Norman Deerey paced restlessly round the small area of lawn in front of the winners' enclosure. Harry sat on the white bench, watching him uneasily. None of the runners had yet entered the parade ring for the final race at Brighton, and Norman and Harry were the only two in its vicinity. Tired of pacing, Norman sat down heavily next to Harry and shook his head fretfully.

'Number two has got the most ones next to its name,' Harry said, without consulting his tatty racecard. There was no need; he had by now memorised most of its contents.

'So you keep saying, so you keep bloody saying!' Norman's voice was a mixture of deep irritation and downright panic. 'They'll kill us, you know that. Bloody slaughter us, they will.'

'Well, you said back the ones who've won the most races.'

'That's right! Put the blame on me! Bloody Judas, that's what you are!'

'What I meant was,' Harry said patiently, 'number two has won the most races and if we stick to the system it might finally pay off.'

'And what I keep telling you,' Norman said with exaggerated patience, ''is the system don't bleedin' work! We've lost on every bloody race. We've lost all our spending money for the entire holiday and it's only bloody Thursday! We don't go home till Sunday. Mave'll never speak to me again, she won't, I know it.'

'That's one blessing, I s'pose.'

Norman gave him a withering look. 'This is no joking matter. We're already in the dog house for letting little Eric bury Mave's handbag on the beach. I did tell you to keep an eye on him, you know what he's like.'

'He seemed happy enough.'

' 'Course he did! Happy as bleedin' Larry, he was!'

'Well, it's hard to keep him quiet. Always been trouble, that one has.'

'Trouble? We don't know the meaning of the word! But when the girls find out we've blown the holiday money, we'll find out then sure enough!'

At that moment Harry's head jerked up and Norman followed his gaze in the direction of the weighing room. A tall, middle-aged gent, in a cream cotton mackintosh and brown trilby, had walked across to the rails in front of the winners' enclosure and now leant across the top rail, his head bent over his racecard.

Norman and Harry weren't the only two watching him. Inside the weighing room, the steward, Victor Smythe, was also gazing in his direction.

'You'll catch him out one day,' the Clerk of the Scales was saying consolingly, 'one day he'll drop his hands once too often and you'll be there with the patrol camera.'

Victor shook his head. 'One day isn't good enough; I wanted him today. It was so damned obvious. Dropped his whip! I ask you! It was deliberate.'

'Deacon swears it was an accident.'

'Well of course he would, dammit! He wants to keep his licence.'

'Who's that you've got your eye on out there?'

'Umm? Oh, Wilson. He was having trouble in the betting ring earlier; couldn't get a bet on.'

'Wilson? I've never known him to hammer the bookmakers. Why wouldn't they take his money?'

'From what I can gather he's been getting information. Regularly taken them all to the cleaners. So they've put their foot down rather.'

'Huh! Won't last long. Wilson is one of life's losers. His winning streak will end and that will be that. His information can't always be good.'

Victor focused on Wilson a little more carefully. 'I'd be interested to know where he's getting it, though, what?'

Wilson himself was unaware of the scrutiny to which he was being subjected. He was too wrapped up in his own problems. The perfect system, a thing he had dreamed of for years, and now he couldn't use it. If he could only make it pay its way in the high street betting shops he'd be a rich man. But the betting tax murdered his profit margin. He could only use his system on a racecourse, where betting was tax free. And those sods wouldn't give him the odds. He had tried to give commissions to a few friends and acquaintances to put on for him, but the bookies had soon cottoned on and had refused them, too. Damn it all, the perfect system and he still couldn't win.

'Nice weather, Sir,' Joey Deacon remarked with a teasing grin as he passed by Victor Smythe and went from the jockeys' changing room to the open door of the weighing room. 'Thought I'd just take advantage of the sunshine and step outside.'

'One day...' Victor muttered softly as he watched, with narrow eyes, Deacon leave the room.

Outside, Deacon saw only two apparent holidaymakers sitting on a bench opposite, and a regular racegoer leaning on the rails. No sign of the trainer who'd paid him to lose the 3.15. Huh! He'd hoodwinked those stewards pretty good, even if he did say so himself! The real pay-off wouldn't be for a couple of weeks, though. By then, his losing mount in the 3.15 would have lost another two races, been allotted a ridiculously low weight in the big sprint handicap at Goodwood, and the race would be at his mercy. Ten per cent of the considerable prize money, plus the 'consolations' for losing a few races. Deacon smiled to himself as he totted up the totals.

Wilson looked up from his racecard and saw a good-looking young jockey, dressed in the blue silks he'd be wearing in the last race of the day. Joey Deacon. Wilson knew the face well enough - it plastered his young daughter's bedroom wall. Thirteen-year-old Lucy was Joey Deacon's most ardent admirer. Poor Lucy, currently confined to bed with Chicken pox. He'd take her something home to cheer her up. He beckoned to the young jockey, who walked forward to meet him.

'That jockey's going over to him!' Harry said excitedly.

'Act casual, act casual,' Norman said firmly, himself edging forward on the bench.

'D'you think he'll give him a tip?'

' 'Course he will, that's what the fellar was hanging around for.'

'Could you sign my racecard for me, please?' Wilson asked, handing Deacon the long white programme and a pen, 'for my daughter, Lucy. Must be your biggest fan, that girl! Laid up with chicken pox right now.'

Deacon made a sympathetic clucking noise, signing the card with a flourish and adding a couple of kisses for good measure. 'How old is she?'

'Thirteen.'

Deacon was feeling pleased with himself. The stewards' enquiry earlier had come to nothing. 'Tell you what,' he offered generously, 'you write down your surname and address, and I'll pop a get well soon card and an autographed photo of myself in the post to her.'

'You would? Ah, she'd be over the moon! That's really decent of you.'

'The jockey's marked the fellar's card for him!' Norman said, in what would have made a passable stage-whisper.

'Stroll across, casual like, and see if you can hear what they're saying,' Harry urged.

Norman slowly stood up, making a big show of stretching, then wandered across to the parade ring rails, just to the left of Deacon and Wilson.

'Deacon just marked Wilson's card!' Victor told the Clerk of the Scales incredulously, as though luck couldn't really be that good.

'I know; I saw it too.'

They were both out of their chairs now and staring fixedly through the doorway.

'Wilson's giving him a slip of paper. A cheque, perhaps?' Victor was grinning now, the self-satisfied smile of success. 'Deacon's putting it in his wallet! Bingo! I've got him, I've damn well got him!'

Deacon slipped the page torn from Wilson's diary into his wallet, noting the address as he did so. 'Don't worry,' he assured Wilson, 'I won't lose it.'

Norman scuttled back to Harry with none of his previous discretion and snatched the racecard from his hand.

'He said "don't worry, I won't lose it"!' he announced triumphantly, running his finger down the list of runners. 'Blue, blue, blue... ah! Here it is - blue, red and yellow check cap. It was J. Deacon. He's on number six!'

Harry leaned over his shoulder to read the racecard. 'But it's got a load of noughts next to its name,' he pointed out doubtfully.

'A ploy,' Norman assured him knowledgeably, 'to get a good price.'

They stood up in unison and fairly sprinted away from the bench, hurrying past the parade ring, past the ice cream van, past the racecard kiosk and in through the back of the grandstand, down into the betting ring.

'There, look!' Norman pointed out joyfully, 'Gelignite - 25-1!'

'We've got a fiver each. How much does that work out at?'

'Hundred pound or more!'

'Each?!'

' 'Course each!'

'Blimey! That's what we've blown today and more!'

'You realise, don't you, that we could get back the entire cost of the holiday if we stick on everything we've got?'

'Yeah, but what if it loses?'

'I heard him. He said it wouldn't. "Don't worry," he said, "it won't lose." I heard him say it!'

'Hang on a mo', Norm, that fellar's here.'

They stood and watched as Wilson walked through the ranks of bookmakers. He stopped at each one and was clearly unhappy with the outcome of each successive conversation. He finally reached the bookie where Norman and Harry stood. He muttered something they couldn't quite catch.

'I'll give you twos on the first hundred and evens on the rest,' Joe Goldberg's representative told him in response.

This time Wilson's voice was audible to most of the crowd. 'Evens?!' he bellowed with fury and frustration, 'it's never an even money chance and you know it!'

'Evens on the bulk is all you'll get from me, take it or leave it.'

'I'll take it, but it's the last time you'll have my custom, I promise you.'

Harry looked at Norman blankly. 'I don't get it.'

But Norman had grasped it only too well. Norman was clued up on the subject. There were pound signs in his eyes. He attempted to enlighten Harry.

'They won't take his bet 'cos he never loses. They only like taking money, do bookies, they don't like paying out. I read it in a Dick Francis book last year in Eastbourne when it rained all week. If a fellar keeps winning they give him evens so's he don't win too much off them. They'd go bankrupt otherwise, with a fellar like that what only backs winners.'

Harry saw the pound signs too. 'They're offering 25-1 to everyone else! What d'you think, Norm'? Stick it all on?'

'It's a bit of a risk.'

'Well we've nothing to lose. We've already blown the rest of the week's spending money. If the worst comes to the worst we'll be no worse off really.'

'You're right there. In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say,' Norman said, presumably in agreement.

They emptied out their pockets and invested what was left of their cash with Joe Goldberg at 25-1, then made their way through a second row of bookmakers, coming to rest by a wall which ran alongside the running rails. The winning post was directly opposite them. They both gazed at it in eager anticipation of what was to come.

'You did check that there weren't two in the race wearing blue?' Harry said.

'Of course,' said Norman, now frenziedly checking the list of colours.

After what seemed to them to be an eternity, the runners came out onto the course and cantered past them to the start. A fractious number six, intent on removing its jockey's arms from their sockets, shot past them somewhat erratically in crab-like fashion.

'He's a sly one, that John Deacon,' Norman commented appreciatively, 'saving its energy for the race. None of the others had the sense to run along sideways.'

'John' Deacon himself was not quite so appreciative of his mount's antics. Swearing profusely for the full five furlongs to the start, he began to have serious misgivings about earlier events.

When approached earlier in the afternoon by his credit bookmaker and requested to make the choice between giving an assurance that Gelignite would not win the last race, paying up his debt in full, or having his legs broken, Deacon had unhesitatingly confirmed that, no, he most certainly wouldn't be winning the last on the card. The lazy, one-paced Gelignite hadn't seen any prize money for two years and an excursion to the seaside hardly seemed likely to change that.

But now, by some unwanted miracle, the sea air did seem to be affecting the horse. Was number six finally going to live up to its name and explode? Deacon toyed with the idea of allowing the horse to run away with him and burn itself out, but the stalls were now only a hundred yards ahead of him and he'd left it too late. Beginning to feel anxious, he pulled up and circled with the others in front of the stalls.

'Takes 'em long enough to get 'em loaded in the traps,' Harry complained impatiently, squinting hard as he tried to pick out the start, up past the bend.

"And they're all in. Under orders. And they're away!" the course commentator informed them at long last.

Norman and Harry immediately launched into their 'come on my son!' routine, which had been of so little effect all afternoon. And so it proved in the 4.15. 'My son' gave Joey Deacon a big enough fright to temporarily wipe the smirk from his face, but lapsed into its lazy ways as the winning post approached, allowing another of the runners to steal past him and take the honours.

Norman and Harry stared at the winning post in disbelief.

"First, number two; second, number six; a photograph for third," announced the unfeeling voice of the course commentator.

Norman shot Harry an unprintable look. 'Don't say it,' he warned menacingly, 'just don't say it.'

Harry merely lowered his eyes and stared at the row of ones next to the winner's name.

Still not quite believing the result, they continued to stare at the winning post, as though expecting to see the horses gallop past it a second time - this time in a different order. Behind them, a few intrepid punters were attempting to collect their winnings before the result was officially okayed. A good two lengths having separated first and second, most of the bookmakers were willing to accept the inevitable and commenced paying out on the 5-2 favourite. With a sour expression, Wilson stood in line and duly collected his winnings.

'Evens on a 5-2 shot, sodding robbers,' he muttered as he pocketed Joe Goldberg's cash.

Norman and Harry watched their tickets flutter to the ground in silence, then slowly and stiffly followed the crowds towards the exits.

The tannoy suddenly buzzed, above their heads.

"Objection. Objection."

The entire crowd froze. A murmur rushed through the betting ring.

"The Clerk of the Scales has objected to the winner."

Norman and Harry stared up at the speaker.

'That's it, then,' said someone behind them, 'wrong weight or something. The winner's got to be thrown out.'

'Silly sod's forgotten to weigh in, I'll bet,' another could be heard saying, 'it was only an apprentice. Would've made it a double he'd ridden today, too, daft kid.'

'Daft kid?! I was waiting to pick up my money after the rush had died down! I'll ring his bloody little neck!'

Wilson, still counting his winnings as he walked out to the car park, began to smile.

In the weighing room, there wasn't a smile to be seen. The winning apprentice had claimed his five pound weight advantage; just as he had done when winning the 1.45... except that, because of his win in the 1.45, he was no longer entitled to a five pound claim. Entitled only to a three pound weight allowance, he had just weighed in with two pounds less than he should officially have carried. Disqualification was unavoidable.

Joey Deacon's face paled visibly, and he sat down weakly, the usual jaunty cockiness conspicuous by its absence.

Outside, down in the betting ring, two holidaymakers could be found sifting frantically through the discarded betting tickets that fluttered against the wall by the winning post...