Skeleton Hill by Peter Lovesey Read Free Book Online

and it reared up, almost unseating the jockey.
    ‘For God’s sake!’ he said.
    One of the lads slipped and fell.
    Under pressure himself, the starter spread his hand and gestured at the reluctant horse and appeared to say something. His hand went to the lever.
    ‘I think he’s ruled her out,’ Diamond said in disbelief. ‘That’s my money gone before they start.’
    The gates crashed open and the field – apart from Best Brew – hurtled from the stalls for the five-furlong dash.
    Diamond handed back the binoculars. ‘So much for my ten pounds. See if yours comes in.’
    Eleven runners thundered away to the loop at the far side of the course, their spindly forelegs thrusting them forward, urged on by their jockeys and the crowd’s roar. Over the public address came the measured commentary of the track announcer. ‘The early leader is Bluestocking, followed by Lady Be Good and My Stylist.’
    ‘Go, baby!’ Paloma said.
    ‘Bluestocking still leads. My Stylist is moving up. Lady Be Good now third. Extra Portion and Reefer showing . . . Coming to the two furlong marker, nothing to choose between Bluestocking and My Stylist. Going well in third is Extra Portion . . . One furlong out, it’s still My Stylist and Bluestocking . . .’
    ‘Go, go, go!’ Paloma shouted, and Diamond joined in.
    ‘In the last hundred yards, My Stylist leads. Bluestocking fading. Lady Policeman is finishing fast on the outside . . . My Stylist and Lady Policeman. Photograph.’
    Paloma was making little jumps. ‘I think she got it. What was the other horse?’
    ‘Lady Policeman – the one you told me to back.’
    ‘We could have had a winner for sure.’
    ‘And I didn’t listen.’
    ‘But it could have started an argument. Let’s see them being led in. I feel sure mine stayed in front.’
    ‘Have you still got your betting slip?’
    ‘In my bag.’
    They threaded their way through to the winner’s enclosure. Everyone seemed to have an opinion which horse had won until the announcement settled the matter.
    ‘The result of the Tipping Group Fillies race . . .’
    The talking everywhere stopped.
    ‘. . . first, My Stylist.’
    Shouts of joy.
    Paloma grabbed Diamond and embraced him. ‘She won! She did it!’
    They both did some jumping. ‘Nice one.’
    Feeling a big debt of gratitude to the horse, they watched her led in by her lady owner in a peacock blue hat and pink suit.
    ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ Paloma said in a carrying voice.
    The owner took it as a personal compliment and beamed at them, unaware that the hat had been decorated with a ball of foam from My Stylist’s mouth.
    Over the public address it was announced that the presen -tation of the Tipping Group Trophy would be made by Sir Colin Tipping.
    ‘Local sponsor,’ Paloma told Diamond. ‘Heads a firm of chartered surveyors. Once owned a horse called Hang-glider that won one of the classics.’
    Well informed, as well as a winner, he thought, wondering where she’d learned so much racing lore.
    ‘And by a happy coincidence,’ the announcement continued, ‘the winning owner is Sir Colin’s daughter, Mrs Davina Temple-Smith.’
    ‘Talk about keeping it in the family,’ Paloma said.
    The grey-haired and grey-suited Sir Colin duly handed over a sterling silver model of a galloping horse on a black marble plinth. There were coos of delight from some of the women in the crowd as the winning owner also got a kiss that gave a tilt to the peacock hat.
    ‘Let’s collect your winnings,’ Diamond said in Paloma’s ear.
    ‘You think I’m heading straight for the champagne bar after that,’ she said. ‘Well, you’re a smart detective. I am.’
    Two long rows of bookies were standing in the betting ring among discarded betting slips paying out to the successful punters. Paloma found the right man and collected. Before they moved off, someone shouted, ‘Watch out.’
    The shout had come from beside the course.
    The bookie turned to look and said, ‘Flaming