Pulse(80)

‘The man was an investigator working for Indian racing,’ he’d told me. ‘He was looking into an allegation that an Indian bookmaker was paying jockeys in Britain to fix races.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He said so. He was asking if anyone knew of a man called Geronimo. I remember because it seemed odd – a Native American Indian rather than an Indian from India as I’d thought.’

‘Was Geronimo the bookmaker?’

Dick shook his head. ‘Apparently he’s some sort of intermediary. According to the dead man, Geronimo is English. The fixer.’

‘But the dead man was an Indian from India, not from America or England. The police finally found out who he was. His name was Rahul Kumar from Delhi.’

‘So the name Geronimo must be just a joke, a nickname. A play on the Indian thing.’

‘What else did the man say?’

‘Not much.’

‘So why were Mike Sheraton and Jason Conway arguing with him?’

‘I don’t know but it wasn’t the first time. He’d been at Sandown the previous Saturday asking questions and both JC and Sheraton had been arguing with him then too.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before? Or tell the police? Why did you lie?’

‘I didn’t lie. You only asked me the man’s name and I told you I didn’t know. And I don’t. I’m no grass. I don’t want to get involved. It’s none of my business.’

‘But the integrity of your sport is at risk.’

‘Integrity! Don’t make me laugh. Far too many people in racing are on the make.’

‘But not you?’

‘Not me.’

I wasn’t at all sure I believed him. But he hadn’t had to tell me what he knew. My question now was: what did I do about it? Did I tell anyone else? Would it make any difference? If Dick McGee would deny ever having told me then any evidence would be dismissed as mere hearsay and not admissible in a court.

I was still pondering these questions when I arrived back at the Mini. So preoccupied had I been thinking about what Dick had said that only then did I realise I was still carrying the bag containing Jason Conway’s clothes.

‘Sorry, boys,’ I said to the twins, ‘I’ve got to go back in for something else, but I promise I won’t be as long this time.’

‘Oh, come on, Mum,’ Toby whined. ‘We’re starving.’

‘How about us stopping at McDonald’s on the way home?’ I said.

That cheered them up.

‘I won’t be long.’

‘That’s what you said last time,’ Oliver complained.

‘I mean it this time,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

I went back into the hospital main entrance and found out from reception which ward Jason Conway was in. Needless to say, it was the farthest away.

As a concussion case, he was also in a side ward with the light dimmed. Total rest, read the sign on the door. I’d been tempted just to leave the bag of his things at the nurses’ station but things had a habit of disappearing, especially phones, so I slipped into his room as quietly as I could.

Jason was lying on his back in the semi-darkness but he wasn’t asleep. He rotated his head towards me.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ he asked.

Charming, I thought, and wondered why I’d bothered to come back. I was beginning to wish I’d just dumped his stuff in a rubbish bin in the car park and driven the boys straight home.

‘Whizz asked me to bring in your clothes,’ I said, holding up the bag. ‘Your phone’s in here too. Whizz says not to worry about your car. He’ll get someone to drive it home for you tomorrow.’

‘I intend being out of here first thing in the morning. I’ll drive it home myself.’

‘You’ll have to sort that out with him,’ I said. ‘He has the keys.’

I put the bag down on the end of his bed.

‘You can sod off now,’ he snarled, without a hint of thanks. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be in this bloody dump of a hospital.’

‘You were concussed in a fall,’ I said. ‘It had nothing to do with me.’

‘You sent me here.’

‘Not just me,’ I said. ‘The ambulance crew said you were concussed before I even got to you.’

‘You could have stopped it.’ He was angry.

‘Now, why would I do that when you were clearly confused? It was for your own good. You are just lucky that the scan showed no bleeding into your brain.’

Maybe, if the scan had showed something amiss, it would have improved his temper, if not his prognosis.

‘If you want my advice you should just rest and do what the medical staff tell you. The quicker you try and get up and about, the longer it will take for you to recover fully and get back to riding.’

It was good advice – not that I’d taken it myself back in March when I’d been hit by the bus.

‘I don’t need your fucking advice,’ Jason said with real venom. ‘Now get the hell out of here.’

The ungrateful, good-for-nothing, spot-fixing scumbag, I thought.

Now I was getting angry – furious in fact.

I started to go but my anger got the better of me.