Front Runner (9 page)

I, meanwhile, was not feeling quite so reverential about the late champion jockey, but, there again, he
had
tried to kill me. And I was still having nightmares about my time in that sauna.

I stood by the rail gazing inattentively at the horses for the fourth race as they circled in the parade ring, my thoughts constantly drifting back to Henrietta Shawcross. The mounting bell was rung and I found myself looking across as Bill McKenzie was given a leg up onto a horse called Lost Moon. No sign of confusion now, I thought, as he gathered the reins and placed his feet in the stirrup irons.

I went on staring at him absentmindedly as I weighed the pros and cons of returning to Derrick Smith's box for tea, and of returning to the giggling Henri.

But, from Bill McKenzie's perspective, it must have appeared that I was interested only in him.

As he saw me watching him, the color visibly drained from his face and he began to shake. I was mesmerized by the effect my presence was causing so I went on staring at him as the horses walked past, McKenzie's head turning slowly to allow him to stare back at me with wide, frightened eyes.

Bugger, I thought.

That had been extremely careless on my part. I had intended to give Bill McKenzie no reason whatsoever to think that I was in any way suspicious of him and yet it had been obvious that I was. But at least it forced my hand. I would now
have
to question him today before he had a chance to concoct some cock-and-bull story with Leslie Morris.

And it was clear that he knew exactly who I was.

Our paths had only officially crossed once before, eighteen months previously when I had investigated an allegation that cell
phones were being used in the jockeys' changing-room toilets, contrary to the Rules of Racing.

Even though the finger had not been pointed at any specific individual, I had formally interviewed seven or eight jockeys at the BHA offices, including Bill McKenzie. After an extensive inquiry, I had concluded that the evidence of wrongdoing was merely circumstantial and too unreliable for any disciplinary action to be taken. Instead, a notice had been sent to all jockeys reminding them of their obligation to comply with the cell phone regulations.

Bill McKenzie had undoubtedly remembered.

I
decided against going back to Derrick and Gay Smith's box just yet and watched the fourth race from the grandstand steps.

The Henry VIII Novice Chase was named for the king who had resided at Hampton Court Palace, just a couple of miles down the road from Sandown Park, even though the racetrack hadn't been established until some three hundred and thirty years after Henry's death.

The race was over two miles and the starting gate was at the far end of the homestretch, so the horses had to negotiate just over one complete circuit of the track.

I looked to my right and used my binoculars to watch as the horses circled, waiting for the starter to send them on their way.

From the stands, Bill McKenzie didn't appear any different from the other six jockeys but his mind must have been elsewhere, as he completely missed the start, Lost Moon being left flat-footed as the others raced away from him toward the first fence.

Two-mile chases are always run at a good pace and Lost Moon was still some ten lengths behind the other six as they came toward the second, an open ditch.

And that is where his race ended.

Trying hard to catch up, the horse overjumped, pitched forward on his knees while landing and crumpled to the turf, tossing his jockey out in front, before rolling right over him. Lost Moon then struggled to his feet before bolting off, riderless, in pursuit of the others. His former rider, meanwhile, was left lying motionless on the grass.

I went on watching the prone figure of Bill McKenzie, ignoring the remaining horses, which galloped up past the grandstands and the winning post for the first time and then swung right-handed down the hill toward the third fence.

Horseracing is the only sport where the competitors are chased by an ambulance. Indeed, the Rules of Racing state that a jump meeting cannot start unless there are at least
three
fully equipped ambulances present, each of them dedicated only to the care of the jockeys rather than being available for the spectators. One ambulance would generally chase the field while the other two would be strategically placed out on the course, with their engines running, to ensure a maximum response time of one minute to any fallen rider.

The chasing ambulance stopped closest to the fence and two green-clad paramedics carrying backpacks ran across toward the prostrate jockey. They were followed by another man in a suit, who I took to be one of the racetrack medical officers—a doctor.

The race, meanwhile, continued apace as the remaining runners safely negotiated the seven quick-fire fences in the back stretch, but I only had eyes for the activity at the open ditch to my right.

I could see that Bill McKenzie was still flat out on the grass with both the paramedics and the doctor kneeling beside him.
As I watched, my line of sight was annoyingly obstructed by a green screen that was put up by the fence attendants to provide the injured jockey with some degree of privacy.

The race itself was beginning to come to a conclusion, the noise of the crowd building as the three most fancied runners jumped side by side over the pond fence and galloped neck and neck into the homestretch.

Fortunately, the open ditch where Lost Moon had fallen was not jumped again in the race, the horses being directed over the adjacent plain fence, so there was no need for any of the obstacle-bypass procedure to be put in place in spite of the fact that Bill McKenzie had still not been removed from the ground.

The three leading horses were all in the air together over the last, and the crowd cheered enthusiastically as they sprinted up the hill to the line in a blanket finish.

Some of those around me began to move down the steps toward the bars and the betting ring, but I and many others stayed precisely where we were, watching events unfold down the track.

The ambulance was driven across to be near the fence and there were worried faces all around me as people feared the worst. Then there was a huge sigh of relief and a spontaneous round of applause as Bill McKenzie appeared from behind the green screen. He had a red blanket draped over his shoulders and was supported by a paramedic, but he was walking toward the vehicle, albeit slowly, clutching his elbow.

People around me smiled and slapped one another on the back. Walking wounded meant no damage to the spinal cord, and injuries elsewhere would heal.

I went through the grandstand, past the parade ring and into
the weighing room, showing my BHA pass to the official at the door.

The senior medical officer was in the jockeys' medical room.

“Is Bill McKenzie coming in here or going directly to the hospital?” I asked.

“You can't come in here,” the doctor replied pompously while trying to usher me out. “Medical staff and jockeys only.”

I handed him my BHA authorization card, which gave me official access to absolutely everywhere on a racetrack, including the jockeys' medical room. He studied the card closely, but I could tell he didn't like it. Yet another example of the seemingly universal dislike of authority. I might have expected better from a doctor.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“To speak with Bill McKenzie.”

“I am sorry but that won't be possible.” He didn't exactly sound like he was sorry. “That particular jockey will be going to the hospital. The doctor on the course believes he may have sustained a fracture to his left clavicle.”

A broken collarbone.

“So is the racetrack ambulance taking him directly to Kingston Hospital?” I asked.

“No. A local ambulance has been called. We can't spare one of ours, not with three races still to run. It will take him from here.”

As I had hoped, Bill McKenzie was on his way to the medical room.

“I'll wait for him.”

“He's injured,” said the doctor. “He won't be able to speak to you.”

“Why not?” I said. “He's broken his collarbone, not his jaw.”

“Nevertheless, he might be in pain and he's entitled to some privacy.”

Not if he'd been fixing races, I thought, but I didn't say so.

—

I
F
B
ILL
M
C
K
ENZIE
had been feeling rough on his way to the medical room, it was nothing to how he felt after he got there. I was the last person he wanted to see as he walked in from the ambulance, again supported by one of the paramedics.

“Oh God!” he said. “Leave me alone, will you? I'm bloody hurting.”

He sat down on the side of one of the two beds in the room.

“The transport will be here shortly to take you to Kingston Hospital,” the doctor said to him while giving me a disapproving stare. “You will need an X-ray of that shoulder.”

“You seem to be making a habit of going to Kingston Hospital,” I said, ignoring the doctor's stare. “No confusion this time?”

“What are you talking about?” McKenzie said, but his eyes told me that he already knew.

The doctor gave me another stare but said nothing.

The ambulance to take him to the hospital arrived, the two ambulance staff coming into the medical room with a narrow two-wheeled chair, on which they placed McKenzie.

I stood up as they began to wheel him out.

“You can't go with him,” the doctor said firmly. “It's in the BHA list of general instructions for racetrack medical services.” He read from the manual:
“Ambulances must not be used as a means of transport for any person other than the ambulance crew, injured Riders and an RMO treating an injured Rider
.
”

He looked very pleased with himself.

“Unless permission is otherwise granted by the Authority,”
I added. “I act for the Authority and I'm giving permission. Anyway, I think you'll find that regulation is for the racetrack ambulances, not those from elsewhere.” I was also pleased with myself, but
I
didn't show it. “Are you going with him?”

“No,” said the doctor. “I have to remain here.”

“I will go as your representative,” I said, smiling, “to ensure he gets the appropriate care.”

“Are you medically trained?”

“I was in Afghanistan with the Army,” I said. “All soldiers on operations have basic medical training. I certainly know enough to deliver a broken collarbone to the hospital in an ambulance with two trained paramedics.”

I also knew how to stop someone from bleeding to death when their foot was blown off by a land mine—I'd had to do that once too.

—

B
ILL
M
C
K
ENZIE
was far from happy when I climbed up into the ambulance after him.

“Can't you leave me alone?” he whined.

The female paramedic in the back looked at me.

“Ignore him,” I said to her. “I'm here representing the horse race authority.” I showed her my credentials.

“Sit there,” she said, pointing at a seat. So I did, as Bill McKenzie himself was transferred from the wheeled chair to a stretcher. Then the doors were closed and off we went.

“Don't I get the bleeding bells and whistles?” McKenzie said with disappointment as the ambulance turned silently into the traffic on Portsmouth Road.

The paramedic smiled at him. “It's not an emergency,” she said. “You're not in any immediate danger of dying.”

He didn't seem particularly reassured. With good reason.

“Now,” I said, “tell me about Wisden Wonder in yesterday's novice hurdle.”

“Bloody nag dumped me on the ground and kicked me, didn't he? I've got a right sore head, I can tell you.” He reached up with his right hand and touched behind his right ear.

“You fell off,” I said accusingly, hoping for a response.

“You try staying on a bloody horse when it doesn't even try to jump. Wisden Wonder was damn lucky not to fall proper and do himself some serious mischief.”

“You didn't give him any chance to jump,” I said. “I've watched the videos over and over. You covered him up and made him run straight into that hurdle on purpose.”

“Now, why would I do that?” he asked. “Do you think I enjoy being thrown to the ground at thirty miles per hour and then kicked for my troubles? It bloody hurt.”

I feared I was getting nowhere. If he went on denying it, there would be little I could do. I couldn't actually prove that he'd come off intentionally, although I was sure he had.

“Do you know a racehorse owner called Leslie Morris?”

“No,” he said. “Never heard of him.”

He tried his best to control his expression, but there was a telltale widening of the pupils of his eyes and an involuntary slight flushing at the base of his neck. He knew Morris, all right.

“How much did he pay you?” I asked.

“No one paid me anything.”

“So why did you do it?”

“I didn't,” he said, this time in more control. He leaned back
into the pillows and closed his eyes. “Can't you get this thing to go any faster? My bloody shoulder's killing me.”

“Are you being blackmailed?” I asked.

“Blackmailed?” he repeated with apparent surprise.

“No more questions,” said the paramedic bossily to me. She gave Bill a tube attached to a mouthpiece with which to suck in some painkilling gas.

I hoped it might also act as a truth drug.

I
never did get back to Derrick and Gay Smith's box for afternoon tea, as I spent the next three hours at Kingston Hospital with Bill McKenzie.

The X-ray confirmed that he had indeed broken his collarbone and I silently berated myself for not having fully believed it. Perhaps I would have been slightly more sympathetic if I had realized he wasn't just trying to find another way of avoiding having to talk to me.

In fact, the break was pretty severe, with the ends of the bones overlapping, so surgery was needed to realign them and a plate and screws fitted to keep it that way.

I sat next to him as he lay on a gurney in a curtained-off emergency cubicle while we waited for the on-call orthopedic surgeon to be roused from his Saturday-afternoon slumbers.

“If you are not being blackmailed,” I said, “why did you do it?”

“I didn't do anything,” he said for the umpteenth time. “I really don't know what you're talking about.”

I still didn't believe him.

“The BHA will demand to see your phone records, you know. And those of Leslie Morris. If there's been any contact between the two of you or the slightest bit of evidence that you've been lying to me, well . . . you can kiss good-bye to your career as a jockey. How old are you? Twenty-six?” He nodded. “You'd be banned for so many years that you'd be far too old to come back.” I paused. “You have a wife, don't you?”

He nodded. “And a kid. Plus another one on the way.”

“What will they do if you lose your livelihood?”

He looked miserable. “Why would I tell you anything even if I was up to no good? You'd ban me anyway. Do you think I'm stupid or something?”

“Actually, yes I do. Otherwise, you would never have got mixed up with race fixing in the first place.”

He sighed deeply, which was clearly not a good move as the pain in his shoulder made him wince. “It's not that simple.”

“Try me,” I said.

He started to cry.

While it was not the response I had been expecting, it was a change from the continual denials he had been spouting since we arrived.

Bill McKenzie was a competent and experienced jockey who was perhaps never going to reach the “superstar” level, but he was doing all right. He was generally more at home on the small Midland racecourses, where he rode frequently for a number of different trainers, although he had recently had rides at some of the bigger tracks as well. He was having his best ever season and currently stood tenth on the jockeys list with forty or so winners from about three hundred rides.

As yet, he had no big-race wins under his belt, but he should
still be making a pretty good living from his riding, especially if one added in a share of prize money, plus regular training fees.

If I was right about the fix, Leslie Morris had pocketed about seven thousand pounds from Bill McKenzie falling off Wisden Wonder.

I wondered how much would be the jockey's share.

Half, at best, or maybe a third? Probably even less.

Would he jeopardize his whole career for a couple of thousand pounds?

Did I really think he was
that
stupid?

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the surgeon in blue scrubs and a dishcloth hat, and he was carrying a green folder.

“Mr. McKenzie,” he said, studying the folder, “I see that you're a jockey.”

He'd hardly had to read that in the paperwork, I thought. The patient was still wearing his britches, and the cut-off racing silks were draped over the end of the couch.

“Is this injury as a result of a racing fall?”

“Yes,” said Bill. “At Sandown.”

The surgeon made a note in the folder.

“Have you broken your collarbone before?”

“Not on this side,” he said, pointing to his left shoulder. “But I've done the other one three times.”

“You're crazy,” said the surgeon. “Why don't you do something safer for a living?”

“Because I'm no good at anything else,” Bill said, and then he looked straight at me. “Racing is my life.”

I raised my eyebrows in response. He knew exactly what I was thinking—he was thinking it too.

The surgeon took a thick marker pen from his pocket and drew two big black arrows on Bill's left shoulder, one on his front and the other on his back.

He smiled. “We don't want to open you up on the wrong side, now do we?”

Next the surgeon produced a consent form from his folder.

“How long will I be off?” Bill asked him as he signed.

“Bones generally take six to eight weeks to heal.”

“Six to eight weeks! No way. I need to be back sooner than that. I've got a ride in the King George on Boxing Day.”

“The plate might help. It will provide the support needed. When I plate a broken hip, I try to get the patient up and standing on it the following day.”

“So how long?” Bill asked again.

“A couple of weeks, maybe.”

“A couple of days, more like,” said Bill with a grin.

“See, you are crazy,” the surgeon said again, smiling back at him. “Completely crazy.”

—

I
WENT
HOME
shortly after when they came to pick him up for surgery. I suppose I could have waited for the operation to be over, but it would probably have taken at least an hour and then he'd be woozy for a good few hours after that. Interviewing an injured jockey in an ambulance on the way to the hospital had been one thing but I'd be pushing my luck to be asking him more questions while he lay in the post-anesthesia recovery room.

I let myself into my apartment and sidled past the unopened cardboard boxes into my kitchen–cum–living room.

It was cold, the mercury having plummeted after the sun went down under clear skies. I flicked on the electric fire but kept my coat resolutely on with my hands deep in its pockets.

It was eight o'clock Saturday evening. Just three weeks before Christmas, when any sensible person was out at a party or having dinner with friends.

But not me.

I thought about Henrietta Shawcross.

I hadn't had an opportunity to go back to the Smiths' box to say good-bye to her—or to anyone else, for that matter. I hadn't even been at the racetrack for the main event of the afternoon, the sixth race of the day, by which time I was well on my way to the hospital in the ambulance.

I opened my laptop computer and logged on to the
Racing Post
website to check the results.

Ebury Tiger had won the Tingle Creek Chase, and there were reports of emotional scenes at the trophy presentation when the winning jockey had dedicated the victory to the memory of his dear friend Dave Swinton, who, he said, should rightly have been standing there in his place.

Dave Swinton, alive or dead, was still everyone's knight in shining armor. I would make myself no friends whatsoever if I tarnished that image with talk of him purposely losing races or committing other misdeeds. Like the small matter of trying to kill me.

I also searched the Internet for any mentions of a Henrietta Shawcross.

There were masses of them, and lots of photos too, many in the Bystander section, on the
Tatler
magazine website.

If the images were anything to go by, Miss Shawcross was a socialite of some renown, being photographed at many of the
most sought-after events and parties. But there was little actual information about her life in the magazine, just her looking beautiful for the camera lens while cuddling up to a variety of actors, singers and other A-list headliners at glamorous gatherings.

Next, I carried out searches for Sir Richard Reynard, her uncle, and for Martin Reynard, her first cousin.

Both were in shipping. To be more precise, Sir Richard was the sixty-nine-year-old chairman of Reynard Shipping Limited, a company set up by his grandfather, and Martin was forty-two and also a director. And they were loaded. The
Sunday Times
“Top 1,000 UK Rich List” put the Reynard family at number 147, with a combined wealth in excess of half a billion pounds.

Reynard Shipping was almost a household name, and everyone must have seen the trucks carrying containers with
REYNARD SHIPPING
painted on the side in big white letters. No wonder Derrick had thought I should know who Sir Richard Reynard was.

He would certainly be able to afford to buy a potential Derby winner. In fact, he'd be able to buy a whole stableful of them.

I wondered if Henrietta Shawcross was included in the calculation of the family wealth. Probably.

I sighed. Either way, she was out of my league, that was for sure. That's if she would even speak to me again after my dreadful faux pas at lunch.

I dug a little deeper on the Internet.

For some reason, I couldn't find any recent accounts for Reynard Shipping Limited on the Companies House website. It appeared from their records that the company had ceased to exist some three years previously, although it was quite clearly still trading—their shipping containers were everywhere.

But there was some more detail about Henri.

According to some past newspaper articles, Henrietta Shawcross was an only child. Furthermore, she was an orphan, her parents having died together in a helicopter crash when she'd been just sixteen. Her mother's not inconsiderable fortune, including a twenty-five percent stake in Reynard Shipping, had passed directly to her, to be held in trust by her uncle until her thirtieth birthday, which, I noted, was coming up in February.

No wonder Gay Smith had said that Henri didn't need a sugar daddy.

I went to my freezer and selected a Chicken Madras from a stack of frozen dinners and popped it in the microwave.

I wouldn't go as far as to say that I'd be diagnosed as clinically depressed, but I knew I was pretty miserable. I didn't take antidepressant drugs or anything, and I didn't feel particularly suicidal—indeed, I had fought with all my strength to escape death in Dave Swinton's sauna. There had been no question then of me giving up and lying down to die when it would have been very easy to have done so.

It was just that I considered my life at present as meaningless.

I woke up each morning and went to work in my office at BHA headquarters, or at a racetrack somewhere, or I visited some training stables or an equine swimming pool, or I attended one of myriad other racing venues, yet, wherever I had spent the day, I would return to the solitude and loneliness of my apartment.

I sat in an armchair to eat my dinner and wondered what Henri Shawcross was doing. I may not have been a regular gambler, but I'd bet an arm and a leg that she wasn't eating a microwaved curry off her lap while watching Saturday-night drivel on the television.

I'd just finished my food when my landline telephone rang.

My heart leaped. Could it be her? Asking me out?

No, it couldn't. I hadn't given her my phone number.

“Hello?” I said, answering the call.

No one at the other end spoke even though I could hear some noises in the background.

“Hello?” I said again. “Is anyone there?”

After two or three seconds, the line went dead.

How odd, I thought. I dialed 1471 to get the last number that had called and wrote it down on the back of an envelope that contained my gas bill. It wasn't a number I recognized. I tried calling back, but all I heard was a disembodied voice stating that the number did not receive incoming calls.

No sooner had I put the phone down than it rang again.

I picked it up. “Hello?” I said slowly.

“Jeff, is that you?” said a voice.

“Hello, sis,” I said. “Did you call me just now?”

“No,” Faye said, sounding concerned. “Should I have?”

“No. It's all right. I had a call, but no one was there. That's all.”

“Happens to me all the time,” said Faye. “I blame the phone companies. They seem to spend so much of their time trying to sell us cheaper and cheaper broadband that they neglect the phone service.”

But the phone service had been working fine—I had been able to hear the background noise. It was the fact that the caller
said
nothing
that had been strange.

“Are you feeling any better than last Sunday?” I asked her.

“Much better, thank you,” she said. “Brandy for breakfast has helped a lot.” She laughed and I wasn't sure if she was joking or not.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow lunchtime?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

Nothing other than moping around my apartment feeling sorry for myself.

“Good,” Faye said. “Come to lunch. We have some guests and, to be honest, I could do with the help.”

“What time?”

“As early as you can. We've got twelve people coming.”

“Who are they?” I asked. I didn't altogether trust Faye not to set me up to meet a dozen prospective girlfriends.

“For some reason, Q has decided that it is his turn to host the annual Christmas lunch for the QCs in his chambers, together with their wives. Someone does it every year. It would have been nice if he'd given me a bit more warning. It seems he asked them all ages ago but only sprung it on me last Tuesday.”

Suddenly being alone in my apartment with my TV and a microwaved dinner seemed quite attractive compared with spending the day with Quentin's legal cronies. But I didn't want to upset Faye.

“That would be lovely,” I lied. “Do you want me to bring anything?”

“Just yourself. We're having a buffet and I've got everything I need. I could just do with some help setting it all out and with the drinks when everyone arrives. Q is so hopeless when it comes to anything practical.”

I wondered if I was being asked only because Faye understood how lonely I had become, especially on weekends, and rather than actually needing any real help she was simply trying to include me in something that involved other people, even if they were Quentin's work colleagues.