On Friday morning I went back to the racecourse, in direct violation of Grant’s express command.
He had told me firmly at breakfast that I must spend the whole day resting. I’d sat there emotionless as he spoke. I’d had no intention of obeying him, but I hadn’t exactly said so at the time. In fact, I hadn’t said anything at all.
I had things I wanted to do at the racecourse, but I did plan to be home well before Grant returned from work so he wouldn’t know.
I debated with myself whether I should park in the same place as I’d done the previous day and then secretly watch to see if anyone came again to let the tyres down. But, in the end, I decided to leave my Mini in Tom and Julie’s farmyard, as I’d done on Tuesday, and I made my way into the racecourse car park on foot, taking special care when crossing the Evesham Road.
The previous evening, DC Filippos had taken away the piece of paper after carefully placing it in a polythene sandwich bag I’d given him from my kitchen, making sure that Grant was unaware of its existence.
‘I’ll inform DS Merryweather and get the paper tested,’ he’d said. ‘It may give us some idea who left it there, although that doesn’t prove it was the same person who let your tyres down. Do you have any witnesses to that?’
I thought of Isabelle. ‘There is at least one other person who will swear that all four tyres were flat, but she was not a witness to them actually being let down.’ I wondered if I could also find my chivalrous knight in his three-piece tweed suit, not that he would know anything that Isabelle and I didn’t.
I arrived at the racecourse really early, before the gates even opened, and I hung about close to the jockeys’ reserved parking area.
I didn’t really know what I was going to do but I was determined to confront the three jockeys and to give them a piece of my mind for letting down my tyres. Perhaps I was hoping for a reaction from one or more of them, something that might give me a lead to further revelations concerning the unnamed man.
Or was I being stupid to get involved?
Leave it to the police, the sensible half of my brain kept telling me.
But the delinquent half was now winning easily.
Of one thing, I was sure – having the nameless man to worry about, together with the sure knowledge that my concern was not without foundation, had done wonders for my mood. I felt, suddenly, that I had a purpose back in my life and it gave me a terrific lift.
I suppose I had been initially drawn to a career in medicine by some altruistic belief that I could do some good in the world. I think all doctors are. Otherwise why would we continue as impoverished students for so long after some of our contemporaries from school are already out in the real world earning six-figure salaries, to say nothing of the long hours and manic workload of the junior doctor.
Unlike some of my consultant colleagues in private practice, my chosen speciality of emergency medicine was never going to make me hugely wealthy but it was at the forefront of ‘doing good’ and, as such, had always been rewarding in other ways.
To have had that taken away from me over these past few months had simply compounded my problems with depression.
Various studies have shown that doctors in general are more than twice as likely to kill themselves than members of the general population, a situation that increases to five or six times for female doctors compared to other women. So why do medics, who strive to save the lives of others, kill themselves in such disproportionately high numbers?
It certainly has something to do with a greater knowledge of the methods, and an increased availability of the means to end their own lives, which result in a higher success rate. But I am convinced that it is also because we doctors tend to enjoy a more utopian view of the world, a world where we assume modern medical science can cure all ills. Hence, when reality kicks in and medicine actually fails, we are more likely to feel guilt and self-condemnation.
I had certainly suffered overwhelming guilt over the death of the unnamed man. He had arrived at the hospital alive and breathing, yet I still hadn’t been able to save him. Medical science had failed, when I’d fully expected it to win through.
But now I believed I was absolving myself from that guilt by finding out who the man was and why he had died. Yes, it had become an obsession, but I considered that it was also the road to my salvation and recovery. Some might say it was foolhardy, even dangerous, to confront the three jockeys but, for me, it was logical and necessary.
While I stood waiting, the phone rang in my pocket. It was Constable Filippos.
‘Ah, Dr Rankin,’ he said. ‘I have a message from Detective Sergeant Merryweather. We would very much like to have a meeting with you. Can you come in to the station this afternoon?’
‘I’m at the racecourse,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘so are we.’
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Outside the jockeys’ changing room. We’re here to conduct some interviews.’
‘With McGee, Conway and Sheraton?’ I asked.
There was a slight pause from the other end as if he was deciding whether he should tell me.
‘Among others, yes,’ replied the policeman.
‘They’re not here yet,’ I said. ‘I’m waiting for them in the car park.’
‘Dr Rankin,’ DC Filippos said seriously, ‘please leave us to do our job. There is no need for you to speak with any of them.’
‘Isn’t there?’ I said. ‘If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have a clue what to do next. I have learned more in the last three days than you lot have in four months.’
‘That is not entirely fair,’ he said. ‘We have made considerable progress ourselves.’
‘What progress?’ I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
‘If you come to the station later I will give you all the details.’
‘Why not give them to me here, after you’ve spoken to the jockeys?’
I could hear him speaking to someone else, even though I couldn’t catch the exact words because he’d placed something over the microphone.
‘OK,’ he said, eventually. ‘DS Merryweather and I will meet you here at the racecourse after we have spoken to the jockeys, on the condition that you do not speak to them first.’
That was bribery, I thought.
The only chance I had of accosting McGee, Conway and Sheraton was as they arrived. I couldn’t wait until they left later in the day – that would be impossible with everyone going home at the same time, and in the dark.
‘OK,’ I said slowly. ‘I promise not to speak to them first. Where do we meet, and when?’
‘There’s a police control room in the foyer of The Centaur. Meet us there at . . .’ There was a pause as he consulted. ‘. . . half past twelve.’
I looked at my watch. It showed it was now ten-thirty.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there.’
Gold Cup day was always the busiest of the four days of the Festival, with an expected crowd of seventy thousand, and the car parks were beginning to fill up fast even at this early hour.
Even though I had agreed not to speak to McGee, Conway and Sheraton, it didn’t mean that I would not still wait for them in the jockeys’ reserved parking area.
However, the first person to arrive that I recognised was not one of those three. It was Dave Leigh, he with the broken collarbone, arriving in his automatic BMW. I walked over to greet him as he climbed out of his car.
‘Hi, Dave,’ I said. ‘How’s the shoulder today?’
‘Oh, hi, doc,’ he said. ‘Fine. But it’s a bugger to sleep with. Can’t get comfortable. I’ve ended up sitting in an armchair all night.’
‘It will be sore for a week or so,’ I said. ‘Until the ends of the bone begin to knit together.’
He didn’t look very happy at the prospect of more nights in his armchair.
‘How did the TV work go yesterday?’ I asked.
‘Really well,’ he said with a smile. ‘They’ve asked me back again today, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. I’ve decided I don’t enjoy sitting watching others ride when I can’t.’
I knew how he felt. I didn’t much enjoy watching the duty doctors working when I’d been excluded from their team.
‘Where’s your car then, doc?’ Dave asked, looking all around him.
‘What about my car?’ I asked sharply.
‘I just wondered where it was,’ Dave said. ‘We were parked next to each other yesterday.’
I thought it strange that he knew what my car looked like.
‘Do you recall seeing my car when you came out last night?’ I asked.
‘Sure, light blue Mini with a Union Jack roof,’ he said. ‘Very distinctive. Same as my missus – that’s why I remember it. But I left early. After the Stayers’ Hurdle. After I’d done my bit for the TV people.’
‘What time?’
‘I don’t know exactly. About four. Why?’
‘Did you notice anything unusual about my car?’
‘No. What sort of unusual?’
‘Were all the tyres flat?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Least, I don’t think so. I’d have surely noticed.’ He paused. ‘Blimey. Who did that then?’
‘I wish I knew,’ I said. ‘I’d give them what for.’
‘Did they do anyone else’s?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just mine.’
‘That’s really bad luck,’ he said. ‘Did they slash them?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Just let them down. And it wasn’t bad luck. I was specifically targeted.’
Dave Leigh suddenly looked troubled.
‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I’d better get on in.’ He turned to go away but I grabbed him by his good arm and swung him back to face me.
‘What’s the problem?’ I asked again, this time more forcefully.
He looked like a frightened schoolboy.
‘Somebody yesterday was asking about you.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Come on, Dave,’ I said angrily. ‘Don’t give me that crap. Who was it?’
‘I really can’t remember,’ he whined.
‘What were they asking about me?’
‘I don’t know. I just heard your name mentioned and I’d just seen you so it registered with me.’
‘Where did this take place?’
‘In the changing room. I was getting ready to do my piece to camera. Someone mentioned your name and I remember saying that it was a coincidence because I was parked right alongside you in the car park. That’s all.’
‘Who knows your car?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Which of the other jockeys knows your car?’
‘All of them. We all know each other’s cars. Wives and girlfriends help get them home when one of us gets injured. My car was driven back for me by someone on Tuesday when I broke this.’ He pointed at his collarbone. ‘The valets organise it.’
‘Please try and remember who it was who was talking about me.’
He put his head on one side and stared into space. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It could have been anyone.’
‘How about him?’ I said, pointing at Mike Sheraton, who was driving an Audi into a parking space about twenty yards away from us.
‘No, not him,’ Dave said with bitterness but conviction. ‘I’d have remembered if that bastard had been the one.’
‘How about Jason Conway or Dick McGee?’
He thought some more.
‘It could have been, but it might not. Like I told you, I can’t remember.’
‘Who heard what you said about parking next to me?’
‘Anyone in there. I was hardly quiet.’ He laughed. ‘I was also miked up.’
‘Did he hear you?’ I pointed again at Mike Sheraton, who was removing a holdall from the boot of his car.
‘Might have done,’ Dave said. ‘I don’t know.’
I stood staring at Mike Sheraton. He glanced briefly in my direction and did a double take, turning up one corner of his mouth in a sneer, but I couldn’t be sure that he was sneering at me rather than at Dave Leigh. There was clearly no love lost between them.
Mike slammed shut the boot of his car and marched off towards the entrance without looking back.
‘Why do you two not get on?’ I asked.
‘That man doesn’t get on with anyone,’ Dave replied.
‘Why not?’
‘He’s too competitive.’
I laughed. ‘That’s rich. All jockeys are competitive.’
‘Yeah, maybe, but Sheraton is overly so. And he cheats.’
‘How?’ I asked.
‘He’ll swerve to take your ground at the last second as you approach a fence when there’s no head-on camera. Bloody dangerous it is, but he doesn’t care. And he uses his whip.’
‘Don’t you all?’ I asked.
‘Not on the opposition. Horses and jockeys. It doesn’t make the nags run faster when he hits them across the nose, and it bloody hurts when he catches you on the face.’
‘Don’t the stewards take action?’
‘Never see it. He’s too quick and too clever. He’s not the only one, mind. Cut-throat business, racing. Win at all costs – that’s what matters. My trouble is I’m too bloody nice.’
He smiled at me and walked off.
I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, but I didn’t have long to ponder before another of my three of interest arrived.