Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

‘He hasn’t won yet and he’ll probably start at fairly short odds.’

‘How about in the first race? Do you fancy Medication? He’s the favourite.’

‘I’ve no idea but you had better be quick if you want to make a bet because they’re already at the start.’

She stood up and rushed out of the box, along with some of the other guests.

I looked up at the television screen in the corner of the room. Bill McKenzie was indeed riding as advertised, which meant that he wasn’t concussed. I wondered if the confusion he had exhibited in the medical room the previous evening had been because his mind had been on other matters — like how long he would be banned from riding if anyone knew he had lost the race on purpose.

Autumn Statement won the second race by two lengths at the surprisingly long price of six-to-one. Obviously the betting public hadn’t appreciated his potential as much as I had.

‘Three hundred quid!’ squealed Henri as we watched the finish on the television in the box during our dessert. ‘I’ve just won three hundred quid.’

‘How much did you put on?’ I asked.

‘Fifty quid, on the nose.’

‘You’re crazy,’ I said. ‘Either that or you’ve more money than sense.’

‘Maybe I am a bit crazy,’ she said, laughing. ‘And what if I do have more money than sense. You’re the one who tipped it. Surely you backed it as well.’

I hadn’t. In fact I very rarely had any bet at all. Even though there was no rule actually preventing me from gambling on the races, I was concerned that some people might think there was a conflict of interest if I wanted one horse to win more than another. The Authority was meant to be impartial in all matters.

Or maybe it was because my tipping skills were generally so poor and I didn’t like losing my hard-earned cash.

‘Actually, no,’ I said. ‘But I’m pleased for you that it won.’ I smiled at her.

‘You’re a strange bird, aren’t you?’

‘Am I?’ I said, slightly taken aback. ‘In what way?’

‘Do you always live within the rules?’

‘Rules or laws?’

‘Both,’ she said. ‘The laws of the land and the rules of convention and polite society.’

‘Are you implying that you don’t?’

‘Dead right, I don’t. But I’m on my best behaviour today. I was warned by Uncle Richard not to make, what he calls, a scene. Otherwise he’d be bloody cross and take me straight home .’ She mimicked an angry male voice.

‘And would he then spank you for being a naughty girl?’

She blushed again and, I dare say, I did as well.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I mumbled, hugely embarrassed. ‘I’m not sure what came over me. It must be the champagne. Please forget I ever said that.’

‘My,’ she replied. ‘You’re even stranger than I thought.’

How could I have said it? It was so out of character. Had I been trying to break away from the live within the rules of polite society classification in which Henri had so accurately placed me? Or, maybe I was just frustrated. Either way, I’d made a complete fool of myself.

I stood up. ‘I think I had better be going.’

‘Don’t go,’ commanded Gay Smith from my other side, turning briefly towards me. ‘I haven’t spent enough time talking to you. And we haven’t had our coffee yet.’

I sat down again slowly and, to add to my discomfiture, Henri was shaking from a fit of giggles.

‘Stop it,’ I said to her quietly.

She took a deep breath and stopped laughing.

‘And what are you going to do if I don’t? Spank me?’

She started giggling again immediately, this time twice as badly. And giggles are highly infectious. It was as much as I could do not to join in.

The rest of the lunch was a torment as I tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to ignore Henri, who went on sniggering throughout.

Although, to be honest, part of me didn’t want to ignore her at all.

I watched the third race from the balcony with Gay Smith and then made my apologies and left, going down to the weighing room and the paddock, to my more familiar surroundings on a racecourse.

‘Do come back for tea after the fifth,’ Gay had said as I departed. But we’d only just finished an enormous lunch. Many more days like this would see my waistline expand, but I suppose it was better than spending every day trying to keep one’s body weight at twenty pounds below what was natural, as Dave Swinton had done.

Even six days after the event, the main topic of conversation was still his suicide. He had been expected to ride Ebury Tiger, the red-hot favourite in the Tingle Creek Chase later in the afternoon, having ridden it on each of its nine previous victories over hurdles and fences.

There was a general acceptance that it had been a good thing for the racing authorities to have cancelled all race meetings for the following Monday, the day of Dave’s funeral, as a mark of respect for the loss of one of the sport’s greats. Very many racing fans had lost their hero and the Morning Line on Channel 4 that day had broadcast such a gushing obituary that all the presenters had been in tears.

I, meanwhile, was not feeling quite so reverential about the late champion jockey but, there again, he had tried to kill me. And I was still having nightmares about my time in that sauna.

I stood by the rail gazing at the horses for the fourth race as they circled in the parade ring, but my thoughts were in a different place. The mounting bell was rung and I found myself looking across as Bill McKenzie was given a leg-up onto a horse called Lost Moon. No sign of confusion now, I thought, as he gathered the reins and placed his feet in the stirrup irons.

I went on staring at him absent-mindedly as I weighed up the pros and cons of returning to Derrick Smith’s box for tea, and of returning to the giggling Henri.

But, from Bill McKenzie’s perspective, it must have appeared that I was interested only in him.

As he saw me watching him, the colour visibly drained from his face, and he began to shake. I was mesmerized by the effect my presence was causing so I went on staring at him as the horses walked past, McKenzie’s head turning slowly to allow him to stare back at me with wide frightened eyes.

Bugger, I thought.

That had been extremely careless on my part. I had intended to give Bill McKenzie no reason whatsoever to think that I was in any way suspicious of him and yet it had been obvious that I was. But at least it forced my hand. I would now have to question him today before he had a chance to concoct some cock-and-bull story with Leslie Morris.

And it was clear that he knew exactly who I was.

Our paths had only officially crossed once before, eighteen months previously, when I had investigated an allegation that mobile telephones were being used in the jockeys’ changing-room toilets, contrary to the Rules of Racing.

Even though the finger had not been pointed at any specific individual, I had formally interviewed seven or eight jockeys at the BHA offices, including Bill McKenzie. After an extensive inquiry, I had concluded that the evidence of wrongdoing was merely circumstantial and too unreliable for any disciplinary action to be taken. Instead, a notice had been sent to all jockeys reminding them of their obligation to comply with the mobile phone regulations.

Bill McKenzie had undoubtedly remembered.

I decided against going back to Derrick and Gay Smith’s box just yet and watched the fourth race from the grandstand steps.

The Henry VIII Novice Chase was named after the king who had resided at Hampton Court Palace just a couple of miles down the road from Sandown Park, even though the racecourse hadn’t been established until some three hundred and thirty years after Henry’s death.