Pulse Page 17

  I sighed.

  I would have to cross that bridge if and when I came to it but, in the meantime, I would use my spare time to try and get to the bottom of whatever was going on with respect to the death of the unnamed man.

  It gave me a goal and a sense of purpose.

  So I sat at the dining room table with my laptop and searched through the Racing UK website.

  As the bookmaker Bill Tucker had suspected, I needed to purchase a subscription in order to view all past races, even though quite a few were available free. Next I tried the At The Races website and found that their videos were all viewable without charge but they had the rights to less than half of British racecourses. The others were covered by Racing UK, including Cheltenham.

  But what did I need to look at?

  I was certainly interested in horses ridden by Jason Conway, but how did I find out which ones those were? I could hardly ring him up and ask him.

  But I could ring up and ask Bill Tucker.

  I found the Tommy Berkley betting slip and called the number printed on it.

  ‘Hello,’ said an echoey voice.

  ‘Bill,’ I said, ‘it’s Dr Chris Rankin. I saw you on Friday at Cheltenham.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Sorry your free bet didn’t win.’

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ I said. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Fire away. I’m in the car on my way to Southwell races. There’ll only be two men and a dog there on a wet Monday after Cheltenham but . . . it’s a living. How can I help?’

  ‘Is there any way of finding out which horse a jockey rode, and in what race?’ I asked.

  ‘Which jockey?’

  Did I tell him?

  Why not?

  ‘One of Jason Conway, Mike Sheraton or Dick McGee.’

  ‘Ah, the terrible trio,’ Bill said with a laugh.

  ‘Why are they terrible?’

  ‘Because they’re always costing me money,’ Bill said, still laughing. ‘Especially that bloody Sheraton. Never know whether he’s on or off.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘He can be damn good but he can also be dreadful. Depends on whether he’s trying or not.’

  The age-old gripe by every bookmaker about every jockey. To be taken with a pinch of salt, and not backed up by the evidence.

  ‘So how do I get the horses and races?’ I asked.

  ‘Your best bet would be to use one of the websites. At The Races, Racing UK and Racing Post all have a results service. You can easily see the rides each jockey has had in the last few weeks. They’ll be listed when you click on their names. If you want to go back earlier, then check the results for a date and just look through until you find the jockey’s name. It’s quite easy but a bit time-consuming.’

  Time was something I had plenty of at the moment.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘And you were right about needing to pay to see the full race on Racing UK. You can only get the finish for free.’

  ‘But that’s the important bit,’ he said with yet another laugh.

  ‘Not for what I’m looking for.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you if I find it.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Bill said. ‘How long do you want access to the site for?’

  ‘Just today and maybe tomorrow. Depends on what I find.’

  ‘Use my login,’ he said. ‘I need to change the password anyway so I’ll do that on . . .’ He paused. ‘I’ll change it on Thursday. That’ll give you three days if you need it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said again.

  ‘My user name is tommyberkley, all one word, all lower case. Password is 6to4theField, all one word, the six and four as numbers with a capital F for Field.’

  ‘Got it,’ I said, writing it all down on a notepad.

  ‘But you have to let me know if you find what you’re looking for.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ I said. ‘Many thanks.’

  But did I even know what I was looking for? Not really, but searching might at least pass some of the endless hours of nothingness.

  I logged on to the Racing UK website using Bill Tucker’s details and started by watching a rerun of the race at Cheltenham in November when Fabricated had finished third, the race on which the unnamed man had bet five pounds.

  Jason Conway had indeed been riding Fabricated that day.

  As I almost expected, Fabricated had jumped the first fence in front.

  I stopped the video and sat staring into space.

  Then I called Bill Tucker again.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. No echo this time.

  ‘Bill, it’s Chris Rankin again.’

  ‘Are you having problems logging on?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s fine, thank you. But I have a question for you about betting.’

  ‘Fire away,’ he said with his now familiar laugh. ‘There’s not much I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Would you take a bet from me about which horse will jump the first fence in front during a race?’

  There was a long pause from the other end.

  ‘Bill?’ I said. ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Still here. I’m just thinking. Someone asked me that once before. You’ve just reminded me of it.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Some time ago. Last year maybe.’

  ‘Last November? At Cheltenham? Were you asked by the man in the photo I showed you?’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I really can’t remember. I know I said that I wouldn’t take the bet. I’m usually taking regular bets right up to the off, and sometimes even after that. Then I have to get my brolly down so as not to block the view for those in the grandstand. Hence, I never even watch them jump the first. It’s bad enough getting to watch them finish at some courses, those without big TVs. So I only take bets on official results, those called by the judge.’

  ‘No good, then, asking you for a fiver on there being a white Christmas?’

  ‘Too bloody complicated,’ he said. ‘And too many arguments about what constitutes a white Christmas – snow in the air, snow on the ground, and where. I prefer to stick to things where the outcome is black and white.’ He laughed. ‘If you’ll excuse the pun. Look, I must dash. I’m now at Southwell and I must go and set up my pitch.’

  ‘OK, Bill,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  We disconnected.

  Maybe not with Tommy Berkley, but there were other bookmakers or betting websites where it was possible to bet on almost anything – not only the weather at Christmas, but election results, the Oscar winners, even the likelihood of intelligent alien life being found somewhere during the next year.

  And ‘spread betting’ on both financial markets and sports fixtures has been around for many years, allowing wagers to be made on such things as the gains or losses in the stock-market index, or even the number of corners or throw-ins during a game of football.

  Was there somewhere a gambler making bets on a horse to jump the first fence in front, and then arranging for it to happen?

  Spot-fixing is what it was called. Fixing not the result, which was difficult and would usually require a conspiracy with other participants, but fixing a minor occurrence during a race or a match, something that could be achieved by a single individual working alone, and one that no one would notice.

  Three Pakistani cricketers had famously been imprisoned for arranging for two ‘no-balls’ to be bowled at specific times in a match between Pakistan and England at Lord’s Cricket Ground in 2010, to corruptly allow others to profit from bets laid with a bookmaker in Pakistan.

  Did the unnamed man have anything to do with spot-fixing races?

  And was he perhaps not Indian, but Pakistani?

  I spent the next few hours watching videos of races in which Jason Conway had ridden, making a list of those whe
re he had jumped the first fence or hurdle in front.

  So preoccupied had I become that I failed to have any lunch and completely lost track of time, only realising how late it had become when the twins arrived back from school at four o’clock.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ they said in unison, ‘any food?’

  I’d meant to go out and get some, hours ago.

  ‘I’ve got some fruit,’ I said, knowing that was not at all what they wanted. ‘Or you could go along to the village shop and get some bread.’

  ‘I’ve got a match debrief, like, and a team practice in twenty minutes,’ Toby said. ‘And I’ve got to change yet.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Oliver said chirpily. ‘Can we have crisps?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, and gave him a ten-pound note from my purse. ‘Just one packet each, mind. Also get a large sliced loaf and a dozen eggs, plus some milk. I’ll make scrambled eggs on toast for supper.’

  I stood at the front door and waved as he rode off down the road on his bicycle.

  ‘Take care,’ I shouted after him. ‘And come straight back.’

  ‘Leave it out, Mum,’ he called back. ‘I’m not a child any more.’

  He was to me, I thought, but, in truth, he was now almost as tall as I was, and beginning to grow stubble. As I watched him go, I realised that he’d also outgrown his child bike. Maybe it would be time for a new one next birthday.

  I went back into the dining room, back to my computer and to the next race in which Jason Conway had ridden. I was totally absorbed.

  ‘Where’s Olly?’ Toby said, coming into the dining room in his football kit. ‘I want the crisps, like, but I’ve really got to go now. I’m already late, and he should’ve been back ages ago.’

  Oh, my God!

  Oliver!

  21

  I sprinted down the road, the tears welling in my eyes so much that I couldn’t see properly.

  ‘Oliver! Oliver!’ I shouted his name over and over desperately as I ran.

  There was a main road he had to cross to get to the village shop, a road along which cars regularly drove too fast.

  Why had I let him out alone? Why? Why? Why?

  He was only a boy.

  I’d tried his mobile phone but it had rung on the kitchen worktop. He hadn’t taken it with him.

  I arrived at the main road. There was no sign of Oliver or his bicycle, no bloody mess, nothing.

  I crossed over and ran on, cursing myself for not having brought the car. It would have been so much quicker.

  It was almost exactly a quarter of a mile from our house to the village shop and an Olympic athlete would have had nothing on me.

  There was no sign of Oliver’s bike outside. I burst into the shop, frightening Mrs Atherton, who owned it.

  ‘Where’s Oliver?’ I shouted at her.

  She looked at me quizzically.

  ‘Oliver, my son,’ I said. ‘He was coming here to buy bread, eggs and crisps.’

  Mrs Atherton nodded. ‘He’s been. Served him myself.’

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘Sorry, dear, I’ve no idea,’ Mrs Atherton replied. ‘He took his change and left.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Not more than ten minutes.’

  Ten minutes! A quarter of a mile on a bicycle would take just one, two at most. He should have been home ages ago.

  I ran out of the shop and retraced my steps. I surely couldn’t have missed him.

  ‘Oliver!’ I shouted as I ran. ‘Oliver!’

  I was now in full panic mode and I could feel myself shaking with fear.

  I looked over every garden fence and wall between the village shop and our house but there was no sign of Oliver or his bike.

  When I arrived back, Toby was standing at the open front door.

  ‘Is he back?’ I shouted at him.

  I could see fear in his face as he shook his head.

  I was beginning to go into meltdown; I could feel the tingling in my fingers.

  I rushed past Toby and grabbed the house phone, my fingers seemingly huge on the buttons as I dialled Grant’s mobile number. He answered at the second ring.

  ‘Oliver’s been abducted,’ I shouted down the phone at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oliver’s been abducted,’ I repeated breathlessly. ‘He went to the shop for some crisps and he’s disappeared.’

  ‘How long ago?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Twenty, twenty-five minutes. I ran to the shop. Mrs Atherton says he was there but left ages ago. He never came home. Oh my God. Where is he?’

  I was crying uncontrollably.

  ‘Calm down, darling,’ Grant said. ‘He’s probably stopped off at a friend’s house.’

  ‘Why would he?’ I screamed. ‘He knew we were waiting for him. I’m telling you, he’s been snatched.’ I was sobbing. ‘I’m calling the police.’

  I hung up and immediately dialled 999.

  ‘Emergency, which service?’ asked the operator.

  ‘Police,’ I shouted down the line. ‘My son’s been abducted.’

  I had to give the Gloucestershire Police some credit.

  The first squad car arrived with blue flashing lights and a blaring siren in only five minutes. It contained two uniformed police officers and I ran down the drive to meet them.

  ‘We were already in Bishop’s Cleeve,’ one of them said. ‘Diverted from another job. Shall we go inside? To take down the details.’

  ‘Inside?’ I screamed. ‘He’s not inside. We need to find him.’

  ‘Mrs Rankin,’ said the policeman, ‘we understand how you must be feeling but we have to get the details correct.’

  Understand? Neither policeman looked old enough to be out of school, let alone be parents. How could they possibly understand how I was feeling?

  One of them took me by the elbow and guided me into the house and then through into the kitchen. We sat down at the table.

  ‘Now,’ the policeman said, extracting a notebook and pen from his stab-proof-vest pocket, ‘how old, exactly, is Oliver?’

  ‘He was fourteen last September,’ I said. He looked up at me sharply as if he’d been expecting him to be younger, then he wrote it down in a notebook. ‘And what does he look like?’

  ‘Like that,’ I said, pointing at Toby, who was standing by the door into the hall, still in his football kit. ‘They’re identical twins.’

  ‘And how long has he been missing?’

  ‘He went to the village shop on his bike to buy some bread and crisps but he didn’t come back. I’ve searched for him but . . .’ I broke off, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the tears.

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘About half an hour ago.’

  ‘Half an hour?’ He didn’t quite sound incredulous, but close. ‘Do you not think he may just be taking his time?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve searched everywhere between here and the shop. And I told him to come straight back.’

  ‘And does he always do what you tell him?’

  I could tell from his tone that he was rather sceptical.

  ‘Well, no, not always, but he would have done this time. He knew his brother was waiting for him.’

  The doorbell rang and I jumped up but it was only two more uniformed policemen, one of them a woman, who joined their colleagues in the kitchen. Child abduction was obviously taken very seriously.

  ‘What was he wearing?’ asked the same policeman as before.

  ‘His school uniform,’ I said. ‘White shirt, dark grey trousers, navy pullover, with his school crest over the heart. Toby, go and get yours to show them.’

  Toby disappeared, presumably up to his room to fetch his uniform.

  ‘Jacket and tie?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just a pullover these days.’

  ‘Any coat?’

  I thought back. ‘No. He was only going to be gone a few minutes.’

  ‘Type of bike?’

  ‘Raleigh. Kid’s mou
ntain bike. In blue. Toby’s is red.’

  Grant arrived, throwing open the front door with a crash and rushing into the kitchen. I stood up and hugged him. He pulled away from me and turned to the four police officers.

  ‘Why aren’t you out searching for my son?’ he demanded.

  ‘All in good time, sir,’ replied one of them. ‘We need to get all the details first and a photograph. Do you have one we could show to our officers?’

  ‘We have one upstairs that was taken at school,’ Grant said. ‘I’ll fetch it.’

  I was getting even more agitated.

  ‘We must go and look for him,’ I shouted at the police. ‘Why are we all stuck in here when he’s out there somewhere?’ I was openly sobbing and losing control. ‘My poor baby.’

  Into this intense scene of acute maternal hysteria walked Oliver.

  He came through the open front door, down the hall and into the kitchen holding a white plastic shopping bag.

  At first I thought it was Toby, assuming that he’d put his school uniform back on to show the police, but then I saw the bag.

  ‘Mum,’ Oliver said with a slightly worried tone while looking around at the four police uniforms crowded into the kitchen, ‘what’s going on?’

  My first emotion was one of relief but this very quickly turned to anger.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I shouted at him.

  ‘Looking for my bike,’ he said rather tearfully.

  ‘What?’ I screamed.

  ‘I’ve been looking for my bike,’ he repeated. ‘Someone took it while I was in the shop.’

  Grant came into the kitchen clutching the photo and instantly grasped the situation.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he asked loudly, turning to Oliver.

  The poor young boy was now in floods of tears.

  ‘I’ve been looking for my bike,’ he said once more between sobs. ‘It’s been stolen.’

  ‘What do you mean, stolen?’

  Gradually, over the next half-hour, the full story came out.

  Oliver had cycled straight to the shop and had gone in, leaning his bike against the wall outside. He had bought the items but, when he came out, the bike was gone.

  ‘I was only in there a couple of minutes,’ he said miserably. ‘I thought someone was playing a trick on me. So I looked to see if it’d been moved. But I couldn’t find it anywhere. Then I thought Jamie Williams must have taken it.’