Dick Francis's Damage (21 page)

S
o what was all that about?” Crispin asked as we walked out of Scrutton's together.

“All what?” I said.

“All that ‘somewhere near Westbury' nonsense. And you kicking me under the table.”

I glanced over my shoulder at some of the Board members who were leaving at the same time.

“Do you fancy coffee?” I asked.

Crispin and I walked up St. James's Street to Piccadilly and went around the corner into The Wolseley.

“I can give you a table for an hour,” said the maître d', “but I must have it back by twelve-thirty.”

He showed us to a small table in a far right-hand corner, under the balcony. The Wolseley, with its Italianate architecture, high-domed ceilings and marble floors, was always noisy and hence, strangely, it provided the ideal surroundings to talk
privately even though we had to speak quite loudly to make each other heard.

“So, dear boy, what is the reason why you didn't tell the chief superintendent that we knew exactly to the inch where the drop was made?” Crispin asked after our coffee had been poured.

“I just thought it may be prudent to keep that piece of information to ourselves, at least for the time being.”

“And why is that, exactly?”

I was silent for a moment wondering if I was crazy. In the end, I decided that I wasn't.

“How well do you know the individual members of the BHA Board?”

He looked at me in astonishment.

“Do you know something that I don't?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Not really. I just felt uncomfortable at the meeting we had last Sunday in the office. I can't explain what, but something happened there that has made me wonder. That's all.”

“Dear boy, surely you can't think that the person doing all this is a member of the BHA Board?”

“No, of course not,” I said. Or did I? “But I know that if we really want to keep something secret we shouldn't tell anyone at all. Who do you think leaked the information about Electrode?”

“Our friend Leonardo, obviously.”

“But why would he?” I said. “What did he have to gain?”

“It adds pressure onto us to pay up.”

“Does it? Why? One of the reasons for us paying would be to keep him quiet, so why is he blabbing about it? Surely that makes us
less
likely to pay, not more.”

“But who else would have done it?” Crispin asked.

“If Stephen is correct in saying that someone at the labs
couldn't have, then it must have been either Leonardo or one of the people who was in that meeting this morning. We are the only people who knew.”

“But what would any of the Board members have to gain by leaking the information to the press?”

“I don't know,” I said. “And I also don't know if we are dealing with one person or two. Leonardo is clearly after money, but is he the same person who leaked the story about the doping?”

“He must be,” Crispin said with confidence.

“Why?” I said.

“Please don't tell me we have two maniacs out to destroy the BHA.”

—

“I CAN'T
thank you enough,” QC,QC said effusively, the relief clearly visible on his face and in his eyes.

It was half past six and we were once again sitting in the small café in Brewers Lane, around the corner from his and Faye's house, this time with glasses of wine rather than cups of coffee.

I had just shown him the video that I'd recorded the previous evening.

It showed Daniel Jubowski sitting on the leather sofa in his flat. He was facing the camera and he spoke clearly and precisely. “I withdraw any allegation that I may have made to police that Kenneth Calderfield was in possession of, or had ever supplied, any illegal drugs of any kind. I do this of my own free will and I deeply regret any hurt that I may have caused by my misguided actions in making such a false accusation.”

“How much did you have to pay him?” Quentin asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Kenneth never did supply any drugs.
Daniel Jubowski did that himself. I simply persuaded Daniel that he needed to tell me the truth.”

Quentin looked at me sideways.

“And no violence was involved?” he said.

“Not even a threat of it,” I assured him.

“Then why?” he asked.

“There are some things you don't need to know about,” I replied.

“But why did he make such an allegation in the first place?”

“That's another thing you don't need to know. Just be grateful that he has seen the light and will withdraw it.”

“Do I need to do anything?” Quentin asked.

“If Daniel does what he has promised, then he will have been to the police today to withdraw his statement. I'm sure Kenneth will find out soon enough.”

“At this stage, the CPS may still decide to go ahead with the trial,” Quentin said. “Only there and then may they offer no evidence, at which point the case would collapse and Kenneth would be discharged, but there is a slim chance that they may still use the original statement and present it to the jury together with the search evidence.”

“But surely the jury wouldn't believe the statement if Daniel were to stand up in court and say that it was untrue?”

“We could certainly call Daniel for the defense, even if his statement is presented as evidence for the Crown. There is no property in a witness. But can we be sure that he will keep to his new story any more than he kept to the previous one?”

“I think he could be persuaded,” I said.

“But can we be certain that the jury won't believe the prior statement over his verbal evidence. Juries can do such funny things. I'd be so much happier if this case never gets to a jury.”

“I afraid I can't help you in that department. You only asked me to find the friend and prove that he was lying. I've done that. The rest is up to you and Kenneth.”

“Yes,” said Quentin, “you've been marvelous.”

He even smiled.

“How is Faye?” I asked.

“Bearing up, poor dear. This chemo stuff is a real bugger. Makes her so tired. But I suppose it's worth it if it works.”

“I'm sure it will,” I said reassuringly.

“Yeah, I hope so. I'd really hate to lose the old girl.”

I was surprised. It was the first time I could ever recall Quentin having said anything that could be remotely described as loving about his wife, in spite of the fact that the “old girl” in question was some ten years younger than him.

“I plan to go round to see her,” I said.

“Yes, I thought you might. I'll pay the check here and be home shortly. Not good form for us to turn up together. Far too conspiratorial.”

I was still smiling at his eccentric ways when I rang the doorbell of his house.

Faye, as always, was delighted to see me and ushered me into the kitchen.

“Coffee or wine?” she asked.

“Wine,” I replied, smiling, “as long as that's all right.”

“Of course it's all right.”

She didn't need to ask if it should be red or white, she knew me too well. She poured me a generous glass of deep-red Rioja.

“Are you not having one?” I asked as she replaced the top.

“No,” she said. “It's not because I can't, but the drugs I take make some things taste nasty and alcohol is one of them. I haven't had any for ages and it's doing wonders for my weight.”

She did a twirl.

“I can tell.”

I hadn't said anything before because I was afraid it was due to the cancer.

“So how are you?” Faye asked. “And how's Lydia?”

What she was really asking was
How's your relationship?

“Everything is fine,” I said, smiling at her. “We are very well, thank you, although we've hardly seen each other this past week, we've both been so busy.”

“You should make time,” she said. “Wasn't it Arnold Bennett who said that time is our most precious of possessions? I've certainly found that out during these last few weeks.”

Something about her tone of voice worried me.

“You are going to be OK, aren't you?”

“It depends on how you define
OK
.” She took a deep breath. “Am I going to die this week? No. This year? Maybe not. Next year? Possibly. Within the next five years? Probably. Cancer hardly ever goes away completely, not when you've got to my age, especially when it's somewhere deep down inside you. I know it will come back sometime and then it will be too late to do the things I still want to do. All they ever talk about at the Marsden is giving people more time, not about curing them completely.”

“Everyone dies eventually,” I said. “All we should really expect is enough time to watch our children grow up and maybe our grandchildren too, if we're lucky.”

“Well, in that case, hurry up and have your children, that's what I say. You never know how long you've got left. Now I understand why all my friends who've survived cancer suddenly start becoming manic about seeing their families all the time and going off to visit far-flung places. They never know exactly when the ax will fall.”

Why did everyone keep talking about executions?

At that point, Quentin arrived and I thankfully changed the subject.

“Tell me, Quentin,” I said, “you know the law, how serious a crime is extortion?”

“What sort of extortion?” he asked, looking worried.

“Demanding money from an organization in return for not doing something that might embarrass it.”

He relaxed a little and I realized he had been worrying that I was talking about Daniel Jubowski possibly extorting money from him.

“It depends on the threats,” he said. “Violence or threatened violence is serious. The law takes a dim view of that.”

“How about violence towards an animal?”

“Hmm, not as serious. Prosecutions in animal cases are almost always at the request of the RSPCA. The police tend to steer clear of them if they possibly can.”

As I now knew all too well.

“So if I say to someone, ‘Give me a grand in cash or I'll kill your horse,' the police wouldn't really be interested?”

“They might be, the violence might be considered as being directed against the person by an implied threat. But, in the eyes of the law, horses are just possessions, like a car or a bicycle. If the horse is maliciously killed, then it's possible that a charge of criminal damage could be brought, but there is no such offense as horseslaughter like there is manslaughter. And the RSPCA would get involved only if the killing was done with cruelty. A quick shot to the head—no problem.”

“Even if the horse was very valuable?”

“The value in such a case would make little or no difference
in the criminal law. You get the same sentence for stealing a Mini as a Rolls-Royce. However, the horse owner would be able to sue for damages based on the value.”

“So spiking a supermarket's dog food with pieces of glass would not get you as long in jail as putting the same glass into their baby food?”

“Absolutely not, although the police would definitely investigate both, but there would likely be more manpower assigned to the baby food.”

“Did you read about the events at this year's Grand National?” I asked.

He nodded. “There was something in yesterday's paper.”

“I watched it live on television,” Faye said. “All those poor horses.”

“What about the jockeys?” I said. “One of them broke two vertebrae in his neck.”

“But they didn't shoot him like they did that poor horse, right in front of the stands. They didn't need to show
that
.” She shivered at the memory.

It never ceased to amaze me how much more the British public cared more for the horses than they did for the riders. Sure, I like horses, but they aren't people.

“Is that what this is all about?” Quentin asked. “Did someone disrupt the Grand National because the racing authorities wouldn't pay to prevent it?”

Quentin wasn't one of the country's top legal brains for nothing.

“Pretty much,” I said. “And we don't seem to be able to get the police to realize how important it is.”

“But is it really important, in the long term?” Quentin asked.
“Sure, it was an inconvenience at the time and no doubt lots of people were very cross. And it was obviously very serious for the jockey who was injured and for the owner of the horse that was killed. But, in the context of most people's lives, it was an irrelevant blip.”

“It didn't feel like that to me,” I said. “I was there.”

“I'm sure it didn't, but that is still what the law would say. The perpetrator might even successfully argue that since he had no intention of causing injury to any horse or rider, he couldn't be held criminally responsible. He might also argue that, statistically, there was far more likelihood of injury occurring to horses and riders if they had raced for the second time around the Aintree circuit rather than being stopped after the first.”

I was beginning to realize why Quentin was such a good defense lawyer.

“Do you remember the University Boat Race one year,” he said, “when an Australian disrupted everything by swimming across the Thames in front of the crews? The race had to be stopped.”

“Of course.”

“The man was sentenced to a few months in prison for causing a public nuisance. The Boat Race organizers would have happily drowned him in the river, but most of the public thought that sending him to jail was far too harsh. There was even a petition signed by hundreds of Oxford and Cambridge students demanding his release. The man became a bit of a hero in the media and he didn't get deported back to Australia when he was released, as many had expected. It shows that the law generally takes a moderate, even tolerant view of such actions.”

Far from Ian Tulloch's desire that the man responsible would
be put in jail and the key thrown away, it seemed that even if the police bothered to try to catch our friend Leonardo, he would likely be hailed as a hero by the left-wing press and carried shoulder-high by the “protest brigade.”