Pulse(52)

Tommy Berkley was again busy when I went back to his pitch. I watched from about three yards away as he peeled notes from his wedge, handing them out to a line of successful punters before instantly encouraging them to reinvest on the next race.

He had spotted me earlier and now he looked across at me and raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner while continuing to pay out and take new bets.

I removed the photo of the dead man from my pocket and held it up so he could clearly see it.

‘Wait a minute,’ he shouted across. ‘This rush will die down soon. Not so much interest in the Foxhunter’s.’

The Foxhunter Challenge Chase was the race that immediately followed and was run over exactly the same course and distance, but was for amateur riders only. It was affectionately referred to as the Amateurs’ Gold Cup.

Gradually the bookmaker’s line of waiting customers diminished to zero.

‘Kevin,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Hold the fort a minute.’

Kevin appeared and took his place on the pitch.

‘Bill Tucker,’ he said, holding out his hand to me.

‘Not Tommy Berkley?’ I asked, shaking it.

‘My late father-in-law was Tommy Berkley. I took over the business when he died. Who are you?’

‘Dr Chris Rankin,’ I said. ‘I treated this man when he was admitted to hospital, where he later died.’ I held out the picture to him. ‘A betting slip with “Tommy Berkley” printed on it was found in his pocket.’

‘I’ve already told the police I don’t remember him.’

‘It was a five-pound bet on a horse called Fabricated.’

‘When?’

‘Saturday of the International meeting, last November.’

‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘No wonder I don’t remember. I’ve seen an awful lot of punters’ faces since then.’

‘Do you remember the horse?’ I asked.

‘Fabricated? Of course. Damn good chaser. Sadly didn’t run in the Ryanair this week due to injuring himself in the King George on Boxing Day. Fell at the last. Three miles was probably a bit far for him, if the truth be told. Better over two and a half. He might be back for the Melling Chase at Aintree in three weeks. Do you want a price on him?’

‘No thanks.’ I smiled at him. ‘What race was he in, back in November?’

‘That would’ve been the Mackeson, or whatever it’s called these days. The big race of the day anyway.’ He stared over my head for a second as if he was thinking. ‘Won by Price of Success at fifteen-to-two. Fabricated was third at eights, beaten a short-head for second by Medication at twelve-to-one, that’s if I remember right.’

I didn’t doubt his memory for a second. In my experience, bookmakers might not remember their customers but they knew most things about the horses, especially their breeding and form. Profit margins depended on it.

‘Do you remember who rode Fabricated?’ I asked.

‘Jason Conway usually rides him. I expect it was him.’

‘Good jockey?’

‘Sure, as good as any of the other top ones. That’s if he’s making an honest effort.’

It was presumed by most bookmakers that all jockeys were bent. The reverse was also the case.

‘Can you remember anything else about the race?’ I asked. ‘Anything unusual?’

He was silent for a moment.

‘Sorry, love. Too long ago. But you could watch a replay of it, if you want. Bound to be on YouTube by now and, if not, it’ll definitely be on the Racing UK website.’

‘Can you watch any past race on that?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. Most of them anyway. Either on the Racing UK or the At The Races websites. Depends on which racecourse. I do it all the time, but you might have to pay.’

‘Thanks, Bill. How do I contact you?’

‘Hold on.’

He went over to Kevin and said something that I didn’t catch, then he returned and handed me a slip of paper.

‘Free bet,’ he said. ‘Fiver to win on the favourite in the Foxhunter’s. My phone number is on the slip. If it wins, I’ll give you another.’ He laughed.

‘Thanks,’ I replied, laughing back.

Bookmakers were clearly not all bad.

I stuck the ticket into my pocket, just as the unnamed man must have done in November.

The favourite in the Foxhunter’s finished fourth. Win nothing. Lose nothing.

I had stood by the big screen near the parade ring to watch the race but now I hurried out through the exit gates. It was past the time I had intended to leave and I was desperate to get home before Grant. True, it was only twenty past four, but Grant had a habit of leaving work early on Fridays, especially on Gold Cup Friday when the traffic all over Cheltenham would soon be gridlocked for hours.

Even though I was much earlier than on Tuesday, and it was still light, I took extra care as I approached the car-park exit onto the Evesham Road. I turned through 360 degrees at least four or five times to be certain that no one was sneaking up on me ready to push me in front of a bus.

If I hadn’t been so watchful, I’d have probably missed it.

The long black Mercedes with the tinted windows was back and parked in one of the expensive reserved spaces close to the car-park exit, and I could see through the windscreen that there was a dark-suited man in the driver’s position. He had reclined the seat and was lying back with his eyes closed. Not that that was an unusual sight. There were quite a few other cars nearby with chauffeurs in them, waiting for their employers to emerge. Lucky them, I thought. An afternoon of good sport and fine wines, and no worries about having to drive home afterwards.