‘What was in it?’ I asked.
‘God knows,’ said Jim. ‘Probably just his sandwiches.’
‘Somebody must have thought it was valuable if they killed him for it.’
‘I can’t imagine why,’ said Jim, laughing. ‘I’d have happily killed him for nothing.’
‘I wouldn’t say that if the police can hear you.’ I thought back to my interview with Superintendent Cullen. I hadn’t done myself any favours telling him that I hadn’t liked the victim.
I looked at the clock on the wall. I was late for the production meeting.
‘Jim, could you witness my signature? The police will be here soon to collect it.’
I signed the paper at the bottom, and Jim added his signature alongside as the witness.
‘So, can I use any of this?’ he asked, pointing at my statement.
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘It can’t do any harm.’
16
I went out to meet Emily immediately after the production meeting, just in case she was early.
I realized that I had no idea what type of car she drove so I stood next to the entry road staring intently at the driver of every vehicle that passed me in case I missed her. But I needn’t have worried. Bang on time, at precisely twelve thirty, she arrived flashing her lights and sounding her horn as soon as she saw me.
And I should have guessed her choice of car. She drove a metallic-red Mercedes SLK sports roadster, and she had the roof down.
I was laughing as I climbed in beside her, in the sure knowledge there was no strangler lurking in a back seat because there were no back seats.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I said, leaning over and giving her a brief kiss.
‘Where to?’ she asked, grinning broadly.
‘Straight on down to the end,’ I said. ‘We’ll park in the press area, it’s nearer to the entrance than the public car park.’
What was it that Jim Metcalf had said about me not being very discreet in my private life? Well, there was nothing in the slightest bit discreet about Emily’s and my arrival in the Newmarket racecourse press car park.
For a start, not many members of the press drive Mercedes sports cars and even fewer arrive for a race meeting in October with the roof down. Then there was the spin of the rear wheels on the gravel by the entrance, and the slight drift of the back end on the damp grass as she turned sharply into the parking space.
Next came the dramatic closing of the electric roof and, as if there were not enough of the press watching already, there was Emily’s loud squeal of delight as she came round the back of the car, enveloped me in her arms and kissed me passionately, full on the mouth.
Perhaps, I thought, the public car park would have been better after all. But, at least, this might kill off any belief lingering amongst the Fourth Estate that I was still romantically involved with Sarah Stacey.
We went through the racecourse entrance and I took her round into the fenced-off compound where the Channel 4 scanner and the other broadcast vehicles were parked. There was still over an hour until we went on-air but I had to do the voice-over recordings for some of the VTs that would be shown later during the live transmission.
I also had some script notes I wanted to write out in preparation for what was likely to be a busy afternoon with races from both Ascot and Redcar in the programme as well as three from here at Newmarket. The more material we had prepared and ready to transmit at the touch of a button, the better we would be able to cope with any unexpected problems that might arise, as they surely would.
It was very much a case of the nine Ps: proper prior planning prevents piss poor programme presenter performance.
Emily sat in the scanner and watched while I recorded the voice-over for a host of video clips of previous races, highlighting the running of some of the horses that were in action again today. The whole VT would be used as part of the introduction for the afternoon.
‘It’s fascinating,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘It all seems so seamless when you watch on a Saturday.’
‘Ah, the magic of live television,’ I said. ‘Never believe anything you see on the box. It’s all done with smoke and mirrors.’
‘Don’t tease me,’ she said.
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I mean it. We will show eight races from three different racecourses hundreds of miles apart all within the space of two and a half hours and the viewers believe that the whole thing is sequential and under our control, which it isn’t. Now that’s what I call magic.’
‘Does it ever go wrong?’ she asked.
‘Often,’ I said. ‘And the real trick is to carry on regardless and make out that everything is proceeding exactly as we had expected it to, and only to stop talking when you drop down dead or the programme finishes, whichever comes first.’
‘You’re crazy.’ She laughed.
‘Bonkers,’ I said, laughing back.
It was the first time I’d felt even the slightest bit happy since Clare had died. Emily was clearly good for me.
‘Good luck, everybody.’ Neville, the producer, was speaking over the talk-back into our earpieces and headphones, as the production assistant counted down to zero to the start of transmission.
The familiar theme music played and I watched the opening sequence on the monitor in front of me.
‘Cue Mark.’
I took a deep breath and looked straight into the lens of the camera being held in front of my face. ‘Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to Channel 4 Racing on the day of Europe’s richest race for two-year-olds, the Millions Trophy, which is amongst the three races we’re covering from here at Newmarket, as well as four from Ascot including the Scoop6 Cup and, as a special bonus, one of the premier northern races for the youngsters, the Two-Year-Old Trophy from Redcar at four o’clock.’
‘Cue VT,’ said the director, and the video clips played that I had previously voiced-over.
The programme was up and running.
I could almost feel the injection of adrenalin into my bloodstream that the countdown to the start had produced. And I loved it. I was an adrenalin-rush junkie, and was hopelessly hooked.
I waved and smiled at Emily, who was standing about five yards away, out of picture. We were both in the Newmarket parade ring, close to the winners’ enclosure. It is where I would stay for the duration of the programme, watching all the races on the monitor set up in front of me.
The VT was coming to an end. ‘Cue Mark,’ said the director into my ear.
‘So let’s go straight over to join Iain Ferguson for the first of our three Group races from Ascot. Good afternoon, Iain.’
The red light on the camera in front of me went off to indicate I was no longer live on-air. I could relax a little as the first race from Ascot was being broadcast. I went over to Emily and gave her a brief cuddle.
‘I hope you’re not too cold,’ I said. She was wearing no coat and what I thought was far too thin a dress for being outdoors in October, in spite of the unseasonably warm weather we had been enjoying. However, the dress did hug her alluring figure superbly, and that also did wonders for my adrenalin level.
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she said. ‘But aren’t you meant to be saying something? I thought you told me that you mustn’t stop talking.’
‘The presenter at Ascot is speaking now. The first race we’re showing is being run there so I reckon I’ve got about another eight minutes before I’m back on.’
But, nevertheless, my brain would still be listening out for the word Mark just in case things didn’t go to plan and I had to step in. It was something you got used to: carrying on a conversation with a third party while listening out for your name to be spoken into your ear by the producer or director. The rest of the talk-back could float over me without really registering but I would be brought to full awareness by even the first ‘mmm’ of Mark.