Pulse(30)

Cheltenham is an undulating track and the field spread out somewhat as they climbed to the highest point of the course, farthest from the finish line. Then they swung sharply left-handed and raced back down the hill with just three flights left to jump.

From the head-on camera angle, Dick McGee’s green-and-yellow silks were clearly visible as the horse beneath him hit the top of the hurdle with its forelegs and went down on its knees. At that speed the animal had no chance to recover and, almost as if in slow motion, it keeled over onto its right side and went all the way to the floor, slithering along the wet grass and ejecting its pilot from the saddle as it did so.

‘Faller third last,’ said the spotter into my radio earpiece, followed shortly thereafter by the reassuring words, ‘Horse and jockey both up.’

The remainder of the field, unaffected by the loss of one of their number, clattered over the second-last hurdle and ran on into the finishing straight.

The four leading horses jumped the last flight in line abreast, the jockeys working hard with their hands, heels and whips to encourage them up the hill to the winning post and everlasting glory.

In fact, all the remaining runners jumped the obstacle without mishap, leaving me free to turn back to the big screen to watch the race climax.

‘Photograph, photograph,’ called the judge over the public address as two horses flashed past the post with hardly a cigarette paper between them.

As the crowd hushed, waiting for the result to be announced, I turned and looked down the track the other way where I could see a figure in green and yellow trudging slowly towards me. Dick McGee. He was still a couple of hundred yards away so I hurried back up the horse-walk to ensure I made it back to the weighing room before he did.

‘First, number six,’ came the announcement from the judge to a huge cheer, ‘second, number two, third, number three. Distances were a nose and two lengths. The fourth horse was number eight.’

A ‘nose’ was the shortest official winning margin and could be anything from only a few millimetres up to about six centimetres. On such small margins great reputations were made, and others lost.

I removed the photograph of the dead man from the notice board in the weighing room and took it with me into the jockeys’ medical area. Dick McGee would have to report there before he could be cleared to ride again and I would be waiting for him.

‘I told you, I don’t know him.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ I said. ‘When you saw this image before, you stopped as if you’d been shot. You do recognise him, don’t you?’

Dick McGee was standing in front of me in the medical room, still wearing his green-and-yellow stripes, and he was holding the man’s picture, which I’d just handed to him.

‘What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?’ he whined, looking round at the two nurses as if he expected them to help him. ‘Just ask me the standard questions and let me get back to riding.’

Adrian Kings, the senior medic, came into the room and Dick immediately turned to him to try and get himself out of his current predicament. ‘Doc, will you check me out and clear me?’

Adrian raised his eyebrows in my direction.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I was just asking Dick here some questions.’

‘Well,’ Adrian said, completely misunderstanding what questions I’d been asking, ‘if he can’t answer them correctly, you’ll have to stand him down and make a Red Entry on RIMANI. He will then need clearance from the CMA before he can ride again. Seven days, minimum.’

Dick McGee looked horrified.

‘Have you done the Tandem Stance Test?’ Adrian asked.

‘Not yet,’ I said.

‘OK, OK,’ Dick said. ‘I do recognise him but I don’t know his name.’

Adrian looked confused, and with good reason.

‘Where do you recognise him from?’ I asked, wanting to get some more answers before the confusion was cleared up.

‘I saw him with JC at the Open.’

The Open Meeting had been back in November, the same meeting at which the nameless man had been found in the Gents.

‘Where?’ I asked, waving Adrian away as he tried to interrupt.

‘In the jockeys’ car park before racing. They were having an argument.’

‘Will someone please tell me what’s going on here?’ Adrian said loudly.

Dick looked at him. ‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘I only saw them arguing. I didn’t even know he was dead until I saw this.’ He held up the man’s photo with the words DEAD MAN underneath.

‘Who is JC?’ I asked, ignoring Adrian, who was shaking his head in frustration. ‘Not Jesus Christ, obviously.’

‘Jason Conway,’ Dick said. ‘And Mike Sheraton was with him too. They were both talking to the man.’

‘Anyone else?’ I asked.

‘There may have been. I can’t remember.’

I was worried that Adrian was about to explode.

‘What were they arguing about?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Dick implored, ‘but it must have been important. They were shouting like bloody blue murder at each other but they stopped suddenly when they saw me listening.’

‘Excuse me,’ Adrian Kings said, finally stepping between us and facing me. ‘Is Dick McGee concussed or not?’