Dick Francis's Bloodline (9781101600931)

by Francis, Felix

  The VT was coming to an end. “Cue Mark,” said the director into my ear.

  “So let’s go straight over to join Iain Ferguson for the first of our three Group races from Ascot. Good afternoon, Iain.”

  The red light on the camera in front of me went off to indicate I was no longer live on air. I could relax a little as the first race from Ascot was being broadcast. I went over to Emily and gave her a cuddle.

  “I hope you’re not too cold,” I said. She had no coat and was wearing what I thought was far too thin a dress for being outdoors in October in spite of the unseasonably warm weather we had been enjoying. However, it did hug her alluring figure superbly, and that also did wonders for my adrenaline level.

  “I’m absolutely fine,” she said. “But aren’t you meant to be saying something? I thought you told me that you mustn’t stop talking.”

  “The presenter at Ascot is speaking now. The first race we’re showing is being run there, so I reckon I’ve got about another eight minutes before I’m back on.”

  But, nevertheless, my brain would still be on the alert for the word Mark just in case things didn’t go as planned and I had to step in. It was something you got used to: carrying on a conversation with a third party while listening for your name being spoken in your ear by the producer or director. The rest of the talk-back could float over me without really registering, but I would be brought to full awareness by the first mmm of Mark.

  The afternoon progressed without any major problem—that is, until the third race at Ascot was badly delayed due to a horse getting loose on the way down to the start and galloping on its own right around the racetrack.

  I could imagine the panic going on in the scanner as it was realized that the Ascot race would now coincide with the buildup for the big race of the afternoon at Newmarket. The pitch of the voices over the talk-back rose a notch with tension.

  “If that damn nag at Ascot isn’t caught soon, the two races will be run at the same time,” said Neville into my ear.

  It was his worst nightmare. One of the golden rules in horse race broadcasting was that no races were to be shown recorded, they had to go out live.

  Once upon a time, delaying a race broadcast by a bit wouldn’t have been too much of a problem, but now with Internet gambling, especially the growing popularity of betting on horses during the actual running of the race, being live was absolutely essential.

  “Matthew,” Neville called over the talk-back to the floor manager in the Newmarket parade ring, “see if Newmarket will hold for a couple of minutes if it looks like there’ll be a clash. Otherwise we’ll have to use a split screen.”

  I watched as Matthew ran over to the weighing room to speak to the stewards. But delaying the race wasn’t usually that simple. The meeting was also being broadcast live on the radio and any change in time, even by a couple of minutes, could badly disrupt the schedules.

  “Two minutes max,” said Matthew. “On your call.”

  “Great, thanks,” replied Neville. “Tell Kevin to get down to the start right now.” Kevin was the program runner, literally, and he already would be rushing down to the course to relay the producer’s message to the starter should it became necessary.

  “OK. Listen up, everyone,” said Neville in everybody’s ears. “We continue with the big race buildup here at Newmarket, with Ascot shown, mute, picture-in-picture. We stay with Newmarket but go over to Ascot for their race live, if and when they’re ready. We’ll only hold the Newmarket race for the two minutes if it looks like there’s going to be a clash. We might even need to take Newmarket before Ascot. If we have to use a split screen, we’ll take the commentary of whichever race starts first, then switch when it finishes.”

  And just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, the director reminded everyone that we had to fit in a three-minute commercial break before Newmarket’s race. It was part of our contract with the broadcaster.

  The loose horse was finally caught and subsequently withdrawn from the Ascot race, which started ten minutes late but just in time for the Newmarket race to go off as scheduled immediately after it. And the commercial break was somehow shoehorned in before both of them.

  Heart rates all around returned to normal levels, and the talk-back profanity count reverted to more acceptable proportions. It was a running joke in broadcasting that recording the talk-back was a sackable offense.

  Tortola Beach won Newmarket’s big race easily by three lengths and was led triumphantly into the winner’s enclosure by a beaming Austin Reynolds.

  “Mark, get a quick interview with Austin—now!” Neville demanded in my ear. “It will be a good follow-up to your conversation with him on The Morning Line.”

  Little did Neville know what else had been said in our conversation after The Morning Line had gone off the air.

  The cameraman and I stepped forward boldly, me with a handheld microphone at the ready like a gun. We gave Austin Reynolds no chance to say no.

  “Cue Mark.”

  “Congratulations, Austin Reynolds, trainer of Tortola Beach. A great run.”

  I pushed the microphone toward his mouth.

  “Yes,” he said. “Very pleasing.”

  “You said on The Morning Line earlier today that you were confident he would stay the seven-eighths-of-a-mile trip and so it has turned out. Do you think this confirms that his last run at Doncaster when he faded so badly near the finish was just a one-off anomaly?”

  He looked at me with a certain degree of loathing in his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m sure it was.”

  “So will he run in the Two Thousand Guineas next year?”

  “Quoted at twelve-to-one for the Guineas by Coral’s,” Neville said into my ear.

  “That’s the plan,” said Austin.

  “I hear he’s currently being quoted at twelve-to-one for the Guineas by Coral’s,” I said. “Do you think that’s a fair price?”

  “A bit short, I’d have said. He only started at tens today.”

  Yes, I thought. And I wondered if part of the reason for stopping the horse at Doncaster had been to get his starting price nice and long for this race.

  “Mark, OK, wrap the interview. Link to Iain for Ascot presentations.”

  “Thank you, Austin,” I said, turning away from him and back to the camera. “And now over to Iain Ferguson at Ascot for the presentations for their third race.”

  “Cue Iain,” said the director, and the camera’s red light in front of me went out.

  I would have loved to ask Austin Reynolds right there and then who he thought might be blackmailing him and why, but I didn’t particularly want everyone else in the country to overhear his answer.

  I decided to have a word with him later after the transmission was over, and after my microphone had been removed.

  The program went to another commercial break while the cameraman covered the Newmarket trophy presentation, which was recorded in the scanner.

  “Mark,” Neville said, “on return, discuss the Two Thousand Guineas ante-post market caption, and then we’ll go to the VT of our trophy presentation. Coming back to you in five, four, three, two, one . . . cue Mark.”

  I looked into the lens. “Welcome back to Newmarket, where the place is still buzzing from that spectacular win by Tortola Beach. So let us look at the ante-post market for the Two Thousand Guineas next May.” The graphic appeared on the screen, and I went through the list, Tortola Beach now being quoted as joint sixth favorite. The graphic disappeared, and I looked back into the camera lens. “And now we have the Millions Trophy presentation to the connections of Tortola Beach.”

  “Cue VT.”

  The recently recorded footage of the trophy presentation was broadcast as I voiced over it live while, at the same time, I had the director and producer wi
ttering away in my ear. “Mark, Scoop6 update, please—after four legs, there are only twenty-six tickets still left in. Then hand over to Iain at Ascot. Back to you in picture in five, four, three, two, one . . . cue Mark.”

  And so it went on, relentlessly, right through until twenty past four, when the production assistant said “Shut up” and we could all relax.

  “Well done, everybody,” said Neville. “Good job. See you all back here next week for Future Champions Day.”

  “Wow!” said Emily when I went over to her. “I had no idea.” The sound engineer had wired her up and she’d been listening to the chatter on the talk-back. “It’s amazing.”

  “It certainly is,” I agreed. “Those Hollywood film stars have no idea how easy they have it, doing multiple takes until they get it right and having breaks between scenes to learn their lines. I tell you, there’s nothing quite like live television to concentrate the mind.”

  “I could concentrate your mind,” Emily said seductively.

  —

  WE WENT TO CLARE’S COTTAGE.

  I didn’t think Clare would have minded as she was always telling me to get a proper girlfriend. And Emily’s place at Royston was simply too far away. We were both more eager than that.

  I had intended seeking out Austin Reynolds to ask him more about the blackmailer, but that, too, had been postponed due to the urgency of our more basic human urges.

  We hardly made it up the stairs to the guest bedroom, but, in the end, our lovemaking was gentle and tender, though not without passion and hunger.

  For both of us, it was a journey of exploration, a trip into new territory, and I for one found the experience hugely satisfying.

  “Wow!” Emily said again, lying back on the bed. “A day full of surprises.”

  “Good surprises?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” she said with a smile. “Wonderful surprises.” She suddenly sat up straight. “Do you have any wine? I’ve never been to the races before and not had a drink.”

  I laughed. “I’ll go and see.”

  I picked up my shirt and boxers from where they had fallen on the landing and put them back on. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right for me to be wandering around this house without any clothes on.

  “Red or white?” I called.

  “How about champagne?”

  “I’ll check.”

  I went downstairs and looked in Clare’s fridge for some cold bubbles.

  There were plenty of things that were out-of-date, and even some that were growing a nice covering of mold, but there were no bottles of champagne. I did find one, however, in her drinks cupboard in the sitting room, a nice bottle of Bolinger Special Cuvée, but it was decidedly warm.

  “Do you mind if the champagne’s warm?” I shouted up the stairs.

  “Isn’t there an ice bucket?” came the reply.

  There was, a silver one, sitting on the mantelpiece along with Clare’s other trophies.

  I took the bucket back to the kitchen and looked in the freezer. It was one of those American-style refrigerators with an internal ice maker. The hopper was only half full, so I lifted it out and poured the contents into the bucket.

  I was returning the empty hopper to the freezer when I noticed a flat plastic case stuck to the inside with some tape.

  I pulled the case away and opened it.

  It contained a DVD and a folded sheet of ordinary white copier paper.

  I sat on a stool at Clare’s breakfast bar and carefully unfolded the paper. There were three lines of printed text across the middle:

  I KNOW YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE.

  A CONTRIBUTION OF JUST £200 WILL MAKE THE STORY GO AWAY.

  GET THE CASH READY. PAYMENT INSTRUCTIONS WILL FOLLOW.

  I sat there staring at the words, turning the DVD over and over in my fingers.

  So it wasn’t only Austin Reynolds who had been blackmailed.

  17

  Are you going to sit there all day? I’m thirsty.”

  I turned around to find Emily standing provocatively in the kitchen doorway, and, unlike me, she obviously had no qualms about being naked in this house.

  She walked over and ran her fingers through my hair. “Are you coming back to bed or do I have to go and play with myself?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just coming.”

  “What are you looking at anyway?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said, starting to fold the sheet of paper, but Emily was already reading it over my shoulder.

  “Oh my God!” she screamed. “It’s a blackmail note. Who sent you that?”

  “No one,” I said.

  “And what was it that you did on purpose?”

  “It wasn’t sent to me,” I said. “I found it in the freezer.”

  “In the freezer? Where?”

  “In amongst the ice. It was taped to the inside of the hopper with this DVD. Clare must have hidden them in there.”

  “Were they sent to her?”

  “I assume so.”

  “Who by?” Emily asked. “And what was it that she did?”

  “It can’t have been very much, not if two hundred pounds is all the blackmailer asked for. Perhaps the DVD will give us a clue.”

  “Oh yes,” she said breathlessly. “How exciting.”

  Excitement wasn’t the first thing that came to my mind, but I was intrigued nonetheless.

  “There’s a DVD player in the sitting room,” I said. “Let’s go and see.”

  Emily ran upstairs and then quickly reappeared wearing one of Clare’s dressing gowns while I loaded the disk.

  I was a bit apprehensive as I pushed the play button. Did I really want to know what Clare had been up to? And, in particular, did I want Emily to find out as well? But it was too late to stop now. I had to see, and there was no way I was going to get Emily to go back upstairs and wait for me in the bedroom while I had a quick look at the DVD on my own. She was perched on the edge of the sofa in eager anticipation, bouncing up and down gently like a child waiting for a Christmas present.

  I thought it quite likely that the DVD would contain a recording of a race, but I was really surprised that it was the one at Wolverhampton the previous April when Clare had ridden Brain of Brixham into second place while mistaking the camera support pole for the winning post.

  “What’s so special about that?” Emily asked, obviously disappointed not to have seen some salacious footage.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “So what’s she supposed to have done on purpose?”

  “I presume it was that she didn’t win.”

  I played the film through again and explained to Emily what had happened.

  “But how can you blackmail someone for making a silly mistake?”

  “That’s a very good question.”

  I went up the stairs a little to retrieve my shoes and pants from where they had been discarded earlier.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need my laptop. It’s in your car.”

  I went out to get it, and then logged on the Racing Post website to see who trained Brain of Brixham.

  Why was I not surprised to discover that it was Austin Reynolds?

  Time for me to go and ask him some more questions, I thought.

  —

  IN SPITE OF my protestations, Emily came with me.

  “For a start,” she said, “I need to drive my car. You’re not insured for it.”

  I thought I probably was through my own insurance, but I could see that there was no way I was going to convince her not to come.

  She drove through Newmarket, then out on the Bury Road toward Austin Reynolds’s training establishment, where she parked on the gravel driveway in front of his mock-Georgi
an mansion.

  “Please wait in the car,” I said to Emily firmly. “It will be difficult enough to get him to talk to me alone. He certainly won’t do so with someone else listening.”

  Grudgingly, she agreed, and sat there rigidly holding the steering wheel while I went to ring the front doorbell.

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” Austin said, carelessly opening the door before he saw who it was. “Leave me alone.”

  He tried to close the door again, but I had my foot against it.

  “I only want to ask you a few questions.”

  “I haven’t got time,” he said. “We’ve got the Ingrams staying, and we’re having a small celebration here this evening. In fact, I thought you were the caterers arriving. Come back tomorrow.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Ingram were the owners of Tortola Beach.

  “Perhaps the Ingrams might be interested to know why their horse didn’t win at Doncaster in August.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t blackmailing me.”

  “I’m not,” I said.

  “That sounded like blackmail to me.”

  “It will only take a few minutes.”

  He thought for a moment. “Go round to my office. Down the side.” He pointed to his right. “I’ll come and let you in there.”

  Reluctantly, I removed my foot from his door and he closed it.

  “Down the side,” I shouted to Emily, and she drove behind me as I crunched over the gravel.

  Austin Reynolds’s office was attached to the back of his house, looking out toward the stable yard beyond, and he was already standing at the door, holding it open.

  “Who’s in the car?” he asked.

  “Just a friend.” I was suddenly very glad that Emily was with me. This felt a bit like walking into the lion’s den.

  I followed Austin into his office. There was not a lion to be seen.

  “What do you want?” he asked, sitting down behind his large oak desk.

  “I want to know who is blackmailing you.”

  “So do I.”

  “But you must have some idea.”

  “None,” he said. “All I received were notes.”