Pulse(50)

‘We have an open mind about that,’ the detective said again. ‘We have no evidence that he came either by car or by train. There were no train tickets found on him.’

‘Nor any car keys,’ I said.

‘No. Those neither. But he could have had a lift from someone, even someone he didn’t know.’

‘How about CCTV?’

‘The racecourse system failed to spot him entering and the cameras at the train station were out of order on the day in question.’

How typical was that, I thought.

‘How about the bookmaker’s slip in the man’s pocket?’

‘Dead end.’

‘Which bookmaker?’ I asked.

There was a pause while the sergeant worked out in his own mind if telling me was a good idea or a bad one.

‘Come on,’ I said imploringly. ‘Tell me. Which bookmaker?’

‘Tommy Berkley,’ he said reluctantly. ‘We showed him the photo but he says he can’t remember the man. Seems he only ever remembers the big winners and big losers, and our man was neither of those.’

‘How much was the bet?’ I asked. That too would have been printed on the slip.

‘Five pounds to win. Not very memorable.’

‘Which horse?’

‘I can’t recall,’ the detective sergeant replied with some irritation. ‘It doesn’t matter which horse.’

‘Fabricated,’ interjected DC Filippos, the first thing he’d said all interview.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Merryweather. ‘The horse’s name was Fabricated.’

Just like the jockeys’ story about the man parking his car in their spaces.

After more than half an hour, I was sent on my way with another strongly worded warning still ringing in my ears.

‘Leave it all to us,’ DS Merryweather commanded firmly, ‘or else you will be arrested and charged with obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.’

‘But . . .’

‘No buts,’ he said, holding up a hand to interrupt me. ‘Absolutely no buts.’

But there were buts, I thought. Lots of them.

But I was certain that the man’s death actually was suspicious.

But I was the only person who had actually seen the reaction from Dick McGee and the other jockeys when they had seen the image of the dead man.

But I was the only person who therefore knew they were lying.

And finally, but this was very important to me, and not just for the dead man’s sake. My whole future mental well-being might depend on it.

So I had no intention whatsoever of leaving it all to the police.





19


Racing was well under way by the time I emerged from the police control room.

What should I do now?

I wandered aimlessly among the huge crowd, surrounded on every side by those having a good time yet feeling totally isolated and alone. Somehow, up until this point, I had considered myself part of a team that was trying to solve the mystery of the dead man. Suddenly, I had been cast out, unwelcome and unappreciated.

Not wanted as a consultant at the hospital, not wanted as a doctor at the racecourse, and now seemingly ‘not wanted’ in any capacity, I would have had every right and excuse for descending once more into a depression-fuelled abyss. However, far from feeling miserable about my situation, I was spurred on by it.

I would discover why the man died.

I may have failed him in life, but I would not do so again in death.

I watched the third race from the jam-packed viewing steps of the grandstand, crammed in between a group of six young men on a day trip from Birmingham and another of five, over from County Cork across the Irish Sea. I knew this because they introduced each other at length, every one of them insisting on shaking hands with all the members of the other group, something not easy when we were all squashed together like sardines.

I was unintentionally swept up in this example of international friendship, shaking my hand with all of them and even receiving a few beery kisses along the way.

It made me laugh, and it was just what I needed.

The favourite won the race to a great cheer from the crowd and was welcomed into the winner’s circle like a returning war hero.

I, meanwhile, made my way through the throng to the betting ring, that open space in front of the grandstand where the majority of the bookmakers stood at their pitches, their price boards glowing brightly with red and yellow lights.

‘Let’s be ’aving you,’ one of them shouted enthusiastically at the milling mass of prospective customers, ‘eleven-to-four the field for the Gold Cup.’

The punters moved up and down the lines of bookmakers looking for the best-offered odds for their selected horse. The odds could vary slightly from bookie to bookie, and also in time as the race approached. Odds would shorten if large bets were made on a particular horse, while others might drift longer on less-fancied runners.

It was the way the bookmakers controlled the total bet with them on each horse, to maintain their ‘book’ in profit whatever the outcome. The official ‘starting price’ was the most frequent odds on the boards in the betting ring at the moment the race started.

However, the only odds I was really interested in were those displayed on the board of bookmaker Tommy Berkley.