Dick Francis's Gamble (36 page)

“Leave a message on this number or I'll call you again tomorrow.”

I disconnected.

I left the motorway at the Reading junction, went around the interchange and joined the westbound carriageway to go back towards Newbury.

I called the office, and Mrs. McDowd answered.

“Hello, Mrs. McDowd,” I said. “Mr. Nicholas here. Can I speak to Mr. Patrick, please?”

“You're a very naughty boy,” she said in her best headmistressy voice. “You mustn't upset Mr. Gregory so. His heart can't take it.”

I didn't reply. As far as I was concerned, the sooner his heart gave out the better.

I waited as she put me through.

“Hello, Nicholas,” said Patrick. “Where are you?”

Why, I wondered, was everyone so obsessed with my whereabouts?

“In Reading,” I said. “Have you spoken to Jessica?”

“Not yet. I've been reviewing the file myself this morning. I intend to discuss the matter with Gregory this afternoon.”

“Mind your back,” I said.

“Be serious,” Patrick said.

“I promise you, I am being serious, very serious,” I replied. “If I were you, I'd speak to Jessica first, and then both of you talk to Gregory.”

“I'll see,” Patrick said.

Patrick and Gregory had been partners for a very long time, and I reckoned that Patrick might need quite a lot of convincing that his friend was up to no good. I suppose I couldn't really blame him for checking things himself before he brought in the Compliance Officer.

“You might need someone who can read Bulgarian,” I said.

“Leave it to me,” Patrick replied decisively.

“OK,” I said. “I will. But I'll call you again tomorrow to see how you're getting on.”

I hung up and glanced in the rearview mirror. There were no signs of any flashing blue lights nor of any eager unmarked police cars. I drove on sedately back to Lambourn.

 

 

I
want to go home,” my mother said, meeting me in Jan's kitchen as I walked in from the car.

“And you will,” I said. “Just as soon as I'm sure it's safe.”

“But I want to go home now.”

“Soon,” I said.

“No!” she stated in determined fashion, putting her hands on her hips. “Now.”

“Why?” I asked.

“We've been here long enough,” she said. “And I'm worried about my cat.”

“I didn't think it was
your
cat.”

“He's not, but I'm worried about him nonetheless. And I've got a WI meeting tomorrow night and I don't want to miss it.”

Don't mess with the Women's Institute. Tony Blair, for one, had discovered that.

“All right,” I said. “I promise I'll take you home tomorrow.”

She wasn't very happy, but, short of ordering herself a taxi, there wasn't much she could do. Tomorrow would have to do. I'd take her before I went on to the races.

And there was more unrest in the ranks from Claudia.

“I want to go home,” she said when I went up to our bedroom. She was standing by the bed, packing her things in her suitcase.

“Have you been talking to my mother?” I asked.

“Maybe,” she said.

I thought there was no “maybe” about it.

“Darling,” I said, “I've arranged a meeting with the police on Thursday to sort everything out. We can go home after it.”

“Why can't you have this meeting tonight or tomorrow?”

“Because I have to talk to someone first, and I'm seeing them at Cheltenham Races tomorrow evening.”

She stopped packing and sat down on the bed.

“I don't understand it. If the man who was trying to kill you was himself killed, then why are we still hiding?”

“There may be others,” I said. “And I don't want to take any unnecessary risks. You're far too precious to me.”

I sat down on the bed next to her and gave her a hug.

“But I'm bored here,” she said. “And I've run out of clean knickers.”

Aha, I thought, the true reason reveals itself.

“I'll tell you what,” I said. “I've promised Mum I'll take her back to her cottage tomorrow, so why don't I take us all out to dinner tonight, then we'll go back to Woodmancote with Mum round lunchtime, and you can either stay there or come with me to the races in the evening. What do you say?”

“I'm not going to the races.”

“OK,” I said, “that's fine. You can stay at Mum's cottage.”

“Oh, all right,” she said in a resigned tone. “Where shall we go for dinner tonight?”

“Some nice quiet pub with good food.”

And preferably where I wouldn't be recognized by any Lambourn locals.

On Jan's recommendation, we went to the Bear Hotel in Hungerford for a sumptuous dinner in their Brasserie restaurant, washed down with a bottle of fine wine.

“I'll miss you,” Jan said over coffee. “It's been great having the house full again. Please can you all come back for Christmas?”

My mother and Claudia toasted her kindness with large snifters of brandy, and it seemed to have done the trick as I drove a happy carload back to Lambourn and to bed.

 

 

W
ill the police still be there?” Claudia asked as I drove the last few miles to Woodmancote.

It was the question I had been wondering about ever since I'd agreed to bring my mother home.

“I don't care if they are,” my mother said loudly from the backseat. “I'm just so looking forward to being home again.”

“If they are,” I said, “I'll pretend to be a taxi driver just delivering you two.” I dug in my pocket and gave Claudia a twenty-pound note. “Here. Give me this and I'll drive away after I've unloaded your stuff. Then I'll call you later from the races.”

“But they might recognize you,” Claudia said.

“I'll just have to take that chance.”

What I was more worried about was arriving to find the whole place sealed up as a crime scene, with POLICE—DO NOT CROSS tape across the porch and padlocks on the doors.

I needn't have worried. We arrived to find no tape, no padlocks and no police guard.

The only external signs that anything was different was a new dangling wire that connected the corner of the building to a telegraph pole in the lane—the hasty repair of the cut telephone wire.

My mother let us in through the front door, using her key.

It was all, remarkably, just the same as before, with no visible evidence to show that a ferocious life-or-death struggle had gone on here less than a week previously. However, none of us could resist staring at the foot of the stairwell, at the place where we had last seen the gunman. There was no white chalk outline of a body or any other such comic-book indication of where the man had lain. Indeed, there was nothing at all to signify that anyone had violently died there.

The police had even secured the kitchen window, fixing a piece of plywood over the broken windowpane.

“Fine,” said my mother, trying to show that things were back to normal and that she wasn't as uneasy as she sounded. “Who'd like a cup of tea?”

“Lovely,” said Claudia, also betraying a nervousness in her voice.

I couldn't blame them. Being once again in that cottage suddenly brought the memory of the terrifying evening back into vivid focus, and none of us had quite realized the effect it would have.

“What time are you leaving for the races?” Claudia asked.

I looked at my watch. It was just past three o'clock, and the first of the six races was at half past five.

“In about an hour and a half or so,” I said.

“And what time is your WI meeting?” she asked my mother.

“Seven-thirty,” she said. “But I usually go round to Joan's beforehand. We go to the meetings together.”

“So what time do you leave here?” Claudia asked patiently.

“About six,” she said. “Joan and I usually have a sherry or two before we leave. Gives us a bit of courage for the meeting.” She giggled like a schoolgirl.

“And what time does it end?” Claudia asked.

“I'm usually home by ten, ten-thirty at the very latest.”

“I really don't fancy being here on my own all evening,” Claudia said. “I've changed my mind. I'm coming to the races.”

I
n the end, Claudia and I dropped my mother off at Joan's house at a quarter to five on our way to Cheltenham Races. It seemed she didn't particularly want to be on her own in the cottage either, which didn't bode well for the morning, when Claudia and I planned to return to London.

“Who is it we are going to see?” Claudia asked as we turned in to the racetrack parking lot.

“A man called Shenington,” I said. “Viscount Shenington. And he's hired a private box.”

“Very posh,” she replied, making a face.

We might be glad of the box, I thought as we climbed out of the car. The brief sunny interlude of yesterday morning was a distant memory, and another weather front had moved in from the west, bringing a return to the thick clouds and rain that had characterized the weather for the majority of the last week. Evening meetings like this one at Cheltenham, with no floodlighting, relied on long, bright summer evenings. I reckoned the last race on this particular dank, miserable evening might be run in near-total darkness.

“And who is this Viscount, exactly?” Claudia asked as we walked to the entrance huddled together under her minute umbrella.

“He's a racehorse owner and the senior trustee of the Roberts Family Trust. They're clients of Lyall and Black.”

“Oh,” she said, seemingly losing interest. Was my job really that boring? “So why do you need to talk to this man before you see the police?”

I had purposely not told Claudia anything about my suspicions concerning the Bulgarian factory and housing project. She had far too many of her own problems to contend with without having mine added on top.

“The Trust,” I said, “has made an investment in something which I think is a front for fraud. I need to learn more about it before I speak to the police. I just have some questions to ask him, that's all.”

“Will it take long?” she asked.

“He wants to speak to me after the racing.”

“Oh,” she said again, this time sounding disappointed. “So we're here till the bitter end.”

“I'm afraid so,” I said. “But he has invited us to his box for the whole time, and there'll be food and drink available.”

That cheered her a bit, and she perked up a lot more when she discovered that the box in question was a magnificent glassfronted affair at the top of the grandstand with a wonderful view over the racetrack.

It was also dry and warm.

Even though we were hardly late at ten past five, the box was already full of guests, none of whom I recognized.

I was just beginning to think we must be in the wrong place when Ben Roberts came through the door, instinctively ducking his head as he did so.

“Ah, Mr. Foxton,” he said, marching over to me with outstretched hand.

“Ben,” I replied. “How nice to see you again. Can I introduce my fiancée, Claudia?”

“Great,” said Ben, shaking her hand and smiling. “I'm Ben Roberts.”

Claudia smiled back.

“Come and meet my father.”

He led the way across the room to a group of men standing in the far corner. It was pretty obvious which one of them was Ben's father. He towered above the others by a good five or six inches. The “tall” gene was clearly alive and well in all the Roberts family.

“Dad,” said Ben during a lull in the men's conversation, “this is Mr. Foxton and Claudia, his fiancée. My father, Viscount Shenington.”

“Delighted to meet you,” I said, offering my hand.

He looked down at me and slowly put forward his hand to shake. It was hardly the most friendly of welcomes, but I hadn't really expected anything else. I knew that even though he was prepared to speak to me, he didn't truly want to.

“Good evening, Mr. Foxton,” he said. “Good of you to come.” He turned slightly towards Claudia. “And you too, my dear.”

That wouldn't go down too well, I thought. My father always called Claudia “my dear,” and she hated it, claiming that he was an arrogant old git who shouldn't be so patronizing.

“Have a drink,” Shenington said. “And some food.” He waved a hand towards the impressive buffet table. “We'll speak later.”

He went back to his former conversations.

“Good,” said Ben with considerably more warmth. “What would you both like to drink? Champagne?”

“Lovely,” Claudia said.

“Fruit juice for me, please,” I said. “I'm driving.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Ben, holding up a glass of orange liquid. “But I'll get a proper skinful later at the Boat Club dinner.”

“Rowing?” I asked.

“Absolutely. Tonight's our home celebration for beating the hated enemy.”

“The hated enemy?” said Claudia.

“Cambridge,” Ben said, smiling broadly. “In the Boat Race. Beat them by half a length. Dead easy!”

“Were you in the crew?” I asked.

“Certainly was,” he said, pulling himself up to his full six feet plus plus. “Number 4—in the engine room.”

“Well done,” I said, meaning it. “Are you trying for the Olympics next?”