The burly man in the telephone box was causing quite a stir. For the summer holiday crowd gathered at a remote Irish racecourse, in those days before mobile phones, this was the only means of communication; yet despite the long queue outside, he refused to hang up. When anyone banged on the glass and urged him to end his call, he would affect a mournful expression and tell them his aunt was on her deathbed. ‘Oh dear, she’s taken a turn for the worse, has she nurse?’ he would mouth, waving the intruder away. This was particularly frustrating for the on-course bookmakers, who relied on last-minute news of the wagers being staked in betting shops to set the appropriate odds. With the solitary phone constantly engaged, they had no idea whether a horse ought to be priced as the red-hot favourite or as a rank outsider. Watching this scene from his hideout behind a gorse bush near the finishing post, Barney Curley rubbed his hands.