HE RANG ME again at nine o’clock, when I was between calls to the trainers.
“Don’t you ever call me again at night,” I said. “In fact, don’t ever call me again at any time.”
“I’ll call you whenever I like,” said the squeaky voice. “And you’d better answer.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“You will enter Potassium into the King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at Ascot in July.”
At least he had done his homework this time. The King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes was for horses three years and older, so Potassium was eligible.
“Why?” I asked.
“Just do it,” said the voice, with a touch of irritation.
“No.”
“You will do as I say.” His irritation was greater.
“The trainer and I consider that the race is too long,” I said. “Why would we enter our horse into a race we don’t think it can win?”
“You will enter it anyway. But it will definitely not run.”
“If I have no intention of running the horse, why would I bother to enter it in the first place? It would be a total waste of the entry fee.”
Which, at over five grand, was not cheap.
“If you value your daughter’s life, you will enter Potassium in that race.”
And with that, he hung up.
I sat there for some time, simply holding my phone.
Why would Squeaky Voice want me to enter Potassium in a race and then not run him?
It had to be because of ante-post betting.
To bet on a horse ante-post meant to bet on it before the day of the race. All bookmakers and betting shops take ante-post bets, but only on the big races, such as the King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes.
From the bettors’ perspective, the advantage is that the offered odds are usually longer, that is, they offer a better rate of return if the horse wins. However, the major disadvantage is that if your horse doesn’t even run, for any reason whatsoever, you lose your stake.
For some races, such as the Grand National, the biggest betting race of the year, bookmakers quote ante-post prices on some horses even before the race entries close—often several months before. Betting on them that early might be at higher odds, but it can be really risky. If your chosen horse isn’t even entered for the race, you still lose your stake.
If Potassium was entered for the King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes, he would almost certainly be the favourite, irrespective of the fact that Owen and I thought the race was too far for him. After all, he had won the Derby, and that was also over a mile and a half.
If Squeaky Voice was a bookmaker, he could offer higher odds on Potassium than the other bookmakers and rake in every ante-post bet he could, in the sure knowledge that the horse wouldn’t be a declared runner, so he’d never have to pay out on it winning. The same was true for anyone laying the horse on the internet betting exchanges.
With hundreds of millions of pounds being staked on a race as big as the King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes, only a small slice of the action could prove to be extremely profitable. Except, of course, it was strictly against the rules for anyone to know ahead of time that the horse definitely wouldn’t run, and yet still to take bets on it.
Even if Squeaky Voice was not a bookmaker, nor did he lay horses on the internet exchanges, knowing for sure that Potassium definitely wouldn’t be a runner was also an advantage. Odds of the other horses would be higher simply because Potassium was entered for the race, so any bets made on them would be at a fraudulently inflated price.
I looked up the closing date for entries to the King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes. It was in a week’s time.
So what did I do?
Entering Potassium for the race might get Squeaky Voice off my back for a while. But on the other hand, acquiescing to his demands would likely get him always coming back for more.
And did I really believe he would carry out his threats to kill Amanda?
If not, could I not just call his bluff? But if I was wrong, and he did harm or kill her, how could I ever forgive myself?
I called Owen Reynolds.
“Are we being a bit hasty,” I asked, “in not entering Potassium for the King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes in late July?”
“I’ve actually been thinking the same thing myself,” Owen replied. “It’s such a high-value race. Only the Champion Stakes and the Derby are worth more. But I’m also worried what it might do to his reputation if he runs but doesn’t win.”
“That shouldn’t stop us entering him. We won’t have to make the next decision to run or scratch until after Royal Ascot.”
“Okay,” he said. “As long as you’re happy to pay the entry fee, I’ll make sure he’s entered before next week’s deadline.”
“Fine,” I said. “Go ahead.”
Somehow, the fact that Owen was also very keen to enter him made the decision easier, and I could tell myself that it wasn’t simply because of the threats from Squeaky Voice.
“How about Dream Filler at Lingfield on Saturday?” Owen asked. “Shall I declare him to run?”
“Have you looked at the other entries?”
“There are sixteen in total. Dream Filler is fifth in the weights at nine stone seven pounds. Top weight is nine eleven.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Go for it,” he said. “He should have a good chance. But Jimmy Ketch will be riding at Haydock, so I’ll book Tim Westlake. He often rides for me when Jimmy’s unavailable.”
“Fine. I’ll let the syndicate members know their horse will be a definite runner.”
We briefly discussed the progress of the other two Victrix horses in his yard and made plans for them to be entered the following week into races at Brighton and Newbury, before disconnecting.
I leaned back in my chair and was quite angry with myself. Wouldn’t it have been best to tell Squeaky Voice to get stuffed and to have stuck to my original decision? But he had somehow managed to abduct Amanda from the middle of her own birthday party, and who was to say he couldn’t abduct her again?
And then how angry would I be with myself?
I went to Newbury races on Wednesday afternoon to watch a Victrix three-year-old run in a Class 4 Fillies’ Handicap over seven furlongs.
I always liked to have runners at Newbury if I could manage it. Firstly, it was the closest racecourse to my home, so my travel was easy, and second, many of my syndicate members were also fairly local or lived to the west of London, which was just a simple trip down the M4 motorway. Add to that the fact that ten of the Victrix horses were also trained nearby, and it was clear that Newbury was a popular choice with many.
And it was certainly popular with those of my syndicate members present on this day because the Victrix filly romped home to win by two lengths, and at odds of six-to-one.
“You’re on bloody fire,” the Racing Post journalist Jerry Parker said to me with a smile in the unsaddling enclosure. “Let’s do that feature next week. I’ll call you tomorrow to arrange a time. I’ll come to your place if you like.”
“That would be great,” I replied.
On Thursday morning, after the ten o’clock deadline, I logged on to the racing administration website and checked the declared runners for the Class 6 handicap at Lingfield. Of the original sixteen entries, nine had been declared to run, including Victrix’s Dream Filler, which was now only third in the weights.
I did a quick scan of the other eight, checking their previous form, and came to the conclusion that Dream Filler, having dropped down a class from his previous races, would quite likely start as the bookies’ favourite. That didn’t worry me too much, although I would have preferred it to be otherwise.
I always felt that being the favourite, as Potassium had been in the Derby, somehow placed extra pressure to fulfil that favouritism. It is more noticed by the public if the betting favourite fails to win, even though only about a third of all races are actually won by favourites, which must mean that two-thirds aren’t.
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen: No Caller ID.
I debated with myself whether I should answer but, in the end, decided that I should.
“Hello,” I said tentatively.
“Hi, Chester. Jerry Parker here. Is now a good time to talk?”
I breathed out a sigh of relief. “Yes, Jerry. Go ahead.”
“How does Monday suit you for my feature interview?” he asked. “I could come to your place mid-morning. I’ll bring a photographer.”
“Sounds good,” I replied, “but there’s not much to photograph here. Wouldn’t you rather meet at Owen Reynolds’s yard in East Ilsley? You could get a picture of me with Potassium there.”
“Great idea. Shall we say eleven o’clock at Owen Reynolds’s place on Monday?”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll tell Owen we’re coming. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”
“Good. See you then.”
We disconnected and I put my phone down on my desk, but it rang again almost at once—No Caller ID.
I answered it immediately thinking that perhaps it was Jerry calling back. But it wasn’t.
“Dream Filler will run on Saturday, but it won’t win,” said the squeaky voice.
“Clairvoyant now, are you?” I said sarcastically.
“You will make sure that it runs but doesn’t win.”
“And how on earth do you think I can do that?” I asked.
“You will find a way.”
He hung up and I remained sitting there, holding the phone, for several long minutes.
Forcing me to enter Potassium into the King George and Queen Elizabeth Stakes was one thing—most people would expect that to happen in any case—but demanding that I stop a horse from winning a race was something totally different.
And how could I do it anyway?