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.
12
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.
The race was over two miles and the starting gate was at the far end of the home straight, so that the horses had to negotiate just over one complete circuit of the track.
I looked to my right and used my binoculars to watch as the horses circled waiting for the starter to send them on their way.
From the stands, Bill McKenzie didn’t appear any different from the other six jockeys but his mind must have been elsewhere as he completely missed the start, Lost Moon being left flatfooted as the others raced away from him towards the first fence.
Two-mile chases are always run at a good pace and Lost Moon was still some ten lengths behind the other six as they came towards the second, an open ditch.
And that is where his race ended.
Trying hard to catch up, the horse over-jumped, pitched forward on his knees while landing and crumpled to the turf, tossing his jockey out in front, before rolling right over him. Lost Moon then struggled to his feet before bolting off, riderless, in pursuit of the others. His former rider, meanwhile, was left lying motionless on the grass.
I went on watching the prone figure of Bill McKenzie, ignoring the remaining horses, which galloped up past the grandstands and the winning post for the first time and then swung right-handed down the hill towards the third fence.
Horseracing is the only sport where the competitors are chased by an ambulance. Indeed, the Rules of Racing state that a jump meeting cannot start unless there are at least three fully equipped ambulances present, each of them dedicated only to the care of the jockeys rather than being available for the spectators. One ambulance would generally chase the field while the other two would be strategically placed out on the course, with their engines running, to ensure a maximum response time of one minute to any fallen rider.
The chasing ambulance stopped closest to the fence and two green-clad paramedics carrying backpacks ran across towards the prostrate jockey. They were followed by another man in a suit, whom I took to be one of the racecourse medical officers — a doctor.
The race, meanwhile, continued apace, as the remaining runners safely negotiated the seven quick-fire fences in the back straight, but I only had eyes for the activity at the open ditch to my right.
I could see that Bill McKenzie was still flat out on the grass with both the paramedics and the doctor kneeling beside him. As I watched, my line of sight was annoyingly obstructed by a green screen that was put up by the fence attendants to provide the injured jockey with some degree of privacy.
The race itself was beginning to come to a conclusion, the noise of the crowd building as the three most fancied runners jumped side by side over the pond fence and then galloped neck and neck into the home straight.
Fortunately, the open ditch where Lost Moon had fallen was not jumped again in the race, the horses being directed over the adjacent plain fence, so there was no need for any of the obstacle-bypass procedure to be put in place in spite of the fact that Bill McKenzie had still not been removed from the turf.
The three leading horses were all in the air together over the last and the crowd cheered enthusiastically as they sprinted up the hill to the line in a blanket finish.
Some of those around me began to move down the steps towards the bars and the betting ring, but I and many others stayed precisely where we were, watching events unfold down the course.
The ambulance was driven across the track to be near the fence and there were worried faces all around me, as people feared the worst. Then there was a huge sigh of relief and a spontaneous round of applause as Bill McKenzie appeared from behind the green screen. He had a red blanket draped over his shoulders and was supported by a paramedic, but he was walking towards the vehicle, albeit slowly, clutching his elbow.
People around me smiled and slapped one another on the back. Walking wounded meant no damage to the spinal cord, and injuries elsewhere would heal.
I went through the grandstand, past the parade ring and into the weighing room, showing my BHA pass to the official at the door.
The senior medical officer was in the jockeys’ medical room.
‘Is Bill McKenzie coming in here or going directly to hospital?’ I asked.
‘You can’t come in here,’ the doctor replied pompously while trying to usher me out. ‘Medical staff and jockeys only.’
I handed him my BHA authorization card that gave me official access to absolutely everywhere on a racecourse, including the jockeys’ medical room. He studied the card closely, but I could tell he didn’t like it. Yet another example of the seemingly universal dislike of authority. I might have expected better from a doctor.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘To speak with Bill McKenzie.’
‘I am sorry but that won’t be possible.’ He didn’t exactly sound like he was sorry. ‘That particular jockey will be going to hospital. The doctor on the course believes he may have sustained a fracture to his left clavicle.’
A broken collarbone.
‘So is the racecourse ambulance taking him directly to Kingston Hospital?’ I asked.
‘No. A local ambulance has been called. We can’t spare one of ours, not with three races still to run. It will collect him from here.’
As I had hoped. Bill McKenzie was on his way to the medical room.
‘I’ll wait for him.’
‘He’s injured,’ said the doctor. ‘He won’t be able to speak to you.’
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘He’s broken his collarbone, not his jaw.’
‘Nevertheless, he might be in pain and he’s entitled to some privacy.’
Not if he’d been fixing races, I thought, but I didn’t say so.