Field of Thirteen - Dick Francis [98]
A year ago, he reflected drearily, as he stared out at the passing fields, he would have known better than to go to a party in London on the night before the big race. A year ago he had stayed near the course, swallowed maybe a couple of beers, gone to bed early, slept alone. He wouldn’t have dreamt of making a four-hour dash south after Friday’s racing, or getting drunk, or going to bed at two with a girl he’d known three hours.
He hadn’t needed to blot out the thought of Saturday afternoon’s marathon, but had looked forward to it with zest, excitement and unquenchable hope. Oh, God, he thought despairingly, what has happened to me? He was small and strong with soft mid-brown hair, deep-set eyes and a nose flattened by too much fast contact with the ground. A farmer’s son, natural with animals, and with social manners sophisticated by success. People usually liked Jerry Springwood but he was too unassuming to notice.
*
The crowd poured cheerfully into Aintree racecourse primed with hope, faith and cash. Austin peeled off the first of the hot notes at the turnstiles, and contentedly watched it being sucked into the anonymity of the gate receipt. He safely got change for another in a crowded bar and for a third from a stall selling form sheets. Money for old rope, he thought sardonically. It didn’t make sense, holding on to the stuff for five years.
The Tote, as usual, had opened its windows early to take bets on the Grand National because there was not time just before the race to sell tickets to all who wanted to buy. There were long queues already when Austin went along to back his fancy, for like him they knew from experience that it was best to bet early if one wanted a good vantage point in the stands.
He waited in the queue for the Tote window, writing his proposal on his racecard. When his turn came, he said, ‘A hundred to win, number twelve – in the National,’ and counted off the shuffled notes without a qualm. The busy woman behind the window gave him his ticket with a fast but sharp glance. ‘Next?’ she said, looking over his shoulder to the man behind. Dead easy, thought Austin smugly, stuffing his ticket into his jacket pocket. One hundred on number twelve to win. No point in messing about with place money, he always said. Mind you, he was a pretty good judge of form. He always prided himself on that. Nothing in the race had a better chance than the third favourite, Haunted House, and you couldn’t want a better jockey than Springwood, now could you? He strolled with satisfaction back to the bar and bought another beer.
In the changing-room, Jerry Springwood had no difficulty in disguising either his hangover or his fear. The other jockeys were gripped with the usual pre-National tension, finding their mouths a little dry, their thoughts a little abstracted, their flow of ribald jokes silenced to a trickle.
Twice over Becher’s, Jerry thought, hopelessly; the Canal Tarn, the Chair, how in God’s name am I going to face it?
While Jerry sweated, Chief Superintendent Crispin, head of the local police, breathlessly considered an item of information just passed into his hands. He needed, he decided, to go to the very top man on the racecourse, if the most satisfactory results were to be achieved.
The top man on any racecourse, the Senior Steward of the Jockey Club, was lunching a party of eminent overseas visitors in a private dining-room when Chief Superintendent Crispin interrupted the roast saddle of lamb.
‘I want to speak to you urgently, sir,’ the policeman said, bending down to the Turf’s top ear.
Sir William Westerland rested his bland gaze briefly on the amount