Felix Francis - Triple Crown

I inched forward and peered around the side of one of the huge steel skips that were dotted around the site for the collection of manure.

I could see Steffi Dean standing in the exit at the corner of the barn, her gun held out straight in front like a natural extension of her arm.

‘Who’s down?’ Norman asked in my ear.

‘Bob Wade,’ came the reply. It was Trudi Harding who spoke.

I watched as Steffi buckled at the knees and almost went down to the dirt floor.

Her gun dropped to her side and, even from my hiding place some ten yards away, I could clearly hear her gasp with despair.

‘I think Bob’s fine,’ Trudi went on. ‘I shot the assailant. He’s down too.’

From somewhere over my right shoulder I could hear the rhythmic raising and falling siren of an approaching ambulance.

‘Are we secure?’ Norman asked. ‘Anyone else need assistance?’

There was no reply.

‘Suspects?’ Norman said.

‘Only the one down here,’ Trudi replied.

‘All others lying face down in the dirt and cooperating,’ a male voice added. ‘Secure on the south side.’

‘And on the north,’ chipped in another agent.

‘All clear,’ called Norman. ‘But stay vigilant, everybody. Conduct a full search.’

In front of me, Steffi Dean had recovered her composure somewhat and again had her Glock 22C up at the ready. She moved into the wooden building and started to move forward, looking into each horse-stall in turn.

Hayden Ryder’s barn was identical to most of the other barns at Churchill Downs. About seventy yards in length, it contained twenty-four wooden-built horse-stalls, arranged in two rows of twelve, situated back to back, with wide, open walkways running along in front, bounded on the outside by a half-height wall. At either end were more substantial, two-storey, block-built structures containing the trainer’s office, equipment and feed stores, together with the stable dispensary.

The whole thing was covered by a green shingle-covered roof that stretched from the structures at either end over the total length and width of the barn, supported above the half-walls by white-painted vertical wooden beams.

From the direction of the shots, it seemed that all the action had taken place at the far end of the barn.

I walked up alongside and went in.

Three of the special agents, Larry Spiegal, Cliff Connell and Mason Rees, stood looking down at a man who lay in a crumpled heap on the ground.

No one made any attempt to help him, because he was beyond help.

The back of his head appeared to have been entirely blown away.

Norman appeared from the far side of the barn. He took in the scene, together with the fact that I was standing there. He pursed his lips.

‘Anyone know who it is?’ he asked.

None of the agents replied.

‘I think it’s Hayden Ryder,’ I said. ‘The trainer.’ They all looked at me. ‘I did some research on the Internet. I think that’s his face, or what’s left of it.’

We all looked down again at the mangled bloody mess at our feet.

‘Cover him up,’ Norman said to no one in particular.

Larry Spiegal took a horse rug that was hung over the half-wall and draped it over the body.

‘Where’s Bob?’ Norman asked.

‘Down there,’ Mason Rees said, pointing.

I glanced to my left. Bob Wade was sitting on the floor with his back up against one of the stall walls and his legs stretched straight out on the dirt. Trudi Harding was crouching down next to him.

‘What happened?’ Norman asked.

‘This guy came at Bob with that fork,’ Mason said, indicating the long-handled, two-pronged pitchfork lying close to the body. ‘I saw it happen. He came out of that door, ran straight at Bob, and stabbed him in the chest.’ He made a two-handed stabbing motion. ‘Trudi took him down.’

Norman walked over towards Bob.

‘You OK?’ he asked.

Bob Wade looked up at him and nodded. ‘A bit shaken up but I’ll be fine. One of the prongs hit my badge.’ He fingered the groove that the fork had made in the metal.

‘You were lucky,’ Norman said. ‘How come he got close enough to stab you?’

‘He came from behind me. I heard him and turned but he was too close. He was on me before I had a chance to react.’

Norman was far from happy.

It was clear that Trudi was still shocked by what had happened.

‘He would have killed Bob,’ she said, speaking with a nervous timbre in her voice. ‘I’m sure of it. He was lining up for a second attempt with the fork so I shot him.’

‘You did the right thing,’ Norman said.

Two uniformed paramedics ran into the barn weighed down with medical kits. They took a brief look at the body under the rug, and then went over to Bob Wade. They could only help the living.

Norman walked a little bit away and signalled for me to follow.

‘I told you to remain on the bus.’

‘I heard you say “all clear” over the radio so I came forward.’

He didn’t like it but there was little else he could do.

‘Go back to the bus now,’ he said firmly. ‘I will try to sort out this damn mess. It might take some time as I have to call in the Louisville Police to investigate the shooting.’

‘Can I help in any way?’ I asked hopefully.

He shook his head. ‘Get back on the bus and wait for me there, or else I will have you arrested.’

That seemed to be a fairly definite no, then.

I went back to the bus.

I sat on the bus for the next two hours, by which time the whole area round Ryder’s barn had been cordoned off with bright yellow ‘POLICE — DO NOT CROSS’ tape by the Louisville Police.

From my vantage point, I watched as a black van with ‘County Coroner’s Office’ painted in white lettering on its side arrived and drove up to the barn.

A little while later, the van departed, carrying, I presumed, the mortal remains of Hayden Ryder.

Soon after that the three veterinary technicians were called forward to collect blood samples from the horses.

That left me alone on the bus. Even the driver had deserted me and I hadn’t seen Tony since before the raid had gone in.

Meanwhile, life on the Churchill Downs backside went on as usual with horses being prepared from the other barns for their daily workout on the track.

True, there were more members of the media on site than might be normally expected three days before a big race, and the crews were from the TV news networks rather than from the sports channels, but the welfare and training of the horses still had to go on. It seemed it would take more than the shooting of a trainer to derail the Kentucky Derby juggernaut.

With over 170,000 spectators expected for the main event, some having paid in excess of $6,000 for a single ticket, it was the big annual occasion for Louisville. Every hotel room was full for a hundred miles around, and you had more chance of walking on water than getting a dinner reservation in a city-centre restaurant.

But only for the first Saturday in May.

For the rest of the year, Louisville returned to its regular, sleepy existence where the tourist highlights included an educational visit to the Louisville Slugger baseball-bat factory, or nostalgic trips to the birthplace and grave of Muhammad Ali.

Eventually Norman returned. He came up the steps into the bus and sat down on the seat opposite me.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

‘You know who I am,’ I replied. ‘Jeff Hinkley, from the BHA in London.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m on the international exchange scheme.’

‘Don’t give me that bullshit. I reckon you’re here to spy on us. I just don’t know yet who sent you.’