Free Front Runner by Felix Francis Page B

could expect to hit the turf on about eight percent of his rides—that is, more than seventy falls in a nine-hundred-race season. So, on average, once or twice a week, every week, Dave would have crashed to the ground at thirty miles per hour, alongside half a ton of leg-flailing horseflesh, and with untold other horses behind him trying to jump onto the space he occupied on the grass.
    Bruises, like those I’d seen on his body on the morning of the Hennessy, must have been a constant companion.
    Was it any wonder that he’d asked the trainers for more money? I’d have needed a signed blank check and a full suit of armor, not a pair of diaphanous nylon breeches and some wafer-thin featherweight riding boots.
    â€”
    I WENT OUT for lunch at the Old Red Lion pub right next door to the BHA offices and found Paul Maldini propping up the bar.
    â€œNot like you to be drinking at lunchtime,” I said to him.
    â€œI’m not,” he said. He lifted his glass. “Diet Coke.”
    â€œWant another?” I asked.
    â€œThanks.”
    I ordered the Diet Coke for him and a lime, lemon and bitters for myself.
    â€œWe should have had Dave Swinton in for lunch today,” he said.
    â€œI know.”
    â€œI couldn’t stand being in there.” He nodded toward the building next door. “I needed to get out.” I was surprised that he appeared visibly upset. “It was my idea, you know.”
    â€œWhat was?” I asked.
    â€œThe Racing Needs You! campaign and getting Dave Swinton to be on the posters. I’d invested a lot of time and effort in getting him to agree to be here today.”
    I knew that Paul had been on the campaign committee, but I had had no idea he’d been the main driver behind it. Would it have been better or worse if I’d told him about Dave’s admission that he’d not won a race on purpose? I now wished I
had
told him, as he would find out eventually, at the inquest if not before, and that might be embarrassing.
    However, I decided that right now was perhaps not the best time.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said inadequately.
    â€œYeah, well, these things are sent to try us.” He forced a laugh. “And what are we going to do now with the ten thousand glossy brochures we’ve just had printed, all of them with Dave Swinton’s face on the cover and a letter from him inside?”
    â€œWho are they for?”
    â€œRace sponsors. They were due to go out next week to thank them for past support and to persuade them to continue their sponsorship.”
    â€œSend them anyway,” I said. “With a covering letter saying that racing needs them more than ever now.”
    He sighed. “I don’t know. Some might think it rather crass.”
    He sighed again.
    â€œIt sounds to me like you need something stronger than Diet Coke.”
    â€œYou might be right, but I’d better not. I’ve got to go and face the rest of the committee.” He didn’t sound very happy.
    â€œIt’s not your fault Dave Swinton isn’t here, so don’t blame yourself.”
    â€œIt was
me
who insisted we use him for the campaign.”
    â€œAnd a damn good decision that was too,” I said. “Inspired. You weren’t to know he’d go and kill himself.”
    Did I now believe that he
had
killed himself?
    â€œMaybe not,” said Paul, “but I still feel responsible. And he was bloody expensive.”
    I didn’t doubt it. I wondered if he’d asked to be paid in cash.
    â€œI’m sure that the rest of the committee will agree that it was money well spent.”
    â€œNot all of them will. A couple of members were against the idea from the start, and I’m not particularly looking forward to listening to them crowing
I told you so
.”
    â€œIgnore them,” I said.
    Paul downed the rest of his Diet Coke. “I’d better be getting back. Thanks for the drink. And the