Felix Francis - Crisis

Interesting work it may have been, but it was nowhere near as exciting as solving a murder.

Kate and I had arrived at the racecourse good and early, not only to enjoy the build-up to the big race, but also for lunch with our host in a private box on the fifth floor of the Queen’s Stand, two levels up even from the Royal Box itself.

The Sheikh had secured use of the box in the expectation of personally witnessing Prince of Troy’s sprint to victory, and he had decided to come to the day anyway, not least because he wanted to hear, first-hand, my account of the curious events in Newmarket.

‘Harrison, my friend,’ the Sheikh said, greeting me warmly with a firm handshake at the box door. ‘Come in, come in.’

I introduced him to Kate. He smiled at her and raised his eyebrows in approval at me.

There were several other guests but the Sheikh arranged that I was sitting next to him for lunch.

‘Tell me,’ he said.

So I did. Quietly. Everything from start to finish, leaving nothing out.

He pursed his lips in disapproval.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ I said. ‘I don’t wish to be the bearer of distressing news.’

He asked for my advice concerning his horses, so I told him to move them from Ryan but not to send them to Declan. Not yet, anyway.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Because,’ I replied, ‘there’s an old Arab saying that a camel hit with a stick too often may turn nasty, and strike back.’

He roared with laughter and slapped me on the shoulder.

Kate and I viewed the first three races from the balcony at the front of the Sheikh’s box but, for the fourth, we went down to see the horses in the parade ring behind the stands.

The Derby was the fifth race of the day and we could almost taste the tension in the air as start time neared.

The connections of the victorious horse would take home almost a cool million pounds in prize money but, in spite of that, it was far from being the richest race in the world. In fact, it didn’t even make the top ten. But the prestige of winning the Epsom Derby was more valuable, to say nothing of the potential future stud value of the horse.

We watched the fourth race on a large-screen TV near the weighing room before walking over towards the saddling boxes on the far side of the paddock.

It was Declan’s travelling head lad that I saw first, standing next to the horse in the box second from the end.

‘Hi, Joe,’ I said.

He did a bit of a double take but then he recognised me under the top hat. He grunted a greeting of sorts. The horse was already saddled and looked ready to go, with a stable lad standing patiently holding his head.

‘Where’s Declan?’ I asked.

‘Just had to rush to the khazi,’ he said. ‘He’s that nervous.’

‘How’s the horse?’

‘Never better,’ Joe said. ‘Raring to go.’

At that point Declan returned but he didn’t seem very pleased to see me, almost as if he was embarrassed. As well he might be.

He did a quick final check that everything was in order, then he sent the horse off into the paddock with Joe and the stable lad both leading, but on opposite sides. They were clearly taking no chances.

‘I got a letter from Suffolk Police,’ Declan said to me.

‘Yes, I know,’ I said. As his lawyer, I’d received a copy. It had stated that he was no longer ‘under investigation’ for the murder of Zoe, but that the police were continuing to conduct inquiries into the possible historical sexual abuse of a minor.

‘I was only a kid,’ Declan said softly but earnestly, pulling me to one side. ‘As soon as I was old enough to realise it was wrong, I stopped. Ryan and I fought about it. It was all him. He used to laugh at me and tell me not to be so bloody self-righteous. And then, when Tony became mature enough, it was Ryan who encouraged him to join in. That’s why I went to America. To get away from what was happening.’

Perhaps he should have taken his sister with him, I thought, or at least told someone in authority.

‘Are you going to win this?’ I asked, changing the subject.

‘Oh God, I hope so,’ he replied, the nervousness clear in his voice.

‘Good luck,’ I said. I was quite nervous too.

Kate and I went back up.

In the lift, I spotted some familiar faces — Mike and Michelle Morris.

‘How’s Momentum?’ I asked, subconsciously moving a hand up to the scab that still existed on my right ear.

‘Oh, hello...’ Michelle said, clearly not remembering my name.

‘Harry,’ I said. ‘And this is Kate.’

Hands were shaken all round.

‘Momentum’s fine,’ Mike said. ‘We’ve moved him to a new trainer but he’s as lively as ever. He runs next week at Yarmouth.’

‘And he’s still got his balls,’ Michelle added with a grin.

The lift doors opened at the fourth floor.

‘This is us,’ Mike said, stepping out with Michelle. ‘Bye, Harry.’

‘Bye,’ I responded as the doors closed.

‘Who are they?’ Kate asked as the lift again began to move.

‘I met them at Newmarket races,’ I said. ‘They’re the owners of that crazy horse I was shut in with at Castleton House Stables.’

Kate was shocked. ‘But they seem so nice.’

I laughed. ‘It wasn’t them that tried to kill me, only their horse.’

‘Even so...’

The lift arrived at the fifth floor and we went into the Sheikh’s box and out onto the balcony to watch the race.

The crowd was, by now, almost at fever pitch and was further galvanised by a fanfare from six scarlet-uniformed trumpeters as the eighteen contenders came out onto the track for a parade in front of the stands.

‘Isn’t it fabulous?’ Kate said, gripping my hand tightly.

‘Certainly is,’ I agreed.

The big screen in front of the stands flashed up the current odds for the race. Orion’s Glory was quoted as the sixth favourite at sixteen-to-one. One more time I reached into my pocket to check I still had my slip from Ladbrokes at fifties.

The runners made their way across to the far side of the track, away to our right, to the waiting starting stalls.

‘Loading,’ announced the race commentator, further cranking up the anticipation. And then a huge cheer greeted his call of ‘They’re off!’

The Epsom Derby is run over a distance of a mile and a half.

For the first five furlongs the horses climb steadily to the highest point of the course before swinging left-handed and steeply downhill towards Tattenham Corner. As Oliver had said, the most testing stretch of racetrack on the planet.

The horses were well bunched in the early stages, the white cap of Orion’s Glory’s rider clearly visible about a third of the way back in the field. But as they started down the hill the pace visibly quickened and the leading group of eight managed to break away from the remainder.

On the big screen I could see that Orion’s Glory was hugging the inside rail in fifth place and, to my eye, he seemed to be rather boxed in by the other horses. However, as they turned sharply into the finishing straight, the leaders tended to drift wide, allowing Declan’s horse a clear run.

Even I could tell that he was moving easily as he swept past two of those ahead of him into third place, and the jockey hadn’t yet lifted his whip.

At the two-furlong pole, Orion’s Glory was asked for his final supreme effort, and he responded with the same turn of foot that had so excited Declan on the Limekilns gallop at Newmarket four weeks previously.

He quickly caught the two horses in front and hung on, stretching his head out to win by a neck, as Kate and I jumped up and down with excitement.

It may not have been such a convincing success as the record ten-length victory of the legendary Shergar, but a neck was more than enough. Even a short head would have been ample.