Dick Francis's Damage (23 page)

“Maybe,” he said. “But at least the toffs had some gravitas. Racing is steeped in their aristocratic blue blood and they always had the sport's best interests at heart, even above their own.”

“Are you saying the BHA doesn't have racing's best interests at heart?”

“No, of course not. But the BHA is more of a commercial enterprise and it recruits from outside the racing family.”

“But surely that's a good thing,” I said.

“Not in everyone's eyes. You probably don't remember the uproar when Howard Lever was appointed chief executive. His father had been a coal miner and he was seen as a complete outsider. He was accused by some of being nothing more than an insurance salesman who didn't know one end of a horse from the other.”

Crispin was being somewhat unkind. Howard Lever had risen rapidly from his humble start to become the chief operating officer of a highly successful shipping insurance company in the City of London. And prior to his appointment with the BHA, he'd owned shares in a couple of racehorses, albeit within commercial syndicates.

“Are you telling me,” I said, “that you agree with the press?”

“I don't know,” he said, “but I feel we shouldn't dismiss the notion out of hand.”

In other words, he did agree with the press.

“So how does the BHA regain the confidence of the racing public?” I asked. But I already knew the answer.

We had to catch Leonardo. And quickly.

—

I SPENT
much of Thursday afternoon watching the racing from Fontwell Park on television as well as going over in my head everything that I knew about our friend Leonardo.

There was precious little.

I'd said at one of the Board meetings that I thought he was a racing insider, someone who knew his way around a racetrack. That was because he had been able to deliver a poisoned ginger cake to the jockeys' changing room at Ascot without being intercepted or questioned. He must, therefore, have had a right to be there or at least a reasonable excuse.

Ritalin and Dexedrine.

Only Matthew Unwin's horses tested positive for Dexedrine. All the others had Ritalin's methylphenidate in their systems.

Methylphenidate hydrochloride and dextroamphetamine sulfate.

I looked them both up once more on the Internet just in case I'd missed something the first time.

Both drugs were used as treatment for narcolepsy, a sleep disorder, and also for ADHD, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, especially in children.

That was it! That's what had caused the quiver in the room.

My comment about Leonardo possibly being a person with hyperactivity in their family had struck a chord with someone in that meeting.

I was sure that's why I'd felt uncomfortable.

I went back to the list I'd made of the eleven people who had been present at that meeting.

Could one of the eleven have anything to do with doping the
horses? Or did one of them know the person who had? And did that person have hyperactivity in their family?

One of the eleven was me and I knew for certain that I hadn't been involved, so that left ten. And Crispin Larson could hardly have both thrown the money off the train and have been standing beside the track to collect it unless, of course, he'd had an accomplice.

But what about the other nine?

I stared at the list of familiar names.

There was Roger Vincent, the six remaining nonexecutive directors, plus Howard Lever and Stephen Kohli.

How many of them had been at Aintree for the Grand National and hence able to set off the fireworks remotely?

All of them, I expect.

As the controlling elite of British racing, why wouldn't they be present at one of the greatest days in the horseracing calendar? They had probably all been invited to have lunch with the chairman of the racetrack.

I'd actually seen Roger Vincent, Piers Pottinger, Howard Lever and Stephen Kohli with my own eyes as they had stood with the policemen at the water jump after the incident, and I'd also seen Bill Ripley, Ian Tulloch and Neil Wallinger in the parade ring prior to the big race. I imagine that the other two directors, George Searle and Charles Payne, would have been there as well, enjoying the hospitality that would have readily been on offer to BHA Board members.

Perhaps I would get Crispin to ask the racetrack chairman to send the guest list for his Grand National Day lunch.

I watched on the television as Duncan Johnson's runner won the three-mile chase at Fontwell, the horse storming up the hill
to triumph by three lengths at a price of five-to-one. The cameras then showed the smiling trainer as he greeted his winner in the unsaddling enclosure.

Racehorse trainers were definitely racing insiders and they certainly knew their way around the weighing room and the changing rooms, especially if, like Duncan Johnson, they had once been jockeys themselves.

“There has just been an unusual announcement from the stewards' room,” said the TV announcer, looking straight into the camera. “The remainder of today's racing here at Fontwell has been abandoned due to a serious bout of food poisoning among the officiating stewards, two of whom have been taken to the hospital by ambulance.”

I stared at the screen for a few seconds in disbelief, then called Crispin.

“I've just heard from the Clerk of the Course at Fontwell,” he said.

“It has to be Leonardo again,” I said. “How the hell can we be so short of stewards that the racing has to be abandoned because a couple are taken ill? Surely they could have recruited temporary stewards from the great and the good among the Fontwell crowd.”

“It seems that the most seriously ill are the two stipes,” said Crispin.

Stipes—or stipendiary stewards, as they are officially known—are full-time employees of the BHA who, along with approved and trained amateur stewards appointed by each racetrack, are responsible for policing the Rules of Racing at all the thirteen hundred–plus race meetings that take place each year in Great Britain.

Without either of the assigned stipendiary stewards being fit
to act, or even present at the racetrack, the remaining amateur stewards had little choice but to abandon the meeting.

“Who do we have there?” I asked.

“Investigators?”

“Anyone. Get someone to find out what the stewards had for lunch and tell them to collect some samples of the food.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“And one more thing,” I said. “Who were the trainers who complained to you that someone was trying to extort money from them?”

There was a lengthy pause down the line.

“Other than Matthew Unwin?”

“Yes,” I said with some impatience, “other than Matthew Unwin.”

There was another long pause as Crispin's brain worked out whether I needed to know. In the end, it decided that I did.

“Richard Young and Duncan Johnson.”

“When did they talk to you?”

“Richard approached me in January and Duncan at the beginning of March, a couple of weeks before the Cheltenham Festival.”

“What did they say, exactly?” I asked.

“They told me they'd received anonymous letters stating that unless they paid an insurance premium, their horses might end up testing positive for banned stimulants.”

“The same for each?”

“Pretty much. I can't remember the exact words. Duncan was telling me unofficially, but he still wanted it on record just in case any of his horses subsequently proved positive. He was covering his back. Both of them claim they didn't respond to the letter. Do you think the same man is responsible?”

“It would be rather a coincidence if he's not,” I said. “But I wonder why he switched his attention from individual trainers to the BHA as a whole.”

“Maybe he was getting no joy from any of the trainers,” Crispin said. “Or perhaps he was trying out his doping technique before he did it wholesale at Cheltenham. I just wish we knew what he'd do next.”

“How about running live wires under the grass to kill the horses? If I didn't know better, I'd say that Leonardo did that too.”

Two horses had been electrocuted in the parade ring before the first race at Newbury in 2011. The stewards had abandoned racing that day as well.

“I hate to think what the press will say about this latest incident,” Crispin said. “Talk about fanning the flames as the BHA burns.”

I
f things had been bad for the BHA in the newspapers on Thursday morning, by Friday they were even more disastrous than even Crispin had imagined.

Not only was there extensive criticism of the previous afternoon's abandonment of racing at Fontwell Park but the
London Telegraph
proclaimed a “World Exclusive!” with a banner headline stating that
ALL CHELTENHAM WINNERS WERE DOPED
, a theme that was soon picked up by all the other newspaper websites and also by the television news channels.

Ian Tulloch was shown on the BBC making a statement on the sidewalk outside the BHA offices in High Holborn.

Without exactly confirming the reports, he stated that the British Horseracing Authority was investigating the possibility that the drinking-water supply to the Cheltenham racetrack stables had somehow become contaminated. Against a tirade of hostile questions from the assembled journalists, he asserted robustly that the BHA remained in full control of the sport and
there was nothing for racing's stakeholders to concern themselves about.

Business as usual, was the official message.

He reminded me somewhat of the
Titanic
stewards who initially told worried passengers, who had been awakened by the impact with the iceberg, that everything was fine and they should go back to bed, quoting the flawed acceptance that the ship was “unsinkable.”

Was the BHA about to plunge headlong into the abyss?

The
Racing Post
clearly thought so, with a drawing of a grave with
BHA
RIP
chiseled in the headstone adorning the full title page of its online edition.

The attached article called for a return to proper stability within the sport, something that it claimed the Jockey Club had provided for over a quarter of a millennium. It didn't outright call for the Jockey Club to be reinstated as horseracing's regulator, but it left the reader in little doubt that that was exactly what they wanted.

And there were more quotes from leading figures in the sport lending support to the notion.

I thought it was strange how people's attitudes could reverse so quickly. Some of those who only a few years ago had argued passionately for a change to a more transparent and democratic system of governance were now being equally vociferous in their encouragement for a return to how things had been before.

At ten o'clock, I called Crispin Larson.

“You're well out of it here,” he said. “Half the staff are suicidal and the other half are just bloody furious. I've had Paul Maldini in here, demanding to know if I was aware that all the Cheltenham winners had been doped. What could I say?”

“So now everyone knows it's true?”

“I suppose so. Paul also now knows that you weren't really sacked and that you've continued to work for us undercover. He's bloody furious about that as well. Says he should have been told.”

Perhaps he should have been.

“How did he find out?”

“Howard Lever told him when he accused the Board of sitting on their fat arses and doing nothing about it. Howard told him that they had been doing something. I think Howard's in line for a nervous breakdown. And Ian Tulloch is on the warpath too.”

“I saw him on the TV news.”

“He's called another emergency Board meeting for later today.”

“Where and when?” I asked.

“Here in the office boardroom at two, but you and I are specifically not invited.”

“Do you think they're going to resign en masse and hand the whole thing back to the Jockey Club?”

“I've no idea about that, but I do fear for Howard's position. I'm not sure that Stephen Kohli is safe either. And if I read the vibes correctly, dear boy, you and I might be up for the boot as well.”

Crispin was a master at reading the vibes, so it didn't bode particularly well for my mortgage.

“That's hardly fair,” I said, “not when it was the Board as a whole who took the decision to say nothing. It's just like those government ministers who say they take full responsibility for something and then they fire their junior aides.”

“‘Theirs not to reason why, / Theirs but to do and die.'”

“I have no intention of doing and dying,” I said. “I intend on finding out who's really responsible for this mess. What exactly did Leonardo say in his letter that arrived on Wednesday
morning? You said that he was angry because the payment hadn't been enough. Was that all?”

“He said he'd teach us a lesson.”

“Well, we now know what he meant by that. Did he say anything about getting some more money?”

“He said he wants a million pounds or there would be more disruption, but he surely must know he won't get it. Especially now.”

“At least he's come down from two million,” I said. “How about if we offer to pay him?”

“With what? Monopoly money?”

“We need him to arrange another drop. That would give us another chance to catch him.”

“But we didn't get even close to catching him last time. We just threw away a hundred grand by chucking it out the window of a fast-moving train.”

“But what if he used the same drop point again? I could just wait there for him to walk into a trap.”

“But that's hardly likely, is it? It would be far too risky.”

“Why?” I said. “Leonardo has doped racetrack water supplies twice and he's used poisoned food twice. Perhaps he's a man of habit.”

“I think it's a bit of a long shot.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but the spot he chose was ideal for the purpose. There can't be many stretches on that line with a nice long, isolated grassy embankment and no trees to get in the way.”

“But he could use a different line.”

“Not if he wants opening windows to chuck things out of. Almost every other line now has sealed trains with automatic doors.”

“I still think it's a huge risk,” Crispin said.

“We always have the option of not throwing out the money if it's at a different spot. And we have to do something. I'm fed up with us just waiting for him to disrupt things again. But we do need to be at that Board meeting this afternoon. Tell Howard that we have to be there.”

“How, dear boy?” Crispin asked.

“Say we'll be there to help divert some of the flak away from him. I'm sure he'll agree.”

“It might get us fired even faster.”

“Do and die,” I said. “If we're going to die, I'd rather die doing something positive.”

“OK. I'll ask him. But don't be surprised if Ian Tulloch vetoes it.”

“Don't let Howard tell him,” I said. “At least not until we're already in the boardroom. And, Crispin, don't be surprised at what I say at the meeting. Go along with it. Don't question anything. I promise you, I've not lost my marbles.”

He laughed. “Now, why would I think that, dear boy?”

—

I ARRIVED
at the BHA offices in High Holborn at a quarter to one just as many of the shell-shocked staff were going out to find some lunch.

I was confronted by Nigel Green in the lobby.

“You could have told me,” he said angrily. “You made a fool of me. I've been going round telling everyone that it was a scandal that you'd been fired and, all along, you hadn't been.”

“Thank you,” I said smiling at him. “You're a good friend.”

“Better than you,” he said.

That hurt.

“I'm sorry.”

He looked at me for a moment, nodded, then walked past me to the door.

Paul Maldini was not so forgiving when I met him in the corridor outside Crispin Larson's office.

“You're a bloody disgrace,” he said. “I'm your damn boss, for God's sake.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Don't you trust me?”

“It isn't a matter of trust.” Although I suppose it was.

“It certainly feels like it to me,” he said. He pointed his right index finger straight towards my face. “I've got my eye on you, young man. In the future, you'd better watch your step.”

He turned on his heel and marched away stiffly down the corridor.

In the future,
Paul had said.

He was assuming that the BHA had a future and that I would still be in it.

Governance by consensus, not by statute.
That's what Howard Lever had said. The way things were going, the British Horseracing Authority was rapidly losing the confidence of the racing industry and hence would soon lose its consensus as well.

The Jockey Club, under the terms of its Royal Charter, has overall responsibility for governance of racing but had delegated that remit initially to the Horseracing Regulatory Authority in April 2006 and subsequently to the BHA a year later.

I wondered what the reaction in racing would be if the one hundred and thirty-four self-electing members of the Jockey Club now decided to take back the regulatory control of the sport for themselves.

In the past there would have been uproar, but now I was not so sure.

I knocked on Crispin's office door.

“Come in,” shouted a voice from inside. So I did.

“Ah, my brother-in-arms,” said Crispin, rising briefly from behind his desk. “Come on in and sit down. You look very smart. We don't often see you in a suit and tie.”

“I thought I should dress properly for my execution. I'm also wearing two vests so I don't shiver.”

He laughed out loud and banged his desk in approval.

“Did you manage to speak to Howard Lever about us being at the meeting?” I asked, taking the chair opposite him.

“Yes, I did.” Crispin hesitated, which I took as not such a good sign. “But he's very worried about his own position and he doesn't want to upset the new chairman.”

“Did you explain that we might be able take some of the flak away from him?”

“Yes, but he wasn't convinced.”

“We really need to be in that meeting,” I said.

“Why exactly?” Crispin asked.

“We just do.”

“Come on, dear boy, I can hardly say to Howard that we really need to be there just because we do. You'll have to give me a more definite reason.”

I sat and looked at him for a moment.

“Crispin, can I trust you?”

“What a strange thing to say,” he said. “Of course you can trust me.”

I paused again, wondering if I was crazy.

“I believe that someone who attends those Board meetings knows more about what is going on than they are saying.”

“Go on,” he said, sitting quietly—and not reaching for a telephone to fetch the men from the lunatic asylum to come and take me away.

“I'm not saying that one of them is our friend Leonardo, although he might be, I'm just sure that someone on that Board reacted to something I said.”

“What?”

“Do you remember the meeting we had here on the Sunday after the Grand National?”

“Of course.”

“I said at that meeting that I believed the person responsible was a racing insider and that because of the drugs used to dope the horses he might have a hyperactive child.”

“I remember.”

“Well,” I said, “something happened in that meeting and I now think it was a reaction from someone when I said that.”

“What sort of reaction?”

“I'm not sure. Some sort of frisson of excitement. Or maybe it was fear. Either way, it made me feel uncomfortable.”

“It's not much to go on,” he said.

“I know. I only remembered it yesterday afternoon and I've spent most of the night thinking about it. But I'm sure I'm right.”

“So why does that mean you need to be at the meeting today?”

“Partly because I want to say it again to see if there's another similar reaction and this time I'd be ready for it.”

“And?” he encouraged.

“I want to argue in favor of paying our friend some more money so that I can set a trap for him at the drop.”

“Assuming it will be at the same place?”

“Yes,” I said. “We made it quite clear at the last meeting that we didn't know where the first drop had been, so there's no reason for him to change it. We just have to make sure we don't let on that we are planning a trap.”

“But what if you're wrong, dear boy?”

“Then we don't throw out the money and nothing will have been lost other than my time and energy.”

—

IAN TULLOCH
was far from happy when Crispin and I entered the boardroom with Howard Lever, upon whom Crispin had spent the past half an hour applying undue pressure to get us in.

“This is a meeting of just the Board,” he said. “We do not need any supernumeraries.”

“I think they should be here,” said Howard. “And Stephen Kohli as well. They have been present at all the other emergency meetings and their contributions may be relevant.”

Ian Tulloch didn't like it. I could see in his eyes that he felt his authority as the new chairman was being undermined. He looked around for support but didn't find any.

“Seems sensible to me,” said Neil Wallinger, and there were nods of agreement from Charles Payne and George Searle.

“Very well,” said Ian Tulloch reluctantly. “But I may ask them to leave when we get on to questions of accountability.”

Howard raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise at the remark, but he must have known what was coming.

We waited while Stephen Kohli was located and took his place at the table.

“Gentlemen,” Ian Tulloch said loudly to bring the meeting to order. “We face the most difficult period in our short history, but we must be strong and resolute. The BHA
is
the authority for racing in this country and we should not shy away from our responsibilities.

“I know that the departure of Roger Vincent is seen by some
of you as a major blow to our credibility, but I see it as an opportunity, a chance to put the past behind us and to move forward with aplomb.