The Price of Blood by Declan Hughes

been caught out in some strange but endearing foible, like using her chewing gum as an ashtray.
    "I wouldn’t put it past the little fucker, put it that way."
    "I know F. X. Tyrrell put up a reward for information about him."
    "Yes. Well. That was very good of him. Very good of F.X., all right."
    Hart’s general tone was so brittle I couldn’t tell whether she was being ironic or not.
    "Did he find out anything?"
    "The usual: people who thought they’d seen him on a ferry, or in Spain. Nothing concrete. That was before the detective had a go."
    "Were Tyrrell and your husband close?"
    "I don’t know if anyone gets particularly close to F.X. They were having a good year together, and Patrick was getting a lot of rides; he had three or four big ones at Leopardstown. And then: gone."
    "Money trouble?"
    "It was all a bit hand-to-mouth. But that’s just the life, he was making his way, he was only twenty-three, just the beginning. And he’d been gambling, but don’t we all? Everyone in racing gambles. No one came to me with major debts after he’d gone, the kind of debts that would’ve made him do a runner. And they’d need to have been big, Patrick had a lot of nerve."
    "There was talk of his stopping a horse for Tyrrell. By Your Leave? But the Turf Club found there was no case to answer."
    Miranda Hart smiled mirthlessly and ran a weary hand through her dark mane of hair.
    "The Turf Club are such dears."
    "What does that mean?"
    "It means they know what goes on and we know what goes on, and they agree to pretend it doesn’t go on unless we’re too careless about it. And F.X. and Patrick were bloody careless that day."
    "What happened? What goes on?"
    She drained her glass and looked at me through narrowed eyes. "You’re not some asshole of a journalist, are you?"
    "I may be an asshole, but I’m no journalist," I said.
    That got a laugh; showing her my card got a wary nod. When I produced a press clipping I kept in my wallet (penned by a crime reporter who owed his career to the quality and frequency of the Garda leaks he received, and who showed his gratitude by toeing diligently whatever line the Garda Press office drew for him) featuring a quote from the Garda commissioner himself deploring the rise of "self-styled" private detectives and disparaging their "questionable personal ethics," and using a photograph of me as Exhibit A, Miranda Hart gave me a grin of what looked like kindred outlaw approval. I got up and fixed her a fresh drink, and took a hit of mine. Miranda Hart kicked off her boots and wriggled around until her long legs were splayed with one hanging over the arm of her chair.
    "How much do you know about horse racing?" she said.
    "Enough to lose betting on it. Not much more."
    "Well. First of all, it’s not an exact science," she said. "The favorite doesn’t always win. If he did, you wouldn’t have much of a sport, or a chance to bet. So that gives owners and trainers a certain license. If a horse with a good record is coming back after a rest, or at the beginning of the National Hunt season, no one will be too surprised if he loses a few races he was tipped to win. Maybe he’s carrying an injury, maybe he’s lost his edge, maybe he hasn’t warmed up yet, maybe the jockey isn’t giving him the best ride."
    "And what’s actually happening?"
    "The horse is being stopped. So that the odds can drift up, and his owner or trainer or a whole bunch of interested parties can have a big punt in a month or two, when it’s barely fancied and the price on the horse—and maybe the prize money—are better. Best to do with a horse that’s just made a name for himself, because it could always be a flash in the pan, as far as the authorities—and the punters—are concerned. Harder with an established mount, but you can still get away with it, because there are so many legitimate excuses: one trainer will push a horse to run off an injury, another will insist on rest; if either of those horses is