Even at night, Keith slept in a bedroom adjoining the office, with a connecting door between the two. And, for added security, the door contained a small glass viewing panel.
I considered my options.
If I’d had my top-of-the-range night-vision goggles readily available, I might have gone in at midnight, but how would I have explained them away to whoever had been through my bag on my first day?
The only possibility was to do it during the day, maybe when Keith was having a meal at the track kitchen.
And what exactly was I going to look for anyway?
I’d already witnessed clenbuterol in use on Paddleboat, but it wasn’t against the rules provided the horse didn’t race until the drug had cleared its system. That alone would not be sufficient for FACSA to mount a raid. I would have to find something else.
The drugs for the horses were kept in a large, walk-in cupboard at one end of the feed store, and it was always kept locked except when Charlie Hern was there issuing items from it. The feed store was also locked most of the time. The keys were on a ring in Charlie’s pocket.
Suddenly even the idea of getting in seemed hopeless, never mind actually finding something there that I shouldn’t.
The office was slightly better.
As a general rule the office door was left open during the day when Keith or Charlie Hern were in the barn but I’d seen Keith pull it locked when he went to lunch.
All three of the locks, on the doors to the office, feed store and the drug cupboard, were of the pin-tumbler cylinder variety, like those found on many front doors, where the door would lock automatically when pulled shut.
I’d been taught how to pick such a lock by one of my corporals in the army. He had learned it from his father, who had been nicknamed Harry Houdini by the East London criminal underworld on account of him escaping twice from prison by picking all the locks. The son had then perfected the technique and could reportedly open anything, including safes. During the many hours of boredom of an Afghan tour of duty, he had wiled away the time by teaching the art to the rest of his platoon, me included.
All you needed were two simple pieces of kit — a torsion wrench, which was a small L-shaped metal bar inserted in the keyhole to apply tension to the cylinder, and a thin piece of metal called a rake that was moved back and forth inside the key slot to lift the pins. As always, I had both in my wash kit.
It was not the process of getting in that concerned me; it was doing it, and getting out again, without being seen.
I went over to the barn half an hour early for evening stables with the two lock picks in my left sock. But the office door was already open and Keith was in there, tipping an office chair back on two legs, with his feet up on the desk. He was watching the racing on the TV.
I went in.
‘Hello, Paddy,’ Keith said, taking his eyes from the screen for a mere split-second. ‘We have a runner in this. Teetotal Tiger. Gate Two.’
I watched as the starting gates flew open and the horses emerged in a line, Teetotal Tiger easy to spot as his jockey was wearing a white cap.
Belmont Park boasted the longest Thoroughbred track in North American racing with a one-and-a-half-mile dirt oval, but this race was only half that distance, at six furlongs. Hence the start was midway down the back stretch.
As on all US racetracks, the horses ran anticlockwise round the home turn. Keith took his feet off the desk and leaned forward, concentrating on the screen.
The white cap was clearly visible in third or fourth place out of the eight runners, keeping close to the rail for the shortest trip. As they straightened up for the run to the line, the leading pair drifted slightly to their right, allowing Teetotal Tiger room to sneak through on the inside and win by half a length.
Keith was now on his feet cheering. I was cheering too and suddenly Keith turned and hugged me in his excitement.
‘I knew old Tiger would win sometime,’ he said, punching the air in delight. ‘I’ve been telling Mr Raworth so for ages. He’s such a sweet old thing. I hope he hasn’t been claimed.’
It made me smile to think that a six-year-old was called a sweet old thing. American racing was almost exclusively for horses aged two, three, four and five, and there were very few horses still in training over seven. In England a seven-year-old was a youngster, especially in steeplechasing. No horse under eight has won the Grand National steeplechase since the Second World War, and Red Rum is one of thirteen horses that have won the race aged twelve or older — one was fifteen.
‘How long has Teetotal Tiger been here?’ I asked.
‘On and off since he was two. He’s been claimed a few times and has spent short spells in other barns but his owner, Mrs Crichton, always claims him back the next time he runs. She loves him.’
‘Then why does she allow him to run in claiming races in the first place?’ I asked.
‘That’s the way the system works, especially for a six-year-old maiden. Not many of them left at the track, I can tell you. Most would have gone for dog meat long ago — old Tiger as well, if it wasn’t for Mrs Crichton.’
Keith stepped outside looking for the returning horse, leaving me alone in the office.
Apart from the desk, there were two chairs plus a four-drawer filing cabinet up against the far wall near the corner. Alongside the cabinet, hung on a row of hooks, were a series of multi-coloured racing silks, complete with caps. I presumed that there was at least one set for each of Raworth’s owners.
I glanced down at the desk. It was about six feet wide by three deep, kneehole style, with three drawers on either side of the central space. The surface was covered with several stacks of papers, a china mug full of pens and a heavy horseshoe-shaped clock in one corner.
I was tempted to go behind and have a quick look through the drawers but Keith would surely be back soon. Indeed, no sooner had I dismissed the notion than he returned.
‘There’s no sign of them coming back,’ Keith said. ‘I’m worried he’s been claimed.’
‘Maybe he’s been sent for testing,’ I said. ‘Who’s over there with him?’
‘Diego.’
I’d have been happier if the groom had been claimed instead of the horse.
No such luck.
Shortly thereafter, both Teetotal Tiger and Diego returned to the barn and George Raworth and Charlie Hern arrived with them. Keith and I went out to greet them and there was a party atmosphere in the shedrow with everyone in good humour.
Even Diego grinned briefly at me as I congratulated him, but then he remembered and the smile instantly vanished as he took the horse off to be washed down.
‘I told you he’d win eventually,’ Keith said to George.
‘And about time too. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Crichton, he’d have gone to the glue factory years ago.’ We all laughed, even though it was hardly funny. ‘Now, how are preparations progressing for Pimlico? We have five going down altogether. Fire Point, Classic Comic and Heartbeat in the Preakness, Ladybird in the Black-Eyed Susan Stakes on Friday, plus Debenture in the Maryland Sprint Handicap. Although God knows why we’re taking him. He’s good enough for claimers but he’ll surely have no chance in that company. But his owner has insisted, and he’s paying for the transport, so he goes. The truck for the horses is booked for Monday morning, nine o’clock.’
‘Are we using the Stakes Barns?’ Charlie asked.
‘Yes,’ George said. ‘I’ve reserved stalls for all five. Pimlico would like to have Fire Point in Stall Forty.’
‘We’ll need a minimum of three grooms for the Preakness itself, one for each runner,’ Charlie Hern said. ‘Keith with Fire Point, plus two others. They will be more than enough to cover everything else while we’re down there.’