Come to Grief

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New York Times
bestselling author Dick Francis brings back one of mystery’s most intriguing heroes, ex-jockey Sid Halley, in this compelling tale of crime and justice. When Halley becomes convinced that one of his closest friends—and one of the racing world’s most beloved figures—is behind a series of shockingly violent acts, he faces the most troubling case of his career. No one wants to believe that Ellis Quint could be guilty—so the public and the press are turning their wrath against Halley instead. Now he’s facing opposition at every turn—and finding danger lies straight ahead ...

 

 

“SID HALLEY HAS NEVER BEEN BETTER.”

 

 

“A VIRTUOSO PERFORMANCE.”
—
The Buffalo
News

 

“A MASTERPIECE ... VINTAGE FRANCIS.”

 

 

 

 

 

“A CHARACTER TO CHEER FOR.”—
Orlando Sentinel

 

 

 

“HONORABLE, BRAVE, AND THOROUGHLY DECENT.”
—Publishers Weekly

 

 

“ONE OF THE AUTHOR’S MOST WINNING CHARACTERS.” —
Houston Chronicle

 

 

 

“[SID HALLEY] IS BACK AND BETTER THAN EVER.”—
Mostly Murder

 

 

“THE ONE CHARACTER WHO TOWERS ABOVE ALL OTHERS IN THE FRANCIS OEUVRE.”

 

 

 

 

 

“ONE OF HIS VERY BEST ... A story that is fast out of the starting gate, smooth in the stretch, and a sure bet for the winner’s circle.”
—Booklist

 

 

 

“WHODUNIT FANS WILL BE ON THE RIGHT TRACK

WITH
COME TO GRIEF.“
—The Associated Press

“LONGTIME DICK FRANCIS READERS
know what to expect in his novels: a driving narrative and mounting suspense, all grounded in impeccable research and complete mastery of his subject. They will not be disappointed.”

 

 

 

“THE STORY IS BRISKLY PACED AND HURTLES

DOWN THE STRETCH.“—
Orlando Sentinel

 

 

 

“JUST ABOUT THE NICEST THING you can do for a person who loves mysteries is turn him or her on to the works of Dick Francis ... still writing like a champion.”

 

 

“COME TO GRIEF
MEETS THE HIGH STANDARDS

that Francis’s fans have come to expect.“
—BookPage

 

 

“A GOOD READ.”
—The Boston Sunday Globe

 

 

“DICK FRANCIS IS JUST LIKE HIS BOOKS. ONCE A

WINNER, ALWAYS A WINNER.“
—Mostly Murder

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turn to the back of this book for a special preview of

 

 

SHATTERED
SECOND WIND
FIELD OF THIRTEEN
10 LB. PENALTY
TO THE HILT
COME TO GRIEF
WILD HORSES
DECIDER
DRIVING FORCE
COMEBACK
LONGSHOT
STRAIGHT
THE EDGE
HOT MONEY
BOLT
BREAK IN
PROOF
THE DANGER
BANKER
TWICE SHY
REFLEX
WHIP HAND
TRIAL RUN
RISK
IN THE FRAME
HIGH STAKES
KNOCKDOWN
SLAY RIDE
SMOKESCREEN
BONECRACK
RAT RACE
ENQUIRY
FORFEIT
BLOOD SPORT
FLYING FINISH
ODDS AGAINST
FOR KICKS
NERVE
DEAD CERT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A JOCKEY’S LIFE
THE SPORT OF QUEENS

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

COME TO GRIEF

 

 

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

Copyright © 1995 by Dick Francis.

 

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in
violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-14173-1

 

 

BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

 

 

 

I had this friend, you see, that everyone loved.

(My name is Sid Halley.)

I had this friend that everyone loved, and I put him on trial.

The trouble with working as an investigator, as I had been doing for approaching five years, was that occasionally one turned up facts that surprised and appalled and smashed peaceful lives forever.

It had taken days of inner distress for me to decide to act on what I’d learned. Miserably, by then, I’d suffered through disbelief, through denial, through anger and at length through acceptance; all the stages of grief. I grieved for the man I’d known. For the man I
thought
I’d known, who had all along been a façade. I grieved for the loss of a friendship, for a man who still looked the same but was different, alien ... despicable. I could much more easily have grieved for him dead.

The turmoil I’d felt in private had on public disclosure become universal. The press, jumping instinctively and strongly to his defense, had given me, as his accuser, a severely rough time. On racecourses, where I chiefly worked, long-time acquaintances had turned their backs. Love, support and comfort poured out towards my friend. Disbelief and denial and anger prevailed: acceptance lay a long way ahead. Meanwhile I, not he, was seen as the target for hatred. It would pass, I knew. One had simply to endure it, and wait.

On the morning set for the opening of his trial, my friend’s mother killed herself.

The news was brought to the Law Courts in Reading, in Berkshire, where the presiding judge, enrobed, had already heard the opening statements and where I, a witness for the prosecution, waited alone in a soulless side room to be called. One of the court officials came to give me the suicide information and to say that the judge had adjourned the proceedings for the day, and I could go home.

“Poor woman,” I exclaimed, truly horrified.

Even though he was supposed to be impartial, the official’s own sympathies were still with the accused. He eyed me without favor and said I should return the following morning, ten o‘clock sharp.

I left the room and walked slowly along the corridor towards the exit, fielded on the way by a senior lawyer who took me by the elbow and drew me aside.

“His mother took a room in a hotel and jumped from the sixteenth floor,” he said without preamble. “She left a note saying she couldn’t bear the future. What are your thoughts?”

I looked at the dark, intelligent eyes of Davis Tatum, a clumsy, fat man with a lean, agile brain.

“You know better than I do,” I said.

“Sid.”
A touch of exasperation. “Tell me your thoughts.”

“Perhaps he’ll change his plea.”

He relaxed and half smiled. “You’re in the wrong job.”

I wryly shook my head. “I catch the fish. You guys gut them.”

He amiably let go of my arm and I continued to the outside world to catch a train for the thirty-minute ride to the terminus in London, flagging down a taxi for the last mile or so home.

Ginnie Quint, I thought, traveling through London. Poor, poor Ginnie Quint, choosing death in preference to the everlasting agony of her son’s disgrace. A lonely slamming exit. An end to tears. An end to grief.

The taxi stopped outside the house in Pont Square (off Cadogan Square), where I currently lived on the second floor, with a balcony overlooking the central leafy railed garden. As usual, the small, secluded square was quiet, with little passing traffic and only a few people on foot. A thin early-October wind shook the dying leaves on the lime trees, floating a few of them sporadically to the ground like soft yellow snowflakes.

I climbed out of the cab and paid the driver through his open window, and as I turned to cross the pavement and go up the few steps to the front door, a man who was apparently quietly walking past suddenly sprang at me in fury, raising a long black metal rod with which he tried to brain me.

I sensed rather than saw the first wicked slash and moved enough to catch the weight of it on my shoulder, not my head. He was screaming at me, half-demented, and I fielded a second brutal blow on a raised defensive forearm. After that I seized his wrist in a pincer grip and rolled the bulk of his body backward over the leg I pushed out rigidly behind his knees, and felled him, sprawling, iron bar and all, onto the hard ground. He yelled bitter words; cursing, half-incoherent, threatening to kill.