Pulse(47)

‘Don’t you all?’ I asked.

‘Not on the opposition. Horses and jockeys. It doesn’t make the nags run faster when he hits them across the nose, and it bloody hurts when he catches you on the face.’

‘Don’t the stewards take action?’

‘Never see it. He’s too quick and too clever. He’s not the only one, mind. Cut-throat business, racing. Win at all costs – that’s what matters. My trouble is I’m too bloody nice.’

He smiled at me and walked off.

I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, but I didn’t have long to ponder before another of my three of interest arrived.





18


At a quarter past eleven, Jason Conway swept into the parking area in a silver Jaguar F-Type with a personalised number plate, locking up his rear wheels on the loose gravel as he braked to a halt.

I suppose my plan had been just to let Conway see me, to rattle him somewhat before he spoke with the police. But I was too slow. Almost in a single movement he climbed out of the car and set off towards the racecourse entrance, without looking once in my direction.

I hurried after him, wanting so much to shout out, to ask whether he had let down my tyres, but I was wary of my promise to DC Filippos.

However, Jason Conway didn’t go directly to the entrance. Instead, he veered off to his right, heading for the cars and four-by-fours already lined up six deep in the members’ car park.

I hung back, not wanting to be seen following him.

He moved swiftly along the second line of vehicles almost right to the far end until he came to a long black Mercedes with dark-tinted rear windows. He ducked down a little and knocked on the driver’s window, which opened a couple of inches. As far as I could tell there was no verbal exchange with an occupant, just a handing out of what looked like a small white envelope that Jason quickly stuffed into his trouser pocket before walking away.

I bent down low behind another car in the next line so that he couldn’t see me. Gone were my plans to rattle him. The handing over of the envelope had all the hallmarks of a clandestine exchange, furtive and unseen, and I had no desire to let Jason Conway become aware that, in fact, I had witnessed it all.

What could be in the envelope?

Drugs was the first thing that came to mind, but why would anyone hand over drugs in a racecourse car park before racing, when the place was awash with people either arriving or having a couple of sharpeners over a tailgate before taking on the bookies. Surely it would have been better at the end of the day when it would be getting dark and everyone was intent on just finding their vehicles and departing.

It had to be something that he needed straight away, something that couldn’t wait until the end of the day.

His next fix? Was he addicted?

But what about the drug testers? Cheltenham Gold Cup day would be a given for them to be on-site with their detested pee-sampling kits. The racing authority took a very dim view of jockeys caught using recreational drugs, including alcohol, cannabis and cocaine. In a palpably dangerous sport, anything that could impair judgement was a threat to the safety of all participants – much like a Formula One star driving under the influence in a Grand Prix.

I stayed low and watched Conway walk back down the line of cars towards the racecourse entrance.

What should I do now?

Should I follow him? Or should I watch and wait at the Mercedes to see who emerged?

I suddenly felt really excited, like a schoolgirl who has discovered something that no one else knows. As a teenager, I had avidly devoured all the Nancy Drew Mysteries, livening up my own rather tedious young life by imagining myself accompanying the youthful amateur sleuth on her thrilling adventures, and here I was now being a detective myself, and one step ahead of the police.

I decided to stay where I was and see who got out of the black Mercedes but I was to be disappointed. Almost as soon as Jason Conway had disappeared through the racecourse entrance, the Mercedes drove off. I stood and watched it go to the car-park exit and turn left onto the Evesham Road in the direction of Cheltenham town centre.

How odd, I thought, to be in the members’ car park but not stay for the racing. I now wished I had followed Conway, but maybe the occupants of the Mercedes had been watching to see if he’d had a tail.

At least I had taken a photograph with my phone of the rear of the car as it drove away, its number plate clearly visible.

I walked back to the jockeys’ reserved car-parking area, which had filled up considerably in the meantime. There I found one of my erstwhile colleagues, Dr Jack Otley, who was still acting. He had just arrived and was putting on his coat.

‘Hi, Jack,’ I said. ‘How are things?’

‘Oh, hi, Chris. I didn’t think you were here today.’

‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘Least, I’m not here as one of the team.’

‘Adrian is not very happy with you,’ he said. ‘He was in a foul mood yesterday, saying you had deceived him.’

‘That’s not actually true. But it might be best not to tell him you’ve seen me.’ I laughed. ‘Are the drug testers in today, do you know?’

Drug testing of the jockeys was performed by an independent organisation that turned up randomly at racecourses in order to carry out either breath or urine tests. If it was a breath day then all the jockeys riding were tested for alcohol with the limit only half of that permitted for driving, and, for a urine day, a minimum of ten riders, selected by draw, were required to give a urine sample before leaving the racecourse. Even though the testers were independent of the racecourse medical team, they did need to notify the senior medical officer of their presence.