There was a long pause from the other end of the line while Paul worked out, first, that I must have spoken to Morris and, secondly, whether he approved or not.
‘I’ll get back to you,’ Paul said.
I started searching on my computer. My main problem was that I didn’t really know what I was searching for.
Paul Maldini phoned back almost immediately.
‘It was an anonymous call to RaceStraight.’
‘Dead end, then,’ I said.
Anyone could make such an anonymous tip, and there was no way of us identifying the caller. The RaceStraight reporting line was operated by an independent body and they weren’t allowed to say who had called them, even if they knew.
I went back to my computer and used the BHA database to watch the videos of all the races in which Bill McKenzie had ridden for the month leading up to his ride on Wisden Wonder at Sandown. I was trying to spot anything suspicious.
In all, there were forty races, twenty-three of them over hurdles, fifteen steeplechases and two National Hunt flat races. In those forty, Bill had had three winners and five seconds. In addition, he had fallen twice and been unseated once, the difference between a fall and an unseated being whether the horse itself actually falls to the ground or the jockey simply comes off its back while it remains upright. Both result in the jockey landing on the turf at high speed and from a great height.
I studied his riding in all the races and with only one did I have the slightest question.
McKenzie had ridden a horse called Pool Table in a three-mile novice chase at Cheltenham in mid-November on the same day as the Paddy Power Gold Cup. It had started as hot favourite at a price of eleven-to-eight, but had finished second of the six runners, beaten two lengths by a much longer priced competitor.
The only reason I was even the tiniest bit suspicious was because Pool Table had hit the third-last fence in exactly the same way that Wisden Wonder had done at Sandown.
Pool Table had been lying third in the approach to the fence, tucked up very close behind the two leaders. He blundered badly, crashing through the stiff birch, and was lucky not to have fallen. However, his momentum, critical at this stage of the race, had been totally lost and he was unable to make up the deficit in the run up the famous Cheltenham hill to the finish line.
The fence in question was on the run downhill towards the turn into the home straight, where the runners were racing almost directly towards the crowded grandstands. Even the broadcast television pictures were head-on at this point, where the horses were travelling at their fastest as they made their bids for victory.
It would not have been easy for anyone to spot what actually happened.
Only on the RaceTech patrol-camera footage, taken from behind, was it possible to see that Bill McKenzie appeared to have made no effort to invite his mount to jump, just as he had failed to do on Wisden Wonder in the hurdle race at Sandown.
According to the BHA database, Bill McKenzie lived near Wantage, not far from Lambourn. If I had been feeling better, I’d have taken a train there and then to go and see him. He probably wouldn’t be at the races, not if he was nursing a broken collarbone.
Maybe I’d go later in the week.
I warned Faye that I had a female friend coming to visit but that did little to ease my nerves at what she would think of her.
My ever-caring sister did her best to extract information, but I was playing my cards very close to my chest. If there was one thing I’d learned in the Intelligence Corps, it was how to keep things to myself.
‘I met her at Sandown races,’ I said finally, when pressed. ‘We sat next to each other at a lunch.’
‘And you like her?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is she keen on you?’
What could I say? Henri had been keen enough to spend several days trying to find me at University College Hospital.
‘I think so.’
‘Good,’ Faye said, smiling broadly. ‘I look forward to meeting her.’
I waited for Henri in the sitting room, unable to resist the urge to stand at the window so I could watch her approach across Richmond Green. I was like a child impatient for the arrival of Father Christmas.
She arrived at half past six, again wearing the full-length camel coat with hood, this time over a white lace-fronted blouse and black trousers.
I opened the front door before she had a chance to push the bell, eager to have the chance to spend a few moments together with her before I took her in to contend with Faye’s inquisitive gaze.
‘You look great,’ I said, taking her coat and hanging it on the stand in the hall.
‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘These are my work clothes. I’ve spent most of the day as a waitress.’
‘You’ve been waitressing?’ I asked incredulously.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ she said. ‘The waitress I’d booked was hit by a cyclist who jumped a red light, so I stood in for her.’
‘Where?’
‘Some offices in Covent Garden. It was a boardroom Christmas lunch for the directors of an Australian travel company. I also provided the chef.’
I wondered if any of the travel company directors appreciated that they had been served their turkey and mince pies by someone on the Sunday Times Rich List.
‘Well, you still look good to me,’ I said, but I’d probably think she would look great in sackcloth.
‘Nice shirt,’ she said, stroking my back.
I smiled at her. She had bought it.
We went through to the kitchen.
‘Faye,’ I said, ‘this is Henrietta Shawcross.’
I think Faye was impressed. The two certainly hit it off well, helped along by a couple of glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
Quentin arrived at seven o’clock and he too took an instant shine to Henri. He kept saying that he had some reading to do but he never went off to do it. Instead he sat and chatted in the most genial manner I have ever seen from him, while never taking his eyes off Henri.
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ she asked me.
Christmas was something I had been trying to ignore for months. Faye had asked me almost every week since August if I’d like to spend it with her and Quentin and, every time, I’d been vague in my response, unwilling to set anything in stone and not at all sure that Christmas at the Calderfields was my idea of a fun time.
Three years ago, Lydia and I had stayed with them for four nights over the holiday, and Quentin had become more and more grumpy with every meal. Never again, we had agreed.
Up until last week, I had seriously considered taking to my bed, and staying there from Christmas Eve right through until New Year’s Day, missing all that dreadful bonhomie, mulled wine and repeat TV showings of The Railway Children and The Sound of Music.
Maybe I’d have risen briefly to attend Kempton races on Boxing Day but, otherwise... no thanks.
However, my near-death experience, combined with my joyous meeting with Henrietta Shawcross, had slightly softened my view of the festivities.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m going away,’ she said, ‘with my uncle and aunt.’
Disaster, I thought.
‘Can you come too?’ she asked excitedly.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked with a certain degree of trepidation, ever wary of my bank balance.
‘The Caribbean.’
‘I ought to be at Kempton on Boxing Day.’
She looked disappointed. ‘Surely you’re allowed time off to recuperate?’
‘Of course he is,’ Faye said, ‘but he won’t take it. He never takes his holiday entitlement. I’ll bet he’s not taken one day off all year. He even works on Saturdays and Sundays.’
‘I didn’t work last week,’ I said in mild defence.