Bloodline

10

Toby Woodley’s story didn’t fade away. Quite the opposite.

Wednesday morning’s Daily Gazette had upgraded it from the back page to the front with an ‘exclusive’ tag beneath a two-inch-high bold headline in capital letters: RACE FIXING.

The article beneath reiterated the allegation that Clare had stopped Brain of Brixham in the race at Wolverhampton and even gave further details of the amount of money that had supposedly been won by those laying the horse on the internet betting exchanges.

It must have been a quiet day for other news, I thought, and Toby Woodley’s imagination had obviously been running in overdrive to fill the gap.

But there was also an underlying tone to the piece that vaguely implied that Clare’s ride on Brain of Brixham might not have been an isolated incident but rather only one in a pattern.

Watch this space, it said at the end, for further revelations tomorrow, and not only about Clare Shillingford, but also about her brother, Mark.

I stared at it. What revelations about me was Toby Woodley going to make up now? He’s told me I’d regret saying at Stratford that he’d been treated at Clare’s funeral not like dirt but like shit. Now the little bastard would make me pay. At least, unlike Clare, I would be able to take him to court if he lied.

And this wasn’t the first time that the Daily Gazette had made accusations about race fixing either. It had done so the previous May, but not on its front page. On that occasion the whole thing had quickly died away to nothing as the paper had been unable to produce any firm evidence and had declined to name any individuals, probably for fear of being sued.

Even the Racing Post, which should have known better, had a report following up on the Gazette’s story, demanding answers and challenging Toby Woodley to reveal the identity of members of the betting syndicate ‘for the good of racing’. The Post’s tenor may have been more ‘put up, or shut up’, but it wouldn’t help to reduce the speculation. At least Jim Metcalf in UK Today had refused to join the chorus.

Other than reading the newspapers, I spent most of Wednesday morning studying the brochures for the eight houses I had looked at on the internet. The various estate agents had been most efficient in sending the details and each brochure had arrived with a covering letter telling me, each in a slightly different way, that now was the ideal time to buy a house.

I was sure that every estate agent always thought it was an ideal time to buy a house. They were hardly likely to say it wasn’t, now were they?

I was particularly interested by a house in a North Oxfordshire village. I’d often thought that Edenbridge in Kent was far from being the ideal place to live for someone with my job. Lingfield Park was certainly handy, and Brighton, Plumpton and Folkestone were pretty close as well. It was also not bad for Fontwell, Goodwood and the London courses, but I spent much of my time at the tracks in the Midlands and the North and they were all a long way off. It was no wonder that the odometer on my old Ford had been round the clock twice.

Oxfordshire, I thought, was a good central location, one where I could get to and from almost all the English racecourses in a single day, although there were none in the county itself.

I sat and looked at the glossy pictures and wondered if I was doing the right thing. In particular, was it sensible to move away from my parents when they were at a stage in their lives when they would soon be needing more help?

That fact alone, I decided, was one very good reason why I should move. As things stood, I could see that it was going to fall to me alone to look after them, as had indeed become the case in recent months. At least if I lived in Oxfordshire rather than just five miles down the road, my elder siblings might start believing that they also had some responsibility for their parents, especially as they would all then be living closer to them than I.

Perhaps I should call the estate agent and make an appointment to go and see the house. Maybe I’d do it tomorrow.

Midweek racing under the lights at Kempton Park on the all-weather Polytrack has become standard fare for punters although, during the winter months, the crowd, if that is the right term for the sparse gathering of the faithful, wisely spend most of their time inside the glass-fronted bars and restaurants.

However, in late September the weather gods had been kind and England was enjoying an Indian summer with hot days and warm balmy evenings. So much so that I left my overcoat in my car, which I parked in the racecourse car park.

I generally liked commentating on racing under lights.

I had first been night racing at Happy Valley racecourse in Hong Kong as a nineteen-year-old. It had probably been the strange environment as much as anything, but I’d found the whole experience so exciting and part of that excitement remained every time I saw the jockeys’ silks shining vividly in the glow of bright artificial light.

But that would have to wait. The first race was at twenty minutes to six and the sun was still well up in the sky as the ten runners were loaded into the stalls at the one-mile start on the far side of the oval track.

‘They’re off in the Crane Park Limited Maiden Stakes,’ I said into my microphone. ‘Quarterback Sneak breaks well and is quickly into stride on the nearside. He goes into an early lead with Waimarima a close second. Popeye’s Girl is next in the pink jacket and sheepskin noseband, with Apache Pilot alongside in the dark green. Next is Banker’s Joy with the yellow crossbelts and then Marker Pen in the hoops, with Kitbo now making some headway on the outside in the white cap.’

The race unfolded and I continued to describe the action as they swung right-handed into the straight as a closely bunched group, the horses spreading across the track as their jockeys searched for a clear run to the line.

And every one of the jockeys looked to me just like Clare.

I almost lost it completely but I forced myself to concentrate on the horses and pulled myself back from the brink.

‘Quarterback Sneak is still just in front but here comes Apache Pilot with Popeye’s Girl going very well on the wide outside. Just between these three as they enter the final hundred yards. Quarterback Sneak seems unable to quicken, and Popeye’s Girl goes on to win easily from Apache Pilot, with Kitbo a fast finishing third. Next comes Quarterback Sneak, then Marker Pen and Banker’s Joy together, followed by Waimarima who faded badly in the closing stages.’

I went through the rest of the field and then clicked off my mike.

I leaned back wearily against wall of the commentary box and wiped a bead of sweat from my clammy forehead. I felt wretched and wondered if I would ever again be able to commentate on a race like that without seeing Clare as one, or all, of the jockeys.

Throughout her career, and particularly in the early years, she had ridden often at the all-weather tracks, especially during the winter months when there was no turf flat racing in Great Britain. It was how up-and-coming jockeys nowadays learned their trade, taking rides in January and February while many of their more established colleagues were sunning themselves on Caribbean beaches, or riding winners in the warmth of Australia, Dubai or Hong Kong.

I sat down on the stool in the commentary box and looked out across the racecourse, the lights of the aircraft landing at Heathrow now shining brightly in the darkening sky.

I told myself that the reason I didn’t feel like going down to the weighing room was that I didn’t want to meet anyone who had read the Daily Gazette, or who might ask me difficult questions having seen the Racing Post. But, in reality, it was because I felt I had to psych myself up in readiness for the next race.

I realized that commentating hadn’t been a problem the previous day because Clare had never ridden at Stratford, and never would have done so as they only stage hurdle races and steeplechases. Only tonight, here at Kempton, was I suddenly struck by her absence on a racecourse.

Staying in the box, however, wasn’t the ideal preparation for the next race as I couldn’t see the runners in the parade ring, which, at Kempton, was situated right behind the main grandstand.

I studied the racecard and tried to memorize the colours, but there was nothing like actually seeing the jockeys wearing the silks. All too often, the pigment of the inks used in the printing bore little or no resemblance to the actual dyes used in the material.

I went out of the commentary box and turned left.

As was the case at many racecourses, the commentary box at Kempton was situated in the grandstand high above and behind the public seating, but still under the large cantilever roof. It was one of a number of separate boxes that opened off a long corridor that ran along behind them all to a metal staircase at one end.

During the races, the various boxes contained not only the course commentator but also the judge, the race stewards, television cameramen, as well as the photo-finish technicians who were on a higher level still, immediately above the judge’s box, accessed by a second metal staircase at the far end.

It was a strange world that the public never saw with multiple cable tracks running along the tops of the undecorated walls, each of them essential for carrying the pictures and sounds to the racecourse crowd and beyond.

I went along to the end of the corridor and climbed the staircase towards the photo-finish box. Opposite there was a door that opened out onto the grandstand roof. I unlocked the door and stepped out.

The Kempton grandstand had been built in 1997 and, like many similar projects of the time, much of its structural support was gained from a tubular steel framework that sat above the roof like a series of gigantic wire coat-hangers.

There were a number of intersecting walkways that allowed access to the various air-conditioning units and the multitude of electronic aerials and satellite dishes that were spaced around all over the place. Each of the walkways had a metal grille floor and railings down either side to prevent anyone straying off them onto the roof itself.

I knew from experience that it was possible to see the far side of the parade ring from one of the walkways. I’d used it before, the previous year, when I’d twisted my ankle and didn’t fancy going all the way down to ground level to see the horses.

I now spent a few moments checking the jockeys’ silks. It was rare, but not unknown, for the printing in the paper to be wrong, for example if a horse had been sold the night before a race and was running in the new owner’s colours, something that was not that uncommon in the Grand National.

But, on this occasion, I was satisfied that all were attired as expected, and I made my way back down to the commentary box in time to describe them to the crowd as they cantered round the end of the track to the seven-furlong start point on the far side of the course.

This time, when the horses spread out as they entered the straight, I was ready for the ‘Clare moment’ as I decided to call it, that moment when all the jockeys were facing me and each one of them reminded me of her. This time, in some strange way, I felt somewhat comforted by its arrival rather than being overcome.

Far from trying to put Clare out of my mind in case it was too upsetting, I wanted to remember her every day and this would be the way I would do it.

Suddenly I was more at ease with life and I realized that, as for my father, the feeling of guilt over Clare’s death had overshadowed and distorted the grief. From that moment on, I told myself, I was going to rejoice in the memory of her brief existence, and do my best to protect that memory.

Not that I didn’t still feel terrible guilt over not answering the telephone calls from Clare that night. I did. And I lay awake for hours most nights rehearsing to myself what I could have done better to prevent the disaster.

But Jim Metcalf’s advice to say nothing, and to do nothing, was for the old, indecisive me. The new, resolute and well-focused me would call Toby Woodley’s bluff and make him prove what he was claiming was true, or else admit that he couldn’t.

I did go down to the weighing room after the second race and, instead of avoiding people who might ask me questions about the front page of the Daily Gazette or the piece in the Racing Post, I started every conversation by saying how ridiculous it was, and how Toby Woodley was just a little insect that needed stamping on.

‘A worm, more like,’ said Jack Laver, the racecourse broadcast technician who had made me the tea at Lingfield. ‘Nasty piece of work, that one. He was here earlier. Always tries to snoop around the weighing room to see if there’s any gossip he can use, or make up. The Clerk threw him out.’

The Clerk of the Scales presided in the weighing room like a judge in a courtroom, sitting behind a desk and ensuring that everything was done correctly, including keeping the press out.

His primary role was to ensure that all the jockeys ‘weighed out’ for each race at the correct weight, and also that the winner and those placed ‘weighed in’ again afterwards, together with any other jockeys that the Clerk may choose at his sole discretion. He also had to ensure that each jockey was wearing the correct colours and had the right equipment, such as blinkers or a visor, which their horse may have been declared as wearing.

And all the jockeys called him ‘sir’.

Not that they weren’t averse to trying to fool him — usually because they were having trouble getting down to the required weight.

‘Cheating Boots’ have been around almost since racing first began — paper-thin ultralight riding boots used only for weighing out, which the wearer then, illegally, changed for a more substantial pair back in the jockeys’ changing room, well out of sight of the Clerk. Weighing back in is not a problem as riders are allowed up to two extra pounds to provide for rain-soaked clothes, or accumulated mud thrown up from the track.

These days, a jockey’s racing helmet is not included in his riding weight, unlike his saddle, which is. However, the coloured cap that is worn over the helmet, should be included but there are always those who will try to place the cap down on the Clerk’s table while they are weighing out.

Every little helps.

In truth, it was all a bit of a game and, just like with school teachers and their miscreant pupils, the Clerks of the Scales were wise to their schemes and almost always won, but that didn’t stop the jockeys from trying.

‘Everything all right up top?’ Jack asked. ‘Monitor OK?’

‘Fine,’ I said, ‘as long as I can turn down the brightness a bit, now that it’s getting dark.’

‘There are some buttons on the side,’ Jack said. ‘Click the menu button twice then use the down button on the brightness. Or do you need me to do it?’

‘I’m sure I’ll manage,’ I said. ‘I’ll come back after the next if I can’t.’

I went out to the parade ring keeping a careful watch for Toby Woodley. I really didn’t want to come face to face with him tonight. I wasn’t at all sure I could restrain myself from hitting him, and that surely wouldn’t have helped the situation.

I stood and watched the horses for the third race walking round and round, noting on my racecard the two of them that were wearing sheepskin nosebands on their bridles. Some trainers ran all their horses in sheepskin nosebands. They thought it made them easier to spot, which was true as long as everyone didn’t do it.

The last of the eight races was not until after nine o’clock and, by then, many of the crowd had made their way home, not least because the evening had cooled considerably.

As my commentary of the race echoed round the deserted grandstand I wondered if anyone at the course was actually listening to me, although I hoped that some at home might be, via their televisions.

‘Thanks, Mark,’ said a voice into my headphones as I switched off the microphone for the last time.

‘Pleasure, Gordon,’ I replied, pushing the right button. Gordon was another of the RacingTV producers. ‘See you at Warwick tomorrow?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Derek will be back doing Warwick. I’m in the studio tomorrow, then I’ll be at Haydock Friday and Saturday. You?’

‘I’m presenting for Channel 4 on Saturday at Newmarket. Friday’s a rare day off for me.’

‘Have fun. Bye now.’ There was a click in my ears and the system went dead. It was time to go home.

I packed my binoculars, coloured pens, and racecards into my bag, went down to ground level, and followed the last remaining punters out past the parade ring in the direction of the car parks.

By that time of night, there was a definite chill in the air and I wished I’d brought my coat with me after all. But it was only a hundred and fifty yards or so to my car and I hurried along towards it.

I never got there.

Toby Woodley was in the car park standing beside a white van.

If I’d seen him sooner, I’d have made a detour to avoid him but, as it was, I came round the back of the van and there he was, only about six feet away. I stopped.

‘What the bloody hell do you want?’ I asked him.

He didn’t answer but rolled his head towards me. He was actually leaning against the side of the van with his head back against the metal.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

He didn’t reply.

I stepped forward towards him just as he slithered sideways down the side of the van, catching him just before he landed face down on the tarmac. Even in the relatively dim glow of the car park lighting, a bright red streak of blood was clearly visible on the van’s white panelling.

‘Help!’ I shouted as loudly as I could. ‘Help! Somebody call an ambulance.’

I turned Toby onto his back and looked into his face as I struggled to remove my telephone from my pocket. His eyes had an air of mild surprise in them. I thought he was trying to say something but it was just the sound of his rasping breath. There were flecks of bright scarlet blood in a froth in his mouth.

‘Help!’ I shouted again. ‘Get an ambulance.’

A man came running over towards me as I finally managed to extract my phone. ‘Call an ambulance,’ I said, tossing my phone to him.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ the man asked.

‘I think he’s been stabbed,’ I said. ‘There’s lots of blood.’

The man glanced at the side of the van and pushed 999 on my phone.

I looked back at Toby’s face. The air of surprise seemed to have gone. Now he was just staring, but his eyes didn’t see. The rasping breath was no more.

‘I think he’s dead,’ I said to the man. ‘He’s stopped breathing.’

‘Has he got a pulse?’

I tried to feel his wrist but the only beat I could detect was from my own heart thumping away.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘Give him mouth to mouth,’ said the man. ‘The ambulance is on its way.’

Unsurprisingly, kissing Toby Woodley had not been on my planned agenda for the day but, nevertheless, I tilted back his head, put my lips over his, and breathed into him. There was no noticeable movement of his chest so I tilted his head back further and repeated the process.

‘Keep going,’ said the man. ‘I’ll do chest compressions.’

The man knelt down next to me and started pumping his hands up and down vigorously on Toby’s breastbone as I breathed into him.

We went on like that for a good five minutes.

‘Bloody hell,’ said the man, pausing for a moment. ‘This is hard work.’

‘Do you want to swap?’ I said.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Keep going as we are.’

‘Does he have a pulse now?’ I asked between breaths.

‘Just keep going,’ said the man, resuming his chest compressions.

So we did, for what seemed like at least another five minutes until an array of bright blue flashing lights announced the arrival of an ambulance, and two green-clad paramedics came running over towards us followed by a sizable group of onlookers, some of them with camera phones held high.

One of the paramedics bared Toby’s chest and attached some sticky patches to his skin while the other connected leads to the patches and also to a yellow box with a small screen on the front. Even I could tell that the trace on the screen was flat and lifeless.

One of the paramedics pulled another box from his large green bag and soon had two metal plates placed either side of Toby’s chest.

‘All clear,’ he called, making sure no one was touching Toby. ‘Shocking!’

Toby’s body convulsed for a moment then lay motionless again. The trace on the screen, meanwhile, stayed completely flat.

‘All clear again,’ called the paramedic. ‘Shocking!’

He repeated the process another three times while his colleague injected something into Toby’s arm. That wouldn’t do much good, I thought, not without any circulation. For all their effort, the trace on the screen never even flickered.

The paramedics took over the mouth to mouth and chest compressions and went on for far longer than I would have expected but, each time they stopped, the line on the screen remained stubbornly flat. They shocked him again and shone a torch into Toby’s eyes.

‘No pressure,’ said one. ‘No vital signs. CPR terminated at...’ He looked at his watch. ‘Twenty-one forty-five.’ He began to pack up his equipment.

‘What happened?’ the other paramedic asked me, all urgency having suddenly evaporated.

‘He’s been stabbed,’ I said.

‘What with?’ he asked while pulling Toby’s shirt wider and looking down his abdomen. ‘And where?’

‘There’s blood on his back,’ I said. And, I realized, I was kneeling in the stuff. A great pool of it surrounded Toby’s body. All those chest compressions, I thought, had done nothing more than pump the blood out of him.

The police arrived in force and suddenly the atmosphere changed again. It was no longer just a racecourse car park, it had become a murder scene.