Bloodline

Perhaps too much had been expected of him because he’d enjoyed such phenomenal success very early, winning the Derby, the Oaks and the St Leger in only his second year as a young trainer. Since those heady days of more than twenty years ago, he had never again saddled a Classic winner and he’d precious few other big-race victories to his name either.

Nowadays he mostly sent his horses north to race on the Yorkshire circuits, marketing himself to businessmen from the area — prospective owners who might appreciate his fashionable Newmarket address.

Bangkok Flyer had raced three times prior to his run at Lingfield, once each at Redcar, Catterick and York, finishing second on all three occasions. But Clare hadn’t ridden him in any of those previous outings.

Nevertheless, I watched the VTs of all three. There was nothing untoward in any of them, at least there was nothing that I could spot. In fact, the colt had run exceptionally well last time out at York, beaten only half a length by a good horse that had itself recently gone on to win one of the major two-year-old races of the season. No wonder Bangkok Flyer had started as a red-hot favourite under Clare. On past form he should have won the race at Lingfield with ease, as he surely would have done without Clare’s untimely intervention.

Even with me watching only the final furlong of each one, the first two hundred races took me more than three hours to review. In them I found three ‘definites’ as well as a further two ‘possibles’. Perhaps Clare had been understating the reality when she had said she’d ‘stopped’ a maximum of only five.

By this stage, I had watched so many race finishes that the horses were beginning to dance before my eyes. I took a break for a coffee.

I felt absolutely wretched.

In a way, I suppose, I should be pleased to have at least found something but I was seriously dismayed to have had it confirmed that her irregular riding of Bangkok Flyer had not been an isolated incident.

The phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Sarah.

‘Hello, my darling,’ I said, answering it.

‘Where are you?’ she asked in a slightly pained voice.

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy I forgot.’

I looked at my watch. It was twenty past twelve and we’d agreed to meet at noon in a pub overlooking the River Thames just west of Oxford.

‘I’m on my way. Order me a glass of rosé. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

I told the database technician I’d be back later and skipped out to my car. I was still excited every time I was on my way to see Sarah. If I wasn’t, I suppose, I’d have moved on by now.

The lunchtime traffic was bad and it was a good fifteen minutes before I turned into the pub car park and pulled my battered old Ford into the space alongside Sarah’s brand-new BMW.

I hurried inside.

‘What was making you so busy in Oxford that you forgot to come and meet me?’ She wasn’t really cross, just curious.

‘I’ve been at the RacingTV studio.’

‘Doing what, exactly?’

‘Oh, bits and pieces. Sorting out my work schedule for the coming months.’

I wondered why I hadn’t told her the truth.

‘And I’m also looking at some past races that Clare rode in for a tribute that I’m making on Thursday for Channel 4.’

‘Well, in that case you’re forgiven.’ She patted my hand. ‘How have things been?’

‘Pretty awful,’ I said. ‘I seem to be wandering round in a daze. Nothing seems real.’

‘Have you fixed a date yet for the funeral?’

‘Monday, at three,’ I said. ‘But that’s another thing I’m not very happy about.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘I spoke to my brothers last night. The coroner has given us the go ahead but my father wants it to be immediate family only, and near Oxted where he

lives.’

‘Why is that a problem?’

‘Because Clare didn’t really get on with her immediate biological family. Racing was Clare’s world. They were her real family, and I think she would have preferred it if her funeral was held at Newmarket, where she lived, and all her racing friends able to be there.’

‘Darling,’ Sarah said, turning to me, ‘you can always have a memorial service in Newmarket later. And, in all honesty, it isn’t really what Clare would have wanted that’s now important.’

‘I know.’ I sighed. ‘And my father can be very obstinate. But for some goddamn reason, my brothers and sister seem to agree with him. I’ve tried my best but I’ve been voted down on this one. Personally, I think they only want a small quiet funeral because they’re embarrassed by the manner of her death.’

She took my hand in hers and squeezed it. There was nothing to say so we sat there in silence for a while. As always, I couldn’t get the image of Clare falling the fifteen floors out of my head. I was again close to tears.

‘Where’s Mitchell?’ I asked, purposely changing my thought pattern.

‘At Newton Abbot races, thank goodness.’ She shivered. ‘God, he was so horrible to me this morning before he went. He can be such a bully.’

‘Why don’t you just leave him?’