Pulse

by Felix Francis

  I debated with myself whether I should park in the same place as I’d done the previous day and then secretly watch to see if anyone came again to let the tyres down. But, in the end, I decided to leave my Mini in Tom and Julie’s farmyard, as I’d done on Tuesday, and I made my way into the racecourse car park on foot, taking special care when crossing the Evesham Road.

  The previous evening, DC Filippos had taken away the piece of paper after carefully placing it in a polythene sandwich bag I’d given him from my kitchen, making sure that Grant was unaware of its existence.

  ‘I’ll inform DS Merryweather and get the paper tested,’ he’d said. ‘It may give us some idea who left it there, although that doesn’t prove it was the same person who let your tyres down. Do you have any witnesses to that?’

  I thought of Isabelle. ‘There is at least one other person who will swear that all four tyres were flat, but she was not a witness to them actually being let down.’ I wondered if I could also find my chivalrous knight in his three-piece tweed suit, not that he would know anything that Isabelle and I didn’t.

  I arrived at the racecourse really early, before the gates even opened, and I hung about close to the jockeys’ reserved parking area.

  I didn’t really know what I was going to do but I was determined to confront the three jockeys and to give them a piece of my mind for letting down my tyres. Perhaps I was hoping for a reaction from one or more of them, something that might give me a lead to further revelations concerning the unnamed man.

  Or was I being stupid to get involved?

  Leave it to the police, the sensible half of my brain kept telling me.

  But the delinquent half was now winning easily.

  Of one thing, I was sure – having the nameless man to worry about, together with the sure knowledge that my concern was not without foundation, had done wonders for my mood. I felt, suddenly, that I had a purpose back in my life and it gave me a terrific lift.

  I suppose I had been initially drawn to a career in medicine by some altruistic belief that I could do some good in the world. I think all doctors are. Otherwise why would we continue as impoverished students for so long after some of our contemporaries from school are already out in the real world earning six-figure salaries, to say nothing of the long hours and manic workload of the junior doctor.

  Unlike some of my consultant colleagues in private practice, my chosen speciality of emergency medicine was never going to make me hugely wealthy but it was at the forefront of ‘doing good’ and, as such, had always been rewarding in other ways.

  To have had that taken away from me over these past few months had simply compounded my problems with depression.

  Various studies have shown that doctors in general are more than twice as likely to kill themselves than members of the general population, a situation that increases to five or six times for female doctors compared to other women. So why do medics, who strive to save the lives of others, kill themselves in such disproportionately high numbers?

  It certainly has something to do with a greater knowledge of the methods, and an increased availability of the means to end their own lives, which result in a higher success rate. But I am convinced that it is also because we doctors tend to enjoy a more utopian view of the world, a world where we assume modern medical science can cure all ills. Hence, when reality kicks in and medicine actually fails, we are more likely to feel guilt and self-condemnation.

  I had certainly suffered overwhelming guilt over the death of the unnamed man. He had arrived at the hospital alive and breathing, yet I still hadn’t been able to save him. Medical science had failed, when I’d fully expected it to win through.

  But now I believed I was absolving myself from that guilt by finding out who the man was and why he had died. Yes, it had become an obsession, but I considered that it was also the road to my salvation and recovery. Some might say it was foolhardy, even dangerous, to confront the three jockeys but, for me, it was logical and necessary.

  While I stood waiting, the phone rang in my pocket. It was Constable Filippos.

  ‘Ah, Dr Rankin,’ he said. ‘I have a message from Detective Sergeant Merryweather. We would very much like to have a meeting with you. Can you come in to the station this afternoon?’

  ‘I’m at the racecourse,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘so are we.’

  ‘Where?’ I asked.

  ‘Outside the jockeys’ changing room. We’re here to conduct some interviews.’

  ‘With McGee, Conway and Sheraton?’ I asked.

  There was a slight pause from the other end as if he was deciding whether he should tell me.

  ‘Among others, yes,’ replied the policeman.

  ‘They’re not here yet,’ I said. ‘I’m waiting for them in the car park.’

  ‘Dr Rankin,’ DC Filippos said seriously, ‘please leave us to do our job. There is no need for you to speak with any of them.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’ I said. ‘If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have a clue what to do next. I have learned more in the last three days than you lot have in four months.’

  ‘That is not entirely fair,’ he said. ‘We have made considerable progress ourselves.’

  ‘What progress?’ I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  ‘If you come to the station later I will give you all the details.’

  ‘Why not give them to me here, after you’ve spoken to the jockeys?’

  I could hear him speaking to someone else, even though I couldn’t catch the exact words because he’d placed something over the microphone.

  ‘OK,’ he said, eventually. ‘DS Merryweather and I will meet you here at the racecourse after we have spoken to the jockeys, on the condition that you do not speak to them first.’

  That was bribery, I thought.

  The only chance I had of accosting McGee, Conway and Sheraton was as they arrived. I couldn’t wait until they left later in the day – that would be impossible with everyone going home at the same time, and in the dark.

  ‘OK,’ I said slowly. ‘I promise not to speak to them first. Where do we meet, and when?’

  ‘There’s a police control room in the foyer of The Centaur. Meet us there at . . .’ There was a pause as he consulted. ‘. . . half past twelve.’

  I looked at my watch. It showed it was now ten-thirty.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there.’

  Gold Cup day was always the busiest of the four days of the Festival, with an expected crowd of seventy thousand, and the car parks were beginning to fill up fast even at this early hour.

  Even though I had agreed not to speak to McGee, Conway and Sheraton, it didn’t mean that I would not still wait for them in the jockeys’ reserved parking area.

  However, the first person to arrive that I recognised was not one of those three. It was Dave Leigh, he with the broken collarbone, arriving in his automatic BMW. I walked over to greet him as he climbed out of his car.

  ‘Hi, Dave,’ I said. ‘How’s the shoulder today?’

  ‘Oh, hi, doc,’ he said. ‘Fine. But it’s a bugger to sleep with. Can’t get comfortable. I’ve ended up sitting in an armchair all night.’

  ‘It will be sore for a week or so,’ I said. ‘Until the ends of the bone begin to knit together.’

  He didn’t look very happy at the prospect of more nights in his armchair.

  ‘How did the TV work go yesterday?’ I asked.

  ‘Really well,’ he said with a smile. ‘They’ve asked me back again today, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. I’ve decided I don’t enjoy sitting watching others ride when I can’t.’

  I knew how he felt. I didn’t much enjoy watching the duty doctors working when I’d been excluded from their team.

  ‘Where’s your car then, doc?’ Dave asked, looking all around him.

  ‘What about my car?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘I just wondered where it was,’ Dave said. ‘We were parked next to each other yesterday
.’

  I thought it strange that he knew what my car looked like.

  ‘Do you recall seeing my car when you came out last night?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure, light blue Mini with a Union Jack roof,’ he said. ‘Very distinctive. Same as my missus – that’s why I remember it. But I left early. After the Stayers’ Hurdle. After I’d done my bit for the TV people.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. About four. Why?’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about my car?’

  ‘No. What sort of unusual?’

  ‘Were all the tyres flat?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Least, I don’t think so. I’d have surely noticed.’ He paused. ‘Blimey. Who did that then?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ I said. ‘I’d give them what for.’

  ‘Did they do anyone else’s?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just mine.’

  ‘That’s really bad luck,’ he said. ‘Did they slash them?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just let them down. And it wasn’t bad luck. I was specifically targeted.’

  Dave Leigh suddenly looked troubled.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I’d better get on in.’ He turned to go away but I grabbed him by his good arm and swung him back to face me.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked again, this time more forcefully.

  He looked like a frightened schoolboy.

  ‘Somebody yesterday was asking about you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Come on, Dave,’ I said angrily. ‘Don’t give me that crap. Who was it?’

  ‘I really can’t remember,’ he whined.

  ‘What were they asking about me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just heard your name mentioned and I’d just seen you so it registered with me.’

  ‘Where did this take place?’

  ‘In the changing room. I was getting ready to do my piece to camera. Someone mentioned your name and I remember saying that it was a coincidence because I was parked right alongside you in the car park. That’s all.’

  ‘Who knows your car?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Which of the other jockeys knows your car?’

  ‘All of them. We all know each other’s cars. Wives and girlfriends help get them home when one of us gets injured. My car was driven back for me by someone on Tuesday when I broke this.’ He pointed at his collarbone. ‘The valets organise it.’

  ‘Please try and remember who it was who was talking about me.’

  He put his head on one side and stared into space. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It could have been anyone.’

  ‘How about him?’ I said, pointing at Mike Sheraton, who was driving an Audi into a parking space about twenty yards away from us.

  ‘No, not him,’ Dave said with bitterness but conviction. ‘I’d have remembered if that bastard had been the one.’

  ‘How about Jason Conway or Dick McGee?’

  He thought some more.

  ‘It could have been, but it might not. Like I told you, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Who heard what you said about parking next to me?’

  ‘Anyone in there. I was hardly quiet.’ He laughed. ‘I was also miked up.’

  ‘Did he hear you?’ I pointed again at Mike Sheraton, who was removing a holdall from the boot of his car.

  ‘Might have done,’ Dave said. ‘I don’t know.’

  I stood staring at Mike Sheraton. He glanced briefly in my direction and did a double take, turning up one corner of his mouth in a sneer, but I couldn’t be sure that he was sneering at me rather than at Dave Leigh. There was clearly no love lost between them.

  Mike slammed shut the boot of his car and marched off towards the entrance without looking back.

  ‘Why do you two not get on?’ I asked.

  ‘That man doesn’t get on with anyone,’ Dave replied.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s too competitive.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s rich. All jockeys are competitive.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe, but Sheraton is overly so. And he cheats.’

  ‘How?’ I asked.

  ‘He’ll swerve to take your ground at the last second as you approach a fence when there’s no head-on camera. Bloody dangerous it is, but he doesn’t care. And he uses his whip.’

  ‘Don’t you all?’ I asked.

  ‘Not on the opposition. Horses and jockeys. It doesn’t make the nags run faster when he hits them across the nose, and it bloody hurts when he catches you on the face.’

  ‘Don’t the stewards take action?’

  ‘Never see it. He’s too quick and too clever. He’s not the only one, mind. Cut-throat business, racing. Win at all costs – that’s what matters. My trouble is I’m too bloody nice.’

  He smiled at me and walked off.

  I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, but I didn’t have long to ponder before another of my three of interest arrived.

  18

  At a quarter past eleven, Jason Conway swept into the parking area in a silver Jaguar F-Type with a personalised number plate, locking up his rear wheels on the loose gravel as he braked to a halt.

  I suppose my plan had been just to let Conway see me, to rattle him somewhat before he spoke with the police. But I was too slow. Almost in a single movement he climbed out of the car and set off towards the racecourse entrance, without looking once in my direction.

  I hurried after him, wanting so much to shout out, to ask whether he had let down my tyres, but I was wary of my promise to DC Filippos.

  However, Jason Conway didn’t go directly to the entrance. Instead, he veered off to his right, heading for the cars and four-by-fours already lined up six deep in the members’ car park.

  I hung back, not wanting to be seen following him.

  He moved swiftly along the second line of vehicles almost right to the far end until he came to a long black Mercedes with dark-tinted rear windows. He ducked down a little and knocked on the driver’s window, which opened a couple of inches. As far as I could tell there was no verbal exchange with an occupant, just a handing out of what looked like a small white envelope that Jason quickly stuffed into his trouser pocket before walking away.

  I bent down low behind another car in the next line so that he couldn’t see me. Gone were my plans to rattle him. The handing over of the envelope had all the hallmarks of a clandestine exchange, furtive and unseen, and I had no desire to let Jason Conway become aware that, in fact, I had witnessed it all.

  What could be in the envelope?

  Drugs was the first thing that came to mind, but why would anyone hand over drugs in a racecourse car park before racing, when the place was awash with people either arriving or having a couple of sharpeners over a tailgate before taking on the bookies. Surely it would have been better at the end of the day when it would be getting dark and everyone was intent on just finding their vehicles and departing.

  It had to be something that he needed straight away, something that couldn’t wait until the end of the day.

  His next fix? Was he addicted?

  But what about the drug testers? Cheltenham Gold Cup day would be a given for them to be on-site with their detested pee-sampling kits. The racing authority took a very dim view of jockeys caught using recreational drugs, including alcohol, cannabis and cocaine. In a palpably dangerous sport, anything that could impair judgement was a threat to the safety of all participants – much like a Formula One star driving under the influence in a Grand Prix.

  I stayed low and watched Conway walk back down the line of cars towards the racecourse entrance.

  What should I do now?

  Should I follow him? Or should I watch and wait at the Mercedes to see who emerged?

  I suddenly felt really excited, like a schoolgirl who has discovered something that no one else knows. As a teenager, I had avidly devoured al
l the Nancy Drew Mysteries, livening up my own rather tedious young life by imagining myself accompanying the youthful amateur sleuth on her thrilling adventures, and here I was now being a detective myself, and one step ahead of the police.

  I decided to stay where I was and see who got out of the black Mercedes but I was to be disappointed. Almost as soon as Jason Conway had disappeared through the racecourse entrance, the Mercedes drove off. I stood and watched it go to the car-park exit and turn left onto the Evesham Road in the direction of Cheltenham town centre.

  How odd, I thought, to be in the members’ car park but not stay for the racing. I now wished I had followed Conway, but maybe the occupants of the Mercedes had been watching to see if he’d had a tail.

  At least I had taken a photograph with my phone of the rear of the car as it drove away, its number plate clearly visible.

  I walked back to the jockeys’ reserved car-parking area, which had filled up considerably in the meantime. There I found one of my erstwhile colleagues, Dr Jack Otley, who was still acting. He had just arrived and was putting on his coat.

  ‘Hi, Jack,’ I said. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Oh, hi, Chris. I didn’t think you were here today.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘Least, I’m not here as one of the team.’

  ‘Adrian is not very happy with you,’ he said. ‘He was in a foul mood yesterday, saying you had deceived him.’

  ‘That’s not actually true. But it might be best not to tell him you’ve seen me.’ I laughed. ‘Are the drug testers in today, do you know?’

  Drug testing of the jockeys was performed by an independent organisation that turned up randomly at race-courses in order to carry out either breath or urine tests. If it was a breath day then all the jockeys riding were tested for alcohol with the limit only half of that permitted for driving, and, for a urine day, a minimum of ten riders, selected by draw, were required to give a urine sample before leaving the racecourse. Even though the testers were independent of the racecourse medical team, they did need to notify the senior medical officer of their presence.

  ‘They haven’t been here all week so I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Jack said.

  ‘If they come, get them to test Jason Conway,’ I said.