At Long Odds (A Racing Romance) (19 page)

Damien made his move with two and a half furlongs to go. The filly, unleashed at last, stretched out her neck in a genuine fashion and picked up the tempo.

As the others began to fade, Ginny felt her pulse escalate when she realised the only one able to stop Ravenhill Stables adding the Listed race to their CV was Desert Rain. Ginny was enveloped by the roaring crowd cheering the horses home as they entered the final furlong, and, jumping up and down, she yelled along with them. The race wasn’t over yet as Kenya began to peg back the leader. Picking up his whip, Damien drove his mount to greater measures, and the three lengths separating the two horses dwindled to two, then with one hundred yards to go, down to one. Desert Rain was flat to the boards, his jockey having gone through all the gears. With the inside rail to help keep her straight, Kenya took giant strides past Desert Rain, and flew by the winning post half a length clear. Ginny gave a loud whoop of triumph and wished she had Mark beside her to hug and share their victory. Fumbling for her phone as she made her way down the stands to greet her horse, she dialled his number.

‘Good news!’ she squeaked when he answered. ‘We won!’

‘We won? That’s fabulous, Ginny! Well done.’

She grinned like an idiot. She could hear the smile on Mark’s face, making her stomach flip over at the thought of it.

‘She was so brave, Mark. I wish you could’ve made it.’

Mark laughed.

‘Seems every time I can make it, she loses. Maybe I should stay away more often.’

Ginny grinned.

‘Here she comes now. She hardly looks out of breath at all.’

‘I’m so pleased, Ginny. For you as well as for me. Tell you what: I’ll cut business short and come up tonight. Do you fancy celebrating our win and checking out my place in Cambridge?’

Like a ray of sunshine, Ginny felt her blood warm in anticipation.

‘Just name the place and I’ll be there,’ she purred.

‘I’ll text you the address. I probably won’t get back before seven though. And Ginny?’

‘Yes?’

Mark lowered his voice and she had to strain to hear him.

‘Thank you for this,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make you feel like the only woman on earth.’

Ginny smiled to herself.

‘Can’t wait. I’d better go, Mark. See you later.’

She rung off just as Damien Woods pulled Kenya to a halt in front of her.

‘Well done.’

‘Child’s play,’ he smirked.

Turning to lead Kenya to the winner’s circle, she looked straight into the eyes of Julien Larocque. He nodded, unsmiling.

Bad loser, she thought with satisfaction. That’ll teach you to warn me off the course.

*

Ginny and Sally G cracked open a bottle of wine to celebrate when she got home. Outside, the late afternoon sunshine had ushered the clouds away. Basking in its warmth, Ginny sat on the wooden decking, propped up against a creeper-covered pillar with an unrestrained smile on her face. She held her wine glass up to see the sunshine’s distorted reflection through it, swirling its contents around, turning it into liquid gold. She made a silent toast to Mark.

‘Good to see you looking happy again,’ Sally G said from her chair, watching her take a huge slug.

‘Have I been that miserable?’

Sally G made a non-committal noise.

‘Let’s just say that Kenya winning today is a definite step in the right direction.’

‘And one in the eye for Larocque too.’

‘What has Julien Larocque got to do with this?’ Sally G asked.

‘What? Oh, just something he said to me last time Kenya raced. He threatened me.’

‘Really?’

‘Told me to watch my step.’

Sally G looked at her in disbelief.

‘He said that? I know you two aren’t the best of friends but that’s a bit severe.’

‘Well, not those words precisely,’ Ginny relented. ‘He was talking in riddles, but his message was clear enough. Seems all he does is talk to me in riddles and I’ve never been great at cryptic crosswords.’

‘Darling, you are talking to a dual
Times
Cryptic Crossword Competition winner here. What did he say exactly?’

‘Well, when Julien’s Samurai Prince beat Kenya last time – thanks to him, I might add – he pointed at Kenya then at the track and said “
zatis where angels fear to tread
”.’ Ginny attempted a poor French accent and scratched the air with her fingers to display the quote, nearly spilling her wine as she did so. ‘Told me to go watch the replay of the race.’

Sally G contemplated this.

‘Hmm, let me ponder that one.’

‘Don’t bother, Sally. It’s a waste of time. Julien was just being Julien. He’s just sore because I slept with Mark.’

‘Are you sure?’

Ginny cringed, thinking how arrogant she must sound and she shrugged. ‘I don’t know really. Not that I understand Julien that well, but you should have seen his face when he overheard me talking to Alex and Kerry about my stay in London with Mark. He looked like he wanted to kill someone.’

Sally G relented and smiled.

‘Okay, but I wish you wouldn’t tell my niece that sort of thing. You’re a very bad influence.’

Ginny grinned.

‘I’m seeing Mark tonight. And cross my heart, I promise not to kiss and tell.’

*

Later that evening, Ginny drew up outside an attractive detached cottage on the outskirts of Cambridge and double-checked her text messages that she had got the right place: 139 Dawson Road.

She rang the front door bell, waiting with a silver statue of a racehorse, which she had been presented with earlier, in her hands, ready to deliver it to its winner. Mark opened the door, his undone tie draped around his neck and his white cotton shirt creased from a long hot day.

‘Angel, come on in,’ he greeted her.

‘Your prize,’ Ginny said, stepping over the threshold and holding out the statue. Mark grinned and held his arms out wide.

‘
Your
prize. Well done. I’m sorry I missed it, I only got back from London about half an hour ago.’ He took the statue and slipped his arms around her waist. ‘But rest assured, I am yours completely and utterly for the rest of the evening.’

‘Hmm, sounds promising,’ Ginny laughed. ‘So, this is your country pad then?’ She gazed around at the comfortable-sized living room with its earthen open-brick fireplace and beamed ceiling.

‘Huh, some might say. It’s not massive but it’s good for what I need it for.’

‘And what is that? Inviting wanton women round and promising to be their slave?’

‘Only the very special ones,’ Mark winked. ‘I’m running a bit late. Come through and we’ll get you a drink. I must have a quick shower before we go.’

‘Where are we going?’ Ginny asked, following him through the cottage to the kitchen at the rear.

‘I managed to get last minute reservations at a nice little restaurant in town. Have you had Thai food before?’

‘No, but I’m open to anything.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind. Here you go.’ Mark handed her a glass of champagne and tapped his own against it. ‘Congratulations. A win well worth waiting for.’

‘Absolutely,’ Ginny agreed.

‘Right. I’m just going to jump in the shower. You’ll be okay for a while, won’t you? There’s a TV in the lounge if you get bored.’

‘Don’t worry about me. You go ahead.’

Mark gave her a quick kiss and disappeared out of the room.

*

A few moments later, Ginny heard the hiss of a shower being switched on. Humming to herself, she looked around the kitchen, feeling much more at home here than in Mark’s London flat. She ran her fingers lightly over the pine-coloured worktops then paused, smiling when she noticed a paperweight in the corner resting on a tidy pile of papers. It was in the shape of Table Mountain, with a rigid South African flag adorning the top. She picked it up, brushing her thumb along its flat summit, realising Mark must have bought this on one of his trips to Cape Town and allowed herself a moment of nostalgia. With a sigh, she replaced the curio but a faint frown passed across her forehead as she inadvertently caught the first sentence of the letter on the top of the pile.

Dear Mr Wolfe,

As a valued customer of Bet Express, we are delighted to offer you a list of this month’s promotions…

That name… Ginny’s mind shuffled furiously through its messy archives to place it. She looked at the address. Mr M. Wolfe, 139 Dawson Road. She gulped and hastily set down her drink, spilling some of it over her trembling hand. With triumph, her mind presented her with the memory she was after – of her picking up Mark’s post from his London flat and the name, Mr M. Wolfe on one of the letters. But they were two different addresses! she told herself. Had M. Wolfe owned this place as well? Another, more sinister thought occurred to Ginny.

So what if he’s using two names, she reasoned, trying to calm herself. Was it that unusual? I bet plenty of people use pseudonyms.
I bet
. Those two words ground her calming psyche to a halt. For their betting accounts? She jumped as the theme tune to
Dallas
peeled out of her bag and she scrabbled inside it to find her phone. She tried to compose herself before answering.

‘Sally G?’

‘Ginny? Where are you?’ Sally sounded desperate.

‘I’m at Mark’s, remember. What’s wrong?’

‘Are you alone right now? I need to speak to you in private.’

‘Yes, I’m alone. What’s wrong, Sally?’

‘Ginny, I think I’ve figured out what Julien meant when he spoke to you at the races the other day.’

‘Oh,’ Ginny sighed with relief. Was that all? ‘That’s great, Sally. Listen, I appreciate you ringing to tell me,’ she paused, glancing at the letter addressed to M. Wolfe. ‘But I’ve got to go. Something’s come up.’

‘Ginny, you’re not listening! What odds did Kenya win at today?’

‘Starting price was sixteen-to-one, if I recall. Why?’

‘And what odds did she lose at last time?’

Ginny’s brow furrowed at Sally G’s line of questioning.

‘Two-to-one, I think.’

‘Darling, I don’t know all that much about racing but I don’t think Julien was threatening you. I think he was
warning
you.
Angels fear to tread
is part of a poem.
Fools rush in, Where angels fear to tread.
’

Ginny didn’t cotton on at first.

‘It still doesn’t make sense to me.’

‘What did you say Mark’s surname is?’ Sally G hinted.

‘Rushin – oh, God,’ her eyes widened as it sank in. ‘Fools rush in.’

‘Did you watch the replay of that race?’

‘Well, no. I figured I’d seen all I needed to see right there.’

‘I suggest you come home and watch it,’ Sally G advised.

Ginny snapped to attention as she heard the shower being switched off.

‘Sally, I’ve got to go. Mark’s going to come through in a minute. I’ll speak to you later. And thanks.’

‘Take care, darling.’ Ginny cut the call and took a deep breath to calm herself.

Ginny started as Mark suddenly appeared in the doorway, fresh-faced and his golden blond hair still wet.

‘You okay?’ he asked with a bemused smile. ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

‘Um,’ Ginny began, trying to pull herself together. ‘I – I just got a call.’ She held up her phone in evidence. ‘From my father. One of the horses has got a problem. I think maybe – I mean, I’m sorry, Mark, I have to go.’

‘Hey, slow down,’ Mark said, cupping her shoulders and looking down at her with concern. Ginny struggled to meet his gaze. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I don’t know. He just said one of the horses,’ Ginny lied. ‘I’m sorry to do this to you.’

‘Don’t be. It’ll be okay. Do you want me to drive you?’

‘No! I mean, I can drive, thank you.’ She shook her head and pretended to laugh at herself. ‘Look at me. You don’t want to be around me in a crisis.’

‘Okay. Well, drive safely. Whatever the problem is, I’m sure your father is capable of handling it until you get there.’

With a hand on her back, he led her to the front door where he stopped and looked at Ginny again with worried grey eyes.

‘You sure you’re going to be okay?’

Ginny managed a smile. He was being so kind. How could he possibly be mixed up in anything dodgy? It was probably her and Sally G’s crazy imaginations getting caught up in their own whirlwind.

‘I’m sure.’ She leaned up and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry to cancel like this.’

*

Ginny pulled up in the Ravenhill Stables car park and hurried into the yard. Snapping on the overhead light to the office she headed straight to the cabinet which homed all the recordings of the horses’ races. Tracing a trembling finger along the alphabetically sorted cases, she whipped out Kenya’s Newmarket race from a couple of weeks ago. She fumbled with the remote control to turn on the TV and recorder then leant against the office desk, gripping the edges with her hands, and watched her horse’s performance on the wall-mounted screen. An iron clasp of fear steadily fastened around her stomach as the recording showed quite plainly in the head-on shot that there had been plenty of room for Damien to ride Kenya between the inside rail and the horse in front of her. He hadn’t needed to wait for Razor Sharpe to move on Samurai Prince on his outside in order to make his challenge. He’d
stopped
Kenya. He’d stopped the short-priced favourite. The gap was there all along.

Ginny swallowed with difficulty and slithered into a chair, her legs losing all feeling. She took a deep breath, trying to settle with this new revelation, and replayed the race.

Maybe she was jumping the gun a bit here, she thought, grasping at straws. Damien wasn’t the best jockey she’d ever come across. He might honestly have thought the gap wasn’t big enough to squeeze through. She had to find out more before she started pointing fingers. Besides, it was Julien Larocque who had supposedly tipped her off. Why would he want to help her? They did nothing but fight. Why should he care about her if her jockey was fixing races?

Despite her best efforts to clear Mark of any suspicion, a cold memory wormed back into her head. The text message from Damien the night she and Mark had gone to the theatre and Mark’s furious reaction to it. Hadn’t Damien been riding Mark’s horse to victory that night at Lingfield? And his phone call the next morning? He’d been talking about a lot of money, and fair enough, it could’ve been about his work but it could also have been about his horse, Symbolic Band.