Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

‘Jason Butcher?’ I said to him as he went to go past me.

He stopped. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Jeff Hinkley. I work for the BHA.’

I held out my credentials and he looked at them.

‘I’ve heard of you,’ he said. ‘Weren’t you involved in all that extortion business at the BHA a couple of years ago?’

I nodded, slightly taken aback that he knew about it.

‘What do you want of me?’ he asked.

‘Just a short word. I’ll wait while you go and make your declaration.’

He didn’t look especially happy and I didn’t really blame him. Just like the gateman at Newbury, no one likes someone in authority, especially someone in authority asking them questions.

I waited outside until he reappeared.

‘Now, what’s all this about?’ he asked with just a slight nervous timbre to his voice.

‘It’s about Garrick Party,’ I said. ‘Specifically, it’s about the race at Haydock the Saturday before last in which Garrick Party finished third.’

If he was unduly worried, he didn’t show it.

‘What about it?’

‘I understand you were interviewed by the stewards and asked about the running of the horse.’

‘Bloody ridiculous,’ he said.

‘What was?’

‘Dave bloody Swinton.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Perhaps one shouldn’t speak badly about him at the moment, but he was right out of order.’

‘In what way?’

‘He should have been aware that old Garrick likes to make the running and has a finish only as fast as my grandmother on her Zimmer frame but, oh no, he suddenly thinks at Haydock he knows better. Holds the old boy up for a run from the second last. I ask you. The man’s a bloody idiot.’

‘Did you actually tell him how to ride the horse?’ I asked.

He raised his eyebrows towards his hairline and lowered his voice even more. ‘You never tell Dave Swinton anything. If you are lucky enough for him to condescend to ride your horses, you have to sit back and watch them run as he thinks fit. He reckons he knows best, and mostly he does. But not with old Garrick, that’s for sure — even though he’d ridden him several times before as a front runner, and won.’

‘Did he say anything to you afterwards?’

‘He made some absurd excuse about thinking the horse would run better in heavy going if he was held up. It was all utter garbage but the stewards seemed to accept it. Maybe he believed it himself but, I’ll tell you now, he won’t be riding old Garrick next time out.’ He stopped and blushed slightly as he realized what he’d just said. ‘No, I suppose he won’t anyway.’

‘What did the owner say?’

‘Silly old fool. It was his idea to ask Swinton to ride the horse in the first place. Thought it gave him some sort of kudos to have the champion jockey riding his horse. Stupid nonsense. And it’s not the first time I blame Swinton for not winning on one of my horses.’

‘Explain,’ I said.

‘About three weeks ago he rode a novice hurdler for me at Doncaster, horse called Perambulator. In my opinion, Swinton got the tactics all wrong and left it far too late at the end to make his run. Beaten by a head, we were, but Pram was the fastest finisher by a streak. He’d have won if the post had been just a couple of yards farther away. He should have won that race, easy.’ There was real bitterness in his voice and I wondered how much he had gambled, and lost.

‘But things like that happen in racing all the time,’ I said.

‘Well, they shouldn’t. Not when you’ve paid the extra to have the maestro riding for you.’ His tone was sarcastic and clearly reflected what had been said to him, probably by Dave Swinton himself.

‘Extra?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. The extra cash he demands to ride one of your horses.’

‘How much extra?’ I asked.

‘A jump jockey’s fee is just over a hundred and sixty pounds for each ride. But if you want D. Swinton in the saddle it’d cost you the same again in readies. He even has the nerve to call it a present — Let’s just call it a gift, shall we ? he’d say.’

I wondered if those were the ‘gifts’ Dave had been referring to when he’d been talking about his taxes.

‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ Jason Butcher said, looking around him to check that no one else was listening, ‘racing will be much better off without him.’

Unlike nearly everyone else, Jason Butcher was obviously not a fan of the deceased champion jockey, if indeed it had been Dave Swinton dead in the burning Mercedes.

I watched from the grandstand as Jason Butcher’s horse just failed to win the first race, beaten in the mud by a fast-finishing animal carrying fifteen pounds less weight.

The trainer clearly wasn’t happy. He stood in the space reserved for the second, bunching his fists and looking daggers towards the jockey. He was someone who undoubtedly always blamed the pilot rather than the machine. Not that he was alone. Many punters are convinced that it is the horse’s doing when it wins, but the jockey’s fault when it loses.

I went in search of another trainer, Thomas Cheek, who trained Chiltern Line, the horse that had failed to win under Dave Swinton at Ludlow due to being boxed-in on the rails. He had a runner later in the day, in the feature race.

I found him sitting with an elderly couple at a table in the owners and trainers’ bar.

‘Thomas Cheek?’ I asked.

‘Tom,’ he said.

‘My name is Jeff Hinkley. I work for the BHA.’ I showed him my credentials. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

He read the word ‘investigator’ printed on the card and, as was always the case with everyone, he wasn’t too happy.

‘What about?’

I looked at his two companions.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve nothing to hide from Mr and Mrs Valdemon. They own Peach of a Day that runs in the fourth.’

‘I want to ask you about the running of Chiltern Line in a handicap chase at Ludlow on November nineteenth.’

‘What about it?’ he asked. ‘He finished second behind Taximan.’

I nodded. ‘I watched the race video. Were you happy with the result?’

‘I’d have preferred it if he’d won, obviously, but he ran above his rating so I can’t complain.’

‘Were you happy about the way it was ridden?’

‘I suppose so. Dave Swinton rode it.’ He opened his hands, palms uppermost, as if to say how could he possibly complain about the late champion jockey.

‘But the horse was badly boxed-in coming round the final bend and had to drop back before making his run.’

‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I’d told Dave Swinton that Chiltern Line liked to run close to the rail. Always does so at home, so it may have been my fault he was in that position.’

I wasn’t completely convinced but there seemed to be nothing further to say on the matter.

‘Well, that’s all,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your time.’

‘No problem,’ Tom said, and Mr and Mrs Valdemon smiled.

I began to turn away but then turned back to face him. ‘Just one last thing. Did Dave Swinton ever ask you for an extra gift to ride your horses?’

He blushed.

‘In what way?’ he asked, but he knew exactly in what way I was talking about.

‘As an extra riding fee?’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Look,’ I said. ‘I know he asked others. I just want to know if he asked you. It’s not against the Rules of Racing.’ At least, I didn’t think so, even though any unregistered payments in cash were always frowned upon and maybe they did break one or other of the myriad of obscure BHA regulations.

‘He called me and said he’d ride my horses but he wanted an extra hundred and fifty pounds each time to ride them. I said I wouldn’t pay that — I couldn’t afford it — so I told him I’d get someone else to ride them. But then he said he’d do it for just a hundred and an additional cut of any prize money.’