Crisis

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Kate. ‘I should have worn my suit.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘Anything goes these days.’

And she was right. Among the sartorially elegant were a smattering of jeans and T-shirts and even a few pairs of flip-flops, not that they would be allowed in the Premier Enclosure if the notices at the entrance were to be believed.

But it wasn’t only the smartness of the people that was a surprise to me.

My only previous experience of attending horse racing had been as a teenager at a wet Saturday afternoon point-to-point at Flete Park in South Devon, where the mud had been ankle deep and a seriously overcrowded beer tent the only shelter from the persistent rain.

Newmarket on this sunny, warm evening could not have been more different.

The public enclosures were pristine, with manicured velvet lawns, neatly trimmed hedges and an abundance of bright yellow and red flowers, seemingly matching the terracotta-red roofs of many of the buildings. Even the track itself would have put many a domestic garden to shame with its lush green grass awaiting the arrival of the horses.

‘Drink?’ Kate said.

‘Absolutely,’ I replied. I looked around. ‘Where?’

She laughed.

‘Tattersalls have a permanent box here. It’s not booked by the bigwigs tonight so, after you called, I went and asked my boss if the staff could use it.’

She held up some badges.

‘Fantastic. Lead on.’

We went into the grandstand and then up in a lift to the top floor where the thick-pile carpet would not have been out of place in a five-star London hotel.

Definitely not wellington-boot territory.

A party was in full swing in the Tattersalls box with about a dozen people already there. Kate made introductions before getting us drinks from the bar in the corner.

‘We’ve all clubbed together to pay for the drinks,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to go down if we want any food. The racecourse catering is far too expensive.’

‘I don’t want anything yet,’ I said. ‘Later maybe.’

Indeed, I had hopes of partaking of the hotel dinner we’d missed the previous evening, or maybe even the room service.

We took two glasses of Prosecco out onto the box terrace and looked out across the Heath towards the west. It looked fantastic in the late afternoon sunshine. So did Kate. I took her hand in mine and she looked at me and smiled. Last night’s troubles were just a fading memory.

‘I love evening racing,’ she said. ‘So easy to come after work. But this is the only evening meeting of the year held here. All the others are on the July course.’

‘The July course?’ I said.

She laughed. ‘Newmarket has two racecourses, three even, if you count the round course, but that’s only used once a year, for the Town Plate. This is the Rowley Mile course.’

‘Named after King Charles II,’ I said, remembering the history.

‘That’s right,’ Kate said. ‘We race here in the spring and autumn. But, in the summer, it’s only on the July course down the road over there.’ She pointed into the distance.

‘In July,’ I said, mocking her slightly.

‘Yes. In July.’ She smiled again. ‘But, rather confusingly, also in June and August. We’ve had some great Friday nights there. They put on a band after racing. Good bands, too. It’s always packed.’

‘We’ll have to go one night,’ I said.

‘Will you still be here by then?’

‘Probably, the way things are going at the moment.’

‘How was it in Bury St Edmunds?’

‘Fine, I think.’ I wondered how much I could tell her. ‘They haven’t released Declan yet but I don’t believe they have enough to charge him.’

‘How long can they keep him locked up?’

‘Twenty-four hours initially. That’s up at nine o’clock this evening. But they can apply for extensions from the courts. Four days is the maximum but I’d be very surprised if they get that long. There simply isn’t the evidence, and I’m pretty certain he didn’t do it.’

‘So who did?’ she asked.

‘That, my darling, is the million-dollar question.’

The horses came out onto the course for the first race, cantering down to the start far away to our right.

‘We must have a bet,’ Kate exclaimed. ‘Come on!’

She dragged me back inside the box.

‘But on what?’ I said. ‘I don’t even know which horses are running.’

She thrust a racecard into my hands. ‘Choose one.’

‘But I don’t know which are any good.’