Chapters (67)
- Cover
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
But he wasn’t here for the energy, he was here to find Fats, and where the hell did he start? He looked over to the bookies’ enclosure, at the small queues in front of each one, at the windows of the large firms who had permanent sites and longer queues. Fats. Any one of hundreds could be Fats. Fats might not even be here.
Race 1 and he was at the rails jostled from behind as the dogs flashed past.
Races 2, 3, 4 came and went and then he edged nearer to the bookies’ enclosure, looking at the programme, the names of runners, the pedigrees, the chances. A fiver, no more.
Runner 7. Connor’s Milady.
Runner 4. Delia Frances.
One of those. A fiver. Toss a coin.
Four in front of him. He glanced left to see if the next queue was shorter and was about to join it, because one man moved off, tucking his betting slip inside his watch strap, and the last took his place, a skinny, weaselly bloke, a bit ginger. He handed over a tenner, said something, no more than a couple of words, out of the corner of his mouth, and the bookie passed over a the betting slip and a small canvas bag. The man took it, and slipped sideways into the crowd.
The name of any dog he might have picked to carry his fiver vanished from Vince’s mind as he went after him.
He got held up in the crowd at a couple of points, but then he saw him, heading towards a hot-dog stand, the same bloke, no doubt about it. The tannoy had begun shouting out the preliminaries to the next race, so the queue at the stall was small. Ginger was second in line, Vince fourth, before the front man took his hot dogs, folded into a thick napkin, and squirted a vivid yellow worm of mustard down the middle.
Ginger gave his order and Vince nudged himself up to his shoulder. The canvas bag wasn’t visible so he had either hidden it inside his leather jacket or passed it on, but there hadn’t been time for that. Or had there? Maybe the next man had been standing in a given spot, Ginger had edged past, the bag had changed hands in one, swift movement. Which?
The hot dog was folded into a napkin, Ginger reached out, and someone shoved Vince hard in the back, making him spin round, shouting out to whoever to watch it. It took a few seconds during which Ginger had disappeared and the hot-dog guy was apparently slipping something under the serving counter, but he came upright again with a fresh cloth and was putting it over his shoulder.
‘Next?’
Vince shook his head as he moved away from the van, the crowd began to roar the dogs on as the tannoy commentary started up, and Ginger was nowhere.