I found driving my Mini under the influence of cocaine was curiously easy.
Whereas the drug had a profound psychoactive impact on the mind, it left the motor cortex remarkably unaffected.
Getting out of the weighing room had been my first problem. As Rupert Forrester had said to his henchmen, he had locked up. Tight.
In the end I had used the push-bar-to-open fire escape door in the laundry room to make my escape, but not before I’d made a couple more telephone calls and acquired a few supplies from the medical-room drug inventory.
My next obstacle was how to get out to my car with security having by now closed all the exit gates from the racecourse enclosures. And it didn’t help that it was now dark, the evening spring twilight being cut short by the low cloud and the persistent rain.
I suppose I could have gone in search of a roving security detail but then I’d have had to answer questions about why I was still there and where I’d been.
Could I be bothered? In this rain? No way.
Instead, I dragged a large rubbish bin twenty yards across the tarmac to the gate, climbed up on it and swung myself over, making sure not to snag my plastic bag of supplies on the top.
If nothing else, cocaine clearly gave one confidence.
I might need it.
The Queens Hotel in Cheltenham had an elegant and imposing neoclassical porticoed façade overlooking the formal Imperial Gardens. Its style was firmly in keeping with the grandiose reputation of the town as a former upmarket and fashionable spa resort.
The mineral springs were first tapped during the reign of George III and the King reportedly spent five weeks in the town drinking the foul-tasting medicinal waters in an attempt to cure his madness.
Perhaps I should try some.
The hotel itself dated from the time of Queen Victoria, after whom it was named, first opening in the year of her coronation in 1838.
But I wasn’t interested in the aesthetics or history of the place. Not tonight. All I wanted to know was where in the hotel the charity dinner was being held.
I may have been confident, bold even, but I wasn’t reckless.
The last thing I wanted to do was to park my Mini alongside a black Mercedes only to discover that Big Biceps was sitting in it.
Hence I stopped some distance away on Bath Road and covered the last few hundred yards on foot, pulling the hood of my anorak up over my head not only as protection from the rain but also so that I couldn’t be recognised by any lurking large-muscled chauffeur.
Maybe the cocaine wasn’t going to kill me but it was still clearly affecting my system. The lights around the Town Hall, reflecting off the wet pavement, appeared to shimmer and dance delightfully with multicoloured tails as I went by, and my feet seemed to be somehow disconnected from my legs.
I couldn’t feel them on the ground.
Were they, in fact, someone else’s feet?
I giggled. Of course not, you fool. Who else would have lent me their feet at this time of night?
I walked in through the rotating front door of the hotel and across the black-and-white-checked lobby floor to the reception desk.
‘Where is the charity dinner?’ I asked the young man standing there.
‘Is that the one in aid of the Injured Jockeys Fund?’
‘I want the one where Rupert Forrester is speaking,’ I said.
He looked down at some papers.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the one. It’s in the Regency Suite, our banqueting room.’
‘And which way is that?’ I asked.
‘Straight down the corridor to the end and then turn right,’ he said. ‘Do you have a ticket? It’s Black Tie.’
He looked at me in the manner of something he had picked up on his shoe. I clearly wasn’t properly dressed for the occasion in green anorak, blue waterproof trousers and a pair of muddy hiking boots, and I was carrying a bright orange plastic Sainsbury’s carrier as my handbag.
‘No.’ I laughed. ‘I just have a message for one of the guests, that’s all. I won’t be staying very long.’
I could see him waver as if he was deciding whether he should call hotel security to get me thrown out.
‘I’m a doctor,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ve been on duty at the racecourse this afternoon and haven’t had time to change.’
The reception man relaxed a little.
‘Can you find your own way, then?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid I can’t leave the front desk unattended and my colleague is on a break.’
‘I’ll be fine on my own, thank you.’
Better, I thought. Much better.
I turned to go but then turned back.
‘Where is your bar?’ I asked.
‘Just to the right, madam,’ the man said, holding out his arm.
I glanced across towards where he pointed.
‘My name is Dr Chris Rankin,’ I said. ‘I’m meant to be meeting someone in your bar at ten o’clock.’
The man and I both looked at the grand timepiece set high on the wall next to the main door. It read nine-forty.
‘Instead of meeting in the bar, could you please ask him to go down to the Regency Suite as soon as he arrives and wait for me there?’
‘Certainly, madam,’ the man replied. ‘And the name of your guest?’
‘Filippos,’ I said. ‘Detective Constable Filippos.’
Back in the jockeys’ medical room, I had made two further telephone calls after speaking to Grant. One had been to directory enquiries to find the number of the reception desk at Cheltenham Police Station, and the second had been to the desk itself.
‘Cheltenham Police,’ the man who’d answered had said. ‘How can I help?’
‘Can you please put me through to DC Filippos?’
‘He’s not here at the present time.’
‘Do you have his mobile number?’ I had asked in my most charming tone. ‘It’s very important. I did have it in my phone but that’s now broken and I can’t access it.’
‘I’m sorry but I can’t give out his number,’ the man had replied.
‘Then can you please call him and pass on a message? My name is Dr Chris Rankin. I am an A&E consultant at Cheltenham General Hospital and the matter is one of utmost urgency. It is crucial he gets the message as soon as possible.’
‘What’s your message, Dr Rankin?’ the man had asked.
‘Tell DC Filippos I have some vital new information concerning the case of Rahul Kumar and he should meet me in the bar at the Queens Hotel at ten o’clock precisely.’
‘Rahul Kumar. Bar. Queens Hotel. Ten o’clock.’ He’d repeated it as if he’d been writing it down. ‘Is that tonight?’
‘Yes. Tonight.’
‘Do you want him to call you back at the hospital?’
‘No. Just tell him that he must be at the Queens Hotel tonight at ten o’clock sharp.’
The man hadn’t questioned why. But he had promised to pass on the message immediately.
I walked down the corridor towards the Regency Suite with some trepidation.
Was my confidence now deserting me?
Had the cocaine stopped working when I most needed it?
There were 150 guests at the Injured Jockeys Fund dinner on fifteen tables of ten. I could tell because there was a seating plan placed on an easel in the vestibule outside the actual banqueting chamber.
I studied the guest list closely.
There were quite a few names on the list that I knew or, at least, knew of, including several racehorse trainers and even a sprinkling of ex-jockeys, not that I could spot any of the current crop. Lavish midweek black-tie dinners were no doubt not ideal for keeping their riding weight down for the weekend.
I specifically searched for any mention of Mike Sheraton and I don’t know if I was pleased or disappointed that he wasn’t in there.
Big Biceps could be, but I wouldn’t know it from the list. There was no point looking under the Bs or even the BBs.
Rupert Forrester was included of course. He was on table five, which was, according to the plan, right in front of a stage set up on the right-hand side of the room.
‘Can I help?’ said a voice behind me.
I turned round.
A waitress stood there holding two jugs of water. She was not in her first flush of youth, probably nearer seventy than fifty, and she was wearing a small white lace-fringed apron over a black dress. Very traditional.
‘How far have they got?’ I asked, nodding towards the door.
‘Dessert,’ she said.
‘When are the speeches?’ I asked.
‘Very soon, I think,’ she said. ‘I heard the guest speaker say he had to leave quite early. The auction is now going to be after his speech rather than before. Are you here to collect him?’
‘No,’ I said with a laugh.
Collecting him was not exactly what I had in mind, not in that sense.
Forrester probably wanted to leave early so that he could be back at the racecourse good and early in the morning to deal with any problems – like a dead body found in the weighing room.
‘I must get on,’ the waitress said. ‘They’re waiting for these.’
She lifted up the jugs of water.
I held the door open for her and glanced inside as she went past me. It was very noisy and everyone seemed to be having a good time, with plenty of laughter. But I didn’t linger with the door open. I didn’t want a certain guest to spot me – not yet anyway. And not before DC Filippos was present.
The door reopened and the same waitress reappeared, this time with two empty jugs.
‘That was quick,’ I said. ‘Thirsty, are they?’
She laughed. ‘These are from different tables.’ Then she looked closely at me. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Doris,’ she said. ‘Doris Meacher. What’s yours?’
‘Chris Rankin,’ I said.
It didn’t seem to help. ‘What do you do?’ she asked.
‘I’m a doctor. I work in A&E at the hospital.’
‘That’s it,’ Doris said with a big smile of success. ‘You looked after my son when he came off his motorbike. Over a year ago now.’
‘How’s he doing?’ I asked, not actually remembering and hoping he hadn’t died as a result.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Almost back to normal. All thanks to you, doctor.’
While we’d been talking, two women had come out through the door and went off down the corridor chatting and giggling away, presumably off to powder their noses. I really didn’t want Rupert Forrester walking right into me on his way to the Gents.
‘Well, Doris,’ I said, ‘I could do with a little assistance from you now.’
‘Anything, doctor. How can I help?’
‘Is there another way into the Regency Suite apart from this door?’
‘Only the staff entrances,’ she said. ‘They’re what the waiters use. I’m only using this door to get water from the bar. It’s easier than fighting past all the rest of them at the servery.’
‘Can you show me the staff entrances?’ I asked. ‘I want to listen to the speeches but I’ve been on duty so I couldn’t actually come to the dinner. If I could slip in a staff entrance when the speeches start it would be less noticeable than going in here.’
I shrugged my shoulders and made a face at her as if it were an amusing conspiracy.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Why not? I’ll even lend you a pinny. No one ever looks at the face of a waitress, least they never did when I was young.’
She walked me back along the corridor towards the reception but, before we got there, we went through a door into a staff corridor that led into the hotel kitchen.
‘Come on,’ Doris said, taking me by the hand and leading me past the lines of stainless-steel chef’s stations.
There were two staff entrances to the banqueting suite from the kitchen, or rather one entrance and one exit such that the flow of personnel was circular past the kitchen servery and back into the room, and the doors were on either side of the stage.
‘Perfect,’ I said to Doris.
I removed my anorak and waterproof trousers, which Doris took away to the staff changing area. Underneath I had on a black sweater and a pair of black trousers. Doris then gave me a spare white lace-edged apron to tie around my waist. Apart from the hiking boots, I looked every inch a waitress.
‘How about your bag?’ Doris said. ‘Shall I put it with your coat?’
‘No, no,’ I said, clutching the orange plastic tightly to my chest. ‘I’ll keep that with me.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Will you be all right now? I’ve got those water jugs to fill.’ She laughed and went off leaving me there just inside the door feeling very conspicuous. I simply smiled at the other waiting staff as they rushed past me and out to serve the guests with coffee and petits fours.
I looked at my watch. Just gone ten o’clock.
Had DC Filippos arrived? Was he even now in the Regency Suite?
I hoped so.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said a female voice loudly and clearly over the audio system. A hush descended within the suite. ‘We are very fortunate to have our guest speaker with us here tonight. For the last two days he’s been busy ensuring that everything has run smoothly at the racecourse for the April meeting.’
That’s not all he’s been doing, I thought.
‘Please join me in giving a warm Injured Jockeys Fund welcome to the managing director of Cheltenham Racecourse, Rupert Forrester.’
There was loud applause and the overhead crystal chandeliers were dimmed.
I slipped in through the door and stood in the shadows to one side of the stage, which in fact was little more than a raised dais about a foot high with a lectern now lit up by a bank of overhead spotlights.
Rupert Forrester walked to the lectern and raised his hands in thanks.
Just watching him standing there smiling at the assembled guests, lapping up their admiration, made my blood boil. As far as he was aware, I was still lying alone on a bed in the jockeys’ medical room at the racecourse, my life slowly draining away to nothing.
I reached into the orange Sainsbury’s bag.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Forrester began. ‘What a magnificent welcome. Thank you. It is a real joy to be here tonight supporting racing’s favourite charity.’
I’ve heard more than enough of him already, I thought.
I walked briskly over to the dais, stepped up onto it, and stabbed Rupert Forrester in the side of the neck.