‘Sorry about Furious,’ said Michael, noticing how Mrs Wilkinson tossed her head and winced as Rafiq’s fingers clenched her neck. ‘Eddie didn’t get anyting out of the horse, who was in a terrible state without you, ran his race before it started, completely different animal to the Gold Cop horse. I’d never have run him but Rupert was distracted. Billy Lloyd-Foxe died that afternoon.’
‘That was after the race,’ said Rafiq bleakly.
‘Rupert’s terribly cot op.’
‘Good.’
‘Great party going on up there,’ said Michael, wistfully. ‘They’ll be going into dinner soon.’
‘Why don’t you nip up there for half an hour?’ suggested Rafiq idly. ‘I’ll look after Wilkie.’ He smoothed her silken mane, which smelled agonizingly of Tommy’s shampoo. ‘She’s not Furious but I got very fond of Wilkie. I’m leaving England soon and I’d like the chance to say goodbye. What’s that button on the side of the stable door?’
‘Some security device, I guess,’ said Michael, getting out a comb, dipping it in Mrs Wilkinson’s water bucket and slicking back his hair. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure. Go on, hurry,’ urged Rafiq. ‘How’s Tommy?’
‘Heartbroken, can’t stop crying over Furious. She’s coming out later to relieve me and if Wilkie wins she’ll lead her up.’
‘Give her my best, love, no, my very best love, now hurry.’
Rafiq shook hands formally, but in the lights from the conference centre Michael could see how much weight he had lost, how wildly his hollow eyes burned and how his emaciated face was green-tinged and glistening with sweat. Cock ruling his head, Michael ignored these signs.
‘Are you giving an award or getting one?’ celebrities were asking each other as Michael slid into the hall.
Green candles on every table flickered on pink tulips and roses and on ice buckets full of pink champagne, as diners tucked into smoked salmon and prawn timbales. Beautiful girls with gleaming brown bodies and waterfalls of shining hair were everywhere. Flat jockeys seemed to attract them. Stroppy little buggers, always getting into fights like Jack Russells, thought Michael dismissively, but they certainly pulled the girls.
Tomorrow was Good Friday, one of the few days like Christmas Day when there was no racing, so they could all get plastered, away from the tyrannical treadmill of win, win, win or, for those less fortunate, the awareness of not getting rides.
The jump jockeys were a different breed, bigger, more muscled, comrades united in war. Conscious of their superior courage, they were watching clips on a big screen of the year’s worst spills and thrills, fascinated by the falls of others. The audience, who were not jump jockeys, put their hands over their faces with horror. There were Furious and Ilkley Hall tipping up in the National, there was Wilkie falling in the Gold Cup.
On a side table on the right of the platform, the Horsecars, silver models of jockeys crouched over galloping horses, awaited their recipients. Amber, tipped as leading lady jockey, was too sad still about her father to show up and collect her award, which Rupert would probably accept on her behalf.
Penscombe, to Harvey-Holden’s fury, was expected to do very well. Valent, to everyone’s surprise and disappointment, had made his excuses and flown to Milan to watch Ryan’s team on the first match of a mini-tour. Cuddly Wilkinsons had sold out and the Kowloon factory was working on a virtual reality game in which you imagined yourself on Mrs Wilkinson winning the National. Valent was also fed up with the syndicate, none of whom, except Alban, Alan and Painswick, had bothered to write and thank him for ferrying them up to the National, all assuming it was the privilege of the rich to pick up the bill.
Richard Phillips, the handsome trainer and the funniest man in racing, was warming up the audience with a joke about one trainer ringing up another trainer, only to be told the tragic news that the second trainer’s wife had just died.
‘Are you going to Towcester?’ asked the first trainer.
‘No, we’re going to bury her,’ said the second trainer.
Howls of laughter greeted this, distracting the audience from the serious business: who was going to win awards?
With so many Irish mates to hail, it took Michael ages to battle his way to the Throstledown and Penscombe table and find Tresa being chatted up by Rupert’s lads. Fortunately Tommy, who would have reproved him for deserting Mrs Wilkinson, had gone off to thank Valent and show him her lovely new dress. Disappointed to find he was in Milan, she got sidetracked talking to Marius and Olivia.
As she had left her second course of roast lamb and dauphinoise potatoes untouched, Michael took her place, scooping them up and helping himself to a large glass of red.
‘You’ll never guess who I saw,’ he whispered to Josh. ‘Rafiq.’
‘Christ, where?’
‘Rolled up at the stables. Offered to keep an eye on Wilkie.’
‘Is that wise? Million-pound horse now.’
‘She’ll be OK, I’ll go back in a minute.’ Michael helped himself to another drink and forked up another mouthful of dauphinoise.
Like napalm, the news flickered round the table, until it reached Tresa, stunning in her black cross-laced dress, as always on her mobile but smoky eyes undressing Michael as she did every man.
‘Oh look, there’s Zara Phillips,’ said Josh. ‘She’s well fit, I wouldn’t mind …’
‘Nor would I,’ said Michael. ‘Oh, here comes Tommy, she looks lush too, I should have made a move at the National. I better go. I’ll call you later.’ He buried his lips in Tresa’s soft white shoulder.
Smirking Tresa switched off her mobile. The moment Michael had disappeared into the melee, over the raucous applause for Katie Price mounting the platform to hand out the Jump Ride of the Year award, she shouted across to Tommy, ‘Guess who’s looking after Wilkie?’
‘Michael is.’
‘He is not, he’s just left this table. It’s your friend Rafiq.’ Tommy knocked over her glass of red, dousing two candles with a hiss, as she leapt to her feet:
‘You’re winding me up.’
‘Go and look.’
Charging through the diners and then the crowd round the roulette tables, past equine stars looking down with unseeing eyes in the Hall of Fame, out through the double doors, breathing in the cool night air after the heat, Tommy ran towards the stables and was just crying, ‘Rafiq, Rafiq,’ when a colossal explosion rocked the entire racecourse. Tommy felt a searing pain in her left shoulder as shock waves blew her off her feet.
Complete pandemonium followed. As dinner-jacketed and bare-shouldered diners stormed the doors and fought their way out of the hall, a smothering tornado of black smoke could be seen rising from the stables.
‘Wilkie! Rafiq!’ screamed Tommy, her lovely lace dress shredded, her shoulder spurting blood. She staggered to her feet and, wiping more blood out of her eyes, stumbled in the direction of the stables.
‘Please move away from the hall into the centre of the car park,’ said a voice over the tannoy. As the building emptied of guests, waiters and waitresses, one was still clutching the plates she’d been clearing from the table.
Searching desperately through the gloom, Tommy could see little flickers of flame rising from the blackness as straw and wood caught fire. There was a dreadful stench of burning. As if some giant chimney sweep had been at work, everything was coated in soot.
A jangle of fire engines was soon joined by a howl of police cars and ambulances. Tommy was staggering onwards when Rupert caught up with her.
‘Christ, Tommy, are you OK? Where did it get you?’
‘Wilkie, Rafiq,’ mumbled Tommy.
‘Come back from there.’ Rupert had just put his dinner jacket round her shoulders when he caught sight of another swaying figure. Beneath the blood and soot, only the thick Irish accent was recognizable.
‘Michael, oh Michael,’ sobbed Tommy, ‘did you get Wilkie out? Where’s Rafiq?’
‘Rafiq was here,’ explained Michael in a dazed voice. ‘He asked for a few moments alone with Mrs Wilkinson to say goodbye. Said he was leaving England for ever.’
‘He was leaving the world for ever,’ howled Rupert, ‘fucking suicide bomber! You stupid fucker, leaving him alone with her.’
Through the black smoke, they could see the stables had been bulldozed to rubble, with a great crater gaping in the centre.
‘Don’t go any nearer, Mr Campbell-Black,’ ordered a policeman. ‘You must all come into the centre of the course. The ambulance has arrived. Can you walk that far or do you need a stretcher?’ he asked Tommy and Michael.
‘Has Michael been killed? Has Michael been killed?’ Tresa shot past Tommy, then, recognizing Michael, threw herself into his arms. ‘Thank God you’re safe.’
Next moment, Chisolm raced towards them with a singed and blackened face, bleating frantically.
‘Oh poor darling,’ cried Tommy.
‘There, there, poor little duck,’ Rupert grabbed Chisolm’s collar, ‘poor little girl.’ He stroked her head.
‘If Chisolm’s escaped, perhaps Rafiq and Wilkie have too,’ gasped Tommy, and fainted.
As the crowd shambled towards the middle of the course, police and bomb disposal experts were already checking the car parks for further bombs.
No one was allowed to leave, which caused several shouting matches.
‘My stable lads have got to get back to the yard to look after the horses,’ yelled Rupert.
‘I’m on GMTV tomorrow,’ screamed Harvey-Holden.
Several of the jockeys had seen fit to take bottles from the tables and were having parties. But as the news got round that Mrs Wilkinson had been blown to kingdom come, laughter turned to tears and the racecourse went quiet.
Later, when questioned by the police, a patched-up Michael in his bloodstained shirt remembered Rafiq asking about a button on the side of the stable door, which the Clerk of the Course vouchsafed would not normally have been there. It was deduced that the bomb had been triggered off by a mobile that anyone could have rung from the hall or beyond. But this was a bomb with a difference. The killer had used Obliterat, a sophisticated substance which literally obliterates everything within forty yards and renders even DNA analysis inoperative.
Guests, sponsors, caterers and racecourse staff were compelled to sleep in makeshift accommodation in schools, village halls and in the great concert hall of the Rutminster Symphony Orchestra. They were only released the next day. A heavily sedated Tommy was rushed to Rutminster Hospital, where surgeons removed several splinters of wood from her left shoulder. She had been lucky they didn’t puncture an artery, she was told, even luckier they had missed her heart.
Tommy, wiped out by the loss of Rafiq and Wilkie, didn’t believe they had.
The nation – nay the world – joined her in mourning. After Furious and Ilkley Hall’s deaths in the National, Animal Rights were suspected. So was Islamic terrorism, particularly when police, after a tip-off, raided the bleak room in Larkminster where Rafiq had taken refuge after he’d been sacked by Rupert. Piled up in a corner, they found film footage of 9/11 and the beheading of hostages, tapes of ranting sermons from radical preachers, militant literature, a picture of Bin Laden and flyers claiming that ‘Allah loves those who fight for him.’ Not entirely incriminating evidence, but traces of Obliterat were also
discovered along with photographs of Furious, Amber and Rafiq’s family in Pakistan.
Why the hell, reasoned the police, hadn’t he covered his tracks, unless he intended never coming back?
Michael, in spite of being rushed to hospital, was in the doghouse. If he hadn’t abandoned Mrs Wilkinson … Tresa, however, was in her element. What a good thing she’d had her hair highlighted yesterday. Still wearing her lovely black dress from last night, slightly bloodstained from hugging Michael, she visited him in hospital before a long session in a side room with handsome Chief Inspector Gablecross.
‘Amber broke Rafiq’s heart, Chief Inspector. Rafiq and I were friends, he talked to me a lot. I’m a good listener, he was lonely. He utterly adored Furious. He only wanted to make money as a jockey so he could one day buy Furious. Mrs Wilkinson and Amber brought Furious down in the National. Rafiq was devoted to Marius and felt Valent had betrayed him by taking his horses to Rupert, particularly after the Gold Cup victory. Then Rupert jocked Rafiq off and fired him. Rafiq detested Eddie Alderton – American bombs had wiped out so many of his family. Eddie screwed up on Furious.’ Tresa opened wide her smoky grey eyes, made more appealing by the shadows beneath them. ‘May I call you Timothy, Chief Inspector? This bomb was pure revenge, the only way of destroying them all.’
This seemed to be the general consensus.
More upset than anyone was Valent, who had deeply loved Mrs Wilkinson. Told of her death during a victory dinner in Milan by Rupert’s ringing from the racecourse, the hard man of football amazed everyone by breaking down and having to flee the restaurant. He was crying as much for Etta as himself. He had been deeply upset she never rang to congratulate him after the National, and had later assumed it was because Furious had been killed. Now, with Wilkie and Rafiq gone, she’d never forgive him.
But he must be brave. After a quadruple Scotch, he called her. ‘Etta, luv, I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s all your fault, if you hadn’t entered her for the National she’d never have been nominated for that award. Please leave me alone.’ Etta knew she was being unfair, but she was crying so much she had to hang up.