Stephen immediately telephoned Robin to confirm that all three of them had arrived and asked for the telegram to be read over to him.
‘That’s perfect, Robin. Now travel to Heathrow and send it at exactly 1 pm.’
‘Good luck, Stephen. Grind the bastard into the dust.’
Stephen returned to the others and confirmed that Robin had the London end under control.
‘Off you go, James, and let us know the minute Harvey arrives.’
James downed a bottle of Carlsberg and departed. The problem was that he kept bumping into friends and he could hardly explain why he was prevented from joining them.
Harvey arrived at the members’ car park just after midday, his white Rolls Royce shining like a Persil advertisement. The car was being stared at by all the racegoers with an English disdain which Harvey mistook for admiration. He led his party to the private box. His newly tailored suit had taxed the ingenuity of Bernard Weatherill to the utmost. A red carnation in his buttonhole and a hat to cover his bald head left him nearly unrecognizable, and James might have missed him had it not been for the white Rolls Royce. James followed the little group at a careful distance until he saw Harvey enter a door marked ‘Mr Harvey Metcalfe and Guests.’
‘He’s in his private box,’ said James.
‘Where are you?’ asked Jean-Pierre.
‘Directly below him on the ground level by a course bookmaker called Sam O’Flaherty.’
‘No need to be rude about the Irish, James,’ said Jean-Pierre. ‘We’ll be with you in a few minutes.’
James stared up at the vast white stand, which accommodated 10,000 spectators in comfort and gave an excellent view of the racecourse. He was finding it hard to concentrate on the job in hand as once again he had to avoid relations and friends. First was the Earl of Halifax, and then that frightful girl he had so unwisely agreed to take to Queen Charlotte’s Ball last spring. What was the creature’s name? Ah yes. The Hon. Selina Wallop. How appropriate. She was wearing a miniskirt that was a good four years out of fashion and a hat which looked as if it could never come into fashion. James jammed his trilby over his ears, looked the other way and passed the time by chatting to Sam O’Flaherty about the 3.20, the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes. O’Flaherty quoted the latest odds on the favorite at the top of his voice:
‘Rosalie at 6:4, owned by that American, Harvey Metcalfe, and ridden by Pat Eddery.’
Eddery was on the way to becoming the youngest-ever champion jockey — and Harvey always backed winners.
Stephen and Jean-Pierre joined James at the side of Sam O’Flaherty’s bag. His tick-tack man was standing on an upturned orange box beside him and swinging his arms like a semaphore sailor aboard a sinking ship.
‘What’s your fancy, gentlemen?’ Sam asked the three of them.
James ignored Stephen’s slight frown of disapproval.
‘£5 each way on Rosalie,’ he said, and handed over a crisp £10 note, receiving in return a little green card with the series number and ‘Sam O’Flaherty’ stamped right across the middle.
‘I must presume, James, this is an integral part of your as yet undisclosed plan,’ said Jean-Pierre. ‘What I should like to know is, if it works, how much do we stand to make?’
‘£9.10 after tax if Rosalie wins,’ chipped in Sam O’Flaherty, his stub cigar bobbing up and down in his mouth as he spoke.
‘Hardly a great contribution toward $1 million, James. Well, we’re off to the Members’ Enclosure. Let us know the moment Harvey leaves his box. My guess is that around 1.45 he’ll come and look at the runners and riders for the two o’clock, so that gives us a clear hour.’
The waiter opened another bottle of Krug 1964 and began pouring it for Harvey’s guests: three bankers, two economists, a couple of ship owners and a distinguished City journalist.
Preferring his guests to be famous and influential, Harvey always invited people who would find it almost impossible to refuse because of the business he might put their way. He was delighted with the company he had assembled for his big day. Senior among them was Sir Howard Dodd, the aging chairman of the merchant bank that bore his name, but which actually referred to his great-grandfather. Sir Howard was 6 ft 2 in, as straight as a ramrod, and looked more like a Grenadier Guard than a respectable banker. The only thing he had in common with Harvey was the hair, or lack of hair, on his balding head. His young assistant, Jamie Clark, accompanied him. Just over thirty and extremely bright, he was there to be sure his chairman did not commit the bank to anything he might later regret. Although he had a sneaking admiration for Harvey, Clark did not think him the sort of customer the bank should do business with. Nevertheless, he was far from averse to a day at the races.
The two economists, Mr Colin Emson and Dr Michael Hogan from the Hudson Institute, were there to brief Harvey on the parlous state of the British economy. They could not have been more different. Emson was a totally self-made man who had left school at fifteen and educated himself. Using his social contacts, he had built up a company specializing in taxation, which had been remarkably successful thanks to the British Government’s habit of putting through a new Finance Act every few weeks. Emson was 6 ft tall, solid and genial, game to help the party along whether Harvey lost or won. Hogan, in contrast, had been to all the right places — Winchester, Trinity College, Oxford, and the Wharton Business School in Pennsylvania. A spell with McKinsey, the management consultants, in London had made him one of the best-informed economists in Europe. Those who observed his slim, sinewy body would not have been surprised to learn that he had been an international squash player. Dark-haired, with brown eyes that rarely left Harvey, he found it hard not to show his contempt; this was his fifth invitation to Ascot — Harvey, it seemed, was never going to take no for an answer.
The Kundas brothers, second-generation Greeks who loved racing almost as much as ships, could hardly be told apart, with their black hair, swarthy skins and heavy dark eyebrows. It was difficult to guess how old they were, and nobody knew how much they were worth. They probably did not know themselves. Harvey’s final guest, Nick Lloyd of the News of the World, had come along to pick up any dirt he could about his host. He had come near to exposing Metcalfe in the mid-’sixties, but another scandal had kept less juicy stories off the front page for several weeks, and by then Harvey had escaped. Lloyd, hunched over the inevitable triple gin with a faint suggestion of tonic, watched the motley bunch with interest.
‘Telegram for you, sir.’
Harvey ripped it open. He was never neat about anything.
‘It’s from my daughter Rosalie. It’s cute of her to remember, but damn it all, I named the horse after her. Come on everybody, let’s eat.’
They all took their seats for lunch — cold vichyssoise, pheasant and strawberries. Harvey was even more loquacious than usual, but his guests took no notice, aware he was nervous before the race and knowing that he would rather be a winner of this trophy than any he could be offered in America. Harvey himself could never understand why he felt that way. Perhaps it was the special atmosphere of Ascot which appealed to him so strongly — the combination of lush green grass and gracious surroundings, of elegant crowds and an efficiency of organization which made Ascot the envy of the racing world.