overcoat fell open, she noticed his shirt covered in blood. ‘I know how fond you were of him.’
‘How the hell did it happen?’ demanded Rupert.
‘Evidently Wilkie jumped across Furious, cut him up. We’ll see on the rerun.’
All this was going on while a frenzy of press and well-wishers were desperate to congratulate and interview them.
‘Don’t say anything to Amber,’ said Rupert sharply. ‘She’s trying to get through to the hospital.’
‘Dad’s asleep,’ said Amber, switching off her mobile.
As they all posed for photographs, with Chisolm still bleating on Wilkie’s back, Rupert turned to Valent.
‘Sorry about Furious, as Hen Knight said after Best Mate died, “If you have livestock, you have to have deadstock.” It’s a risk sport. You can go to the races with a full lorry and come home with an empty one. I know it’s hard.’ He turned to Taggie, who was comforting a sobbing Tommy. ‘Can you try and track down Eddie? He’s probably been taken to the Fazakerley. We’ve got the presentation in a second and then Amber, Valent and I’ve got to face a press conference.’
‘Well done,’ murmured back Taggie, ‘your first Grand National and your three-thousandth win,’ and she kissed his rigid cheek.
‘I’d forgotten about that.’
*
Walking back from the bookies down a side alley and carrying a bulging suitcase, Rupert bumped into a man in a black woolly hat. Then, seeing murder in his eyes, he recognized Rafiq and said, ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t save him.’
‘You killed him,’ said Rafiq hysterically. ‘Wilkie took him out, cutting across him. But it was the fault of your precious grandson holding him up, allowing him no daylight. Now he never see daylight again.’ He gave a strangled sob.
‘I’m sorry, we’ll try and bury him at Penscombe.’
‘I bury you first,’ hissed Rafiq, spitting in Rupert’s face before he disappeared into the crowd, upsetting Rupert more than he cared to say.
140
On the television screen, after a rerun of the race the BBC showed Mrs Wilkinson’s name being painted in gold letters on the Grand National winners’ list.
‘Not since Aldaniti,’ observed Rogue to Richard Dunwoody, ‘has an entire country been behind a horse.’
Clare Balding had made the presentation and Amber was now in the media centre facing the post-race press conference with Rupert and Valent, their early euphoria diluted by the death of Furious. Amber, her sweat- and champagne-drenched hair unloosed, sat looking vulnerable, still wrapped in her Union Jack and clutching her big silver winner’s plate like a shield to ward off trouble.
Clancy Wiggins, the racing correspondent of the Scorpion, kept putting the boot in. ‘Would Mrs Wilkinson have won if she’d stayed with Marius? How did Amber feel when Mrs Wilkinson was taken away? Was Marius upset when you opted to ride for Rupert?’
‘Marius behaved impeccably,’ said Amber crossly. ‘He lent his best lads, Tommy and Rafiq, to Rupert.’
‘But Marius still threw you out the next day.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘Well, his wife kicked you out.’
‘Shut oop,’ snapped Valent, ‘this has nothing to do with the National.’
‘The course rode beautifully,’ insisted Amber.
‘Furious died in the race,’ persisted Clancy. ‘Why didn’t you let Rafiq Khan ride Furious rather than your grandson, who couldn’t stay on his horse either in the National or the Gold Cup?’
‘We’re not talking about Furious,’ Amber said irritably. ‘His death was a complete accident.’
‘He was brought down by Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Clancy, ‘cutting across him, hanging left.’
‘Was he?’ gasped Amber, turning to Valent in horror.
‘Am I going to have to come over and throttle you?’ bellowed Valent.
‘Amber has achieved the impossible,’ began Rupert, then, pausing to answer his mobile: ‘Yes, OK, we’ll come at once.’ He beckoned to an Aintree official, and after a few words rose to his feet.
‘Sorry, guys,’ he told the protesting room, ‘we’ve got to go. Valent will answer any questions, thank you, everyone.’
Such was his chilling blue glare and his air of suppressed menace, no one tried to stop him.
‘Your father’s taken a turn for the worse,’ he told Amber outside. ‘He’s conscious but he’s sinking. He can’t see any more but he heard the race on the wireless. We’ve got to move fast.’
Aintree provided Rupert and Amber with a VIP car. As police horses had escorted her back from the winning post, now a policeman on a motorbike led them out of the course, weaving his way through the happy home-going crowd.
They passed the horsebox car park where horses were being led out with huge bandages on their legs, hay nets were being loaded into lorries for the journey home, and the lads