‘Someone really did try to strangle me last night,’ I said, ‘and I wonder if it has anything to do with the murder of Toby Woodley at Kempton on Wednesday.’
That shut her up, but only briefly.
‘And does it?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘So where’s the story in that?’ she asked flatly. ‘You could at least have arrived with a smoking gun, or a knife with Toby Woodley’s blood on it.’
‘How about a bruised neck?’ I asked. ‘And a croaky voice?’
‘Not visual enough. But the voice may be a problem. We’ll have to say you’ve got a cold.’
‘Why not tell the truth?’
‘Too complicated,’ she said. ‘Now, have you done your homework on the two-year-olds?’
The big race at Newmarket that afternoon was the Millions Trophy, the richest contest for two-year-old horses in Europe.
‘Of course I have,’ I replied, knowing full well that I hadn’t really done enough. But I knew all the horses well from having seen them run previously.
‘Good, because you might have to talk about them for much longer than planned if that bloody Austin Reynolds doesn’t turn up.’
‘Austin Reynolds?’ I said, surprised. ‘I thought the guest was Paul James.’
‘Paul had a fall last night at Wolverhampton and has cried off. Austin agreed to step in but now he’s called to say his car won’t start and he’ll be late.’
‘But he only lives in the town,’ I said. ‘Can’t someone go and fetch him?’
‘Seems he’s coming up from London.’ She didn’t sound pleased.
Austin Reynolds, the nearly man of British racing, was the trainer of Tortola Beach, one of the runners in that afternoon’s big race.
Tortola Beach had been one of the definites that I’d found in the RacingTV database. Clare had purposely ridden it to lose in a race at Doncaster the previous August.
And Austin Reynolds also trained Bangkok Flyer.
‘Thirty minutes to air time, everybody,’ shouted Matthew, the floor manager.
‘I must get back to the scanner,’ Lisa said and hurried off.
To the untrained eye, the next twenty-five or so minutes may have looked a bit chaotic but, in fact, they were precisely choreographed.
Cameras moved from side to side and then back and forth in rehearsal, all under the control of the programme director who was sitting out in the scanner and communicating with the cameramen via their headphones.
‘Fifteen minutes to on-air,’ shouted Matthew.
The presenters were wired up with microphones and earpieces, each of us rehearsing what we would say for sound levels, and then checking with Lisa that we could all hear the talk-back and that she could also hear us.
Then we sat in our positions for final checks on camera angles while someone applied dabs of powder to those parts of our faces that were shining too much under the powerful lights.
‘Five minutes to on-air,’ shouted Matthew.
And still there was no sign of Austin Reynolds.
‘Four minutes,’ shouted Matthew.
I went over in my head once again what I planned to say about each of the horses in the big race.
‘Three minutes.’
‘Mark,’ Lisa said into my ear, ‘we’ll come straight to you after the weekly round-up to discuss the fillies’ race and also the Scoop6 Cup at Ascot. We’ll have to hope that Austin is here by the first commercial break, and we’ll do the Millions Trophy after that.’
‘OK,’ I said, shuffling madly through my copy of the Racing Post to find the relevant pages.
‘Two minutes.’
One of the staff placed a Morning-Line-branded cup full of coffee in front of each of the presenters.
‘One minute.’
There was nothing quite like live television to raise the pulse.
Nothing, that is, except being strangled.
Austin Reynolds finally arrived on the set just before the second commercial break, by which time there was less than ten minutes left of the programme. I could imagine Lisa pulling her hair out in the scanner.
‘Get him in during the break,’ she said into all our ears.
Fortunately it was Lisa’s practice always to have far more content available than we could ever have fitted into the alloted time. Most weeks we ran well behind the printed schedule and things at the end always had to be either dropped or postponed to another week.
This time we were glad of it, to fill in for the missing interview with Austin that had been expected to last about fifteen minutes but would now be less than five.
‘Five minutes to shut-up,’ said the production assistant into my ear.
‘So, Austin,’ I said. ‘How do you rate your chances this afternoon with Tortola Beach in the big race?’
‘He should run well,’ Austin said, smiling. ‘Let’s just say, I’m hopeful.’
‘So you think he’ll stay the seven-furlong trip?’ I asked. ‘Let us have a look at his last run at Doncaster seven weeks ago. And, remember, that was over only six furlongs.’
‘Cue VT,’ Lisa said on the talk-back.
The now-familiar film of Tortola Beach running at Doncaster in August appeared on the screen in front of us. I continued to speak over the images. ‘Tortola Beach seemed certain to win from here, but he fades badly in the last two hundred yards to be third.’ I didn’t need to watch the film again to know what happened in the race. Instead, I watched Austin’s face closely for any reaction to it.
‘That’s true,’ Austin said. ‘But that run was inconsistent with his work at home, when he’s shown good stamina even over a mile.’
‘Three minutes to shut-up.’
The VT ended.
‘Cue Mark. Camera two.’
The on-air light on the camera in front of me glowed red.
‘Did my sister, Clare, who was riding him there, say anything to you after the race which might have explained why he faded so badly?’
‘No,’ Austin said. ‘She had no explanation for it at all. As I said, it was contrary to what he’s done elsewhere. And it’s not that he doesn’t like to be in front. He’s usually a natural front runner. I think it must have been a one-off. Perhaps he was just having a bad day.’
‘Two minutes to shut-up.’
‘OK, Mark,’ Lisa said into my earpiece. ‘Wind up the interview and also close the show.’
‘Well, let’s hope he proves you right this afternoon,’ I said, smiling at Austin. ‘Tortola Beach is currently fourth favourite, quoted by most bookmakers at nine-to-one, and my money will certainly be on his nose to win.’
‘One minute to shut-up,’ said the voice in my ear.
‘I think you’ll get a good run for your money,’ said Austin. ‘And I’d like to say how sorry I am that Clare will not be riding him today. I can’t believe she’s gone. She’s a great loss to our sport.’
‘Thirty seconds.’
‘Thank you very much, Austin,’ I said. ‘I think we all miss her. I know I certainly do.’
‘Twenty seconds.’
‘And good luck to you this afternoon with Tortola Beach.’
‘Ten seconds, nine, eight...’
I turned to face camera two as the countdown continued in my ears. ‘I hope you will join us this afternoon for seven races here on Channel 4 from both Newmarket and Ascot, as well as a special bonus, the Two-Year-Old Trophy from Redcar. And it all starts at one fifty-five. See you then. Bye-bye.’