‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It was only meant to come to mine.’
‘Bloody amateurs.’
I heard him click off his microphone. No doubt young Gareth was getting his earful directly, without the aid of technology. I hope it didn’t result in either of us losing our jobs.
But Derek’s reprimand was not my main worry.
Had the blackmailer seen the film? And did he know it was me that had initiated it?
I’d find out soon enough.
I stayed in the commentary box for the rest of the evening, hiding myself away.
Twice more I tried to call Superintendent Cullen or his sergeant but to no avail. I even tried DS Sharp at Charing Cross but his phone, too, went to voicemail. Policing was obviously mostly a nine to five occupation.
The last two races seemed to go by in a blur but I must have been all right as, at least, Derek didn’t complain about my commentary. He did about almost everything else, though, and was even talking about having a bucket installed under the desk in the scanner so that he’d never have to go out to the lavatory again.
‘You seem to have caused a bit of a stir,’ he shouted into my ears. ‘The racecourse chairman has been only one of those we’ve had down here demanding to know what the bloody hell was going on.’
‘What did you tell them?’ I asked.
‘I told them they’d better speak to you.’
Oh, thanks, I thought.
I hoped that one of his visitors hadn’t been the man with the zombie eyes.
I hung around in the box for quite a while after the last race, hoping that everyone would go before I made my way down. For one thing, I didn’t want to have to explain myself to the racecourse chairman.
The door of the commentary box opened and I jumped.
‘Bye, Mark,’ said Terence Feynman, the judge, putting his head through the gap. ‘Will I see you here tomorrow night?’
‘Yes, Terence,’ I said. ‘That’s the plan. Bye now.’
Terence withdrew his head from the gap and closed the door.
Damn, I thought, a few moments later. I should have gone down to my car with him. Safety in numbers, and all that.
I quickly packed my computer, my binoculars and my coloured pens into my black leather bag and went after him out into the long corridor turning right towards the exit.
Terence had already disappeared but another man came round the corner into view, walking briskly towards me with his head bobbing up and down slightly due to his easy lolloping stride.
I stopped.
‘Hello, Mark,’ the man called down the corridor.
That heart of mine was thumping once more in my chest.
He was just fifteen or so yards away and closing rapidly.
‘Hello, Brendan,’ I said.
My cousin, Brendan Shillingford, smiled at me, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes, his zombie eyes.
24
Run, my body told me, flooding adrenalin into my bloodstream ready for the flight. But where to? The only way out was past Brendan.
Or was it? I dragged some fragment of memory back into my mind.
Fire escape.
Hadn’t I once been told that there was a way out over the roof in case of a fire?
I turned and ran the other way, away from him, sprinting down to the far end of the corridor and up the metal staircase towards the photo-finish box, and the door to the roof, rummaging madly to get my phone out of my pocket.
I could hear Brendan coming after me.
I wondered if he’d have a knife. I didn’t want to look.
I fumbled with the door and finally turned the lock, tripped over the step, and fell out onto the grandstand roof, dropping my phone in the process. I searched madly for it with my hands, but it had fallen through the metal grille of the walkway floor, and my fingers couldn’t reach.
I could now hear Brendan on the stairs, so I moved quickly away from the door, down the walkway towards the back of the roof, to the spot where I had watched the horses the previous week. I looked down at the now deserted parade ring. Where was a policeman when you needed him most?
The sky above was pitch black but there was enough light spillage from the racecourse floodlights for me to see across the roof quite well.
There was a junction in the walkway and I had to make a decision. Which way was the fire escape?
Surely, I thought, there should have been a sign.
I went right but quickly learned that it was wrong. The walkway came to an abrupt end after about fifteen yards, next to an electrical junction box.
I turned round and came face to face with Brendan.
He was standing about ten or so paces away and looking pretty pleased with himself. Something flashed in his right hand.
‘Is that the same knife you used to kill Toby Woodley?’ I had to shout over the continuous whirr of the air-conditioners.
If he was surprised by the question he didn’t show it.
He took a step towards me.
‘And did you murder Clare too?’ I shouted.
He took another step forward.
I threw my black leather bag at him then ducked under the walkway’s railings and ran over the corrugated steel roof.
Brendan followed.
The grandstand roof wasn’t flat, and I don’t just mean the corrugations.
The whole structure sloped up at the front like a giant ramp. And there was a lighting gantry, an enormous framework that extended some twenty feet outwards and upwards from the front edge, holding several banks of floodlights.
I clambered through the main spar that ran right across the middle of the roof. I was trying to double back to the fire escape, or return to the door, but Brendan cut me off and drove me on towards the front of the grandstand, towards the slope.
Twice he got so close that I could feel him grabbing for the collar of my coat but, each time, I managed to pull myself away.
I was thirty-one and Brendan was nearly ten years older, but I was hampered by my broken ribs that made scrambling over the large steel pipes of the structure exceedingly painful. He, meanwhile, seemed to skip over them with ease.
I reached one of the walkways, rolled myself through the railings, stood up, and ran.
But still it wasn’t the right way for the fire escape.
The walkway ended next to another junction box.
Dammit.
I turned round, kicking something loose on the floor. I looked down. There were several poles, like scaffolding poles but smaller in diameter. They appeared to be the same stuff that the railings round the walkways were made of, probably left behind after construction.
I quickly bent down and picked up one that was about six feet in length.
Brendan was facing me on the walkway.
I jabbed the end of the pole towards him and he stepped back a stride, so I did it again.
We stood like that for what seemed an age, but it was probably only a few seconds.
It was a stand-off — me with the pole and him with a knife.
I advanced a stride, jabbing the pole forward. He retreated slightly.
‘What are you doing?’ I shouted at him. ‘I’m your cousin.’
He didn’t reply. He just stared at me with no emotion visible on his face.
‘Did you kill Toby Woodley?’
No reply.
‘How about Clare?’ I shouted. ‘Did you kill her too?’
‘I loved Clare,’ Brendan said. ‘And she loved me.’
The mystery boyfriend, I thought. The wonderful lover who had made her happy.
Her own cousin.
My cousin.
My married cousin with two teenage children.
‘What happened in that hotel room?’ I shouted at him.