Photo Finish chapter one

Longchamp racecourse, even at eleven in the morning, had a magical quality. The stands were deserted, yet the familiar atmosphere of the race crowds hung in the air. Marcel Dessaint walked through the centre of the silent grandstand, down to the racecourse rails, and gazed out across the course. Behind the winning post, between the distant trees, the Eiffel Tower could be seen. Along to the right were the evergreens and leafless trees of the Bois de Boulogne. Marcel’s eyes swept round the circuit of the course, as though following the progress of an imaginary race, and came to rest on the winning post. He stared at it broodingly.

The grinding misery that had been with him since his entry to the racecourse suddenly became more than he could bear and he turned abruptly away. The stands were as empty as his own heart. He didn’t belong here; not any more.

Pausing to adjust the collar of his expensively tailored coat, as the October wind renewed its attack, Marcel wandered to the far end of the parade ring, to the gates that marked the entrance to the racecourse stables. As he gazed longingly through the wrought ironwork several lads passed by, carrying rugs and buckets and joking cheerfully to each other. Most looked to be about his own age, twenty-six, yet he shared nothing in common with them. They fitted easily into the closed ranks of this racing world; were part of the racecourse, just as Marcel had once been. He had taken his position for granted, in fact never really been aware of it. Not until he had lost it. He was an outcast in the only world he knew.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the voice of an English lad, leading a horse across to its stable.

‘Walk on, you old sod!’

The horse stood still and eyed Marcel inquisitively. The lad looked across and waved in instant recognition.

‘Hi’ya, how’s it going?’

Marcel smiled and nodded, his surprise at the friendly gesture tinged with apprehension.

‘Sorry to hear about your news,’ the lad called across cheerfully, ‘hope it all gets sorted out okay.’ He clicked to the horse and led it away.

Marcel watched him disappear from view, the first person to have wished him well since the fateful enquiry four days earlier. He had enjoyed his occasional rides in England, he got on well with the British jockeys and they looked forward to his visits. As he thought back to all those happy times he decided, there and then, to forget this ridiculous attempt to enjoy the day’s racing as a spectator and to travel instead to England. He had to escape the hostility that surrounded him here at home. As the stable lad had just demonstrated, in England he would be looked upon simply as Marcel Dessaint, not as a crooked jockey.

A crooked jockey.

Marcel shuddered.

Summoning the last reserves of his courage, he turned to face the glass-fronted weighing room, with its steps leading down into the parade ring, which he had trodden so many times. Behind the glass a door had been left ajar and Marcel could see the rows of saddles stacked up on the shelves in the back room. Though they all looked identical, he recognised most of them. He could smell the aroma of pigskin and oils; hear the murmur of voices of his colleagues in the jockeys’ room. He didn’t need to look at the empty rooms to be tortured by those memories.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that the morning was wearing on. The crowds would soon start to drift in, in steadily increasing streams. He had to get away; escape the stares and abuse. He walked hurriedly across the enclosure and out towards the main gates, pausing to look up at the bronze statue that welcomed visitors. Gladiateur, ‘The Avenger Of Waterloo’, the first great French racehorse. But its proud bronze head faced away from the parade ring, sparing it the view of the place to which it could never return. Marcel allowed himself a single glance back, then left the racecourse, filled with bitter regret.

As he walked along the tree-lined Allee de Longchamp, through the Bois de Boulogne, he cursed himself for his stupidity. What on earth had possessed him to go near a racecourse? He must have been a fool to even consider it. He strode along without purpose, towards the centre of Paris, not seeing the joggers and horse riders in the forest around him or the cycling clubs out in force on the road alongside him.

At last he reached the metro and, tired of walking, he went down into the empty station. A perfectly good car stood in his garage at home, but he had felt it wiser to leave it there. Too easy to point its nose at the nearest tree and push the accelerator pedal through the floor. As it was, the train lines could have been just as inviting, but a train was already at the platform and Marcel was aboard before he had even given them a thought.

He got off after three stops and wandered aimlessly to the banks of The Seine, pausing to watch a barge drift slowly past him. The pleasure boats were moored along the opposite bank, the tourists neglecting them in preference to Longchamp, where they flocked in their thousands to see the annual running of the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, Europe’s premier horse race, their cash vanishing on the backs of ‘also-rans’. Last season the cash had gone on Marcel, the idol of the European racing world. He had rarely been an ‘also-ran’.

He wandered to the Hotel George V and made a list of the toiletries and other items he would need if he were to leave immediately for England. He handed it to the concierge and tried hard to ignore the disdain with which he accepted the errand. As he settled himself in the lounge, he was conscious of the strangers around him. Though he knew none of them, he knew his own face was well known to them all and they showed their recognition by turning their backs on him. His stomach knotted and he clenched his jaw. Though he had encountered this reaction too many times already, still it brought him close to tears. There had once been a time when he could not have stepped foot in so public a place without being mobbed for autographs. That golden time was only a few months in the past, although already it seemed like years.

He sat, alone, for most of the day, staring at a magazine that he lacked the interest to actually read; listening to the murmurs of disapproval from those who saw him. As darkness drew in, limousines began to flood the forecourt and the race-goers returned, pockets filled with wads of money or torn up pari-mutuel slips.

With them came a small group of men, voices raised in cheerful laughter. As Marcel stood up to join them they spotted him and came across.

‘Marcel! We missed you today! How are you?’

‘How’s it going? What are you doing here?’

‘You look in need of a stiff brandy, come on.’

The five English jockeys led him through to the bar and made a good attempt to get him drunk.

‘So, how did you all get on today?’ he asked them, in his faultless English.

They stared uncomfortably into their glasses and told him. His good friend Alain Jardie had won the ‘Arc’, the English managing no better than fourth. Kym Hughes had won the day’s big sprint, a momentous achievement in his normally second rate career. His delight, though consciously masked, was plain. Marcel saw only the mask, which he knew to be for his benefit.

‘Is there room for me to travel back with any of you?’ he asked, knowing that they had all travelled over in private taxi planes.

‘Sure,’ Kym nodded, ‘there’s an empty seat on my plane. The owner’s wife is staying on in Paris to spend their winnings!’ He ordered a final round of drinks, then he and his colleagues collected their cases and made their way out to waiting taxis, to drive to the airport.

Marcel boarded the six-seater plane and sat down next to Kym, smiling gratefully. Kym returned the casual smile, though privately disturbed by his lack of spirit. He knew only The Marcel Dessaint, Europe’s Champion Jockey and sporting hero; who oozed confidence with every frequent British raid and rarely lost. Marcel Dessaint, worshipped by the public, envied by his colleagues; his name so regularly written into the record books of racing that they could have been written for him alone. Unaffected by fame, quick to share a joke in the weighing room; always there for others but never needing anyone. That was Marcel, not this stranger seated beside him. This stranger who, four days ago, had been found guilty of deliberately losing a long list of races – discredited, dishonoured, disgraced.