Cobalt is a trace element needed by bacteria in the human digestive tract to produce the vitamin B12, which in turn is essential for the production of the hormone erythropoietin that stimulates bone marrow to produce red blood cells.
Erythropoietin is known as EPO for short; it was regular injections of a synthetic form of EPO that allowed the cyclist Lance Armstrong to win seven consecutive Tours de France. Attempts to cover up positive tests had been instrumental in triggering Armstrong’s dramatic fall from grace, an almost overnight transformation from sporting hero and cancer survivor into demonised cheat.
The injecting of cobalt is assumed to increase the amount of vitamin B12 produced, and hence the quantity of natural EPO in the blood. That, in turn, should increase the number of red blood cells created, and hence the amount of oxygen that could be delivered to the muscles, thus improving stamina and performance.
However, the jury was still out on whether it actually made any difference at all in horses.
Raworth had obviously been experimenting with a horse that he had not expected to win, and so he had not anticipated that it would be tested. The random selection had been his bad luck. And our good.
‘Has the Maryland Racing Commissioner agreed to sit tight on the findings?’
‘Reluctantly, for the time being,’ Tony said, ‘and only because the level is low. Some tests in the past have shown concentrations of many hundred parts per billion, even thousands.’
‘What’s the penalty for excess cobalt in Maryland?’
‘For a first offence, especially one this low, it is fifteen days’ suspension and a five-hundred-dollar fine, plus loss of purse money for the race.’
‘The horse finished second to last,’ I said, ‘so he didn’t win any purse money. And fifteen days hardly seems enough of a deterrent. That’s just a holiday, and five hundred dollars is mere peanuts in this sport. I want to get Raworth for far more than that.’
‘But the fifteen-day suspension might mean that he couldn’t act as the trainer of Fire Point for the Belmont Stakes.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ I said. ‘He would surely appeal and any suspension would be deferred until after it was heard.’
However, remarkable as all that was, it was Tony’s second piece of information that I found the more interesting.
His man in Colorado Springs had turned up a two-year-old insurance claim for a stallion infected during an outbreak of equine viral arteritis in American Quarter Horses at the Raworth family ranch, the Crazy R.
‘Why is it called the Crazy R?’ I asked. ‘Strange name for a farm.’
‘That’s their brand,’ Tony replied. ‘Crazy R means an upside-down R. They brand an inverted capital R into the hides of their cattle with a red-hot branding iron.’
‘Not these days, surely,’ I said.
‘Of course. It mattered more when stock ran free but, even now, it is still the best way of determining ownership — if an animal has your brand on it, then it’s yours, no more questions asked. It continues to be the most important tool we have in the fight against cattle rustling.’
‘I thought cattle rustling disappeared with the demise of the Wild West,’ I said with a slight laugh.
‘The West is still wild, let me tell you,’ Tony replied, ‘and cattle rustling is very much alive and well.’
‘But branding the skin with a red-hot iron sounds so cruel,’ I said. ‘There must be better modern methods of proving ownership. How about microchips?’
‘They’re slowly making inroads and hot branding will probably disappear eventually, but it remains a legal requirement in many states.’
‘Do people still brand their horses as well?’
‘Less so these days,’ Tony said. ‘There’s a new technique called freeze branding that’s becoming more common for horses. Instead of using a red-hot iron, an extremely cold one is held against the horse’s side. It is far less painful because instead of burning a vivid scar into the skin, the intense cold destroys the pigmentation cells, making the hairs grow totally white. That’s what provides the unique mark.’ He laughed. ‘Not much good though, I suppose, if you have a white horse to begin with.’
‘How cold does the branding iron have to be?’ I asked.
‘About minus three hundred degrees.’
‘How do they get it that cold?’
There was a long pause from the other end of the line.
‘With liquid nitrogen,’ Tony said.
Raworth’s white Jeep Cherokee pulled up alongside his barn just as it was getting dark, at the same time as I was making my way back from the recreation hall to the bunkhouse.
I stepped quickly behind one of the huge grey steel manure skips and peeped around the edge.
Charlie Hern came out of the barn to greet George and the two men shook hands. I was too far away to hear what they were saying but their body language was relaxed and friendly.
George went round the Jeep and opened the rear passenger door. He then stood back and looked all around him. I ducked behind the skip but there was no real chance he would see me in the rapidly deepening darkness.
I carefully placed only one eye around the side in time to see George and Charlie lift the white CryoBank flask out of the vehicle and carry it swiftly into the barn. From the way in which they were moving I could tell that it was heavy.
It had to be full again with liquid nitrogen.
But did it also contain more EVA-tainted frozen semen?
I reckoned so, but I would still have to check.
Never mind the coldness of his liquid gas, maybe it was time to turn up the heat on Mr George S. Raworth.
‘What you doing?’ said an accusing voice behind me.
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
‘Nothing,’ I said, turning round to find Rafael standing there. But it was pretty obvious what I’d been doing, even to Rafael.
‘You pick lock,’ he said.
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement and I could hardly deny it.
I had sneaked into the barn after George and Charlie had both driven away in the Jeep. Keith was in the office busily watching a film on the TV and I’d thought that all the grooms were either in the recreation hall or already in their beds.
I’d been wrong.
Rafael found me crouching down next to the feed-store lock listening for the pins to be moved into the correct position by my rake pick. He had arrived just as the door opened, his footsteps making absolutely no sound on the loose dirt floor of the shedrow.
He looked from me to the open door and then back to me again.
‘You bad man, Paddy,’ Rafael said. ‘I go tell Mr Keith. You get fired.’
He turned and started to walk away.
‘Rafael,’ I said clearly to his back. ‘If you tell Mr Keith, then I’ll also tell him that you are drunk most nights. Then we will both get fired.’
He stopped and slowly turned round to face me.
‘Why you do this?’ he said, pointing at the open feed-store door.
Think, I said to myself. Think — and fast.
‘I was only practising picking the lock,’ I said. ‘It’s my hobby.’ I pulled the door shut so it locked again. ‘Here, you have a try.’ I held out the two metal lock picks.
He hesitated.
‘You,’ he said, pointing at me.
So I opened the lock again, showing him exactly how I did it.
He was amazed when the cylinder turned once more and the feed-store door opened.
‘You thief?’ he asked seriously.
‘No. Of course not,’ I said, laughing. ‘I just like opening locks.’
I pulled the door shut again and grinned at him. He smiled back but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘Come on,’ I said, putting my hand on his shoulder and forcing him away. ‘It’s high time we were in bed.’