Dick Francis's Refusal Read Free Page A

the low Tote return was that a disproportionately large amount of money had been bet on the winning horses with the Tote compared to that bet on the same horses with the bookmakers.
    Maybe this was the reason behind Sir Richard’s suspicions.
    But it didn’t seem that much to get excited about.
    Everyone in racing was well aware that placing very large bets on the Tote could be counterproductive as it tended to reduce the effective odds of the return. You were simply winning back the money you had wagered minus the twenty-four percent slice the Tote keeps back to cover its costs and to provide itself with a profit.
    Why would anyone do that? It was crazy. Particularly when you could get better odds with the bookmakers.
    But betting on the Tote is far more anonymous than with the bookies, who tend to recognize a regular client with a bulging wallet. And the bookmakers are the first to cry foul if a long-odds and heavily backed horse romps home by a distance, causing them to be seriously out of pocket. But the Tote doesn’t care which horse wins. It takes its twenty-four percent cut, and the only thing that matters is the total money staked on all horses. The more staked, the more it makes. There is no one to complain that disproportionally large bets had been placed on the winner, other than perhaps the other holders of winning tickets who would put it down to their bad luck that the Tote return was less than they might have expected. And, after all, who would complain when they had just backed a winner and made some money? They were far more likely to celebrate.
    At the big meetings there are literally hundreds of different Tote terminals, and the busy staff take little or no notice of who is handing them cash. During a whole afternoon, a determined individual could stake many thousands of pounds, if not many tens of thousands, on any given horse without anyone raising an eyebrow.
    I looked again at the list.
    All of the nine races had been in the latter half of the day’s card, and seven had been either the second-to-last or last race of the day.
    Plenty of time to get the money on.
    And with a substantial betting crowd on a big-race day, the win pool would generally be so large that a big bet would have less of a “diluting” effect, and odds of five- or six-to-one weren’t exactly bad.
    Especially if, as Sir Richard had implied, someone knew the outcome of the races beforehand.

2
    D addy, Daddy, come and play with us.”
    Sassy and Annabel came running into my office.
    â€œWhere’s Mommy?” I asked.
    â€œIroning,” said Sassy in an ironic tone. “She said to ask you.”
    I inwardly laughed. Marina hated ironing.
    â€œPlease,” Sassy whined.
    â€œOK,” I said. “What do you want to play?”
    â€œCatch,” said Annabel, excitedly jumping up and down.
    No, I thought, not catch. Not with only one real hand.
    â€œHow about Ping-Pong?”
    â€œYes, yes,” the girls shouted with enthusiasm.
    So we went into the garage, where I’d set up a table, and spent the next half hour with me at one end and the two girls at the other, hitting balls back and forth, but mostly collecting them from the floor or under the table.
    â€œWho’d like an ice cream?” I asked.
    Table-tennis bats were quickly abandoned, and we adjourned to the kitchen for scoops of raspberry ripple topped with sprinkles.
    â€œMr. Halley,” Annabel said between mouthfuls.
    â€œYes, Annabel?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your left hand?” She pointed at it with her spoon.
    The innocence, I thought, of the six-year-old child.
    â€œHe hasn’t got one,” said Sassy matter-of-factly. “That’s made of plastic.”
    I glanced at Annabel, worried that she might be shocked by the revelation, but she seemed not to be alarmed in the slightest.
    â€œCan I look at it?” she asked.
    Reluctantly, I lifted my left hand up onto the kitchen