“Thirty minutes to air time, everybody,” shouted Matthew, the floor manager.
“I must get back to the scanner,” Lisa said and hurried off.
—
TO THE UNTRAINED EYE, the next twenty-five or so minutes may have looked a bit chaotic, but, in fact, they were precisely choreographed.
Cameras moved from side to side, then back and forth, rehearsing, all under the control of the program director, who was sitting out in the scanner and communicating with the cameramen via their headphones.
“Fifteen minutes to on-air,” Matthew shouted.
The presenters were wired up with microphones and earpieces, each of us rehearsing what we would say for sound levels and then checking with Lisa that we could all hear the talk-back and that she could also hear us.
Then we sat in our positions for final checks on camera angles while someone applied dabs of powder to those parts of our faces that were shining too much under the powerful lights.
“Five minutes to on-air.”
And still there was no sign of Austin Reynolds.
“Four minutes.”
I went over in my head once again what I planned to say about each of the horses in the big race.
“Three minutes.”
“Mark,” Lisa said into my ear, “we’ll come straight to you after the weekly roundup to discuss the fillies’ race and also the Scoop6 Cup at Ascot. We’ll have to hope that Austin is here by the first commercial break, and we’ll do the Millions Trophy after that.”
“OK,” I said, shuffling madly through my copy of the Racing Post to find the relevant pages.
“Two minutes.”
One of the staff placed a Morning Line–branded cup full of coffee in front of each of the presenters.
“One minute.”
There was nothing quite like live television to raise the pulse.
Nothing, that is, except being strangled.
—
AUSTIN REYNOLDS finally arrived on the set just before the second commercial break, by which time there was less than ten minutes left to the program. I could imagine Lisa pulling her hair out in the scanner.
“Get him in during the break,” she said in all our ears.
Fortunately it was Lisa’s practice always to have far more content available than we could ever have fit into the allotted time. Most weeks we ran well behind the printed schedule, and things at the end had to be either dropped or postponed until another week.
This time we were glad of it to fill in missing interview time with Austin, which had been expected to last about fifteen minutes but would now be less than five.
“Five minutes to shut-up,” said the production assistant into my ear.
“So, Austin,” I said, “how do you rate your chances this afternoon with Tortola Beach in the big race?”
“He should run well,” Austin said, smiling. “Let’s just say I’m hopeful.”
“So you think he’ll stay the seven-eighths-of-a-mile trip?” I asked. “Let’s have a look at his last run at Doncaster seven weeks ago. And remember, that was over only three-quarters.”
“Cue VT,” Lisa said on the talk-back.
The now familiar film of Tortola Beach running at Doncaster in August appeared on the screen in front of us. I continued to speak over the images. “Tortola Beach seemed certain to win from here, but he fades badly in the last two hundred yards to be third.” I didn’t need to watch the film again to know what happened in the race. Instead, I watched Austin’s face closely for any reaction to it.
“That’s true,” Austin said. “But that run was inconsistent with his work at home, where he’s shown good stamina even over a mile.”
“Three minutes to shut-up.”
The VT ended.
“Cue Mark. Camera two.”
The on-air light on the camera in front of me glowed red.
“Did my sister, Clare, who was riding him there, say anything to you after the race which might have explained why he faded so badly?”
“No,” Austin said. “She had no explanation for it at all. As I said, it was contrary to what he’s done elsewhere. And it’s not that he doesn’t like to be in front. He’s usually a natural front-runner. I think it must have been a one-off. Perhaps he was just having a bad day.”
“Two minutes to shut-up.”
“OK, Mark,” Lisa said into my earpiece. “Wind up the interview, and also close the show.”
“Well, let’s hope he proves you right this afternoon,” I said, smiling at Austin. “Tortola Beach is currently fourth favorite, quoted by most bookmakers at nine-to-one, and my money will certainly be on his nose to win.”
“One minute to shut-up,” said the voice in my ear.
“I think you’ll get a good run for your money,” said Austin. “And I’d like to say how sorry I am that Clare will not be riding him today. I can’t believe she’s gone. She’s a great loss to our sport.”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Thank you very much, Austin,” I said. “I think we all miss her. I know I certainly do.”
“Twenty seconds.”
“And good luck to you this afternoon with Tortola Beach.”
“Ten seconds, nine, eight . . .”
I turned to face camera two as the countdown continued in my ears. “I hope you will join us this afternoon for seven races here on Channel 4 from both Newmarket and Ascot, as well as a special bonus, the Two Year Old Trophy from Redcar. And it all starts at one fifty-five. See you then. Bye, bye.”
“. . . two, one, shut up,” said the production assistant on the talk-back just as the red light on the camera in front of me went out and the program credits appeared on the screen.
“Well done, everybody,” said Lisa. “A bit disjointed, but we had no choice. Mark, tell that bloody Austin Reynolds to get a new car.”
“Will do,” I replied. “Austin, Lisa the producer says thank you so much for coming. She’s still down in the production van.” And I could hear her laughing in my ear over the talk-back.
An audio technician came over and relieved me of my microphone and earpiece, and then he removed Austin’s microphone as well. One should always assume a microphone was live—a lesson that some politicians never seem to learn.
Austin started to get up, but I asked him to stay with me just for a minute or two. So we sat next to each other on the sofa while the rest of the crew began dismantling the lights and packing away the cameras and other equipment around us.
“How often did Clare ride for you?” I asked.
“Oh, quite often,” Austin replied. “When she was up at the northern tracks and not riding for Geoff Grubb. These days, I tend to run most of mine on the Yorkshire circuits, as many of my owners are from there. I always liked Clare to ride my horses, if she could. She rode lots of winners for me.”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “But how often did she stop them winning for you?”
15
What did you say?” Austin Reynolds said.
“I asked how often Clare stopped horses for you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes, I think you do,” I said.
I had watched him intently as the VT of the race had been shown and there had been a distinct smirk of satisfaction on his face.
I was in no doubt whatsoever that Austin Reynolds had known exactly what would happen to Tortola Beach in that race at Doncaster and that he had been delighted by the outcome.
“Did you lay Tortola Beach to lose?” I asked.
“No. I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but he looked worried and sweat had appeared on his brow.
I thought back to what had been written on that white envelope in Clare’s desk:
AS AGREED, A.
Had the A. stood for Austin?
“And did you pay Clare two thousand pounds for stopping him?”
That shocked him. I could tell from his eyes.
It had been a bit of a guess on my part but I had clearly hit the bull’s-eye.
“You can’t prove anything,” he hissed.
“You think so, do you?” I said. “I wonder if the police can get fingerprints from twenty-pound notes. Or DNA from the envelope they were handed over in.”
He went quite pale.
“And were you also sleeping with her?”
“What?”
“Were you having an affair with my sister?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I wasn’t.”
I was tempted to believe him on this point. He had been genuinely surprised by the question, and I didn’t really think that he was Clare’s type in spite of the fact that she tended to fall for older men. But Austin Reynolds was very much older, some twenty-five years, and he didn’t much give the impression of being a great Lothario.
“What are you going to do now?” Austin asked miserably.
“Nothing,” I said. “At least nothing just yet.”
“So what should I do?” he said.
“Whatever you like,” I said. “Running all your horses to win might be a good start.”
He looked at me with uncertainty in his eyes, mixed with a touch of hate and contempt.
“But what about the money?” he asked.
“What about it? You surely don’t want it back?”
“Not that money,” he said, “the other money.”
“What other money?”
“Look, stop playing games with me.” I thought he was close to tears. “I’m talking about the ten thousand you’ve asked for.”
“I haven’t asked you for anything,” I said. “I was aware that Clare had purposely stopped Tortola Beach from winning, but I only realized that you also knew when I watched you looking at the race just now.”
“Oh God,” Austin said, “then who is it?”
“Who is what?” I asked.
“Who is blackmailing me?”
At that point, rather inconveniently, Lisa arrived from the scanner and walked over toward us.
“Aren’t you both coming for breakfast?” she asked.
“We’ll be there in a minute,” I said. “Austin and I are just discussing the running of his horses.”
She looked at Austin. “Did Mark tell you that I said you should get a new car?”
“I’m sorry I was late.”
“Yeah, you’re a bloody nuisance,” Lisa said.
She had a well-earned reputation for believing that it was she who was doing the favor for the guests who agreed to come on her program rather than the other way around. And she wasn’t against giving them a hard time if they didn’t do as they were told.
“I said to be here by seven-thirty, not twenty to nine.”
“I couldn’t help it,” he whined, “the battery was flat. I had to wait for the Automobile Association. I got here as soon as I could.”
I bet he was now wishing he hadn’t bothered to make it here at all.
—
AUSTIN MANAGED to escape from my attentions by saying he was going to the gents’ on our way to breakfast and then disappearing altogether.
I didn’t mind too much. I knew where to find him. For a start, he would be with Tortola Beach in the parade ring before the third race later that afternoon.
“So how come you got yourself strangled?” Lisa asked as we tucked in to bacon and eggs in one of the grandstand restaurants. “Whoever did it couldn’t have been much cop if you’re still here to tell the tale.”
“Oh thanks a lot,” I said. “I tell you, I’m damn lucky not to have been murdered.”
I explained to her in detail how I had crashed my car in order to survive and how I’d spent half the night in Addenbrooke’s hospital.
At last, Lisa started to take me seriously. “Have you any idea who it was?”
“None,” I said. “And I’ve no idea why either.”
I decided not to mention anything to her about Mitchell Stacey. The more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that he had been involved. Strangulation from behind just didn’t seem to be his sort of thing. But I suppose I couldn’t be sure.
“Were you serious when you said it might have something to do with the murder of Toby Woodley?”
“I really don’t know,” I said. “Was it just coincidence that there were two ‘racing’ attacks only two days apart and I was present at both of them?”
“Coincidences do happen, you know,” Lisa said. “And Toby Woodley was such an awful little creep that there must have been a shedload of people queuing up to kill him. Me, for one.”
“He may have been an awful little creep, but his death was still horrible. And no one deserves to be stabbed in the back.”
“Oh please,” she mocked, “don’t make me cry. Toby Woodley deserved everything he got.”
“You’re a hard woman, Lisa. You might think differently if he’d died in your lap.”
“Why, did he die in yours?”
“As a matter of fact he did.”
She was surprised. “I’d heard a rumor that you’d helped to give him CPR, but I didn’t really believe it.”
“All true, I’m afraid,” I said. “Guilty as charged. Not that it did him any good. He bled to death, and quickly too. Very nasty.”
“Do the police have any idea who did it?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said, “but they’d hardly tell me anyway.”
“Probably someone who got fed up with his bloody sniping. I don’t believe that man ever wrote a single word of truth in that rag of his.”
“Do you remember that piece he did in the summer about a trainer laying his horses on the Internet and then ensuring they lost?”
“Remember it?” Lisa said with irritation. “We did a segment about it on the show. Even had Woodley on as a guest because he promised me he’d reveal who it was on the air.”
“And did he?” I couldn’t remember it, but I’d been abroad on holiday in late May.
“Did he, hell! It was a total waste of time. One of my worst-ever shows. Little creep just sat there grinning like the Cheshire Cat, making promises he never kept. I reckon he simply made it all up. Load of old tosh. The bastard made me look like a fool.”
So that was why Lisa hated him so much.
“And, madam, what were you doing on Wednesday evening last at nine o’clock?” I mimicked a policeman holding a notebook.
“Ha, ha,” she said, forcing a smile. “I was at home, Officer, watching The Apprentice on television, and I have witnesses to prove it.”
I thought about Austin Reynolds. Had he been the trainer in the story? Had Toby Woodley in fact been much closer to the truth than Lisa, or anyone else, had imagined?
“You don’t think that story had anything to do with his death, then?” I asked.
“Do you?”
I could hardly say yes without backing it up with some sort of evidence and I didn’t really want to do that. Lisa had an uncanny ability for smelling out a story, and the last thing I wanted was to put her on the scent of Clare and race fixing.
“I don’t know,” I said tamely, “but there must have been some motive. People don’t just stab someone for no reason.”
“Don’t they?” she said. “Haven’t you watched the news recently?”
Lisa lost interest in our conversation and started talking to the show’s director on her other side.
I sat there thinking about Austin Reynolds and what he had said about being blackmailed. Someone else must have known about his involve
ment with race fixing.
Had it been Toby Woodley? Was that why he’d been killed?
Where, I wondered, had Austin Reynolds been at nine o’clock last Wednesday evening? Could he have been in the parking lot at Kempton races, murdering Toby to save having to pay his blackmail demands?
But that didn’t make any sense. Not half an hour ago when I’d confronted him, Austin had clearly thought that it must have been me who was blackmailing him. So why would he think that if he’d believed Toby was responsible, and to the point of murdering him?
No. There had to be a fourth party involved. At least. And that was assuming Toby’s death had indeed been something to do with the race fixing story in the first place, something that was by no means certain.
—
I USED my cell phone to call Detective Chief Inspector Perry at ten o’clock, as he’d requested.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Tired,” I said. “I didn’t get to bed until four, and I was up again at six-thirty.”
“I heard from the hospital that they sent you home. Where are you now?”
“Newmarket racetrack,” I said. “I’m working here, and will be for the rest of the day.”
“Doing what?” he asked.
“I present racing on television. We’re covering Newmarket this afternoon.”
“Is that why you asked me last night if I followed racing?”
“Yes,” I said. “I thought you might have seen me if you did.”
“Sorry, no.” He didn’t sound very sorry. “Is your voice better?”
“It’s a lot better now than last night, thank you.” But I was glad I wasn’t commentating. “Did you find any fingerprints in my car?”
“Masses of them,” he said. “We now have to find out if any of them belong to our strangler. We’ll do a computerized criminal records comparison first, but we may need to eliminate anyone who’s recently been in the back of your car.”
I thought about Nicholas and Brendan, and also the paramedic. All three of them had been in the back after the attack, to say nothing of the firemen who’d cut off the roof.
“How about the rope?”
“A search of the area revealed nothing. He must have taken it with him. Maybe it was a scarf or something.”
Dick Francis's Bloodline (9781101600931) Page 18
