And yes, after that pathetic start, Nature’s Vacuum was slowly picking his way through the field. First past the exhausted stragglers, then the one-paced hopefuls, till he’d got himself up to fourth place.
Jude found herself instinctively joining in the shouts of encouragement. ‘Come on, Nature’s Vacuum!’ she yelled.
Three fences to go. Nature’s Vacuum looked full of running. But then so did the favourite. The distance between Girton Girl and the second horse was increasing rather than diminishing. She avoided the fate that had ended her hopes at Uttoxeter, and sailed over the third from last like a gazelle.
‘Hang on in there, Nature’s Vacuum!’ shouted Jude. But for the first time she was assailed by doubt. Sonny’s tip had been right in a sense. Nature’s Vacuum was a good prospect, certainly much better than the odds suggested, and maybe he’d soon win a race. But it didn’t look like being this one at Wincanton.
The contest wasn’t over yet, though. With an effort of will she clamped down on her negative thoughts. Her horse remained upright, she was still in with the chance of a hundred quid. ‘Come on, Nature’s Vacuum! You can do it!’
At the penultimate fence the horse came up alongside the long-time second, and put in a flying leap which gave him a length advantage. But he still had five lengths to make up on the leading filly, who looked to be coasting home.
‘That’s the way, Gertie!’ shouted Wes.
‘Go on, my son!’ roared Vic. (People in racing have never been too specific about the names and genders of horses.)
Sonny Frank and Jude just sat and watched.
Running up to the last, Nature’s Vacuum maybe picked up half a length, but it looked like being too little, too late. Wes and Vic’s beams threatened to split their faces. ‘Come on, my son!’ they roared together. There was no way Girton Girl could lose.
National Hunt racing, though, is an unpredictable sport. The favourite approached the last at a slight angle, cleared it fine, but then veered alarmingly off towards the rail. Nature’s Vacuum took a dead straight line and put in a superb jump. That, together with Girton Girl’s detour, meant that by the time the two horses were again together on the run-in, the second was less than a length behind. Both jockeys flashed away with their whips and used every ounce of their own energy to drive their horses forward. Nature’s Vacuum drew alongside, then Girton Girl seemed to find a new reservoir of strength and regained the lead. But neither wanted to come second, and Nature’s Vacuum surged again.
They crossed the line together and the photograph was called.
‘Which one was it?’ shrieked Jude.
‘Gertie got there,’ declared Wes with dispiriting certainty.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Sonny. ‘The angle’s deceptive at Wincanton. I think the other one’s the winner.’ Still he didn’t declare an interest in either horse.
‘And I think the result’s coming …’ the commentator announced.
‘Number Four,’ boomed over the racecourse’s PA system. ‘The winner was Number Four. Second, Number Seven. Third, Number Two. The distances were a short head and seven lengths.’
Jude turned with glee to look at Sonny Frank. The old bookie winked at her.
‘Always knew it was a crap horse,’ said Wes, crumpling up his betting slip.
‘Iffy jumper,’ Vic agreed, doing the same.
And the two of them went off to do a few minutes’ decorating before the next race. Outside, the sleet had stopped as suddenly as it had started.
In a state of euphoria Jude rushed towards the counter. The young man in the naval overcoat was still swaying by the doorway. She grinned at him, feeling benevolent towards the entire world, and was rewarded by a weak but rather charming smile which revealed discoloured teeth.
Jude went to collect her hundred and five pounds (a hundred winnings, five pound stake) from an impassive Nikki and once again turned to thank Sonny.
‘Going to have a flutter on the next?’ he asked, as he folded a large pile of winnings into his back pocket.
Like all punters, she was tempted. Maybe this wasn’t just a one-off win …? Maybe it was the beginning of a winning streak …? Maybe her luck was in …?
But a glimpse of Gulliver outside reminded her of her priorities. The hailstorm might have ended, but the poor dog must be feeling pretty cold. No, she wouldn’t bet again. She would do what all gamblers intend – and almost always fail – to do: stop after a big win. She thanked Sonny Frank profusely for the tip and, picking up her Allinstore carriers, made for the door.
The young man in the blue naval overcoat was no longer there. Off to lie down somewhere, sleep off the booze, Jude conjectured.
And then she saw it. A circle of dark fluid seeping into the carpet tiles by the door. Against the blue the red turned almost purple. She didn’t have to touch it to recognize it was blood.
More drips had stained coin-sized marks, tracing the man’s exit from the betting shop. Without a word to anyone, Jude followed them.
Outside, she freed Gulliver from the ring he’d been tied to and held his lead tightly. As she pulled him in the direction the red spots on the pavement indicated, the Labrador sniffed at one and then almost pulled her arm out of its socket as he followed the track. His first experience of being a bloodhound, and Gulliver liked it.
The trail of blood, though diluted by the melting sleet, was still easy to follow.
They didn’t have far to go. Alongside the betting shop was a narrow alley which led round the back of the building to a small area of scrub that gave access to Fethering Beach.
He hadn’t made it all the way down the alley. The bloodspots grew bigger and bigger until they coalesced into a widening stream.
At the end of which lay the man in the navy overcoat.
He hardly breathed and his eyes were glazing over. As Jude knelt down beside him, he murmured something in a heavily accented voice. It sounded like ‘Fifi …’
A moment later the man was dead.
THREE
Jude had rung Carole on the mobile to say she would be delayed in bringing her shopping back, though she didn’t specify the reason. And when she finally got back to Woodside Cottage after being questioned by the police, she rang again on the landline. They had long ago exchanged spare keys, but Jude knew that her neighbour never liked being surprised by an unannounced visit, even from her. Carole Seddon endeavoured to organize her life so that it involved the minimum of surprises. The slipping in and out of people’s houses in which some people indulged was anathema to her. It was one of those habits for which Carole reserved one of her adjectives expressing major disapprobation: northern.
Inside High Tor, Jude, having served Gulliver a large helping of his long-wished-for Pedigree Chum, went upstairs to see the invalid.
It was a measure of the severity of Carole’s flu that, having granted permission for the visit, she hadn’t got out of bed to greet her guest. And in her reduced state even the news of a suspicious death in Fethering High Street didn’t bring the animation it usually would have done. The questions she asked were listless, and Jude almost had to insist on telling her the known details of what had happened.
‘As ever, the police didn’t volunteer much information, but then I don’t think they had much information to volunteer. Until they’ve established the identity of the dead man, they haven’t really got anything to go on. I can tell you, though, that he wasn’t a regular at the betting shop.’
Jude waited to be asked how she knew that, but with no question forthcoming, continued her monologue. ‘The detectives took me back into the shop after