I watched the video of the race, many times and from every available angle.
There was no doubt that in some of the TV images the saddle had slipped to the left, but they were taken long after the horse had stopped. It was impossible to tell if the slipping had occurred prior to the horse being pulled up. The footage seemed to show that the saddle had been in the right position as the horse had taken off at the first, although I couldn’t be sure it hadn’t moved on landing, as that wasn’t shown.
Was it just my suspicious mind or had the jockey moved the saddle on purpose only after he’d pulled up at the most conveniently distant point from both the start and the grandstand? There was no real way of knowing without confronting Willy Mitchell and hoping for some sort of reaction.
And, hence, the real reason I had come to Ascot was that Electrostatic was declared to run in the two-mile novice chase, the second race of the day, and Willy Mitchell was again down to ride. All the morning papers had suggested that the horse would start once more as a short-priced favorite, his failure on his last outing being put down to just bad luck rather than any deficiency on the animal’s part.
—
ELECTROSTATIC LIVED UP to his past form and his high-voltage name, winning the second race at a canter.
I’d wandered around the betting ring beforehand, but, as far as I could tell, no one was placing large bets on all the horses other than the favorite. There was certainly no blue fedora visible. No sign at all of Mr. Leslie Morris.
Perhaps the summons to the disciplinary panel and my unwelcome visit to his house had frightened him away. Paul Maldini would be pleased.
Willy Mitchell was all smiles as he unsaddled the horse in the space reserved for the winner.
“No slipped saddle this time, then?” I said to him as he walked past me into the weighing room to weigh in.
He looked at me and the smile disappeared from his face faster than a bargain TV on Black Friday. Willy Mitchell knew exactly who I was. He’d also been part of my investigation into the misuse of jockeys’ cell phones.
“No,” he managed to say. “Not this time.”
“Come out and see me,” I said. “After the presentation.”
There was a slight touch of panic in his eyes. Not that it was necessarily an indication of wrongdoing. It was the sort of panic that sweeps over everyone, myself included, when a police car comes up behind you when you’re driving. It was a reaction I was quite used to generating in the innocent as well as in the guilty.
Willy came out wearing a thick-padded gray 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 relabeled 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 of 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 traveling 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 racetrack. Even the day at Sandown when I’d first met Henri, my work had been the higher priority—I had gone off to the 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 difficul
t 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 license for a very long time, maybe forever. 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 racetrack.”
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 elevators, which took us up to the private hospitality area of the Ascot Authority, the organization that operates the racetrack on behalf of the Queen, who owns the place.
As I had suspected, even though there were some guests, the hospitality area at a jumps meeting was far from full and I was able to secure a table in a quiet corner, well away from where the others were enjoying a champagne reception near the viewing balcony.
I went over to the waitresses’ station and one of them poured me a couple of glasses of white wine.
“I can’t have anything to drink,” Bill said. “I’m having enough trouble with my weight as is. Lack of riding is making me flabby.”
“Drink it,” I said, handing him one of the glasses. “You need it.”
And, I thought, it might loosen his tongue.
He drank it down in just a few large gulps and I waved to the waitress to bring him another.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t,” he said pitifully.
“Are you sure you’re not being blackmailed?” I asked.
He took a gulp of wine from his new glass.
“No.” He sighed. “Not for money anyway.”
“Is someone making you ride to lose?”
He didn’t say anything, he just nodded slightly as if not voicing the admission somehow made it less damaging.
“How?”
“I love my wife,” he said gloomily. “She’s five months pregnant and I absolutely adore her. And Oscar, my son. He’s now nearly two.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said, not immediately realizing the significance.
“I don’t want to lose them,” he said, looking down at the table with tears running down his cheeks.
“Why would you?” I asked.
“There are some photos,” he said. “This man calls me and says he’ll send them to my Julie unless I lose the races.”
So he was being blackmailed after all.
“What are the photos of?”
He looked up at me. “What do you think?” he said. “Me and a girl.”
“Have you seen them?”
“No. I don’t want to. But the man swears he has them.”
“Where and when were they taken?” I asked.
“In May,” he said. “I went to Paris to ride in the Grand Steeple-Chase. I was in a hotel near the track and I got picked up by some girl in the bar. The next thing I know, it’s morning and I’m waking up in bed next to her and both of us are stark naked. I must have had more red wine than I’d realized because I don’t really remember much, but this geezer on the phone says he’s got some graphic pictures of me and the girl having sex.”
“Didn’t you ask to see them?” I asked. “He may be bluffing.”
“Does it matter?” he said. “Even if he just tells the missus that I’ve been sleeping with some French floozy, with or without pictures she’d hit the roof and I’d be out on my ear.”
“Was it a setup?”
“Yeah, ’course it was. I remember being flattered by her attention. It seemed harmless enough. And I was a long way from home. At first, we were just laughing and chatting. And drinking. Then she was all over me, kissing me and such. I never intended screwing her or anything, but . . .” He tailed off.
“Whose bed?” I asked. “Hers or yours?”
“Mine. Upstairs, in the hotel. I don’t even remember going up to the room, let alone doing anything with her when I got there.” He put his head in his hands. “I’m bloody finished, aren’t I? My job’s going down the Swanee over this Wisden Wonder business. And my marriage will be in ruins too. I might as well go kill myself.”
He downed the rest of his wine.
“Come on, Bill,” I said. “There’s no need to talk like that.”
“Isn’t there? My life’s over either way.”
I felt sorry for him because it did rather sound like he’d been specifically targeted.
“I’ll see what I can do for you,” I said. “In the meantime, tell me about riding Pool Table at Cheltenham. Was that another race you were told to lose?”
He hung his head as if in shame. “That was the first time.”
“How were you contacted?” I asked.
“By phone,” he said. “I got a call at home one night when I’m watching TV. My missus was there in the room with me. It was bloody awful. I couldn’t believe what the man was saying. My mouth went completely dry, and I remember going hot and cold all over. I started sweating and such. I was convinced Julie must be able to tell just by looking at me. I’ve never felt so wretched in my whole life.”
“Was it by phone every time?” I asked.
“It’s only been twice,” he said. “Stopping one, that is. Not twice with other girls. That was just the once, and I’d give anything for that not to have happened at all.”
“Do you know who it was who called?”
“He didn’t give his name,” Bill said.
There was something about his tone of voice that made me think he did know.
“Was it a man called Leslie Morris?” I asked.
He looked up at me sharply.
“When I asked you about him before, you said you’d never heard of him. But you blushed, so I knew you were lying. So was it Morris who called you?”
He looked down again at the empty wineglass in his hand.
Then he no
dded. “He didn’t actually say so, but I think it was him.”
“Why did you lie to me about knowing him?” I said.
“Because I was worried about what he might say to you.”
“Have you known him long?” I asked.
“Only since May. It was his bloody horse I went to Paris to ride. Morris called me out of the blue after Aintree. He was dead keen for me to go—paid my fare and everything, although, at the time, I couldn’t think why he bothered. Useless nag finished last.”
So Morris had been lying about that too. Bill McKenzie had indeed ridden his horse, but in France. I silently berated myself for not having checked the French records as well as those for the UK and Ireland.
“So Morris was over there with you?”
“Yeah, together with his son. Nasty piece of work he is, I can tell you.”
“Does Morris know about the girl?” I asked.
“I reckon he might.”
I believed there was no might about it. I’d wager my life savings that not only did Morris know about it, he’d set it up. He’d probably arranged for the girl to get McKenzie drunk or, more likely, to slip him a mickey. Rohypnol maybe.
Easy.
Help him up to his room, remove all his clothes, lie him on the bed with the naked girl in a few compromising positions on top, snap a few photos just to be sure, and, presto, he had cause for blackmail and control. Rohypnol even caused temporary amnesia as a side effect, so he wouldn’t have remembered much, just enough not to question that it had happened.
Bill probably never even had sex with the girl. He’d have been incapable. But how would he be able to convince his wife of that?
“Who else knows?” I asked.
“No one,” he said. “I’ve not mentioned it to a soul before you. Please don’t tell anyone.” He was begging me. “I don’t want Julie finding out.”
“There may be nothing for her to find out about,” I said. “If you don’t remember anything happening, then it’s quite likely that nothing actually did happen. Especially if you were unconscious.”
“I talked to the girl in the first place,” he said gloomily.
“If every wife divorced her husband simply because he’d talked to some girl, there’d hardly be a single marriage left intact.”
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