.’ And there was always tomorrow, back here at Ascot, and Saturday at Sandown, and next week, according to the list which had arrived anonymously on the usual postcard, Newbury and Windsor. With a bit of luck he could soon afford a new car, and Joan could book up for the skiing holiday with the children.
Billy Hitchins packed away his stand and equipment, and with the help of his clerk carried them the half-mile along the road to his betting shop in Ascot High Street. Billy at eighteen had horrified his teachers by ducking university and apprenticing his bright mathematical brain to his local bookie. Billy at twenty-four had taken over the business, and now, three years later, was poised for expansion.
He had had a good day on the whole and, after totting up the total and locking the safe, he took his betting-shop manager along to the pub.
‘Funny thing,’ said the manager over the second beer. ‘That new account – you know, the one you fixed up yesterday, with that nurse.’
‘Oh yes… the nurse. Gave me money in advance. They don’t often do that.’ He drank his scotch and water.
‘Yeah… Well, this Finland, while he was watching the telly, he phoned in two bets, both on the results of the photos, and he got it right both times.’
‘Can’t have that,’ said Billy, with mock severity.
‘He didn’t place other bets, see? Unusual, that.’
‘What did you say his name was?’ Billy asked
‘Jamie Finland.’