Warned Off by Joe Mcnally, Richard Pitman Read Free Book Online Page A

in Louis
Perlman’s pea-green colours. They travelled well for the first circuit but
began to tire as they approached the top of the hill for the last time.
    Harle wasn’t hard on him but Craven King
repaid him by taking a crashing fall at the third last. I kept my glasses on
them waiting for Harle to rise but he didn’t. Nor did the horse. I was only a
couple of hundred yards from the fence and I ran toward it.
    Two medics stooped over him waiting for
the ambulance which was speeding toward us along with the vet’s Land-Rover and
the horse ambulance. Craven King lay on his side panting as one of the
groundsmen crouched by his head murmuring words of comfort.
    I ducked under the rails. ‘Is he okay?’
I asked as I reached Harle. ‘Just concussed, we think,’ said one of the
ambulance-men as the other undid the jockey’s chinstrap and raised his goggles.
I looked down at the unconscious figure.
    It wasn’t Alan Harle.
    ‘That’s not Harle,’ I said rather
stupidly. One of the medics glanced up at me but didn’t reply. I checked the weight-cloth
on the prostrate horse, number 6. I opened my racecard, definitely Craven King,
trained by Roscoe and due to be ridden by Alan Harle.
    The doctor and the vet arrived at the same
time. Hunkering beside the doctor as he eased the jockey’s helmet off I asked,
‘Is he going to be all right?’
    His fingers explored the base of the
skull as he lifted the boy’s head and turned it gently. ‘I think so. Just
concussed.’
    ‘Who is he?’
    ‘Greene, Philip Greene,’ The doctor said
as he signalled for the stretcher.
    They loaded Greene carefully into the
ambulance and it trundled gently off toward the stands. I turned, hoping the
horse was okay, only to see them erecting screens to protect the sensibilities
of racegoers as the vet put a pistol to Craven King’s head and pulled the
trigger. The horse shuddered briefly and lay still.
    A man in overalls pulled a length of
chain from the interior of the horse ambulance and looped it round the horse’s
neck. He pressed a button to start the winch and the chain clattered and heaved
as it hauled the body across the muddy hoof prints in the grass and up the ramp
into the darkness.
    The vet was heading back to the
Land-Rover, pushing the pistol into a pouch as he walked and talking to a man I
recognised as Mr Skinner, still thermometer thin from smoking too much and
eating too little. Skinner was dark-haired, maybe forty-five and had the blue
face of a twice-a-day shaver. He’d been renowned as a compulsive gambler when
I’d been riding and it had cost him his job. He’d been a racecourse vet but had
been sacked when the Jockey Club decided his obsession with betting was not in
their best interests. What the hell was he doing back in racing?
    I fell into step beside him and he
looked up and nodded, not particularly pleased to see me. ‘What was wrong with
him?’ I asked.’
    ‘Broken shoulder.’
    ‘It’s a tough business.’
    ‘You should know,’ he said
sarcastically, still walking toward the Land-Rover.
    ‘Wasn’t Alan Harle down to ride him?’ I
asked.
    ‘I’m not the bloody starter,’ he said as
he climbed into the passenger seat. The driver revved the engine.
    ‘Any chance of a lift back?’ I asked,
but the only acknowledgement was a cloud of blue smoke from the exhaust as they
pulled away.

10
     
    Back
in the enclosure I made my way through the betting ring to where the reps for
SiS stood. SiS is the racing news service which relays information and live
pictures from the racecourse to betting shops.
    There was only one person in the booth
as I approached, a pleasant looking bloke with brown hair and a moustache. He
was speaking on the phone. When he finished I introduced myself.
    ‘Grenville Riley,’ He said, offering his
hand. ‘What can I do for you?’
    ‘Do you know if Alan Harle has a mount
today?’
    He didn’t have to consult any papers.
‘No, he’s not riding today or tomorrow. He was