‘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.’
‘How big an additional cut?’ I asked.
‘As much again as the rules state, paid in cash to him as a gift. I had to get my owners to agree as they had to pay it.’
Mr and Mrs Valdemon nodded at me in unison.
‘We thought it was worth it to get his services,’ said Mrs Valdemon in a soft Black Country accent. ‘He won two races for us before.’ She squeezed her husband’s hand. ‘And he should have been riding Peach of a Day for us this afternoon. It is such a dreadful thing to have happened to him, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed it is,’ I agreed.
I left the three of them to their drinks and went outside to watch the second race from the grandstand — a not very exciting-looking two-and-a-half-mile novice hurdle race for conditional jockeys.
Inexperienced riders on inexperienced horses — not surprisingly, it was a recipe for disaster.
Southwell racecourse is a flat oval with two long straights joined by sharp semi-circular bends. It is just over a mile round, which means that, in a two-and-a-half-mile race, the horses have to complete two-and-a-bit full circuits. Hence the start was between the second last and final hurdles.
The seven runners jumped off fairly well and, as is always the way in novice hurdle races, they clattered their way noisily over the first obstacle.
As they passed in front of the grandstand for the first time, one of them tried to dive back down the chute towards the parade ring and the stables. The poor fresh-faced jockey was caught completely unawares and was unceremoniously dumped onto the turf in full view of the meagre crowd, much to the enjoyment of most.
The remaining six continued on their way round the sharp turn and down the back straight, negotiating the hurdles with little drama.
That was reserved for later.
Two of the young jockeys obviously couldn’t count up to three and rode out a finish between them when there was still a whole circuit of the course to complete. Their embarrassment was compounded when they both pulled up and put their arms around each other as if they had just finished the Grand National.
That left four who made heavy weather of the final mile, one horse falling in the back straight and another unseating its rider at the second last hurdle. So, just two of the seven lasted the course to contest a finish, but at least they did manage to provide some decent entertainment for those in the stands.
In a flurry of hands, heels, elbows and knees, they were finally separated only by a photograph and, in truth, despite their less than stylish techniques, neither of them deserved to lose. The two jockeys received a good hand as their mounts were led back to the unsaddling enclosure, which is more than could be said for the others, who sneaked back to the changing room in disgrace.
I stayed to watch Peach of a Day run second in the day’s feature steeplechase.
He ran well enough but the replacement jockey had kept him slightly off the pace for too long and the horse had been just unable to make up the deficit in the run to the line from the last fence.
Mr and Mrs Valdemon appeared rather disappointed as they listened to the excuses.
Maybe they felt that paying Dave Swinton his extra ‘gift’ in cash would have been worth it to get the win, if only he had been alive to receive it.
Were they wrong?
Not one bit.
Racing was all about the winning.
There were no plaudits for coming second.
8
‘It was definitely Mr David Swinton in the burning Mercedes. We now have a positive identification of the remains.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
DS Jagger called me at eight o’clock on Wednesday morning as I was in the shower.
‘Did the DNA match?’ I asked.
‘In the end we didn’t need to resort to DNA. Mr Swinton had twice broken his right leg in racing falls, once above and once below the knee. On both occasions, surgeons had inserted a titanium plate into the leg. The two plates had serial numbers stamped into them and the numbers matched those on similar plates found in the remains. There is no doubt.’
‘Thank you for letting me know.’
‘This call is also to inform you officially that, as a result of the formal identification of the body of Mr Swinton, there will be no further investigation into the events in the sauna at his home on Sunday morning.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘But those events may well have had a material bearing on his death and, as the last-known person to see him alive, you will almost certainly be called as a witness at the inquest.’
‘I didn’t actually see him. He pushed me into the sauna from behind and slammed the door shut before I could turn round.’
‘Nevertheless, you should expect a summons from the coroner in due course.’
‘Are you sure it was suicide?’ I asked. ‘Burning oneself to death with petrol is a particularly nasty way to kill yourself.’ I shivered again at the memory of the TV images of the figure sitting amongst the flames.
‘Is there such a thing as a nice way?’ he said. ‘All I can say is that, bearing in mind what he did to you and what you’ve told us, we are currently not looking for anyone else in regard to the death.’
‘Is that police-speak for Yes, it was suicide?’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘How about the petrol? Where did he get that?’
‘An empty metal petrol can was discovered in the burnt-out vehicle. It matched a second one found in Mr Swinton’s garage that was full. Mr Swinton’s gardener has confirmed that two such cans were used to store fuel for the lawnmower and that he, the gardener, had filled both the cans the previous week.’
So he had taken the petrol from his own garage.
‘Not much doubt, then.’
‘No.’
He disconnected and I stood there still dripping water onto my bedroom carpet.