Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,19

had no facts or evidence. It occurred to me that the TV companies were simply allowing several of these so-called ‘experts’ the opportunity to postulate their own extremist positions, something that would do nothing to calm the turmoil that existed in their lands. Violent death and destruction were clearly nothing out of the ordinary to many of them, and some even appeared to justify the carnage, saying that the prince might have been seen as a legitimate target by rebel forces in his homeland and the fact that innocents had died by mistake was merely unfortunate… you know, casualties of war, and all that. It made me very angry but I still couldn’t switch it off, just in case I missed some new item.

At some point around five o’clock I drifted off to sleep.

I woke suddenly with the now familiar thumping heart and clammy face. Another encounter with the hospital trolley, the windowless corridor, the legless MaryLou, and the blood.

Oh God, I said to myself, not another night of this.

But, indeed, it was.

CHAPTER 4

MaryLou didn’t make it.

On Monday morning The Times was delivered, as usual, to my cottage door at seven o’clock. Mary Lou’s name was clearly there in black and white along with six of the others known to have died. The remaining victims had yet to be identified, or their next of kin informed. The current police estimate was that fifteen people had perished in the bombing, but they still weren’t absolutely sure. They were still trying to piece together the bodies.

I was amazed that anyone near those boxes could have survived, but apparently half of them had, although, according to the paper, many of the survivors had been badly injured and more deaths were expected.

As for me, my knee was definitely getting better and I had managed to hop upstairs to bed on Sunday evening, not that being more comfortable had been any more restful for my unconscious brain. I was beginning to expect the return of the windowless corridor like the proverbial bad penny. Perhaps now, the sure knowledge that MaryLou was dead would get through to wherever grey matter dreams originate.

I sat on my sofa in my dressing gown and read the reports through from start to finish. They ran to six pages but the information contained in them was sketchy and thin. The police had obviously not been willing to give journalists too many hard facts until they, themselves, were sure of the details. Sources close to the police were quoted without names. A sure sign of a reporter fishing in the dark for information.

I made myself a coffee and flicked on the BBC breakfast news. More names had been released overnight by the police and a press conference was expected at any time. We were assured that it would be covered in full but, meantime, ‘here is the sports news’.

Somehow, the weekend’s sports results seemed somewhat inappropriate, sandwiched as they were between graphic reports of death and maiming at Newmarket racecourse. Karl Marx stated in 1844 that religion was the opium of the people, but nowadays sport in general, and football in particular, had taken over that mantle. And so I waited through an analysis of how City had defeated United and Rovers had trounced Albion before a return to more serious matters. Apparently a minute’s silence had been observed before each of Sunday’s games. This was not unexpected. A minute’s silence might be observed at a football match over the death of the manager’s dog. In fact, any excuse will be good enough for a bit of head bowing around the centre circle.

Did people really care about unknown victims? I suppose they cared that it was not them or their families who had been blown up. It is difficult to care about people one hasn’t met and never knew. Outrage, yes, that such an act had been perpetrated on anyone. But care? Maybe just enough for a minute’s silence ahead of ninety further minutes’ shouting and singing at the match.

My wandering thoughts were brought back to the television as the Chief Constable of Suffolk Police was introduced at the televised press conference. He sat, in uniform, in front of a blue board bearing the large star and crown crest of Suffolk Constabulary.

‘Our investigations,’ he began, ‘are continuing into the explosion at Newmarket races on Saturday. I can confirm that, as of now, eighteen people are known to have lost their lives. Whereas next of kin have been informed where possible, there are