Dick Francis's Damage (17 page)

I
walked into the BHA offices at five minutes to eleven, but it was clear the Board meeting had been going on for some time before I arrived. I could see through the glass wall that even Crispin Larson was in the meeting ahead of me.

Not good news for my mortgage, I thought.

“Ah, Hinkley,” said Roger Vincent as I knocked on and opened the boardroom door. “Come in and sit down.” He indicated towards one of the empty chairs to his left.

I sat down and looked around the table. I could almost feel the hostility. They were after a scapegoat and I was firmly in their rifle sights.

“Now,” Roger Vincent said, turning to me, “we think this Grand National business is all a bit of a mess.”

“It's more than ‘a bit of a mess,'” said Ian Tulloch loudly from the far end. “It's a fucking disaster.”

“Now, now, Ian,” said Roger Vincent rather pompously. “There's no need for that sort of language.”

“Yes, there is,” said Piers Pottinger, leaning forward and banging the table with his fist. “Ian is absolutely right. It
is
a fucking disaster. One of my horses was in that race and he's been completely traumatized. He was still sweating in the stables over an hour after the incident and it will take us ages to get him back on a racetrack, never mind the fact that he was going so well at the time, and that might be my only chance to win a Grand National. But, on top of that, this Board is a being ridiculed by the racing press. You've all read today's
Racing Post
. Their front page is tantamount to a call for our collective resignation. They even advocate a return to the Jockey Club as the authority for racing.”

“It's not us that should resign,” muttered Ian Tulloch, “it's young Mr. Hinkley there.”

I looked at the other directors, but I couldn't spot much support. Even Neil Wallinger was looking down at his hands rather than catching my eye.

“We feel humiliated,” said Bill Ripley. “Perhaps it's time for a change in policy and a change in personnel.”

I was not going to walk calmly up the steps to my execution. If they thought I was going to resign, they were much mistaken.

“You make it sound as if I was responsible for the fireworks,” I said loudly. “Let me remind you that I was in favor of bringing in the police right from the start.”

There were nods from some, including Crispin Larson and Howard Lever.

“But it was also you who suggested that we should ignore this man and now this has happened.” Bill Ripley was going in for the kill. “If we had paid what he wanted in the first place, we wouldn't be in this mess.”

“You really think so?” I said sarcastically. “You'd be in a much
worse mess if you'd paid the man the five million he originally demanded. The BHA would then not only be bankrupt but you'd still have had no guarantee that he wouldn't disrupt the Grand National.” I paused and took a deep breath. “In fact, I think it highly likely that it would have made no difference what course of action we took, he would have carried through his disruption of the Grand National anyway just to make a point.”

“That's nonsense,” said Ian Tulloch. “How can you possibly believe that?”

“Because I'm starting to understand the way this man acts. There is no way he could expect the negotiations between him and the BHA to have been over by the time the National was run, and obtaining those fireworks would have taken quite a time. They were more like theatrical pyrotechnics than regular fireworks. They are certainly not the sort you can simply go into a High Street shop and buy; they have to be obtained through a special supplier. He must have been planning to disrupt the race for weeks, if not for months. Certainly long before he sent us the first demand.”

More sets of eyes were looking me in the face, but no one was saying anything, so I went on. “I think we are looking for a racing insider rather than a random member of the public.”

“Why?” asked Howard Lever.

“Mostly because of Ascot,” I said. “Someone had to have access to the changing room before the Clerk of the Scales arrived. And the gates didn't open for the public until ten-thirty, by which time he was already there. Either that or it was someone who was entitled to enter the changing room after ten-thirty, so the Clerk wouldn't challenge them. Maybe a jockey or a valet.”

“The Clerk of the Scales wouldn't have been there watching every minute of the time,” said Stephen Kohli. “He has other
duties. He doesn't have to be at his desk until about an hour before the first race. Anyone could have slipped into the changing room unnoticed before that.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But would you take the chance of being stopped with a poisoned ginger cake? I don't believe this man leaves much to chance.”

“Do we have CCTV at Ascot?” Neil Wallinger asked.

“Yes, we have,” I said.

“Well? What does it show?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It is only used as a record of what happens in the jockeys' changing areas and in the weighing room with regards to the rules restricting the use of cell phones by jockeys during the period that begins half an hour before the first race and ends when the last race starts. Hence, the CCTV system wasn't switched on until half past one, by which time the cake was in position.”

There were a few mutterings of disbelief.

“Who would know that?” asked Howard Lever.

“It's general knowledge, especially among the lady jockeys,” I said. “They have reluctantly accepted that CCTV is necessary in their changing rooms for the enforcement of the cell phone rules, but only on condition that it does not operate outside the restriction period. Otherwise, they rightly claim that it's an excessive breach of their privacy.”

“So what do we know?” asked Roger Vincent.

“Not much,” I said. “But I believe it must be someone involved in racing who knows their way round a racetrack. And it's possibly someone with a hyperactive child.”

Did I sense a slight quiver somewhere in the room?

“Why do you say that?” asked Howard Lever.

“Two different stimulant drugs have been used to dope horses,
both of which are usually prescribed for hyperactivity. I know it's a long shot, but maybe we're looking for someone who has experience of the condition either directly or through a family member.”

“How many people suffer from hyperactivity?” asked Ian Tulloch.

“It's difficult to say,” I replied. “It can be diagnosed in different ways, but even the smallest estimate is between one and two percent of the population, mostly children. However, up to half of those affected carry the condition into adulthood. That's about a million people.”

There was a collective drooping of shoulders around the table.

“What did the police say about the fireworks?” I asked. “I saw you four with them after the event down at the water jump.” I looked, in turn, at Roger Vincent, Howard Lever, Piers Pottinger and Stephen Kohli.

“They are investigating the matter,” Roger Vincent replied. “Initial indications are that the fireworks were activated by a remote signal, possibly from a cell phone or by a special transmitter. The Merseyside Police's forensic labs have yet to report.”

“It must have been done by someone actually watching the race,” I said. “It was not by chance that the fireworks went off at the very moment that would cause the maximum disruption.”

“So anyone watching at home on television could have done it,” said Howard.

“That's most unlikely,” I said. “I doubt he would take the chance on getting a cell phone signal at Aintree at precisely the right time with all those people there. Far too risky. I had trouble getting a signal to make a call on Friday and there were only half as many people present as on Saturday. So it had to be done
by a special transmitter and that means the perpetrator was close by. He had to have been at Aintree watching the race.”

“Are these special transmitters easy to obtain?” asked Roger Vincent.

“Have you an electric gate or an automatic garage door?” I asked. “That's all you need. Push a button on a remote to connect an electric circuit with a battery and, presto, you have a firework display. I'm sure that is what the police will find. Maybe they will be able to trace who has bought such a device, but I wouldn't hold your breath. Anyone can go into a hardware store and buy one over the counter for a few pounds, and there'd be no record of the purchaser's identity if it was paid for with cash.”

The shoulders drooped again.

“What did the police say about the extortion?” I asked.

“They don't know about that,” Roger Vincent replied. “We didn't tell them.”

“What! You can't be serious.”

“That is what the Board have been discussing this morning.”

“Then you surely must tell them. It will be hugely relevant to their inquiries into the fireworks.”

I looked around the table and there were some definite nods of agreement, but also some shaking of heads. Both Roger Vincent and Howard Lever were in the second category, and I suspected Ian Tulloch was as well.

“I am of the same opinion,” said Neil Wallinger. “It is well past time the police were involved. I insist we call them in straightaway.”

“But what guarantee do we have that the situation will remain confidential?” said Bill Ripley.

Neil Wallinger was ready with his reply. “Setting off
fireworks in the middle of the Grand National in front of seventy thousand spectators, and with millions more watching on television, is hardly keeping things confidential.”

“Most of the media,” I said, “seem to be claiming that the disruption on Saturday was most likely caused by protesters opposed to the Grand National on animal-welfare grounds, although goodness knows why since one of the horses had to be destroyed and the others were so obviously distressed.”

“That is the assumption the police have made,” said Howard Lever.

“Then they are not going to be very happy when they find out you didn't tell them the true reason,” said Neil Wallinger cuttingly. “That's what we're really discussing here, isn't it? It's not whether we should now call in the police over the extortion, it's whether this Board can survive the embarrassment and shame of not having done so previously.” He paused and looked around the table at the faces. “I am the member of this Board charged with the responsibility of maintaining the integrity of British racing. I see no integrity at all in refusing to call in the proper authorities. Failure to do so today will result in my resignation from the Board.”

There was silence in the room while everyone took in the implications. Neil Wallinger was one of the most respected sports administrators in the country. His departure from the BHA Board would be a major blow to racing and would certainly not go unnoticed by the media. In addition, he would then be set free from any collective obligation to remain silent. Either way, it seemed, the police would get to know about the extortion.

But Roger Vincent was not giving up so easily.

“Neil,” he said in his most charming manner, “I am sure we don't need to talk about resignations. We all have the best
interests of racing at heart, and some of us believe that keeping this matter confidential and attempting to resolve the problem from within is the best way for racing in the long term.”

“I cannot agree,” Neil replied. “The best interest in racing is served by the capture and imprisonment of whoever is responsible. To that end, we should be inviting the police to intervene, especially as we have not made any significant progress without them.” He looked directly at me.

“I have to agree with Neil,” I said. “I simply do not have the resources to investigate this matter alone. We need police help, but we must be careful not to let them take over everything. This Board still runs British racing and that needs to be made clear to the police. All too often they can ride roughshod over the whole shebang in their size-twelve boots and to hell with the consequences.”

“Do any of us have a direct contact with any senior policemen?” asked Roger Vincent.

“I have friends still serving in the Met,” said Stephen Kohli. “I used to be an officer there myself. The best man at my wedding is now in charge of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command.”

“Ideal,” said Roger Vincent. “May I suggest that we instruct Stephen to contact his friend in a semiformal approach, requesting a meeting between him and this Board at the earliest opportunity.” He smiled and looked around the room but particularly at Neil. Had he done enough to defuse the unexploded bomb?

“Today?” said Neil.

“I said at the earliest opportunity,” Roger Vincent replied with a smile. “If that can be today, then so be it. However, I think we need to be realistic. Today is Sunday. Tomorrow or Tuesday would seem to be more reasonable.”

Neil had little option but to agree, and Stephen Kohli was officially asked to set up the meeting between the police commander and the Board “at the earliest opportunity.”

The meeting broke up.

I hadn't been executed. I hadn't even been sacked. In fact, I'd been instructed to carry on as best I could until the meeting with Stephen's police friend.

“Jeff,” said Howard Lever, putting his arm over my shoulder and steering me into a quiet corner, “I had a Cheltenham policeman on the phone last week.”

“I asked him to call you to verify my employment status.”

“Yes. It gave me rather a fright, I can tell you.”

“Didn't Crispin warn you?”

“Not until after the call.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I am concerned, however, about these claims of harassment from Matthew Unwin. Not good for our public image. Is there any truth in them?”

“None at all. At least not as far as I'm concerned. I can't speak for the rest of the BHA, not unless Unwin considers that his disciplinary hearing and subsequent disqualification were harassment.”