Pulse Page 16

  Only going down the backstretch on the second circuit did the race begin to finally unfold with the pace hotting up as the jockeys made their bids for glory.

  Card Reader led the field rapidly down the hill towards the third-last fence, stealing a lead of three or four lengths on the rest. This was where the race could be won and lost. Taking the downhill fence without a heartbeat of hesitation could gain an advantage that a rival could not recover in the run to the line.

  Mike Sheraton asked Card Reader for a long stride, to stand off from the fence. The horse responded, clearing the obstacle in a huge leap that took it farther away from his pursuers, and the crowd cheered their approval. Just the final straight to go and glory would surely be his.

  But horseracing is a funny game and has a well-deserved reputation for producing the unexpected.

  Card Reader cleared the second-last with ease and was quickly into his stride. He was now some six or seven lengths in front and going away.

  His race was won.

  The other runners were nowhere.

  Just one fence to go.

  Mike Sheraton asked the horse again for a big jump, but carrying eleven stone ten pounds over three and a quarter miles in soft ground saps the stamina of even the greatest of steeplechasers.

  Card Reader caught the jockey unawares by putting in an extra stride. To indrawn gasps from the crowd, the horse was now far too close to the fence and he ploughed through the top eighteen inches of the birch, catapulting Mike Sheraton forwards out of the saddle, before following him down in a sprawling mass onto the bright green turf.

  Horse and rider were quickly up on their feet but their chance of winning had long gone as the others swept past.

  Dave Leigh and his collarbone would be delighted, I thought.

  Those behind, who had previously thought their chances of victory were nonexistent, were suddenly spurred on by the realisation that the big prize was still up for grabs.

  Liverpool Street ran out of puff just twenty-five yards short of the winning post and was caught on the line by two other horses in a thrilling blanket finish that had the crowd in raptures.

  I stood and watched as the horses walked back down in front of the packed grandstand, the winner being led in by his beaming trainer, Peter Hammond. They received a deserved standing ovation. It may not have been the favourite, but it had been well backed and was a popular winner.

  Popular, that was, with the crowd.

  Jason Conway, however, looked anything but happy as he went past. He must have thought he would win until the very last stride of the run-in, and had actually finished third. I wondered if the horse might have been able to hang on to win if he hadn’t wasted his energy at the start by setting off so quickly.

  Tommy Berkley was again busy when I went back to his pitch. I watched from about three yards away as he peeled notes from his wedge, handing them out to a line of successful punters before instantly encouraging them to reinvest on the next race.

  He had spotted me earlier and now he looked across at me and raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner while continuing to pay out and take new bets.

  I removed the photo of the dead man from my pocket and held it up so he could clearly see it.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he shouted across. ‘This rush will die down soon. Not so much interest in the Foxhunter’s.’

  The Foxhunter Challenge Chase was the race that immediately followed and was run over exactly the same course and distance, but was for amateur riders only. It was affectionately referred to as the Amateurs’ Gold Cup.

  Gradually the bookmaker’s line of waiting customers diminished to zero.

  ‘Kevin,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Hold the fort a minute.’

  Kevin appeared and took his place on the pitch.

  ‘Bill Tucker,’ he said, holding out his hand to me.

  ‘Not Tommy Berkley?’ I asked, shaking it.

  ‘My late father-in-law was Tommy Berkley. I took over the business when he died. Who are you?’

  ‘Dr Chris Rankin,’ I said. ‘I treated this man when he was admitted to hospital, where he later died.’ I held out the picture to him. ‘A betting slip with “Tommy Berkley” printed on it was found in his pocket.’

  ‘I’ve already told the police I don’t remember him.’

  ‘It was a five-pound bet on a horse called Fabricated.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Saturday of the International meeting, last November.’

  ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘No wonder I don’t remember. I’ve seen an awful lot of punters’ faces since then.’

  ‘Do you remember the horse?’ I asked.

  ‘Fabricated? Of course. Damn good chaser. Sadly didn’t run in the Ryanair this week due to injuring himself in the King George on Boxing Day. Fell at the last. Three miles was probably a bit far for him, if the truth be told. Better over two and a half. He might be back for the Melling Chase at Aintree in three weeks. Do you want a price on him?’

  ‘No thanks.’ I smiled at him. ‘What race was he in, back in November?’

  ‘That would’ve been the Mackeson, or whatever it’s called these days. The big race of the day anyway.’ He stared over my head for a second as if he was thinking. ‘Won by Price of Success at fifteen-to-two. Fabricated was third at eights, beaten a short-head for second by Medication at twelve-to-one, that’s if I remember right.’

  I didn’t doubt his memory for a second. In my experience, bookmakers might not remember their customers but they knew most things about the horses, especially their breeding and form. Profit margins depended on it.

  ‘Do you remember who rode Fabricated?’ I asked.

  ‘Jason Conway usually rides him. I expect it was him.’

  ‘Good jockey?’

  ‘Sure, as good as any of the other top ones. That’s if he’s making an honest effort.’

  It was presumed by most bookmakers that all jockeys were bent. The reverse was also the case.

  ‘Can you remember anything else about the race?’ I asked. ‘Anything unusual?’

  He was silent for a moment.

  ‘Sorry, love. Too long ago. But you could watch a replay of it, if you want. Bound to be on YouTube by now and, if not, it’ll definitely be on the Racing UK website.’

  ‘Can you watch any past race on that?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. Most of them anyway. Either on the Racing UK or the At The Races websites. Depends on which racecourse. I do it all the time, but you might have to pay.’

  ‘Thanks, Bill. How do I contact you?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  He went over to Kevin and said something that I didn’t catch, then he returned and handed me a slip of paper.

  ‘Free bet,’ he said. ‘Fiver to win on the favourite in the Foxhunter’s. My phone number is on the slip. If it wins, I’ll give you another.’ He laughed.

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied, laughing back.

  Bookmakers were clearly not all bad.

  I stuck the ticket into my pocket, just as the unnamed man must have done in November.

  The favourite in the Foxhunter’s finished fourth. Win nothing. Lose nothing.

  I had stood by the big screen near the parade ring to watch the race but now I hurried out through the exit gates. It was past the time I had intended to leave and I was desperate to get home before Grant. True, it was only twenty past four, but Grant had a habit of leaving work early on Fridays, especially on Gold Cup Friday when the traffic all over Cheltenham would soon be gridlocked for hours.

  Even though I was much earlier than on Tuesday, and it was still light, I took extra care as I approached the car-park exit onto the Evesham Road. I turned through 360 degrees at least four or five times to be certain that no one was sneaking up on me ready to push me in front of a bus.

  If I hadn’t been so watchful, I’d have probably missed it.

  The long black Mercedes with the tinted windows was back and parked in one of the expensive reserved spaces close to the car-pa
rk exit, and I could see through the windscreen that there was a dark-suited man in the driver’s position. He had reclined the seat and was lying back with his eyes closed. Not that that was an unusual sight. There were quite a few other cars nearby with chauffeurs in them, waiting for their employers to emerge. Lucky them, I thought. An afternoon of good sport and fine wines, and no worries about having to drive home afterwards.

  I went over to the Mercedes and rapped hard on the driver’s window with my knuckles.

  The man inside sat bolt upright with a start and glared through the window at me with a strange look in his eye that I couldn’t quite read. Perhaps he had thought it was his employer knocking on the window, and he wouldn’t have been happy to have found his driver asleep.

  The electric window slid down a few inches.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked gruffly through the gap.

  London accent, I thought. East Ender.

  ‘Whose car is this?’ I asked. ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘That’s none of your bleeding business,’ said the man. ‘Go away.’

  ‘I’ll find out, anyway,’ I said. ‘I’ve got your number plate.’

  ‘Sod off,’ the man said, and he closed the window to indicate that the conversation was at an end.

  I stood looking at him through the glass. I reckoned he was in his thirties and very athletic, the sleeves of his dark suit bulging as they tried unsuccessfully to obscure his oversized biceps. He had slightly receding brown hair and a fashionable three-day stubble. He waved a dismissive gesture at me then lay back again in the seat but, this time, he didn’t close his eyes.

  He went on watching me as I walked off towards the car-park exit. I knew because every time I turned round to look, I could see him staring at me through the windscreen.

  I took extra care crossing the Evesham Road – not a bus in sight – and then walked down the track towards the farmyard where I’d parked my car.

  I suddenly stopped and a shiver ran down my spine.

  The man hadn’t asked my name.

  He hadn’t needed to.

  That look in his eye hadn’t been concern over his employer finding him asleep – it had been his surprise at finding me standing there.

  He had known exactly who I was.

  I was sure of it.

  20

  I was home well before Grant.

  I was tucked up on the sofa under a blanket drinking peppermint tea and watching a game show on the television by the time he arrived at ten to six.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asked, leaning down and giving me a peck on the cheek. ‘Have you eaten anything?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said automatically. ‘I had some soup for lunch.’

  That wasn’t actually true. I’d had a one-egg omelette for breakfast, supervised by Grant before he went to work, but I’d had nothing since apart from the cup of tea I was holding. Eating was not a priority in my life at present, so I hadn’t even thought about it.

  ‘So you’ve had a good day?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very restful. I watched the Gold Cup.’

  That bit was not a lie, even if Grant did assume it had been on the television rather than live at the racecourse.

  ‘Bloody races,’ he said. ‘The traffic everywhere is already horrendous. I nearly came home about two hours ago to avoid it but Trevor wanted me to go through some new dial designs with him.’

  That was lucky, I thought, with an inward smile. And exciting.

  I could get quite hooked on this clandestine investigation malarkey.

  Live dangerously, or not at all.

  Saturday morning dawned cold, bright and sunny.

  ‘Why don’t we tidy the garden today?’ Grant said over breakfast. ‘Get it all ready for the spring?’

  ‘OK,’ I said with some resignation. My enthusiasm level for gardening was always rock bottom and my current condition hadn’t improved it any.

  ‘Not until after my game, like,’ Toby said forlornly. ‘You are coming to watch?’

  ‘Of course, darling,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  And especially not for gardening.

  ‘What time?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Ten-thirty kickoff.’

  ‘OK. We have time to do the front before then.’

  Grant was in one of his ‘let’s get going’ moods so we were all ushered outside in our coats and wellingtons to tidy the front flowerbeds while he cut the grass.

  ‘I bet Cristiano Ronaldo doesn’t have to do the weeding before he plays a match,’ Toby whined unhappily, leaning on a spade.

  ‘He’d get someone else to do it for him and just pay,’ Oliver said. ‘What a good idea! Dad, Dad,’ he was shouting, ‘are me and Toby getting paid for doing this?’

  His father ignored him as if he hadn’t heard, which he may not have done due to the lawnmower.

  Happy families. Although, to be fair, the front garden looked a lot better after only forty minutes or so of work, when we were dismissed by Grant to get ready for the football.

  It was a mixed outcome for the Rankin family.

  Gotherington Colts lost by three goals to two, but Toby did score both for the home team. However, in spite of his personal success, he was distraught about the overall result.

  ‘How can I possibly go into school next week?’ he said, trying to hold back the tears. ‘It will be, like, awful.’

  ‘Darling,’ I said to him, putting my arm round his shoulders, ‘don’t get so upset. It’s only a game.’

  He looked at me as if I were mad.

  ‘Mum, how can you say that?’

  How could I explain to my fourteen-year-old son that there were more important things in life than winning or losing a football match?

  If there was only one thing that being an emergency doctor taught you very quickly, it was that acute illness and life-threatening injury put everything else into proper perspective.

  When I’d first started working in emergency medicine, I’d found it difficult to tear myself away from patients at the end of my shift, even when I’d been so tired that I’d almost been unable to keep my eyes open. How could my mundane existence outside of work – shopping, eating, socialising, even sleeping – be more pressing than caring for the critically unwell? One had to become immune to the number of people in the queue and the length of time they’d been waiting for treatment. It would never be that working a little longer would significantly decrease the backlog, as new patients would always arrive just as fast as others were seen, and an overtired doctor was a dangerous doctor.

  But, thankfully, Toby hadn’t yet had experience of any of that. For him, the match result was the most important thing in his life at present and the longer I could shield him and Oliver from the nastier things the better.

  We went back home as a family, the four of us arm in arm, three in coats with hats and scarves, and one still in his football kit with muddy knees.

  Such moments were so precious. The boys were quickly changing into young men and, all too soon, the time would come when they would fly the nest forever. They were my motivation to carry on living. How would I cope when they were gone? I was determined to relish every second while I still had them.

  There was a black Mercedes parked outside the village post office and my heart missed a beat or two before I realised this one was shorter and had a different registration to that I’d seen in the racecourse car park.

  ‘Can you find out who owns a car from the number plate?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure you can,’ Oliver said. ‘The police do it all the time. I’ve seen it on those traffic-cop programmes on TV. When they stop cars, they always check who the owners are, and whether they’re taxed and insured.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I know the police can do it, but could I? Would the licensing agency give me the details if I asked them?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Grant said. ‘Data protection and all that stuff. You would have to ask the police, and then they probab
ly wouldn’t tell you. Why? Which car do you want to know the owners of?’

  ‘None really,’ I lied. ‘I was just wondering, that’s all.’

  We walked on through the village and turned into our road.

  ‘I suppose, like, I did at least score our two goals,’ Toby said as we reached the driveway.

  On his way to recovery, I thought.

  Much as I felt on days like these, like.

  On Monday morning the boys went to school and Grant went off to work, leaving me alone in the house.

  I was bored.

  It had now been some four months since I’d been placed on sick leave by the Medical Director and, even though I was technically still employed, and being paid, by Cheltenham General Hospital, I wondered if it was time for me to look for a new job elsewhere. Not that finding one would be easy – my clinical references would hardly be likely to be encouraging for a prospective employer.

  I’d had two medical assessments since being discharged from Wotton Lawn just before Christmas.

  The first, in early January, had been a complete waste of time. I’d been at my lowest ebb and had been so dosed up with anti-anxiety medication that I’d hardly been able to stay awake or follow what was happening.

  The second had been six weeks later, in late February, and I’d been wide-eyed and eager, putting my case for an immediate return to duty. I was fed up with doing nothing and I wanted to be back doing my job, not least because I believed that working was the best therapy for my depression.

  However, a panel of two distinguished physicians and one psychiatrist had concluded that my recovery was not yet sufficiently advanced for me to be trusted with the lives of others, and had signed me off sick for another month.

  My third and final assessment was due in another ten days. Either I would then be invited back to work or I would be designated as permanently unfit for my role as an emergency consultant, and fired. Then I would be forced to look for employment elsewhere, and maybe not even as a doctor.

  So far, amazingly, I had managed to keep my professional record intact on the General Medical Council’s List of Registered Medical Practitioners, but that would surely change if I lost my job.