With the departure of the victim accompanied by his grieving wife, the crowds drifted away to the bars to get out of the rain, tut-tutting about the shame of it and the need to look after our bodies. Sales of crackling at the pork-roast stall didn’t seem to be affected.
I watched the first race from the Owners and Trainers Stand. The Triumph Hurdle is the blue riband event for four-year-old novice hurdlers over a distance of two miles and a furlong. The start was impressive as the twenty- five runners spread right across the course, resembling a cavalry charge to the first flight of hurdles. I found that I was paying particular attention to Huw Walker on Candlestick. The runners were still bunched together as they galloped fast past the grandstand for the first time. The climb to the highest point of the course began to sort them out and there were only half a dozen or so in with a chance as they swung left-handed and down the hill. Candlestick was third going to the second last where the leader got too close to the hurdle, hit the top and fell in a flurry of legs. Huw Walker pulled left to avoid the carnage and kicked Candlestick hard in the ribs.
It was one of those finishes that gives racing a good name. Four horses jumped the final flight abreast and the jockeys almost disappeared in a whirl of arms and whips as they strove to get the final effort from their mounts. There was no question that, this time, Candlestick was trying his best with Huw Walker driving hard for the line. His labours were well rewarded as they flashed past the post to win by a head.
Pleased, I walked back to the paddock to see the horse come back in, only to find that the trainer Bill Burton was looking like thunder. It seemed that a win was not in his game plan. If he’s not careful, I thought, he will confirm to all those watching that the rumours are true.
I leaned on the rail watching Bill Burton and Huw Walker unsaddle the sweating horse. The steam rose in great clouds from the animal’s hindquarters but even this did not hide the animosity between the two men. They seemed oblivious of the thousands around them as they stood toe to toe beside the horse, shouting insults at each other. From where I was standing I couldn’t hear the complete exchange but I clearly caught a few ‘bastards’ as well as some other, less flattering adjectives. The confrontation appeared to be heading towards violence when an official stepped between them and pulled Bill Burton away.
Huw looked in my direction, saw me, shrugged his shoulders, winked and then smiled broadly as he went past me to be weighed.
I was standing there wondering what to make of all that when I was slapped hard on my back. Chris Beecher, mid forties, balding and overweight. A journalist and a pain in the neck — and the back.
‘How’s that fancy hook of yours?’
He didn’t seem to realise that it was one of those questions one shouldn’t ask. Rather like enquiring if that strawberry birthmark on your face goes brown in the sun. Some things were best left alone. But Chris Beecher made his living hurting other people’s feelings. Gossip columnist was his official title. Rumourmonger would have been more accurate. He was responsible for the Diary page in
My fancy hook, as he called it, was a highly expensive myo-electric false left hand. What the jagged horseshoe had started had been well and truly finished by a sadistic villain and I was now the proud owner of a state-of-the-art 21st-century hook. In truth, I had learned to do most things one-handed but I tended to wear the false limb as a cosmetic defence against people’s stares.
‘Fully charged and ready for action,’ I said, turning and offering my left hand for a shake.
‘Not bloody likely! You’ll crush my fingers with that thing.’
‘I’m good at picking up eggs,’ I lied. In truth I had broken dozens of the bloody things.
‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard stories on the grapevine of you hitting people with that and, by all accounts, they stay hit.’
It was true. I’d broken a couple of jaws. No point in fighting clean when I had a ready-made club firmly attached below my left elbow.
‘What do you make of that little exchange between trainer and jockey?’ he asked, with apparent innocence.
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘Ah, come off it,’ he said. ‘Everyone must have seen that tiff.’
‘What’s the story, then?’ I asked, equally innocently.
‘Obvious. Walker won when he wasn’t meant to. No stable money on the nose. Bloody fool.’
‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Walker or Burton?’
‘Good question. Both of them, I suppose. I’ll be surprised if the Stewards don’t have them in, or the Jockey Club. Fancy a beer?’
‘Some other time. I promised my father-in-law I’d go and have a drink with him.’
‘Ex-father-in-law,’ he corrected.
‘No secrets on the racecourse, not from you, anyway.’
‘Now you’re really joking. I couldn’t beat a secret out of you if you didn’t want to tell. I’ve heard that on the grapevine, too.’
He had heard too much, I thought.
‘How’s your love life?’ he asked abruptly.
‘None of your business.’
‘See what I mean?’ He tapped me on the chest. ‘Who’s Sid Halley screwing now? The best-kept secret in racing.’
He went off in search of easier prey. He was a big man who was used to throwing his considerable weight around. A bully who took pleasure from making people cry. I watched him go and wondered how he got to sleep at night.
But he had been accurate in one respect. Who Sid Halley was presently ‘screwing’ was indeed one of the facts I tried to keep from the racecourse. The racecourse was my place of work, my office. Apart from keeping my work and my pleasure separate, I knew from experience that I was vulnerable to threats being made against those I loved. Much safer for me, and for them, if their existence was unknown to my quarry.
CHAPTER 2
I made my way up to the private boxes in the grandstand. It was not as easy as it used to be as so-called security seems to get stiffer each year. The friendly gatemen, like Tom down by the car park entrance who knew every trainer and jockey by sight and many of the owners too, were a dying breed. The new generation of youngsters, bussed in from the big cities, have no knowledge of racing. My face, once the ticket to every part of any racecourse, was now just another in the crowd.
‘Do you have a badge for a box?’ asked a tall young man with spiky hair. He wore a dark blazer with ‘Event Security’ embroidered on the breast pocket.
‘No, but I’m Sid Halley and I’m going for a drink with Lord Enstone.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ He didn’t sound sorry. ‘Only those with passes can go up in this lift.’
I felt foolish as I flashed my out-of-date jockey’s badge his way.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he sounded even less sorry and more determined. ‘That doesn’t get you through here.’
I was reprieved at that moment by the managing director of the racecourse, who I assumed was hurrying as usual from one minor crisis to another.
‘Sid,’ he said with genuine warmth, ‘how are you?’
‘Fine, Edward,’ I replied, shaking his hand. ‘But having a little difficulty getting up to Lord Enstone’s box.’
‘Nonsense,’ he said, winking at the young man. ‘Be a sad day for all of us when Sid Halley can’t get everywhere on this racecourse.’
He put his arm round my shoulder and guided me into the lift.
‘How’s the investigation business?’ he asked as we rose to the fifth floor.
‘Busy,’ I said. ‘These days I seem to be working more and more away from the racecourse, but not this week,
