I FOUND THE house quite lonely again on Friday evening.
I arrived home from Ascot about seven, having spent an hour with another prospective syndicate member discussing the minute details of the syndicate contract. By the time I managed to prise myself away, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted him as one of my future syndicate members anyway. I could see that he was going to be far too demanding, and it was trouble I could probably do without.
I took the guest-bedroom linen out of the washing machine and placed it in the tumble dryer rather than hanging it outside on the washing line. I didn’t want Brian or Victoria Perry, our nosey neighbours, telling Georgina how domesticated I had been, washing the bed sheets, while she’d been away at her parents.
But the linen made me think of Toni, in particular her naked body curled up next to mine.
I cooked myself some scrambled eggs on toast, all the time wondering what Toni was doing at that very moment.
She had given me her phone number, but she’d also specifically told me not to call it while she was in the U.K., because of the exorbitant price her cell company charged her for overseas calls.
Should I call her at the hotel instead?
I got as far as looking up the hotel phone number on the internet before good sense took over.
“It’s over,” I told myself. “It was just a two-day dalliance. Leave it.”
But I still couldn’t stop thinking about her, especially when I took my food into the sitting room to eat while I watched the television, my feet resting on the sheepskin rug.
Georgina called me at nine o’clock.
“I’m missing you,” she said. “And to be honest, I’m getting fed up with both of them.”
“Your parents?”
“Yes. I’ve told Mum that I’ll stay until Sunday, but I’d much rather come home tomorrow.”
“I’ll be at Ascot all afternoon,” I said. “I have a runner in the fifth race.”
“I can always get a taxi home from Didcot station. I’ll let you know.”
“Is everything else okay?” I asked.
“Yes. I think so.”
“What do you mean, you think so?”
“I’ve had a few strange calls today on my mobile.”
“What sort of calls?” I asked slowly.
“Calls with no one there, or at least no one who talked. Whoever it was just waited a few moments and then hung up.”
“How many calls?”
“Five or six. I didn’t answer them after the first three.”
“Did the caller’s number show up on your phone?” I asked.
“No. It just said No Caller ID.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “They were probably auto-dial marketing calls.”
“It’s just a bit unnerving, that’s all,” she replied.
It certainly was.
Saturday morning dawned to grey skies and heavy rain. The hot, dry spell had definitely ended, with a weather front moving in from the Atlantic, and rain was forecast for the rest of the afternoon.
I thought about not bothering to go to the races, but Victrix had a runner, and I’d told both the trainer and the syndicate members that I’d be there.
I made my usual morning calls to all the trainers, discussing entries for the following week and making plans for the upcoming racing festivals at Newmarket, Goodwood, and York, for which some entries closed early.
Just after I finished the last of the calls, my phone rang.
No Caller ID.
I wondered if it was Jerry Parker again.
It wasn’t.
“Chester Newton?” said the squeaky voice.
“Leave my wife alone,” I shouted at him down the phone.
“Then do as you’re told. Wayleave will lose today.”
“Get lost.”
I hung up.
Wayleave would probably lose anyway, whatever I did. There were twenty-nine declared runners for the Wokingham Stakes, a six-furlong handicap dash, and this particular race had a reputation for being a bit of a lottery.
But how did Squeaky Voice get Georgina’s mobile number?
My number, yes—it was available on the Victrix website—but hers?
If anything, the rain was falling even heavier as I turned into Car Park 2 just before two o’clock. It was clearly going to be a very damp Royal Procession.
I had spent quite a lot of time, before I left home, remaking the guest-room bed and checking that everything was in order in the house, with no tell-tale signs of Toni’s presence, such as a discarded wineglass with lipstick on the rim, just in case Georgina did decide to come home today rather than tomorrow.
I had also looked up on the internet that Toni’s flight from Heathrow to Cincinnati had departed on time at half past eight—it had—and I felt somewhat bereft that she was, even now, hurtling through the atmosphere, away from me, at five hundred miles an hour.
Royal Ascot in the sunshine is delightful—gorgeous even. But in the rain, it can be a nightmare, especially on the Saturday with nearly seventy thousand people having bought tickets. There is simply insufficient cover for everyone.
Ladies splash through puddles in their open-toed Jimmy Choos while their male companions do their best to hold up large, plain golf umbrellas—no commercial logos or club crests allowed—to prevent the rain from making complete disasters of their wives’ expansive—and expensive—headgear.
I made my way, under my own plain umbrella, to the Owners and Trainers’ Dining Room for some lunch.
It was even busier than on Thursday, but some people were already finishing their meal and leaving, so I didn’t have to wait too long for a table.
The Wokingham Stakes was the fifth race of the day, not due off until five o’clock, and I’d arranged to meet Wayleave’s trainer outside the weighing room after the third, so I was in no hurry.
I was eventually shown to a table by the window, and thankfully this time I was on my own, so I didn’t have to answer any awkward questions about missing weights.
I also wanted time alone, to think.
Wayleave didn’t win the Wokingham Stakes, but it wasn’t from his lack of effort.
He’d been drawn right in the middle, in starting stall fifteen, and as was often the case in these large-field handicaps, the horses split into two groups, one on either side of the racetrack.
Wayleave’s jockey had the option of going either way, or even of staying alone down the centre. Having burst out of the stalls quickly to make the early running, he chose to join the group closest to the crowd, drifting to the left, towards the near running rail.
Indeed, most of the main action was taking place on the near side, with that group making the most of the better ground after the heavy rain earlier.
Wayleave held the lead until well inside the final furlong, before he was swallowed up close to the line by three from the group behind him. He finished a highly respectable fourth, collecting more than eight thousand pounds in prize money for his syndicate, all of whom seemed delighted with their horse’s performance when I met them in the unsaddling enclosure.
Overall, I was also very happy with Wayleave’s showing, but there was a bit of me that had really hoped that he would have hung on to win, just to poke Squeaky Voice firmly in the eye, and maybe also in his pocket.
Although it had probably made my life a little easier that he hadn’t.
I arrived home just after seven-thirty.
During the journey, I had called Georgina on my hands-free.
“Are you home?” I’d asked.
“No. I’m still in Harrogate. Mum was so disappointed when I tried to tell her at breakfast that I was leaving today that I didn’t have the heart to go. But I have booked my ticket for tomorrow. The train is due to get in to Didcot just after six, but I’ll call you from Paddington to confirm I’m on it.”
“All right. I’ll be there.”
I walked into the house feeling quite low. Not only would Toni have recently landed at Cincinnati, but it was also the end of the five days of Royal Ascot.
The excitement was over for another year.
I often had similar emotions at the conclusion of the other great four- and five-day annual racing festivals—Cheltenham in March, Goodwood in July, and then York in August—even though I always found them totally exhausting at the time.
I was like the schoolboy who couldn’t wait for the term to end and the holidays to begin, only then to find that he was missing all his classmates.
I went upstairs to change, putting my morning-dress back in its protective sleeve in the wardrobe, and my top hat in its box, ready for next year.
In its place, I put on jeans and a polo shirt and went back downstairs, feeling much more comfortable. But I was hungry, so I went in search of something to eat. However, it was all a bit Old Mother Hubbard in the kitchen, insofar as not only was the cupboard bare, but also the fridge and the freezer.
Six days without Georgina being here, and without her usual weekly Waitrose delivery, had clearly taken its toll on the Newton family food stocks. There was not even enough milk left for me to have a bowl of cereal.
I reached for my phone and dialled.
“The Red Lion.”
“Hi, Jack,” I said. “It’s Chester Newton here. Are you serving food this evening?”
“We sure are. Last orders at nine o’clock.”
The cooker clock showed me it was ten to eight.
“Do you have room for one more?”
“No problem,” he said. “The restaurant is full, but I’ll find you a place in the bar.”
“That’ll be fine. Thanks. I’ll be along shortly.”
I poured myself a glass of red wine, the regular cheap stuff this time, rather than the Châteauneuf-du-Pape I had shared with Toni.
I’d just have one glass now, I thought, before going to the pub, where a glass of Merlot cost almost as much as a whole bottle at home. Then I’d buy a second glass to have with my dinner.
I stood by the kitchen sink, looking out the window at the lawn, with the stables and paddock beyond. At least the earlier rain would have done the grass some good, as it had begun to turn brown in the heat of the past week.
I finished my wine and put the glass down in the sink.
That’s odd, I thought. There was another glass already in the sink, a tumbler, and I was sure it hadn’t been there when I’d left that morning.
Was I going mad?
I shook my head. I must have just missed it during my cleanup.
The rain had stopped, and there was even a hint of watery evening sunshine as I walked around to the Red Lion, which was packed, with many of the customers having spilled out into the garden with their drinks.
“I’ve saved you a space,” Jack said breathlessly as he saw me come in. “It’s crazy here tonight. Everyone’s celebrating England’s win at the Euros.”
“Who did we beat?” I asked.
He looked at me as if I were from another planet.
“Germany,” he said. “On penalties. Didn’t you watch it?”
“I was at Ascot,” I said. “I had a runner.”
He shook his head in disbelief.
Jack showed me to my table, a small one in the corner of the bar.
“Here do?” he asked.
“Lovely.”
He handed me the menu. “I’ve run out of the fishcakes. Everything else is good. Specials on the board.” He pointed at a blackboard hanging on the wall. “Drink?”
“Large Merlot, please.”
He went off to fetch it while I studied what was on offer.
“Here you are,” he said, returning and putting the glass of red on the table. “Have you decided?”
“I’ll have the Red Lion Burger.”
“Good choice. Fries and onion rings, or a salad?”
I now looked at him as if he were from another planet.
He laughed. “Fries and onion rings, then. Starter?”
“No thanks,” I said. “Just the burger.”
“Coming up.”
Jack hurried off towards the kitchen with my order while I had some of the wine and did some more thinking.
“Is this chair free?” asked a female voice from somewhere above my head.
I looked up to see a young woman staring down at me.
“Oh, hello, Mr Newton. I was wondering if this chair is free.”
She pointed at the chair opposite mine at the table.
“Of course,” I said. “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Louise Bannister,” she said. “I was in Amanda’s class at primary school.”
She pulled the chair out and sat down on it.
“That’s better.” She smiled. “I’m sorry. I can’t stand for very long at the moment.” She clasped her hands around her expansive front. “I’m eight months gone. Can’t wait to get the little bleeder out now.”
“It must be a very happy time for you,” I said.
“You’ve got to be joking,” she said with a forced laugh. “It’s a bloody disaster. It’s totally screwed my plans to go to college this year, and the father pissed off as soon as he saw the positive test. My mum is furious with me, but she can’t really talk. I was a mistake too.” She laughed again.
Perhaps I should be more grateful that our family doctor, Duncan Matthews, had been prescribing the contraceptive pill for Amanda these past three years. I had another sip of wine.
“How is Amanda?” Louise asked.
“She’s fine,” I said. “She’s living in Didcot at the moment, with her boyfriend.” I didn’t mention that her boyfriend’s flat was immediately above an Indian takeaway, with its all-invasive aroma of curry.
Jack arrived with my burger.
“More wine?” he asked, looking at my almost empty glass.
How did that happen?
“Yes, please.” I said. “How about you Louise? Glass of wine?”
She smiled but shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m off alcohol at the moment.” She tapped her bump. Then she stood up. “I’ll let you eat your dinner in peace.”
“You’re welcome to stay.”
“Thanks, but I’m all right now. I just needed to give my back a rest for a minute. Give my best to Amanda.”
“I will.”
Louise went back to the group she was with while I tucked in to my food, which was excellent.
I went back to thinking—trying to make a mental list of people who could be Squeaky Voice. That was assuming I knew him in the first place. If he were a complete stranger, I’d have no chance of finding him.
I finished my burger and debated with myself whether to have yet another glass of wine. In the end, I passed the motion in my head to have another one at home, so I stood up and went to the bar.
“All good?” Jack asked as I presented my contactless card for payment.
“Great,” I said. “Thanks for fitting me in.”
“No problem,” he said. “Always room for a member of the Newton family. It was good to see James in here earlier.”
“Earlier?” I said. “What? Earlier today?”
“Yes. About five o’clock. He came in to watch the last part of the match.”
How odd, I thought for the second time this evening.