Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

The racecourse stewards had questioned the trainer about the care that had been taken when saddling the horse. The trainer had blamed the starter’s assistant, who had supposedly tightened the horse’s girth down at the start. He, in turn, was adamant that the girth had been both tight and secure.

The jockey, Willy Mitchell, had told the inquiry that he’d had no alternative but to pull up Electrostatic. He would have fallen off if the saddle had slipped any farther, perhaps causing some of the other runners to be brought down.

No action had been taken by the stewards, other than to warn both the trainer and the starter’s assistant to be more vigilant of the problem in future, and to commend the jockey for his quick reactions in preventing a serious incident.

I watched the video of the race, many times, and from every available angle.

There was no doubt that, in some of the TV images, the saddle was shown having slipped to the left, but they were taken long after the horse had stopped. It was impossible to tell if the slipping had occurred prior to the horse being pulled up. The footage seemed to show that the saddle had been in the right position as the horse had taken off at the first, although I couldn’t be sure it hadn’t moved on landing, as that wasn’t shown.

Was it just my suspicious mind, or had the jockey moved the saddle on purpose, only after he’d pulled up at the most conveniently distant point from both the start and the grandstand? There was no real way of knowing without confronting Willy Mitchell, and hoping for some sort of reaction.

And hence the real reason I had come to Ascot was that Electrostatic was declared to run in the two-mile novice chase, the second race of the day, and Willy Mitchell was again down to ride. All the morning papers had suggested that the horse would start once more as a short-priced favourite, his failure on his last outing having being put down to just bad luck rather than any deficiency on the animal’s part.

Electrostatic lived up to his past form and his high-voltage name, winning the second race at a canter.

I’d wandered around the betting ring beforehand but, as far as I could tell, no one was placing large bets on all the horses other than the favourite. There was certainly no blue fedora visible. No sign at all of Mr Leslie Morris.

Perhaps the summons to the disciplinary panel and my unwelcome visit to his house had frightened him away. Paul Maldini would be pleased.

Willy Mitchell was all smiles as he unsaddled the horse in the space reserved for the winner.

‘No slipped saddle this time, then?’ I said to him as he walked past me into the weighing room to weigh in.

He looked at me and the smile disappeared from his face faster than a bargain TV on Black Friday. Willy Mitchell knew exactly who I was. He’d also been part of my investigation into the misuse of jockeys’ mobile telephones.

‘No,’ he managed to say. ‘Not this time.’

‘Come out and see me,’ I said. ‘After the presentation.’

There was a slight touch of panic in his eyes. Not that it was necessarily an indication of wrongdoing. It was the sort of panic that sweeps over everyone, myself included, when a police car comes up behind you when you’re driving. It was a reaction I was quite used to generating in the innocent, as well as in the guilty.

Willy came out wearing a thick-padded grey anorak over his racing silks.

‘I have a ride in the fifth,’ he said. ‘I can’t be long.’ He looked out at the parade ring where the horses for the third race were circulating. ‘Is there some place more private? I don’t want to be seen talking to you. Especially not by my gaffer.’

His ‘gaffer’ was the trainer for whom he rode, the trainer of Electrostatic.

‘He doesn’t have a runner in this one,’ I said.

‘Maybe not, but he’ll be around here somewhere.’

We went into the stewards’ room.

In the media, Willy Mitchell was often referred to as one of the up-and-coming young jockeys. Sadly for him, he had been up-and-coming for some time now, ever since he was seventeen, and he was in some danger of being relabelled as come-and-going. But he was still only twenty-one. Being the retained jockey for a horse as good as Electrostatic might just be his ticket to the big time.

‘Tell me about the slipped saddle at Newbury,’ I said to him.

He was clearly very uncomfortable talking to me.

‘What about it?’ he asked with only a very slight tremor in his voice.

‘How did it happen?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The girth obviously wasn’t tight enough. My saddle started sliding left as I was jumping the first fence. I tried standing on the right stirrup but it wouldn’t go back.’

I didn’t say anything, I just looked at him.

In spite of the coolness of the room, he started sweating. ‘It’s true, I tell you.’

I didn’t believe him. But I still said nothing. I let him do his own digging.

‘Why would I do it on purpose?’ he said. ‘You’ve seen what a great little novice old Electro is. I reckon he’ll win the big novice chase on the Thursday of the Festival at Cheltenham. Why would I jeopardize my ride on him for that?’

Indeed, why would he? Was I wrong?

‘I’ve studied the video of the race at Newbury,’ I said. ‘Together with the footage that was not broadcast.’

He sweated some more. He wasn’t to know that it showed nothing suspicious.

‘Do you know a man called Leslie Morris?’ I asked, trying to pile on the pressure.

He thought for a moment.

‘Never heard of him,’ Willy said confidently, without so much as a flicker around the eyes. If he did know Morris he was a much better liar than I took him for.

Instead of adding to the pressure, I’d just released it.

‘Don’t you have a young family?’ I asked, but I already knew the answer. I’d done my research.

‘Twins,’ he said, nodding.

He looked like a child himself, hardly old enough to have kids of his own.

‘What about them?’ he asked.

‘Must be expensive,’ I said.

I also knew that Willy didn’t have that many rides, certainly not on horses as good as Electrostatic. In fact, he’d had only fifteen rides in the preceding month, including the one at Newbury. He was riding two here this afternoon but that was a rarity. Usually it was a maximum of one ride per day, if he was lucky. That didn’t leave much to live on, not after travelling expenses and valet fees.

‘You can check my bank balance if you like,’ he said more confidently. ‘I’ve not received anything I shouldn’t have.’ He laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

I thought back to what Dave Swinton had said to me during our journey to Newbury races on the day before he died.

‘Willy,’ I said slowly, ‘are you being blackmailed?’

He stared at me for what felt like an age, without moving so much as a single muscle in his face, not even a blink.

Finally, he turned away. ‘Can I go now?’ he said.

‘Is it to do with tax?’ I asked.

He turned back to face me.

‘Tax?’ He laughed. ‘I hardly earn enough to pay any tax.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Leave me alone.’

He pushed past me to the door.

He had as good as admitted to me with that stare that he was being blackmailed. I suppose I couldn’t really blame him for not telling me why. If he was prepared to lose a race when riding the best horse he’d ever been on, with all the possible consequences for his career, then it must be something that he was very determined to keep a secret.

I wouldn’t have told me either.

In a strange way, I was pleased when Willy Mitchell won the fifth race as well. I don’t suppose that he’d had many ‘doubles’ in his career and even the sight of me standing by the unsaddling enclosure couldn’t wipe the smile from his face entirely.