Above the counter were pinned the pages from the Racing Post and, above them, a line of six television sets showed a mixture of betting odds and live action of both greyhound and horse racing.
On the other side of the shop were notice boards with brightly coloured posters extolling the benefits of wagering on the coming weekend’s Premiership football matches with the odds for each game written large with a black felt-tip pen. A table with a coin-operated coffee machine sat in one corner with the all-important betting window in the other.
Business on the Tuesday afternoon after Cheltenham was slow, with just three others in the shop determined to take on the might of the bookmaker. Save for a few grunts during the actual running of a race, not a sound was uttered as they circled around one another from counter to betting window, then to a stool to watch their selections on a TV, and then back to the counter for deliberation on the next event. Race timings are so staggered to provide a contest from one venue or another every five minutes. And so it went on like a ballet, but without the grace.
I was the odd man out. First, I was in a suit and tie rather than the apparent uniform dress of extra-large replica football shirt hanging out over an extra-extra-large belly held in place by super-extra-large blue denim jeans with off-white training shoes beneath. Secondly, I was not gambling on every event, in fact I wasn’t gambling on any of them. And, thirdly, I was talking. ‘Well ridden,’ I said to the second screen from the left as the jockey got up in the last stride to win by a short head.
‘Do you come here often?’ I asked a man as he sidestepped around me to the betting window.
‘Not working for my wife, are you?’ he replied.
‘No.’
But he wasn’t listening, he was busy counting out a wad of notes to hand over.
‘I know you,’ said one of the other two, the one in the Manchester United shirt. ‘You’re Sid Halley. Got any tips?’
Why did punters always believe that jockeys, or ex-jockeys, made good tipsters?
‘Keep your money in your pocket,’ I said.
‘You’re no bloody good,’ he said with a smile. ‘What brings you in here?’
‘Furthering my education,’ I replied, smiling back.
‘Come off it, all jockeys are punters, stands to reason, they control the results.’
‘What about the horses?’
‘They’d run round in circles without a driver.’
‘Do you really believe that jockeys control the results?’
‘Sure they do. If I lose, I always blame the jockey. I have to admit though that I won more on you than I lost.’
I suppose it was a compliment, of sorts.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Gerry. Gerry Noble.’ He offered his hand and I shook it firmly.
‘Shame you had to give up,’ Gerry said. He glanced down at my left hand then up at my face.
‘One of those things,’ I said.
‘Bloody shame.’
I agreed with him, but life moves on.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Not your fault.’
‘Yeah, but I’m sorry all the same.’
‘Thanks, Gerry.’ I meant it. ‘Tell me, do you ever gamble on the internet?’
‘Sure,’ he replied, ‘but not often. Too bloody complicated, never can understand all that exchanges stuff. Much easier to give the man my ready cash,’ he nodded to the window in the corner, ‘and then, win or lose, at least I know where I stand. Don’t fancy using credit cards. I’d get into trouble too quick and too deep.’
‘Do you come here every day?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, pretty much,’ he said. ‘I work an early shift, start at four in the morning, finished by twelve. Then I come here for a few hours on my way home.’
‘Do you win?’
‘You mean overall?’
‘Whatever?’
‘I suppose, if I was honest, I have to say I lose on the whole. Not much and some days I win big.’ He smiled. ‘And the wins give me such a high that I forget the losses.’
‘But don’t you hate to lose?’
‘It’s cheaper than cocaine.’
I stayed for a couple more races and helped Gerry cheer home a long-priced winner on which he had heavily invested.
‘See what I mean!’ he shouted, giving me a high five. ‘Bloody marvellous!’
He grinned from ear to ear and I could see what he meant by a ‘high’. I used to have that feeling, too, whenever I rode a big winner. As he said, it was indeed ‘bloody marvellous’.
I had enjoyed his ready companionship.
‘See you!’ I called to him as I left, a simple goodbye said without any real expectation of seeing him again.
‘You know where to find me,’ he said, and went back to his deliberations.
When I got back to the flat, I connected my new answering machine to the telephone in my office. I recorded a greeting message and tested it by calling it from my mobile. I left myself a brief message and then tested the remote access feature. Perhaps I am a bit of a sceptic about electronics but I was pleasantly surprised that it worked perfectly.
I threw the old machine in the bin but not before extracting the cassette tape that still had Huw Walker’s messages recorded on it.
I was hiding all the wiring beneath my desk when the phone rang. I thought briefly about letting my new machine do the answering but instead I clambered up and lifted the receiver.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Sid! Great. I hoped you’d be there,’ said a voice. ‘I need your help and I need it fast.’
‘Sorry,’ I replied, ‘who is this?’
‘It’s Bill,’ said the voice.
‘Bill! God, sorry! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’
‘They haven’t banged me up for life yet, you know.’
‘But where are you?’ I asked him.
‘At home, where do you think, Dartmoor?’ He laughed but I could tell even over the telephone that it was a hollow laugh, the worry very close to the surface.
‘They let you go?’
‘Yup, insufficient evidence to charge me, at least for now. I’m out on police bail. I’m not allowed to leave the country and, more worrying, I’m not allowed on a racecourse.’
‘But that’s crazy,’ I said. ‘How can you earn your living if you can’t go racing?’
‘Doesn’t really matter. The bloody owners are queuing up at the gate to remove their horses.’ The forced cheerfulness had gone out of his voice. ‘That bastard Enstone was the first off the mark. Had two LRT horseboxes here at seven this morning to collect them all. Taken them to that other bastard, Woodward. They’re welcome to each other. His bloody lordship still owes me two months’ training fees for seven horses. That’s a lot of cash I could really do with but probably won’t get now.’
I knew this was always a trainer’s worst nightmare.
‘Three others owners came later but Juliet was wiser by then and wouldn’t let the horses go until their bills had been paid. She did well but didn’t get it all because she didn’t have the details, the damn police had taken so much away. I got back here about two thirty to find her having a stand-up row with one of the owners in the yard.’
‘How did they all know so quickly about you?’ I asked. ‘Your name hasn’t been on the news.’
‘That bastard Chris Beecher wrote a piece in today’s Pump.’ In Bill’s eyes there were lots of bastards about. He probably didn’t know that I was a real bastard, my window-cleaner father having fallen off a ladder to his death only three days before he had been due to marry my pregnant mother.
‘You don’t have to be a bloody rocket scientist to work out who he was writing about. And he had a copy of the paper couriered to each of my owners with the article marked round in red. Couriered! He’s a bloody sod.’