Pulse(25)

‘It seems to be the logical scenario although, obviously, we have no idea if he did it on purpose or if it was an accident.’

‘Or murder?’ I asked.

There was a slight pause from the other end of the line.

‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘There’s no apparent motive.’

‘But you don’t know who the man is. Don’t you think that’s suspicious in itself? There may also be a motive that you don’t know about either.’

‘I agree but, for the time being, the man’s death is being classified as “unexplained” rather than “suspicious”.’

‘How about fingerprints?’ I said. ‘Were his on the bottle?’

‘Indeed they were.’

‘Oh.’ That stopped my dubious thoughts. ‘So what do you do now?’

‘Keep on trying to discover his identity. We’ve sent his details over to our counterparts in India just in case he’s from there, but their bureaucratic wheels turn so slowly it may be weeks or even months before we hear back.’

‘How about here?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t seen his photo in the press or on the TV?’

‘We’ve tried but, when there is no apparent crime involved, the editors aren’t interested. To them he was just another druggie found dead from an overdose in a public lavatory. The fact that we don’t know who he was is irrelevant as far as they are concerned.’

‘You could always post his photo at the racecourse for the Festival next week and see if anyone recognises him. After all, he was found there.’

‘We already have that in hand, Dr Rankin.’

Hence, when I arrived at Cheltenham Racecourse the following Tuesday, one couldn’t fail to see the man’s photo stuck up next to every entry turnstile.

‘DEAD MAN,’ said a caption underneath in bold capital letters. ‘Do you know him?’ There was also a telephone number to call if you did.

I wondered how they had got his eyes open for the photo, let alone appearing to stare straight into the camera. They had been firmly shut when I’d last seen him. I found knowing it was a picture taken of a dead man rather creepy, especially as his unseeing eyes seemed to follow me around as I moved.

There were more copies of the image in the weighing room where I went to present myself to Adrian Kings, the senior racecourse medical officer for the day. In his day job, Adrian was a GP in nearby Tewkesbury.

‘Ah, hello, Chris,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the medical team.’ He looked at me closely. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly,’ I said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You just look rather pale and gaunt, that’s all.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘And eager to get going.’ I smiled broadly at him.

‘Good,’ he said, forcing back a smile. ‘Senior medical officer’s briefing in ten minutes.’

On each day of the Festival there were five official racecourse doctors on duty, including myself and Adrian, plus two nurses, a physiotherapist and five ambulance crews, each consisting of two qualified paramedics. In addition there would be a doctor representing the Irish Turf Club, someone who knew and was known to the many Irish riders who came over to compete at the Festival.

And all that was just for the jockeys.

Medical care for the rest of the vast crowd was provided elsewhere in compliance with the Sports Grounds Safety Authority regulations for sporting venues. That was not our concern, nor could it be. We were to concentrate solely on those brave souls balanced high on half a ton of horseflesh while jumping over huge fences at high speed, with no seatbelts or airbags available in the event of a crash.

And they called me crazy!

Adrian’s briefing took place in the jockeys’ medical room with all nineteen members of the team crammed in around the two hospital-style beds and the physio’s treatment table.

Before he started, we were honoured by a visit from Rupert Forrester, managing director of the racecourse, who came to give us a pep talk.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We will be very much in the public eye this week with extensive television news coverage. There are those who would try to destroy our wonderful sport of jump racing so it is vital that we not only look after any injured jockeys and horses, but that we are seen to do so with care and professionalism. I am sure I don’t have to remind you that your actions may be closely scrutinised by certain members of the press.’

But he had done so anyway, I thought.

‘Thank you all for your service,’ he said in closing.

‘Thank you, Rupert,’ Adrian Kings said. ‘I am confident that we will all do our duty with diligence and competence.’

The managing director nodded at him, and then at us, before departing to give the same speech, no doubt, to the veterinary team.

Adrian cleared his throat. ‘Right, seven races on the card today, including four chases. Lots of runners so plenty of potential to keep us all busy.’ He smiled. Adrian liked to be kept busy. As a GP he saw very few, if any, trauma cases so the more complex the injuries the more he liked it, short of anything spinal. None of us enjoyed dealing with those.

From my point of view, the quieter the afternoon turned out to be the better. I would be content not to have to set foot on the track at all. But I realised that I was also quite excited by the prospect of, once again, using my medical skills. I had not touched an actual patient in four months, but I hadn’t wasted my time. I’d taken the opportunity to read all the latest medical journals and to catch up on some new techniques in emergency medicine. Now, maybe, I would have the chance to put some of them into practice.