Read Online Front Runner by Felix Francis - Free Book Online

racetrack, arriving there just before eleven o’clock.
    The first race was not until a quarter past noon, but I wanted to speak to a couple of the trainers before they became too busy dealing with their horses.
    One of them was Jason Butcher, who also trained Garrick Party, the renowned front runner that had finished third at Haydock. According to the
Racing Post
, Jason had runners in both the first and third races, so I hung around outside the weighing room waiting for him to arrive.
    All the talk was still about Dave Swinton. He had been due to ride at Southwell that afternoon and people were still saying that they couldn’t believe he was gone, and much of the talk reflected sympathy for him.
    â€œPoor man, fancy being driven to do that,” I heard one man say.
    â€œI reckon it was his continuous dieting that was to blame,” said his companion. “Lack of food probably affected his brain. Just like with Fred Archer.”
    â€œThat was over a hundred years ago,” replied the first man. “You do talk such bloody nonsense.”
    â€œYou mark my words—it was starving himself all the time that was responsible.”
    He may have had a point. I’d seen firsthand what a struggle it had been. And it hadn’t just been the lack of food. Dave Swinton had lived in a permanent state of dehydration. Had that disturbed the balance of his mind?
    My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Jason Butcher, who came bounding toward the weighing room to declare his runner in the first.
    â€œJason Butcher?” I said to him as he went to go past me.
    He stopped. “Who wants to know?”
    â€œMy name is Jeff Hinkley. I work for the BHA.”
    I held out my credentials and he looked at them.
    â€œI’ve heard of you,” he said. “Weren’t you involved in all that extortion business at the BHA a couple of years ago?”
    I nodded, slightly taken aback that he knew about it.
    â€œWhat do you want of me?” he asked.
    â€œJust a short word. I’ll wait while you go and make your declaration.”
    He didn’t look especially happy and I didn’t really blame him. Just like the gateman at Newbury, no one likes someone in authority, especially someone in authority asking them questions.
    I waited outside until he reappeared.
    â€œNow, what’s all this about?” he asked with just a slight nervous timbre to his voice.
    â€œIt’s about Garrick Party,” I said. “Specifically, it’s about the race at Haydock the Saturday before last in which Garrick Party finished third.”
    If he was unduly worried, he didn’t show it.
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œI understand you were interviewed by the stewards and asked about the running of the horse.”
    â€œBloody ridiculous,” he said.
    â€œWhat was?”
    â€œDave bloody Swinton.” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps one shouldn’t speak badly about him at the moment, but he was right out of order.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œHe should have been aware that old Garrick likes to make the running and has a finish only as fast as my grandmother on her walker, but oh, no, he suddenly thinks at Haydock he knows better. Holds the old boy up for a run from the second last. I ask you. The man’s a bloody idiot.”
    â€œDid you actually tell him how to ride the horse?” I asked.
    He raised his eyebrows toward his hairline and lowered his voice even more. “You never
tell
Dave Swinton anything. If you are lucky enough for him to condescend to ride your horses, you have to sit back and watch them run as
he
thinks fit. He reckoned he knows best, and mostly he does. But not with old Garrick, that’s for sure—even though he’d ridden him several times before as a front runner and won.”
    â€œDid he say anything to you afterward?”
    â€œHe made some absurd excuse about thinking the horse would run better in heavy