At the races

Another little exercise, this one linked to the story Secrets (posted on the blog earlier http://colinabrett.blogspot.co.uk/2017/12/secrets.html ) and describing an incident from the protagonist's (John Armstrong) past.

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They were drinking champagne and losing their shirts at the races that day. Did they care? Did they heck! The money they were losing wasn't theirs. It wasn't, technically, stolen, either. At least, not stolen by John and his peers.

It was the technicality that made it interesting. John Armstrong had found a 'leak' in the company's finances. Project ARGENT, through a series of fronts and blinds, was funnelling money into the Chief Financial Officer's retirement fund. And a tidy sum it was, too. John had confronted the CFO, blackmailed him into stepping aside, and taken the old man's job. Several thousand Pounds had been routed from ARGENT to John and he had decided to celebrate.

Now they were standing in the VIP marquee on the day of the Grand National. The titled, well-heeled and filthy rich were flowing around John's knot of hangers-on, assistants and part-time lovers. Some of the job descriptions overlapped.

Stephanie Morgan leaned closer to John. She ignored the venomous look she drew from Alexandra Stewart, John's current sweetheart, who, in Steph's opionion, deserved to be replaced. "John," she said, her voice like honey, "I've just met this fabulous gent who has given me the most solid tip for the National." She snuggled closer still and began playing with the white carnation on the lapel of his jacket. Her voice became husky. "I don't suppose I could, you know, place a bet," she wheedled.

John straightened in more ways than one. Stephanie had that sort of effect on him. "Of course you can." He found his credit card and held the glittering Platinum plastic in front of avaricious blue eyes. "Shall we?"

Stephanie linked her arm through John's and looked daggers at her rival. She made sure her hip swayed against his as they walked to the bookmaker.

"How much?" John asked.

"I don't know," Stephanie wondered how much she could get away with. "A couple of hundred, maybe?"

John doubled the stake and took the betting slip for £400 at 66-to-1. If the horse came in, that would be over twenty thousand in winnings.

They watched the race from the VIP stands, sharing John's compact binoculars. Excitement built to unbearable levels. Two horses fell. Another six threw their riders. Their horse, Second Dawn, won by several lengths after a nail-biting finish. Stephanie, ecstatic, threw her arms around John and kissed him hard on the lips. She enjoyed the effect she was having on him.

As they collected their winnings, John said, "You must introduce me to your tipster. Where is he?"

Stephanie looked around. "He was over there," she pointed to the corner of the marquee. "Oh," she said, "he seems to have gone. He was a nice-looking man, well dressed. Little moustache. Couldn't guess his age, though. Anywhere between thirty and fifty. He must have been at the deviled eggs from the buffet, though, because there was such an odd smell around him."

The description, for some reason, triggered an alarm bell in John's mind but, try as he might, he couldn't work out where he had seen the man. John had more pressing things to deal with and currently, she was pressing against him, swaying slowly, her silk dress rustling and her inviting blue eyes locked on his.