by Joe McNally
…and then a new sound rose…applause.
And it grew evenly and spread like some audio Mexican wave as the purest of racing fans instinctively congratulated two superb animals who would never know what it meant to surrender.
It didn’t take long to pull up, for our mounts were exhausted. Bomber and I brought our horses close and he put an arm around my shoulder, and I put my right arm across his back, and we fought for oxygen, and Bomber in his own mock exhaustion and gratitude laid his head on my shoulder and we found breath enough to laugh.
Only when we stopped to turn and acknowledge the applause from the stands did I see the green screens being erected around the black hulk of Spalpeen. And I remembered Vince, and craned my neck to see if he too was on the ground. Bomber nudged me and signalled with his head and I turned to see Vince lying a hundred yards down the track, his pink colours just visible through the throng of medics.
8
That night, Peter McCarthy rang me. Mac was an old friend, and occasional adversary. He was the security chief for the British racing authorities, the BHA.
‘Mac, how I love to see your name light up my phone. It’s been so long!’
‘Very funny, Eddie.’
‘Doubtless you are calling to congratulate me on that fine ride in the Supreme?’
‘Well, that would be somewhat disingenuous of me, but, well done anyway. Half a race is better than none.’
‘Thank you. I was happy to settle for the dead heat. So was Bomber. Now what can I do for you?’
‘I need to talk to you about Montego Moon at Bangor.’
‘I’m listening. Oh, what’s the latest on Vince McCrory?’
‘He’s going to be all right. Should be riding tomorrow.’
‘That’s good news. I heard the horse is okay.’
‘Yes. Cracked ribs. Nothing too bad.’
‘Dope test results?’
‘Clean.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Indeed. The horse’s adrenaline levels were through the roof. Very high cortisol readings, but nothing synthetic. All the hormonal responses are what you’d expect from the physical behaviour.’
’So how much was Spalpeen laid for on the exchanges?’
‘How do you know he was?’
’Because you’re calling me. Because it’s Festival time and you will have a shitload of work you’d rather be doing. Because someone up high has told you to get a result.’
Mac grunted, then said, ‘He was laid for a total of one point seven million across four accounts, each opened in the past few weeks. Winnings were withdrawn immediately. Police have applied for permission to examine bank details of the four individuals.’
‘Whose names are?’
‘Each appears to be an alias.’
‘So Spalpeen was got at. No doubt you’ve checked the betting charts for Montego Moon?’
‘We have. Nothing unusual. No laying under new accounts or aliases.’
‘So your conclusion is that whoever got at Spalpeen was using Montego Moon for a trial run?’
‘Correct.’
‘But you’ve not got beyond that?’
‘Er,..no.’
‘Well, Mac, I’m so happy that after knowing you for more than fifteen years, you’ve finally stopped trying to bullshit me.’
‘I trust your discretion, Eddie, I know I can speak frankly with you. With others, well, sometimes dissemblance is a necessary part of my job.’
‘I don’t know what dissemblance means, Mac, but I suspect it’s a fancy word for bullshit.’
‘Harsh people might say so.’
‘Count me harsh, Mac, count me harsh.’
He cleared his throat, a prompt I was familiar with. It meant he had nothing more to offer and hoped that I had. I said, ‘Any of the vets got an opinion on what set these two horses off?’
‘All they agree on is that a sudden high state of panic has been induced, and that it’s unlikely it’s coming from something that’s been administered before the race.’
’So, since I think we can agree that it would not have been administered after the race, your suspicion is that it might have been administered during the race, hence your call to me as the possible administrator with Montego Moon?’
‘We need to rule things out one by one, Eddie, don’t be offended. If I believed you were up to anything, do you really think I’d just call and ask you?’
‘Mac, I’m not so much offended as astonished that the BHA, in its desperation, could come up with a suggestion that a jockey might just have the bright idea of trying to kill himself by giving the half a ton of galloping bone and muscle he’s sitting on something to send it into a blind panic. Who was round the table at this particular brainstorming session?’
‘It’s always easy for you to crab things, isn’t it? We’re faced with a major incident, which is unexplainable, which might happen again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. We’re under a duty to consider every and any possibility.’
I sighed by way of a grudging apology. ‘Okay, Mac. Listen, I said to somebody the other day that it felt as though Montego Moon had been shot with an energy bullet. Has Spalpeen been checked inch by inch for any marks from a tiny dart or pellet or something?’
‘How difficult would that have been, assuming you mean someone shot the horse from a distance?’
‘Difficult, but probably a less crazy theory than the jockey doing anything. Look at the size of the infield at Cheltenham. Who was out there today? Could somebody have been carrying a rifle, maybe someone in a vehicle? Were there any helicopters up during the race? Or what about the camera blimp? Have you spoken to the operators of that?’
He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘No…No I haven’t.’
‘Well, that’s my best guess, Mac. It wasn’t dope. It couldn’t have been something given to them before the race, unless whoever gave it knew exactly how long it would take to work. For that you’d need to be certain there’d be no delays at the start. A horse loses a shoe, and the race is off five minutes late, bang goes your betting coup.’
’True.’
‘It also felt like something immediate. If it had been a drug, there’d surely have been some sort of build up, a gradual agitation. But Montego Moon went from lolloping along to super turbo in a second, maybe less. It would be too late now to check the mare for small skin marks, but maybe there’ll be some sign on Spalpeen. And you could check the TV footage to see who was out there during the race, and what was going on overhead.’
‘Okay…Okay.’
‘Mac, those are your grudging okays, not your decisive I’ll get right to it okays.’
‘Eddie, I very much appreciate your opinions on this, but if you break it down, assuming it was done from ground level, someone has to get a weapon into the track, a high powered weapon, then find a position where nobody will be around him at exactly the time he needs the privacy, and that same position needs to be the one that best affords a shot at his target, and, hardest of all, the horse he has to hit must be in clear view. If the jockey has him in the pack, or on the far side rail, there is no shot.’
‘Fair comment if you’re talking ground level. From above, it’s a whole different story, especially from the TV blimp. Stationary, clear line of sight, no worries about witnesses, assuming the crew is involved. No issues passing security into the track, and plenty of opportunities to fire.’
‘Mmmm’
‘Sound more plausible now?’
‘I’m coming round, I must admit.’
‘Find out who was in that blimp, Mac. Might even be worth grounding it tomorrow.’
‘The TV guys and the sponsors would take a very dim view of that.’
‘They’d take an even dimmer view of a dead jockey, or a crazed horse bursting through the rails into the enclosures, mowing down racegoers. How would you stop it? If a horse in that state got in among crowds, it would need to be shot just to halt the carnage. If the sponsors think grounding a blimp for a
day is bad for their brand, try them with live TV pictures of a slaughtered horse and a dozen dead racegoers lying on the tarmac in front of the grandstand.’
9
On day two of the Cheltenham Festival, I was riding at Sedgefield, which feels like acting in a village play while everyone else is at The Oscars.
Sipping black coffee from a Styrofoam cup in the changing room, I watched Cheltenham on TV. The blimp was flying. Either Mac had binned the theory or he’d been unable to persuade the decision makers.
In the paddock for my first mount, I met Dil. That worried look I’d first seen when he’d visited hospital had etched itself into his face. He legged me up on a narrow chestnut owned by Vita Brodie and said, ‘No fame today, win or lose.’
‘At least I don’t need to worry about being carted.’ I told him about my conversation with Mac. Dil said, ‘So they think Montego Moon was a guinea pig?’
‘Looks like it. And that, my friend, entitles you to at least one smile.’
‘If Prim catches me smiling, she’ll think it’s because I’ve found a house for Vita.’ The horse bucked. Dil eased his grip on the lead rein and began walking us round the paddock.
‘I forgot about that,’ I said, ‘Sounds like you’re going to have to make a decision soon.’
‘On what?’
‘On keeping your owner or your secretary stroke lover. Stroke being the key word.’
‘Well, I can’t afford to lose Vita.’
’Simple, then. Decision made.’
He turned, glowering at me, ‘It’s not simple! Prim’s a good woman. And she cares for me, which is more than Vita does.’
’Hey! I’m only offering a sympathetic ear! If Vita doesn’t care for you, what’s her problem?’
‘Her problem is sex. That’s what she wants. That’s what she doesn’t want Prim to have, and depriving Prim is becoming more important to her than any relationship she wants with me.’
’Sounds like she wants to deprive you too. Vita’s an alpha female, if there is such a thing.’
’She’s a rich female. Her horses are already worth two hundred grand a year to me and she’s planning to buy a few more.’
’It’s your choice, Dil.’
He led me out of the paddock onto the track, unclipped the lead rein and looked up, ‘Come home safe.’
I nodded, ‘You had a bet?’
He shook his head and walked away.
We finished seventh.
Tracey, the groom, led us back in, patting the sweating chestnut and telling the horse it would win next time.
Dil was in the weighing room when I came out after showering. ’Straight home?’ he asked.
‘That’s the plan.’
‘I’ll walk out with you,’ he said.
‘Be my guest.’
We headed for the car park. Dil said, ‘I was thinking about Montego Moon…’
‘And?’
‘Why me? Why pick my yard?’
‘Maybe they didn’t.’
He looked at me. I said, ‘I still think somebody shot Montego Moon and Spalpeen. That panic reaction was generated by sudden pain, had to be. But for the horse to maintain that intense fear, there had to be something to keep the pain level high. Ever had a local anaesthetic injection close to an open wound?’
‘Yeah. Stings.’
‘It stings for a long time. My guess is something like that. The shot they took at Bangor could have hit any horse, it didn’t matter to them. All they needed to check was that whatever they’re using worked.’
‘They could have checked it in private, on a horse in a field somewhere.’
‘Not if they wanted certainty on the reaction. You can’t run a race in private. You can’t produce the adrenaline levels a horse feels in competition. And if they were going to risk big money, they’d want to be sure.’
‘Okay…Okay, maybe they weren’t targeting my horse. But they had to be targeting Spalpeen, so how did they make the shot?’
‘The blimp was my best bet. It was in the air today and everything went all right at Cheltenham, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t used yesterday. I’ll call Mac later.’
Dil raised a hand, ‘Don’t call him on my account. So long as they’re leaving my horses alone, I don’t care whether they’re shooting them, shocking them or doping them. It’s not as if we’re going to have any odds on favourites in big races.’
‘Shocking them…I hadn’t thought of that, Dil.’
‘Used to carry buzzers in the States, some jocks. The jockey would need to be in on it.’
‘Maybe…what if there was something under the girth? Something they could send a remote signal to to keep it pulsing out shocks? That actually sounds more likely. No need for guns, and drugs and having to hit targets.’
’So who puts it under the girth? The trainer would have saddled Spalpeen yesterday. It’s hardly going to be him. And once that’s done, who else is near the horse before the off, or at least near enough to shove some gadget under the girth without anyone noticing and with enough care to make sure it stays put?’
‘The lad? The head lad? The starter’s assistant?’
Dil nodded slowly, ‘Last one would be favourite, huh? Not the highest paid guys in the world, are they? And they could spend enough time messing around with girths to make sure the thing stays put.’
‘Correct.’
‘Who checked your girths yesterday?’
‘Vogel, Jon Vogel. Been doing it since…hey, Vogel was at Bangor too. He did Montego Moon.’
Dil put an arm across my shoulder. It was the first time I’d seen him smile in weeks.
10
In the car I took my phone from the glovebox, intent on calling Mac. There are heavy racecourse restrictions on mobile phone use by jockeys, and I preferred leaving mine locked up rather than risk misunderstandings. One voicemail waited. It was from Ben Searcey. I called him.
‘Eddie, thanks for calling me back so quickly. Listen, I wondered if Monty still had the hotshot security guy on his payroll?’
‘Security guy…oh, I remember him, the opposite of the big mean old bouncer. Slim fella, always wore a hankie in his top pocket, dark hair?’
‘That’s him. Foreign name…short name, just can’t bloody remember it!’
‘Bruno?’
‘Bruno Guta! Bruno Guta! That’s him! That’s it!’
I smiled at his enthusiasm and said, ‘I think I have seen him around, but I can’t be sure. He was one of those stay in the background types anyway. I’ll check, if you like. I’ll give Monty a call.’
‘Well tell me first if you think I’m overreacting. And it’s kind of a long story. How are you for time?’
‘I’m fine. But if it’s of any use to you I could come and see you later. I’m doing a Gold Cup preview night at Haydock, one of these racing club things. Want to come? I can pick you up.’
‘I need to stay around here until I find out where Alice is going this evening, which is turning into an epic of its own. I could meet you near here if you don’t mind coming over after Haydock?’
‘Of course not. I’ll call you when I’m leaving and we can arrange something.’
Ben was waiting in the pub. It had been his suggestion to meet there. I settled beside him in the corner, as he smiled and held out his hand. When I asked how he was, I had to almost shout, over the level of noise, mostly other voices, but an old fashioned jukebox played too.
I looked around, ‘Thought the pub business was dead?’ I said.
‘Not this place. Always been busy. Used to be one of my favourite haunts. Regulars still have a sense of humour. I got a guard of honour entrance from the smokers, all holding their ciggies up for me to walk under on the way in.’
I laughed, ‘And it doesn’t bother you watching everybody drinking? The smell of the booze?’
‘Not at all. I’m one of the lucky ones. Plenty in AA would never chance going into a pub. But I’m okay. I get a kind of vicarious enjoyment from the memories
of the good times. I loved drinking, Eddie. Loved it. That was one of the things. A lot of alcoholics don’t even care for the taste of it, they just drink for what they get out of it, escape, whatever. I loved it!’ He laughed again in that childlike way.
I got up, ‘You want a soft drink or something?’
He rose and grabbed my shoulders, ‘I’ll get it! You’re my guest, sit down!’
I sat and he went to get two diet drinks, returning smiling, ‘They never let me pay. Bob always says I provided most of his early capital.’
I smiled, happy that Ben could take all the teasing without suffering any sadness. ‘How’s Alice?’
He shook his head slowly, ’She’s at her mate’s house in Crosby right now, so I know she’s okay, but things are getting a wee bit out of hand with this campaign she’s running in Deadwood.’
Ben explained that the estate they lived in had been riddled with crime and violence for years, and that Alice was trying to stop one of the gangs trafficking young girls out of Deadwood to London, and sometimes abroad.
He said, ’In one of the children’s homes she was stuck in, she got to know this kid from Deadwood who told her some horrendous stories about the place. What does Alice do? Runs away, heads for Deadwood and starts looking for the traffickers. The cops would find her, take her back to the home, and first chance she got she was off again, heading for Deadwood. At least the cops always knew where she’d gone. Alice’s only condition for moving back into my care was that we got a place in Deadwood, which kind of suited me, because I can’t afford to rent privately. And the council would almost pay you to live there.’
’So what does Alice do to try and stop these people?’
