Willy came out wearing a thick-padded grey anorak over his racing silks.
‘I have a ride in the fifth,’ he said. ‘I can’t be long.’ He looked out at the parade ring where the horses for the third race were circulating. ‘Is there some place more private? I don’t want to be seen talking to you. Especially not by my gaffer.’
His ‘gaffer’ was the trainer for whom he rode, the trainer of Electrostatic.
‘He doesn’t have a runner in this one,’ I said.
‘Maybe not, but he’ll be around here somewhere.’
We went into the stewards’ room.
In the media, Willy Mitchell was often referred to as one of the up-and-coming young jockeys. Sadly for him, he had been up-and-coming for some time now, ever since he was seventeen, and he was in some danger of being relabelled as come-and-going. But he was still only twenty-one. Being the retained jockey for a horse as good as Electrostatic might just be his ticket to the big time.
‘Tell me about the slipped saddle at Newbury,’ I said to him.
He was clearly very uncomfortable talking to me.
‘What about it?’ he asked with only a very slight tremor in his voice.
‘How did it happen?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The girth obviously wasn’t tight enough. My saddle started sliding left as I was jumping the first fence. I tried standing on the right stirrup but it wouldn’t go back.’
I didn’t say anything, I just looked at him.
In spite of the coolness of the room, he started sweating. ‘It’s true, I tell you.’
I didn’t believe him. But I still said nothing. I let him do his own digging.
‘Why would I do it on purpose?’ he said. ‘You’ve seen what a great little novice old Electro is. I reckon he’ll win the big novice chase on the Thursday of the Festival at Cheltenham. Why would I jeopardize my ride on him for that?’
Indeed, why would he? Was I wrong?
‘I’ve studied the video of the race at Newbury,’ I said. ‘Together with the footage that was not broadcast.’
He sweated some more. He wasn’t to know that it showed nothing suspicious.
‘Do you know a man called Leslie Morris?’ I asked, trying to pile on the pressure.
He thought for a moment.
‘Never heard of him,’ Willy said confidently, without so much as a flicker around the eyes. If he did know Morris he was a much better liar than I took him for.
Instead of adding to the pressure, I’d just released it.
‘Don’t you have a young family?’ I asked, but I already knew the answer. I’d done my research.
‘Twins,’ he said, nodding.
He looked like a child himself, hardly old enough to have kids of his own.
‘What about them?’ he asked.
‘Must be expensive,’ I said.
I also knew that Willy didn’t have that many rides, certainly not on horses as good as Electrostatic. In fact, he’d had only fifteen rides in the preceding month, including the one at Newbury. He was riding two here this afternoon but that was a rarity. Usually it was a maximum of one ride per day, if he was lucky. That didn’t leave much to live on, not after travelling expenses and valet fees.
‘You can check my bank balance if you like,’ he said more confidently. ‘I’ve not received anything I shouldn’t have.’ He laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
I thought back to what Dave Swinton had said to me during our journey to Newbury races on the day before he died.
‘Willy,’ I said slowly, ‘are you being blackmailed?’
He stared at me for what felt like an age, without moving so much as a single muscle in his face, not even a blink.
Finally, he turned away. ‘Can I go now?’ he said.
‘Is it to do with tax?’ I asked.
He turned back to face me.
‘Tax?’ He laughed. ‘I hardly earn enough to pay any tax.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Leave me alone.’
He pushed past me to the door.
He had as good as admitted to me with that stare that he was being blackmailed. I suppose I couldn’t really blame him for not telling me why. If he was prepared to lose a race when riding the best horse he’d ever been on, with all the possible consequences for his career, then it must be something that he was very determined to keep a secret.
I wouldn’t have told me either.
In a strange way, I was pleased when Willy Mitchell won the fifth race as well. I don’t suppose that he’d had many ‘doubles’ in his career and even the sight of me standing by the unsaddling enclosure couldn’t wipe the smile from his face entirely.
I left him alone to enjoy his success.
But I’d be back.
24
On Saturday I went again to Ascot for the second day of the pre-Christmas meeting.
I had briefly thought of asking Henri if she would like to come with me, but I’d quickly dismissed the notion.
I was always working when on a racecourse. Even the day at Sandown when I’d first met Henri, my work had been the higher priority — I had gone off to hospital with Bill McKenzie rather than accepting Gay Smith’s invitation to go back to the box for tea.
That day, it had been a difficult decision, and the right one, as it was again now.
‘I couldn’t come with you, anyway,’ Henri had said when I’d called to explain why I wasn’t asking her. ‘I’m going to a wedding in Kent.’
‘As long as it’s not your wedding,’ I’d said with a laugh.
‘There’s no chance of that.’
I hadn’t been quite sure what to make of that answer, but it was not the right time to delve deeper into the matter, and definitely not when on the telephone.
I wandered down to the Ascot weighing room still thinking about her and looking forward to spending some decent time with her in the warmth of the Caribbean. I wondered if we were going to Martin Reynard’s place in the Cayman Islands. Henri had said that she would be away with her uncle and aunt, so it would be quite likely that her cousin would be there too.
Bill McKenzie was standing on the terrace in front of the weighing room and he was clearly not happy to see me.
‘How’s the shoulder?’ I said.
‘Mending slowly.’
‘I thought you’d be resting it at home.’
‘I don’t want any of the trainers to think I’m going to be out for long,’ he said. ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ He wasn’t even wearing a sling. ‘I need to be back in good time for the King George.’
That would be just three short weeks after the fall at Sandown. His surgeon had been right — he was crazy.
‘Do you fancy a quiet talk over a drink or a sandwich?’ I asked.
‘What, with you?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘Yes. With me.’
‘Now, why would I want to do that?’
‘Because, Bill, I may be the only friend you have.’ He didn’t look like he believed it. ‘There’s a disciplinary hearing next month and, as far as I can tell from the evidence, you’re going to lose your jockey’s licence for a very long time, maybe for ever. Then it won’t matter whether the trainers see you or not. You won’t be riding. You won’t even be allowed on a racecourse.’
He looked miserable.
‘Is that what you want?’ I asked.
‘Of course it bloody isn’t.’
‘So speak to me,’ I said. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘I can’t.’ He was again almost in tears.
‘Come on,’ I said in my most persuasive tone. ‘Let’s go and find a quiet place to have that drink and a chat.’
I steered him not to a bar but to the lifts, which took us up to the private hospitality area of the Ascot Authority, the organization that operates the racecourse on behalf of the Queen, who owns the place.