Bloodline

I glanced out of the commentary box towards brightly lit bookmakers’ boards and the dark racecourse beyond, and was horrified by what I saw.

Gareth may have been Mr Bleedin’ Magic when it came to cameras, but he was Mr Blitherin’ Idiot when it came to acting as a producer.

The edited films were not just playing on my monitor but on the huge television screen set up in front of the grandstand.

‘For God’s sake, Gareth,’ I shouted through the talk-back. ‘It’s on the big screen.’

‘Bugger me. So it is. It’s bleedin’ everywhere.’

He thought it was funny.

Derek didn’t. In fact, he was furious.

‘Was this your doing? ’ he demanded loudly. ‘I go to the bloody toilet and the next thing I know we’re broadcasting God knows what to all the television sets right round the racecourse.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It was only meant to come to mine.’

‘Bloody amateurs.’

I heard him click off his microphone. No doubt young Gareth was getting his earful directly, without the aid of technology. I hope it didn’t result in either of us losing our jobs.

But Derek’s reprimand was not my main worry.

Had the blackmailer seen the film? And did he know it was me that had initiated it?

I’d find out soon enough.

I stayed in the commentary box for the rest of the evening, hiding myself away.

Twice more I tried to call Superintendent Cullen or his sergeant but to no avail. I even tried DS Sharp at Charing Cross but his phone, too, went to voicemail. Policing was obviously mostly a nine to five occupation.

The last two races seemed to go by in a blur but I must have been all right as, at least, Derek didn’t complain about my commentary. He did about almost everything else, though, and was even talking about having a bucket installed under the desk in the scanner so that he’d never have to go out to the lavatory again.

‘You seem to have caused a bit of a stir,’ he shouted into my ears. ‘The racecourse chairman has been only one of those we’ve had down here demanding to know what the bloody hell was going on.’

‘What did you tell them?’ I asked.

‘I told them they’d better speak to you.’

Oh, thanks, I thought.

I hoped that one of his visitors hadn’t been the man with the zombie eyes.

I hung around in the box for quite a while after the last race, hoping that everyone would go before I made my way down. For one thing, I didn’t want to have to explain myself to the racecourse chairman.

The door of the commentary box opened and I jumped.

‘Bye, Mark,’ said Terence Feynman, the judge, putting his head through the gap. ‘Will I see you here tomorrow night?’

‘Yes, Terence,’ I said. ‘That’s the plan. Bye now.’

Terence withdrew his head from the gap and closed the door.

Damn, I thought, a few moments later. I should have gone down to my car with him. Safety in numbers, and all that.

I quickly packed my computer, my binoculars and my coloured pens into my black leather bag and went after him out into the long corridor turning right towards the exit.

Terence had already disappeared but another man came round the corner into view, walking briskly towards me with his head bobbing up and down slightly due to his easy lolloping stride.

I stopped.

‘Hello, Mark,’ the man called down the corridor.

That heart of mine was thumping once more in my chest.

He was just fifteen or so yards away and closing rapidly.

‘Hello, Brendan,’ I said.

My cousin, Brendan Shillingford, smiled at me, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes, his zombie eyes.

24

Run, my body told me, flooding adrenalin into my bloodstream ready for the flight. But where to? The only way out was past Brendan.

Or was it? I dragged some fragment of memory back into my mind.

Fire escape.

Hadn’t I once been told that there was a way out over the roof in case of a fire?

I turned and ran the other way, away from him, sprinting down to the far end of the corridor and up the metal staircase towards the photo-finish box, and the door to the roof, rummaging madly to get my phone out of my pocket.

I could hear Brendan coming after me.

I wondered if he’d have a knife. I didn’t want to look.

I fumbled with the door and finally turned the lock, tripped over the step, and fell out onto the grandstand roof, dropping my phone in the process. I searched madly for it with my hands, but it had fallen through the metal grille of the walkway floor, and my fingers couldn’t reach.