‘No,’ he said, ‘we have not.’
‘Didn’t the Singapore tailor or the Dubai shoemaker provide you with a name?’
‘No. Dead ends, both of them.’ If he was surprised I knew about them, he didn’t show it. ‘The tailor said he had no records, although I suspect he just didn’t want to get involved, and the shoe man only knew him as Rahul.’
‘Surely that’s a start,’ I said.
‘Rahul is an extremely common name. For a start, there are about a million Rahuls in India alone. It’s an Arabic name too. It is even prevalent in Southeast Asia. Buddha’s only son was called Rahul.’
‘Do you have any idea where our Rahul came from?’ I asked.
‘Indian family origin seems the most likely. It seems that DNA testing can’t positively determine race but the odds are on India because the man’s profile is similar to others from the subcontinent. But there’s no way of telling from the DNA if he was born in New Delhi, New York or Newcastle.’
I thought back and tried to remember if I’d assumed the man was Indian at the time. Not particularly so, but I could recall that his skin had been olive-brown and his hair black. He could have been Indian. But he could also have been Greek, or French, or Italian, or Spanish, or from any number of other countries where the sun shines brightly.
‘How about the toxicology results?’ I asked. ‘Do you know the definitive cause of death yet?’
‘Respiratory collapse and heart failure brought on by cocaine overdose. The quantity of the drug found in the man’s brain was extremely high, well over that required to kill.’
I nodded. If the blood-test result had been accurate then it had to be the case.
‘Any suggestion where the cocaine came from?’ I asked.
The detective sergeant hesitated as if deciding whether to tell me or not. ‘I believe you informed PC Filippos that cocaine could be dissolved into alcohol.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘It can be dissolved into almost anything.’
‘The empty whisky bottle found in the toilet waste bin did contain cocaine. The tiny bit of liquid that remained in the bottle was tested and found to be at such a high concentration that just drinking a little of it would have been lethal.’
‘So you think that our Rahul must have drunk from the bottle?’
‘It seems to be the logical scenario although, obviously, we have no idea if he did it on purpose or if it was an accident.’
‘Or murder?’ I asked.
There was a slight pause from the other end of the line.
‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘There’s no apparent motive.’
‘But you don’t know who the man is. Don’t you think that’s suspicious in itself? There may also be a motive that you don’t know about either.’
‘I agree but, for the time being, the man’s death is being classified as “unexplained” rather than “suspicious”.’
‘How about fingerprints?’ I said. ‘Were his on the bottle?’
‘Indeed they were.’
‘Oh.’ That stopped my dubious thoughts. ‘So what do you do now?’
‘Keep on trying to discover his identity. We’ve sent his details over to our counterparts in India just in case he’s from there, but their bureaucratic wheels turn so slowly it may be weeks or even months before we hear back.’
‘How about here?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t seen his photo in the press or on the TV?’
‘We’ve tried but, when there is no apparent crime involved, the editors aren’t interested. To them he was just another druggie found dead from an overdose in a public lavatory. The fact that we don’t know who he was is irrelevant as far as they are concerned.’
‘You could always post his photo at the racecourse for the Festival next week and see if anyone recognises him. After all, he was found there.’
‘We already have that in hand, Dr Rankin.’
Hence, when I arrived at Cheltenham Racecourse the following Tuesday, one couldn’t fail to see the man’s photo stuck up next to every entry turnstile.
‘DEAD MAN,’ said a caption underneath in bold capital letters. ‘Do you know him?’ There was also a telephone number to call if you did.
I wondered how they had got his eyes open for the photo, let alone appearing to stare straight into the camera. They had been firmly shut when I’d last seen him. I found knowing it was a picture taken of a dead man rather creepy, especially as his unseeing eyes seemed to follow me around as I moved.
There were more copies of the image in the weighing room where I went to present myself to Adrian Kings, the senior racecourse medical officer for the day. In his day job, Adrian was a GP in nearby Tewkesbury.
‘Ah, hello, Chris,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the medical team.’ He looked at me closely. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Perfectly,’ I said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You just look rather pale and gaunt, that’s all.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘And eager to get going.’ I smiled broadly at him.
‘Good,’ he said, forcing back a smile. ‘Senior medical officer’s briefing in ten minutes.’
On each day of the Festival there were five official racecourse doctors on duty, including myself and Adrian, plus two nurses, a physiotherapist and five ambulance crews, each consisting of two qualified paramedics. In addition there would be a doctor representing the Irish Turf Club, someone who knew and was known to the many Irish riders who came over to compete at the Festival.
And all that was just for the jockeys.
Medical care for the rest of the vast crowd was provided elsewhere in compliance with the Sports Grounds Safety Authority regulations for sporting venues. That was not our concern, nor could it be. We were to concentrate solely on those brave souls balanced high on half a ton of horseflesh while jumping over huge fences at high speed, with no seatbelts or airbags available in the event of a crash.
And they called me crazy!
Adrian’s briefing took place in the jockeys’ medical room with all nineteen members of the team crammed in around the two hospital-style beds and the physio’s treatment table.
Before he started, we were honoured by a visit from Rupert Forrester, managing director of the racecourse, who came to give us a pep talk.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We will be very much in the public eye this week with extensive television news coverage. There are those who would try to destroy our wonderful sport of jump racing so it is vital that we not only look after any injured jockeys and horses, but that we are seen to do so with care and professionalism. I am sure I don’t have to remind you that your actions may be closely scrutinised by certain members of the press.’
But he had done so anyway, I thought.
‘Thank you all for your service,’ he said in closing.
‘Thank you, Rupert,’ Adrian Kings said. ‘I am confident that we will all do our duty with diligence and competence.’
The managing director nodded at him, and then at us, before departing to give the same speech, no doubt, to the veterinary team.
Adrian cleared his throat. ‘Right, seven races on the card today, including four chases. Lots of runners so plenty of potential to keep us all busy.’ He smiled. Adrian liked to be kept busy. As a GP he saw very few, if any, trauma cases so the more complex the injuries the more he liked it, short of anything spinal. None of us enjoyed dealing with those.
From my point of view, the quieter the afternoon turned out to be the better. I would be content not to have to set foot on the track at all. But I realised that I was also quite excited by the prospect of, once again, using my medical skills. I had not touched an actual patient in four months, but I hadn’t wasted my time. I’d taken the opportunity to read all the latest medical journals and to catch up on some new techniques in emergency medicine. Now, maybe, I would have the chance to put some of them into practice.
Adrian handed out some racecards and then he went through each race in turn, referring to a lar
ge map of the racecourse and detailing with a marker pen on a whiteboard where each doctor or ambulance was to be positioned.
He himself regularly chose either to remain with the nurses in the jockeys’ medical room or to go up high in the grandstand with the ‘spotter’, someone whose sole job was to watch for any fallers and call in veterinary or medical help if required.
I, meanwhile, would be out on the course with the other doctors, either on foot or as a passenger in a vehicle, following the horses as they ran, ready to give assistance to any faller.
‘Do not forget,’ Adrian said to us seriously, ‘our primary task is to provide aid to every fallen rider within a maximum of one minute of him or her hitting the ground, but not at the price of putting yourselves in danger. Always keep your eyes and ears open for loose horses, and for any runners who are well behind the rest.’
He went on to describe the arrangements for calling for a fence to be bypassed if an injured jockey could not be moved before the horses came back around on a second airliner.
None of it was new. We had heard it all before but it still had to be covered, just like the safety briefing on an aircraft.
‘Any questions?’ Adrian asked.
There were none.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Please confirm to me individually that you have read and understood the latest racecourse medical standing orders and instructions. Also verify that your treatment kits are complete and all drugs and equipment are serviceable and in date. Lastly, let’s do a radio check and, remember, no sensitive material over the airwaves, please. You never know who’s listening.’
We each in turn made some inane comment over our personal radios.
‘Today is Tuesday and the weather is overcast,’ I said, and everyone nodded as they heard me loud and clear through their earpieces.
I read through the racecourse standing orders to see if there had been any changes since I’d last acted as a racecourse doctor the previous October. I smiled wryly at point six, which stated that one of the evacuation hospitals for an injured rider was Cheltenham General. It would be ironic, I thought, if I had to accompany a casualty there.
The briefing broke up and I wandered outside, onto the red-brick terrace in front of the weighing room.
There was an air of huge anticipation all around. The whole season so far had been leading up to these four days, and they had finally arrived. It was the ambition of every owner, trainer and jockey to have a winner at the Cheltenham Festival. Hence, there was a degree of nervous tension mingled within the excitement, especially among those connected to the favourites.
I know it was silly but I found it exciting that people I would normally only see in the newspapers or on the television were here in the flesh, and actually talking to me as if I were one of them. It may have helped that I was wearing a green coat with ‘Jockey Club Racecourses’ and ‘Doctor’ embroidered on the left breast – my uniform.
In my experience everyone was polite to a doctor, at least when they were sober. You never knew when you might need one.
‘Morning, doctor,’ said a man standing in front of me. ‘Lovely day for racing – dry and not too cold.’
I knew him, but only by reputation.
‘Good morning, Mr Hammond,’ I replied.
Peter Hammond was a household name even among those not the least bit interested in equine matters. He had been a champion racehorse trainer, both over jumps and on the flat, for almost as long as anyone could remember and had a waiting list for places in his yard that included kings, princes and presidents. And he had married a former Miss World, who was now an award-winning film star.
The Hammonds were definitely A-list celebrities, appearing almost weekly on talk shows and in the society magazines, and yet here he was talking to me.
I was flattered.
‘Any runners today, Mr Hammond?’ I asked by way of conversation.
‘Only six here today,’ he said. ‘Plus three others at Sedgefield, and two more this evening at Wolverhampton on the all-weather.’
He turned away from me to speak to a journalist who was hovering.
I looked through the racecard. Not only did he have six runners but two of them were in the big race of the day and well fancied.
I was embarrassed. How could I have asked him such a crass question?
I comforted myself in the knowledge that, while I didn’t know much about the day’s runners and riders, he probably wouldn’t know that the most effective treatment for electrocution was mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
I looked at my watch.
Still an hour to go before the first.
By now, the crowd would be pouring through the racecourse entrances in their torrents – tens of thousands of fans eager to choose their fancies and then cheer them home to victory, or otherwise, up the famous Cheltenham Hill to the winning post in front of the grandstands.
The bars were already doing strong business, particularly in the tented Guinness Village where many of the Irish visitors were clearly well established, quenching their thirsts while listening to their favourite folk bands that had travelled with them across the water.
The numerous restaurants and private boxes were also packed with guests, the racecourse caterers producing literally thousands of gourmet lunches all at once.
A day out at the Cheltenham Festival was far more than just another day at the races. It was a special treat and one to be savoured, and that included by the medical team.
I breathed deeply and soaked up the charged atmosphere around the parade ring. With it, all my troubles seemed to float away, at least for the time being, and I felt elated to be back in my role as a clinician.
Perhaps for the first time in eighteen months, I would have described myself as feeling reasonably happy.
Such a shame it wasn’t to last.
My world was about to change once again, and not for the better.
10
There were 120 horses running on that first day of the Festival so we could assume that, on average, there would be about ten fallers during the afternoon. The record was nineteen. And we might statistically expect a couple of broken bones among the jockeys. Thankfully, major trauma was less common but we had to be ready for anything. And we’d all had experience at some time or another of having to call in the air ambulance.
Hence, I was in my position, eager and ready with my red doctor’s bag by my side, sitting in a Land Rover at one-thirty when the famed Cheltenham Roar erupted from the enormous crowd to greet the start of the traditional Festival opener, the Supreme Novices’ Hurdle Race.
There was a dirt roadway running all around the inside of the racecourse to enable vehicles to follow the action and I hung on tight to the Land Rover’s grab handles as we set off accompanied by an ambulance plus four more cars containing veterinary staff, horse catchers and a team of groundsmen with green screens. Horseracing was the only sport I knew of where the participants were actively chased by a full medical team of ambulances, vets and doctors.
In addition, other ambulances and more doctors were positioned at strategic points around the course, ready to take over if either I or the primary ambulance had to stop to attend to a fallen rider. Gone were the days of sixty or seventy years ago when a solitary fence attendant had to wave an orange flag to signal for veterinary help for a horse, or a red-and-white one to request medical assistance for the jockey, which could then have taken upwards of fifteen minutes to arrive.
‘Hang on,’ my driver instructed as we bounced along the roadway at more than thirty miles an hour. It may not have been as fast as Formula One but, on the undulating single-width track, it was exhilarating enough as we followed the field of horses up the finishing straight for the first time, past the packed grandstands and onwards left-handed.
‘Faller,’ announced the spotter over the radio as we approached the third flight of hurdles down the backstretch.
It was now my time.
I grabbed my bag and had the Land Rover d
oor open even before the driver had pulled off the roadway onto the grass alongside the hurdle. Then I was ducking under the white running rail and sprinting across the turf towards the prostrate figure wearing the now-muddied yellow-and-blue-diamond-checked silks.
As Adrian had instructed in his briefing, I looked around for the loose horse but it had already clambered to its feet and galloped away in pursuit of the other runners.
The jockey wasn’t so much injured as angry and the presence of a female doctor clearly didn’t inhibit him in expressing it.
‘Fucking, fucking hell!’ he shouted, spitting out grass and beating the ground in front of him with his hand. ‘I was going so well, I thought I’d win. Stupid nag should learn to pick up his bloody feet.’
He rolled over, sat up and slowly rose to his feet, rubbing himself.
‘You OK?’ I asked in very non-doctoring language.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just a slight kick in the nuts. Nothing more than a bruise.’
‘Do you want me to take a look?’ I asked.
‘Always, darling,’ he said, with a guffaw. ‘No, really, I’m OK.’
We could hear the cheering from the stands as the race approached its climax and we both turned and looked in that direction, not that we could make out the individuals involved from so far away.
‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘I should be over there winning this.’ The noise died away abruptly as the horses crossed the finish line. ‘Any chance of a lift back? I’ve got a ride in the next.’
We were at about the farthest point on the course from the weighing room. He would be hard pressed to get back in time on foot.
‘Sure,’ I said.
We hurried back to the Land Rover, with him hobbling somewhat.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I asked. ‘You’re limping.’
‘Old injury,’ he said. ‘I’m just back from a broken ankle that I did five weeks ago at Bangor. OK for riding but not a hundred per cent yet for running.’
‘Completely mad,’ I said, shaking my head.
He laughed. ‘It helps.’
He climbed into the back of the vehicle while I got in the front.
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