Pulse(40)

I went outside to watch the horses come back into the winner’s enclosure to unsaddle. By now I was just about able to walk in a straight line but I was still thankful to lean on the rail right next to the pole designating the space reserved for the fourth-place horse.

Mike Sheraton had finished fourth.

As the blue-and-white checks came in I held up the photo of the unnamed man high above my head so that Mike Sheraton couldn’t fail to see it.

He stared at it, then down at me.

‘Who is this man?’ I mouthed at him.

There was a touch of panic in his eyes. There was also something else – a coldness. It sent a shiver down my own back that was nothing to do with the ambient temperature. Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to hold up the photo after all. The alcohol had clearly made me over-bold.

I stayed leaning on the rail as Mike Sheraton dismounted and removed his saddle. He glanced my way a couple more times before turning and walking away to weigh in. I watched him go and wondered what he and Jason Conway were involved in.

The police were not even considering the unnamed man’s death as suspicious, just unexplained, but, if the two jockeys’ reactions were anything to go by, I reckoned there was quite a lot that was suspicious about it.

I remained standing there as the horses were led away and the presentations to the winning connections were made by the chairman of the sponsors. Then I made my way up the steps towards the crowd first-aid room.

Not that I was in need of any urgent medical assistance or anything. However, I vaguely knew one of the St John’s Ambulance volunteer nurses who was regularly on duty and she lived just down the road from me in Gotherington.

I was hoping she might be able to give me a lift home.

‘Hello, Isabelle,’ I said, going in and thankfully finding her in her bright green St John’s uniform shirt and black skirt.

‘Hello, Dr Rankin,’ she said in her broad Welsh accent. ‘How can I help?’

‘I was wondering if you could give me a lift home later?’ I said. ‘Save me asking Grant to come and collect me.’

‘Well, I could,’ she said slowly, ‘but my Ian is having to come for me. My car wouldn’t start this morning, see. Probably the cold. Damn nuisance too, I can tell you.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I have a car here. Could you drive us home in that?’

She looked at me with her head slightly to one side.

‘Why can’t you drive your own car? I could come with you then, see.’

‘Well,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘I think I may have had one too many to be fit to drive.’

She went on looking at me. ‘Aren’t you here on duty?’ she asked with a disapproving tone in her voice.

‘Good God, no,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Merely a spectator today. Met some old chums and they seem to have forced too much drink on me.’

Isabelle relaxed a little. Whether she believed me or not was another matter.

‘I suppose I could ring Ian and tell him not to bother,’ she mused. ‘He would be grateful for that, see. It’s always hell getting back in when everyone else is trying to leave and he likes to go down the Shutters early on Thursdays for the skittles.’

The Shutters was the Shutters Inn, the local pub in Gotherington village.

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Shall I come back here when you finish? What time?’

She looked around at the other two staff as if gauging their reaction. ‘I suppose I could get away about an hour after the last race. Say half past six.’

It was much later than I’d hoped. I might even be half sober by then.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘You call your Ian and tell him you are coming home with me and I’ll be back here at six-thirty sharp.’

Six-thirty. I looked carefully at my watch, trying to concentrate on the hands. Half past four. Two hours to wait. I could easily walk home in that time but it would mean leaving the car, and I now had a plan to ensure that Grant never knew of my indiscretions with my good friend, Whisky Macdonald.

Isabelle would drive to her house and then I’d take a chance by driving the last hundred yards home. Easy. Surely all the Gloucestershire police would be busy directing the traffic leaving the racecourse.

I texted Grant to tell him that I’d not be home until about seven and could he put the pizzas from the fridge in the oven for the boys’ tea if they were back before me. They had made plans to go to a friend’s house after school all this week as I’d been expecting to be on duty at the racecourse anyway.

He texted back straight away to ask where I was.

‘At the racecourse’, I texted back. ‘Helping out. xxx’

‘Supposed to be resting,’ came the reply after a short but meaningful pause. I could tell from the curtness, and no added kisses, that he wasn’t pleased.

‘I’m taking it easy’, I texted back. ‘See you later. xxx’

Taking it easy drinking, I thought, and was almost tempted to go back to the Vestey Bar for more.

Instead I went up to the Racing Hall of Fame area – cosy, and no alcohol.

I stood in front of the roaring log fire warming my hands and wondering where I went from here.

The sensible half of my brain was telling me to leave it all to the professionals. If the police don’t believe the man’s death was suspicious, it said, who are you to say otherwise? Let it go.