Bloodline

I’d seen the video of the race at the time and I remember thinking that Clare had been rather foolish, but it had definitely not been like the others I had found. As far as I could recall, it had been just a silly, but genuine, error.

But could I be totally sure?

The stewards at Wolverhampton had accepted Clare’s explanation that it had been accidental, and they had given her a fourteen-day suspension for careless riding. Now, Toby Woodley was claiming that she had done it on purpose, and had been paid handsomely by a betting syndicate for her trouble.

I heard the door open behind me.

‘So she wasn’t such an angel after all,’ said Woodley in his distinctive squeak.

I spun round. ‘You’re a bloody liar,’ I shouted. ‘That race was simply an error of judgement and you know it.’

‘How about the betting syndicate?’ he said. ‘They made a fortune laying that horse.’

‘Says who?’ I demanded. ‘This rubbish doesn’t name anyone.’ I waved my hand at the spread-out paper.

‘Sources,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose with his finger. ‘I have my sources.’

‘Your imagination, more like. You’ve made the whole thing up.’

‘You may think so,’ he sneered, ‘but this story will run and run.’

‘I’ll sue,’ I said.

‘On what grounds?’

‘Libel.’

‘Don’t you know?’ He grinned, showing me his nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Under English law, you can’t libel the dead.’ He laughed. ‘You should have spoken to me yesterday, at her funeral. I was treated like dirt.’

So was that what the story was about? Was he simply piqued by being shouted at by my father, and brushed off by me?

‘Not treated like dirt,’ I said. ‘More like shit.’

‘You’ll regret that.’

I picked up the newspaper and waved it at him. ‘And is this what you meant by saying yesterday that you’d been good to me. Ha! Don’t make me laugh. You don’t know what being good means.’

He was about to say something further when the door opened and Jim Metcalf walked in. Jim was the senior racing correspondent for UK Today, one of the country’s best-selling national newspapers, which prided itself on its coverage of horseracing.

‘Hi, Mark,’ said the newcomer. ‘Welcome back.’

‘Thanks, Jim,’ I said, meaning it. ‘And thank you for your note last week.’

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘We’re all going to miss Clare. She was a lovely girl.’ He shook his head slightly as if not knowing what else to say. Instead, he turned to Toby Woodley. ‘What do you want, you little runt? I thought we’d made it clear you weren’t welcome in the press rooms.’

‘I have as much right to be here as you do,’ Toby whined.

‘Right, maybe,’ said Jim. ‘But we don’t want you here. Understand? You make the place smell. Now, clear off.’

I thought for a moment that Toby was going to stand his ground, but Jim was even taller than my six foot two, and he’d once been a Royal Marine Commando. Toby at about five foot six would have been no match.

‘Good riddance,’ Jim said, smiling, as the door closed. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work.’

‘Have you seen his piece today in the Gazette?’ I handed it to him.

‘Is it true?’ Jim asked after reading.

‘No,’ I said with certainty.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ I said.

But was I really sure? After what I’d seen on the films, could I be sure of anything concerning Clare’s riding?

‘What can I do about it?’ I asked. ‘I can’t sue him because it seems you can’t libel the dead.’

‘That’s right,’ Jim said, nodding. ‘But you could call him a liar on air. Then he’d have to sue you, or else be laughed out of his job. You’d then get your day in court. He’d have to prove he wasn’t lying, and that the facts of the story were accurate. But, sadly, even if you won, you wouldn’t get any damages from the little weasel, and you might not get your costs because he’d be sure to claim it was fair comment, even if the story wasn’t true.’

‘Do you do the legal work for UK Today as well as the racing?’ I asked with a smile.

‘Not if I can help it.’ He smiled back. ‘But, if you want my advice it would be to say nothing, and do nothing. Everyone knows that the Gazette is just a rumour mill. No one believes what it says, even when it’s true.’

‘But the Daily Gazette sells millions of copies.’

‘I know they do,’ he said. ‘But millions also watch soap operas on the telly and they don’t really believe them either.’

I wasn’t so sure. I knew people who believed all sorts of crazy things.

I left Jim Metcalf tucking into a ham and mustard sandwich while I went out to wander round the parade ring and the enclosures. It was still an hour before the first but the crowd were beginning to fill the bars and restaurants, encouraged out from their houses by the warm late September sunshine.

It was good to be back on a racecourse. The last week had seemed to drag on for ever. Things might never be the same again, without Clare, but at least today, at a jumping meeting, I could get my life back on track. Clare wouldn’t have been here today even if she was still alive.