When Mark Shillingford commentates on a race in which his twin sister Clare, an accomplished and successful jockey, comes in third, he can't help but be suspicious. As a professional race-caller, he knows she should have won.Did she lose on purpose?Was the race fixed?Why on earth would she do something so out of character?That night, Mark confronts Clare with his suspicions, but she storms off after an explosive argument. It's the last time Mark sees her alive. Hours later, Clare jumps to her death from the balcony of a London hotel...Devastated by her death, and almost overcome with guilt, Mark goes in search of answers.What led Clare to take her own life?
‘They’re off!’
I looked down at the image of the horses on my TV monitor and shielded my eyes from the bright September sunshine. An unremarkable seven-and-a-half-furlong sprint for maiden two-year-olds at Lingfield Park with twelve runners — just another horserace, one of more than fifteen hundred such races I would watch live this year.
But this particular race was to change my life for ever.
The horses broke from the starting stalls in a fairly even line and I glanced down at my handwritten sheet that showed the runners in their draw positions as they faced me almost a mile away.
The seven-and-a-half-furlong start at Lingfield was slightly obscured from the grandstand by some overhanging trees so I leaned closer to the monitor to get a better view.
‘They’re running in the Herald Sunshine Limited Maiden Stakes and Spitfire Boy is the early leader,’ I said, ‘with Steeplejack also showing early pace. Sudoku is next on the rail tracked by Radioactive with Troubleatmill running wide. Postal Vote is next, then High Definition and Low Calorie with Bangkok Flyer on the far outside in the green jacket, followed by Tailplane with the white cap and Routemaster in the orange hoops. The backmarker at this stage is Pink Pashmina, who is struggling and getting a reminder as they pass the six-furlong marker.’
I lifted my eyes from the monitor and looked down towards the horses using my high-power binoculars. At six furlongs I could now see them all clearly as they raced directly towards me, the foreshortening effect of the binoculars making the horses’ heads seem to bob up and down unnaturally.
Races like this, with the horses running headlong down the straight track, nearly always made life difficult for commentators and this one was no exception. The twelve runners had split into two groups with eight horses running close to the nearside rail and the four others making their way right down the middle.
The punters on the grandstands understandably wanted to know which horse was leading but the angle from which I was looking did not make it an easy task to decide.
‘The red jacket of Spitfire Boy leads the larger group on the nearside with Radioactive making a challenge. Troubleatmill and Bangkok Flyer are running neck-and-neck in the middle of the course with half a mile to go.’
I looked intensely at the field as they galloped towards me. It may have stated in the racecard that Bangkok Flyer’s colours were dark green but, silhouetted in the sunshine, they looked very black to me and I didn’t want to confuse them with the navy jacket of Postal Vote.
No, I was sure. It was Bangkok Flyer with his sheepskin noseband and he was living up to his name.
‘Bangkok Flyer, with the sheepskin noseband, now stretching away on the far side. He has opened up a two-length margin over Troubleatmill, who seems not to be staying the distance. And on the nearside Spitfire Boy has finally been caught by Radioactive but here comes Sudoku between horses under Paul James in the white jacket, who has yet to move a muscle.’
I lowered my binoculars and watched the horses unaided.
‘Sudoku now sweeps to the front on the nearside as they pass the furlong pole but he still has the short-priced favourite, Bangkok Flyer, to beat. Sudoku and Bangkok Flyer come together as they move into the closing stages. Sudoku in white and Bangkok Flyer in dark green, it’s a two-horse race.’ The tone of my voice rose higher and higher as the equine nostrils stretched for the finishing line beneath me. ‘Bangkok Flyer and Sudoku stride-for-stride. Sudoku and Bangkok Flyer.’ My pitch reached its crescendo. ‘Sudoku wins from Bangkok Flyer, Low Calorie runs on gamely to be third, Radioactive is fourth, followed by the long-time leader Spitfire Boy, then Routemaster, High Definition, Troubleatmill, Steeplejack, then Tailplane and Postal Vote together, and finally the filly, Pink Pashmina, who has finished a long way last.’
I pushed the button that switched off my microphone.
‘First number ten, Sudoku,’ said the judge over the PA. ‘Second number one, third number four. The fourth horse was number eight. The distances were a neck, and two and a half lengths.’
The PA fell silent.
The race was over. The excitement had come and gone, and the crowd would already be looking forward to the next contest in thirty minutes.
I looked out across the track and felt uneasy.
Something there hadn’t been quite right.
