Bloodline

16

I went out to meet Emily immediately after the production meeting, just in case she was early.

I realized that I had no idea what type of car she drove so I stood next to the entry road staring intently at the driver of every vehicle that passed me in case I missed her. But I needn’t have worried. Bang on time, at precisely twelve thirty, she arrived flashing her lights and sounding her horn as soon as she saw me.

And I should have guessed her choice of car. She drove a metallic-red Mercedes SLK sports roadster, and she had the roof down.

I was laughing as I climbed in beside her, in the sure knowledge there was no strangler lurking in a back seat because there were no back seats.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I said, leaning over and giving her a brief kiss.

‘Where to?’ she asked, grinning broadly.

‘Straight on down to the end,’ I said. ‘We’ll park in the press area, it’s nearer to the entrance than the public car park.’

What was it that Jim Metcalf had said about me not being very discreet in my private life? Well, there was nothing in the slightest bit discreet about Emily’s and my arrival in the Newmarket racecourse press car park.

For a start, not many members of the press drive Mercedes sports cars and even fewer arrive for a race meeting in October with the roof down. Then there was the spin of the rear wheels on the gravel by the entrance, and the slight drift of the back end on the damp grass as she turned sharply into the parking space.

Next came the dramatic closing of the electric roof and, as if there were not enough of the press watching already, there was Emily’s loud squeal of delight as she came round the back of the car, enveloped me in her arms and kissed me passionately, full on the mouth.

Perhaps, I thought, the public car park would have been better after all. But, at least, this might kill off any belief lingering amongst the Fourth Estate that I was still romantically involved with Sarah Stacey.

We went through the racecourse entrance and I took her round into the fenced-off compound where the Channel 4 scanner and the other broadcast vehicles were parked. There was still over an hour until we went on-air but I had to do the voice-over recordings for some of the VTs that would be shown later during the live transmission.

I also had some script notes I wanted to write out in preparation for what was likely to be a busy afternoon with races from both Ascot and Redcar in the programme as well as three from here at Newmarket. The more material we had prepared and ready to transmit at the touch of a button, the better we would be able to cope with any unexpected problems that might arise, as they surely would.

It was very much a case of the nine Ps: proper prior planning prevents piss poor programme presenter performance.

Emily sat in the scanner and watched while I recorded the voice-over for a host of video clips of previous races, highlighting the running of some of the horses that were in action again today. The whole VT would be used as part of the introduction for the afternoon.

‘It’s fascinating,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘It all seems so seamless when you watch on a Saturday.’

‘Ah, the magic of live television,’ I said. ‘Never believe anything you see on the box. It’s all done with smoke and mirrors.’

‘Don’t tease me,’ she said.

‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I mean it. We will show eight races from three different racecourses hundreds of miles apart all within the space of two and a half hours and the viewers believe that the whole thing is sequential and under our control, which it isn’t. Now that’s what I call magic.’

‘Does it ever go wrong?’ she asked.

‘Often,’ I said. ‘And the real trick is to carry on regardless and make out that everything is proceeding exactly as we had expected it to, and only to stop talking when you drop down dead or the programme finishes, whichever comes first.’

‘You’re crazy.’ She laughed.

‘Bonkers,’ I said, laughing back.

It was the first time I’d felt even the slightest bit happy since Clare had died. Emily was clearly good for me.

‘Good luck, everybody.’ Neville, the producer, was speaking over the talk-back into our earpieces and headphones, as the production assistant counted down to zero to the start of transmission.

The familiar theme music played and I watched the opening sequence on the monitor in front of me.

‘Cue Mark.’

I took a deep breath and looked straight into the lens of the camera being held in front of my face. ‘Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to Channel 4 Racing on the day of Europe’s richest race for two-year-olds, the Millions Trophy, which is amongst the three races we’re covering from here at Newmarket, as well as four from Ascot including the Scoop6 Cup and, as a special bonus, one of the premier northern races for the youngsters, the Two-Year-Old Trophy from Redcar at four o’clock.’

‘Cue VT,’ said the director, and the video clips played that I had previously voiced-over.

The programme was up and running.

I could almost feel the injection of adrenalin into my bloodstream that the countdown to the start had produced. And I loved it. I was an adrenalin-rush junkie, and was hopelessly hooked.

I waved and smiled at Emily, who was standing about five yards away, out of picture. We were both in the Newmarket parade ring, close to the winners’ enclosure. It is where I would stay for the duration of the programme, watching all the races on the monitor set up in front of me.

The VT was coming to an end. ‘Cue Mark,’ said the director into my ear.

‘So let’s go straight over to join Iain Ferguson for the first of our three Group races from Ascot. Good afternoon, Iain.’

The red light on the camera in front of me went off to indicate I was no longer live on-air. I could relax a little as the first race from Ascot was being broadcast. I went over to Emily and gave her a brief cuddle.

‘I hope you’re not too cold,’ I said. She was wearing no coat and what I thought was far too thin a dress for being outdoors in October, in spite of the unseasonably warm weather we had been enjoying. However, the dress did hug her alluring figure superbly, and that also did wonders for my adrenalin level.

‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she said. ‘But aren’t you meant to be saying something? I thought you told me that you mustn’t stop talking.’

‘The presenter at Ascot is speaking now. The first race we’re showing is being run there so I reckon I’ve got about another eight minutes before I’m back on.’

But, nevertheless, my brain would still be listening out for the word Mark just in case things didn’t go to plan and I had to step in. It was something you got used to: carrying on a conversation with a third party while listening out for your name to be spoken into your ear by the producer or director. The rest of the talk-back could float over me without really registering but I would be brought to full awareness by even the first ‘mmm’ of Mark.

The afternoon progressed without any major problem, that was until the third race at Ascot became badly delayed due to a horse getting loose on the way down to the start and galloping on its own right round the racecourse.

I could imagine the panic going on in the scanner as it was realized that the Ascot race would now coincide with the build-up for the big race of the afternoon at Newmarket. The pitch of the voices over the talk-back rose a notch with the tension.

‘If that damn nag at Ascot isn’t caught soon the two races will be run at the same time,’ said Neville into my ear.

It was his worst nightmare. One of the golden rules in horserace broadcasting was that no races were to be shown recorded, they had to go out live.

Once upon a time delaying a race broadcast by a bit wouldn’t have been too much of a problem but now, with internet gambling, especially the growing popularity of betting on horses actually during the running of the race, being live was absolutely essential.

‘Matthew,’ Neville called over the talk-back to the floor manager in the Newmarket parade ring, ‘see if Newmarket will hold for a couple of minutes if it looks like there’ll be a clash. Otherwise we’ll have to use a split screen.’

I watched as Matthew ran over to the weighing room to speak to the stewards. But delaying the race wasn’t usually that simple. The meeting was also being broadcast live on radio and any change in time, even by a couple of minutes, could badly disrupt their schedules.

‘Two minutes max,’ said Matthew. ‘On your call.’

‘Great, thanks,’ replied Neville. ‘Tell Kevin to get down to the seven-furlong start right now.’ Kevin was the programme runner, literally, and he would already be haring down to the course to relay the producer’s words to the starter, should it become necessary.

‘OK. Listen up everyone,’ said Neville into everybody’s ears, ‘we continue with the big race build-up here at Newmarket with Ascot shown, mute, picture-in-picture. We stay with Newmarket but go over to Ascot for their race live, if and when they’re ready. We’ll only hold the Newmarket race for the two minutes if it looks like there’s going to be a clash. We might even need to take Newmarket before Ascot. If we have to use a split screen we’ll take the commentary of whichever race starts first then switch when it finishes.’

And just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, the director reminded everyone that we had to fit in a three-minute commercial break before Newmarket’s big race. It was part of our contract with the broadcaster.

The loose horse was finally caught and subsequently withdrawn from the Ascot race, which started ten minutes late but just in time for the Newmarket race to go off as scheduled immediately after it. And the commercial break was somehow shoehorned in before both of them.

Heart rates all round returned to normal levels and the talk-back profanity count reverted to more acceptable proportions. It was a running joke in broadcasting that recording the talk-back was a sackable offence.

Tortola Beach won Newmarket’s big race easily by three lengths and was led triumphantly into the winner’s enclosure by a beaming Austin Reynolds.

‘Mark, get a quick interview with Austin, now!’ Neville demanded into my ear. ‘It will be a good follow-up to your conversation with him on the Morning Line.’

Little did Neville know what else had been said in our conversation after the Morning Line had gone off-air.

The cameraman and I stepped forward boldly, me with a hand-held microphone at the ready like a gun. We gave Austin Reynolds no chance to say ‘no’.

‘Cue Mark.’

‘Congratulations Austin Reynolds, trainer of Tortola Beach. A great run.’

I pushed the microphone towards his mouth.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very pleasing.’

‘You said on the Morning Line earlier today that you were confident he would stay the seven-furlong trip, and so it has turned out. Do you think this confirms that his last run at Doncaster, when he faded so badly near the finish, was just a one-off anomaly?’

He looked at me with a certain degree of loathing in his eyes.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it was.’

‘So will he run in the Two Thousand Guineas next year?’

‘Quoted at twelve-to-one for the Guineas by Corals,’ Neville said into my ear.

‘That’s the plan,’ said Austin.

‘I hear he’s currently being quoted at twelve-to-one for the Guineas by Corals,’ I said. ‘Do you think that’s a fair price?’

‘A bit short, I’d have said. He only started at tens today.’

Yes, I thought. And I wondered if part of the reason for ‘stopping’ the horse at Doncaster had been to get his starting price nice and long for this race.

‘Mark, OK, wrap the interview. Link to Iain for Ascot presentations.’

‘Thank you, Austin,’ I said, turning away from him and back to the camera. ‘And now, over to Iain Ferguson at Ascot for the presentations for their third race.’

‘Cue Iain,’ said the director and the camera’s red light went out in front of me.

I would have loved to have asked Austin Reynolds, right there and then, who he thought might be blackmailing him, and why, but I didn’t particularly want everyone else in the country to overhear his answers.

I decided to have a word with him later, after the transmission was over, and after my microphone had been removed.

The programme went to another commercial break while the cameraman covered the Newmarket trophy presentation, which was recorded in the scanner.

‘Mark,’ Neville said, ‘on return discuss the Two Thousand Guineas ante-post market caption, and then we’ll go to the VT of our trophy presentation. Coming back to you in five, four, three, two, one, cue Mark.’

I looked into the lens. ‘Welcome back to Newmarket where the place is still buzzing from that spectacular win by Tortola Beach. So let us look at the ante-post market for the Two Thousand Guineas next May.’ The graphic appeared on the screen and I went through the list, Tortola Beach now being quoted as joint sixth favourite. The graphic disappeared and I looked back into the camera lens. ‘And now we have the Millions Trophy presentation to the connections of Tortola Beach.’

‘Cue VT.’

The recently recorded footage of the trophy presentation was broadcast as I voiced-over it live while, at the same time, I had the director and producer wittering away in my ear. ‘Mark, Scoop6 update please — after four legs there are only twenty-six tickets still left in. Then hand over to Iain at Ascot. Back to you in picture in five, four, three, two, one, cue Mark.’

And so it went on, relentlessly, right through until twenty past four, when the production assistant finally said ‘shut-up’ and we could all relax.

‘Well done, everybody,’ said Neville. ‘Good job. See you all back here next week for Future Champions Day.’

‘Wow!’ said Emily when I went over to her. ‘I had no idea.’ The sound engineer had wired her up and she’d been listening to the chatter on the talk-back. ‘It’s amazing.’

‘It certainly is,’ I agreed. ‘Those Hollywood film stars have no idea how easy they have it, doing multiple takes until they get it right, and having breaks between scenes to learn their lines. I tell you, there’s nothing quite like live television to concentrate the mind.’

‘I could concentrate your mind,’ Emily said seductively.

We went to Clare’s cottage.

I didn’t think Clare would have minded as she was always telling me to get a proper girlfriend. And Emily’s place at Royston was simply too far away. We were both more eager than that.

I had intended seeking out Austin Reynolds to ask him more about the blackmailer but that, too, had been postponed due to the urgency of our more basic human urges.

We hardly made it up the stairs to the guest bedroom but, in the end, our lovemaking was gentle and tender, though not without passion and hunger.

For both of us it was a journey of exploration, a trip into new territory and I, for one, found the experience hugely satisfying.

‘Wow!’ Emily said again, lying back on the bed. ‘A day full of surprises.’

‘Good surprises?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely,’ she said with a smile. ‘Wonderful surprises.’ She suddenly sat up straight. ‘Do you have any wine? I’ve never been to the races before and not had a drink.’

I laughed. ‘I’ll go and see.’

I picked up my shirt and boxers from where they had fallen on the landing and put them back on. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right for me to be wandering around this house without any clothes on.

‘Red or white?’ I called.

‘How about champagne?’

‘I’ll check.’

I went downstairs and looked in Clare’s fridge for some cold bubbles.

There were plenty of things that were out of date, and even some that were growing a nice covering of mould, but there were no bottles of champagne. I did find one, however, in her drinks cupboard in the sitting room, a nice bottle of Bolinger Special Cuvée, but it was decidedly warm.

‘Do you mind if the champagne’s warm?’ I shouted up the stairs.

‘Isn’t there an ice bucket?’ came the reply.

There was, a silver one, sitting on the mantelpiece along with Clare’s other trophies.

I took the ice bucket back to the fridge and looked in the freezer section. It was one of those American-style refrigerators with an internal ice maker. The hopper was only half full so I lifted it out and poured the contents into the bucket.

I was returning the empty hopper to the freezer when I noticed a flat plastic case stuck to its inside with some tape.

I pulled the case away and opened it.

It contained a DVD and a folded sheet of ordinary white copy paper.

I sat on a stool at Clare’s breakfast bar and carefully unfolded the paper. There were three lines of printed text across the middle:

I sat there staring at the words, turning the disc over and over in my fingers.

So, it wasn’t only Austin Reynolds who had been blackmailed.