Pulse(48)

‘They haven’t been here all week so I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Jack said.

‘If they come, get them to test Jason Conway,’ I said.

Jack looked at me strangely. ‘Why?’

‘Just ask them.’

‘Chris, if you have reason to believe that a jockey should be tested for drugs, then you need to go through the proper channels.’ He was being very formal.

‘Via Adrian Kings?’ I shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’

He looked awkward. ‘I must go. Adrian wants everyone there early today.’

Everyone except me.

Jack hurried off towards the entrance and my watch showed me it was half past eleven. Still two hours until the first race and an hour before I was due to meet with the police.

The police.

I made a call.

‘DC Filippos,’ said the voice that answered.

‘Ask Jason Conway about the envelope in his right trouser pocket,’ I said.

‘Sorry,’ said the policeman. ‘Who is this?’

‘Chris Rankin,’ I said. ‘Ask Conway about the envelope. Or, better still, search him.’

‘Dr Rankin,’ he said with a somewhat exasperated tone, ‘we can’t just search people without good reason. What is in this envelope?’

‘I thought you could stop and search anyone.’

‘Only if we have reasonable grounds for suspicion. Now, what is in the envelope?’

‘Drugs,’ I said, jumping to a conclusion. ‘I saw it being handed over from a black Mercedes in the car park.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

I hesitated. ‘No, I’m not sure, but why else would something be handed over in such a furtive manner so that no one else could see?’

‘But you saw.’

‘Only because I was following him.’

‘Dr Rankin,’ the policeman said in a rather condescending manner, ‘I have already told you to leave any investigating to us.’

‘I am,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m telling you about the envelope. So that you can investigate it.’

I decided not to mention my photograph of the Mercedes number plate, not yet anyway. Best to see what was in the envelope first.

I hung around for a while longer in the car park but either Dick McGee was late or he had slipped in during my excursion up the line of cars behind Jason Conway.

I was concerned that my ‘Authorised Doctor’ pass might have been revoked but it allowed me to safely negotiate the entrance turnstiles.

I kept well away from the weighing room and the parade ring, and I carefully bypassed the Vestey Bar in making my way up towards The Centaur, a big indoor space that could be used for all sorts of events from weddings and dinner dances to live-band music concerts and conferences.

During the racing festival, the space was used simply as an extension of the grandstand with bars, food outlets and bookmakers catering for the many who preferred to remain inside away from the elements, watching the action on a huge-screen projection TV.

I was at the police control room in the foyer bang on the appointed time but I still had to wait. Indeed, it was almost one o’clock before detectives Merryweather and Filippos arrived, and they weren’t particularly happy with me.

I was ushered into a small interview room containing a table and four chairs. I sat on one side of the table while the two policemen sat opposite.

‘Am I under arrest, or something?’ I asked with a hollow laugh.

Neither of them laughed back.

‘Not at this time,’ said DS Merryweather seriously. ‘However, we are concerned that you are interfering with our investigation, something that has to stop.’

‘I’m only trying to help,’ I said sheepishly.

‘Well, you’re not,’ he said angrily. ‘And, if you don’t cease immediately, I will have you arrested for wasting police time.’

He was trying to bully me, and I didn’t like it.

‘How exactly have I wasted your time?’ I said, robustly defending myself. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have found anyone who knew who the nameless man was.’

‘We still haven’t,’ he replied.

‘But those jockeys know who he is.’

‘They deny that. Two of them agree that they may have had an argument with the man in the car park but they maintain they have no idea who he was.’

‘They’re lying,’ I said flatly.

‘How do you know?’ DS Merryweather said.

‘From their reaction to his picture. They were worried. They must know who he was. Can’t you do a lie-detector test on them?’

‘The polygraph is not standard equipment for use by UK police forces.’

More’s the pity, I thought.

‘And how about the envelope?’ I asked. ‘It was me who saw that transferred in the car park.’

‘Ah, yes,’ the detective said sarcastically. ‘The envelope. You told my constable here that it contained drugs. Why was that?’

‘Didn’t it?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said.

‘What did it contain?’ I asked.

‘A train time,’ he said. ‘Nothing more. Just a piece of paper with the name of a London railway station and the time of a train.’