Dick Francis's Damage (22 page)

It was clearly up to the BHA to sort out its own problem.

A
nd about time too,” said Detective Sergeant Galley. “I left a message for you to call me back on Monday afternoon.”

It was now eight-thirty on Thursday morning and I'd only just called him.

“Yes, I know,” I said. “I did get it. But I reckoned that if it were something important, you'd call me again.”

“So why are you calling me now?”

“I need to talk to Matthew Unwin.”

“That's impossible,” he said bluntly. “He's on remand in Long Lartin Prison.”

“Can't I visit him?”

“That wouldn't be proper. You are a witness for the prosecution in his case.”

“Is there a law against it?”

“Not as such, but you would need permission from the court for an official interview. And I can tell you now you won't get it.”

“I thought the police were interested in solving crime.”

“We are, and this one is already solved. Matthew Unwin murdered Jordan Furness. There is no doubt about that. There were far too many witnesses.”

“If there are so many witnesses, then why do you need me specifically?”

“You are a witness both to the crime and to the subsequent capture of Mr. Unwin.”

“But last week you questioned me as if I was somehow involved. You can't have it both ways. I'm either a prosecution witness or I'm a suspect.”

“What do you want to speak to him about anyway?”

Was that a movement in the right direction?

“About his claim that he knew nothing about his horses being doped and that he was being harassed by the BHA. I now have reason to believe he might be right about the doping bit, even if I don't accept the harassment claim. Other racehorse trainers have since come forward to say that they were threatened with the same thing. I'm trying to investigate the matter for the British Horseracing Authority, and I could really do with interviewing him.”

“It still won't be possible.”

“Why not?” I said in a frustrated tone. “Any testimony I would give about what happened at Cheltenham races surely won't be contentious. Have you given my statement to the defense lawyers yet? They will almost certainly accept it without question, so why do I have to appear as a witness?”

“Whether or not you appear as a witness, I can tell you now, Mr. Hinkley, you won't be getting me to arrange it so that you can talk to Matthew Unwin. It's more than my job's worth.”

“Who are his lawyers?” I asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because if
you
won't help me speak with him, then I will have to contact his lawyers and ask them if I can visit their client. It might help the defense for them to know that I now believe Unwin's claim about the doping. Do you want me to say
that
in court?”

He was silent for some time and I wondered if he'd hung up, but I could still hear him breathing.

“The law states that the police are not allowed to question a prisoner on remand,” he said formally. “Not unless there is fresh evidence in the case, which there isn't.”

“I'm not asking the police to question him, I'm asking if I can.”

“He may not want to see you.”

“I think he might.”

“Then why don't you ask for a normal prison visit? Prisoners on remand seem to have as many visits as they like.” It didn't sound as if he approved.

“So I just apply to the prison to visit him?”

“I don't see why not. If he were out on bail, mind, there would be conditions that would almost certainly include not having any contact with the witnesses. But if he's inside . . . I don't suppose that applies. But don't tell anyone I told you so. I don't want to know anything about it, either before or after. He probably won't see you, in any case.”

“Do I need Unwin's permission?”

“Yeah, I think so. You have to get a VO.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“A visitation order. The prisoner applies for one from the prison warden's office and gives your name as someone he would like to see. You can't visit a prisoner if he doesn't want to see you.”

“So how do I get a VO?”

“I don't know. Why don't you write to Unwin and ask him to apply, but don't mention to anyone that it was my idea.”

“OK,” I said. “Thanks. I'll write to him today. Now, what was it that you rang me about on Monday?”

“Only to tell you I'd been in touch with Mr. Lever, the BHA chief executive, and he had confirmed what you'd said about your position. It really wasn't important.”

“I thought you might be calling to apologize for doubting what I'd said.” I knew I was pushing my luck.

“No, Mr. Hinkley, I was not calling to apologize. The police never apologize for anything. Not unless we are instructed to do so by a court.”

I actually thought I could hear him laughing down the line.

—

NO SOONER
had I put my phone down from speaking with D.S. Galley than it rang again.

“Hello,” I said, picking it up.

“Jeff, it's Ken Calderfield. I hear from my father that I need to thank you for getting Daniel to change his statement.”

“I haven't heard from the police that he's done so yet, but, yes, that is what he promised.”

“That's great, thank you.”

“You're welcome,” I said. “Perhaps I will see you again soon under better circumstances.”

“Yes,” he said as if distracted. “Jeff . . . there is one other thing.”

Oh no, I thought. Now what?

“Does it mean that my father won't now need to find out . . . you know . . . about me being gay? You didn't tell him, did you?”

“No, Ken,” I said, “I didn't tell him. But I still think you should.”

“You don't understand what he's like.”

Perhaps I didn't, but it seemed to me to be very sad that a grown son had to conceal his sexuality from his father through fear of what he'd say.

“I still think it would be better in the long term.”

“The
long term
,” he repeated with a sigh. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

“Afraid?” I said. “In what way?

“I don't want to be a barrister. In fact, I don't want to be a lawyer at all. If these last few weeks have taught me anything, it's that the law and I don't have any rapport. I dread having to go back to it. Half of me was even relieved that if I was convicted of drug dealing, I wouldn't be able to go back. But that hope is now gone.”

I could tell that he was near to tears.

“You told me that you enjoyed the law.”

“I've tried to,” he said. “God, I've tried to. But I don't. I hate it.”

“Ken, you can't go on living your life in the way your father wants you to if it makes you so unhappy.”

“He even calls me KC,KC. Has done so since I was a kid.”

“He'll get over it,” I said.

“But how do I tell him?”

“You'll find a way.”

“Jeff, would you tell him for me? Tell him everything . . . You know, about me being gay and such. And also about not wanting to be a barrister. Everything.”

“No, Ken, I won't. That is something you have to do for yourself.”

“Oh God.”

He didn't sound very happy and I wondered if he would ever get around to it.

“Perhaps you could practice by telling Faye,” I said. “I'm sure she would be understanding.”

“Faye?” he said.

“Yes, Faye. Remember her? The wicked stepmother.”

He laughed.

“But be careful. She knows nothing about you having been arrested and I think it might be better if it stayed that way.”

“She's surely got enough trouble on her plate at the moment.”

“I'm sure she'd have a little room left for some of your problems as well. But her health situation does tend to put everything else into perspective.”

“Yes,” he said, “I suppose it does.”

—

I SAT
at my desk and made a list of the BHA Board members and tried to remember what had made me feel uncomfortable in the last two meetings.

The Board consisted of seven nonexecutives, including Roger Vincent as chairman, plus Howard Lever, the chief executive.

Stephen Kohli, director of Integrity, Legal and Risk, had also been present at the meetings, along with Crispin Larson and myself, so I added our three names to my list.

Eleven of us total.

Why would Leonardo, our extortionist, tip off the Press Association about Electrode?

He would surely have had nothing to gain.

So, if he didn't, then one of those at the Board meetings must have.

But why? And was it done accidentally or on purpose?

The
Racing Post
had run with the story on its front page in spite of there being no official confirmation from the BHA. The
report was full of
if
s,
maybe
s and
allegedly
s to avoid the paper being sued if the story was incorrect.

The main thrust of the report was that, whether the story was true or not, the lack of response by the BHA was yet another example of the manifest inability of the authority to effectively govern horseracing.

I visited the websites of the national daily newspapers. All of them reported on the story and all were negative and highly critical of the BHA, several with leading articles bemoaning the lack of response from racing's regulator.

So much for our control of the PR.

Piers Pottinger had been right—saying nothing had been a disaster.

There were printed quotes calling for the Jockey Club to take back the mantle of authority, some of them from very influential members of the racing community including the trainers Duncan Johnson and Graham Perry.

That was rich, I thought. Graham Perry was lucky still to have his license after what I'd found at his Cheshire stable. The old Jockey Club would have whisked it away faster than you could say methylphenidate.

Crispin called me at ten minutes to ten from the BHA offices.

“Roger Vincent has resigned.”

I wasn't particularly surprised.

“Who's taken over as chairman?” I asked.

“Ian Tulloch, but he claims it's a temporary measure.”

Crispin sounded as if he didn't believe it and nor did I. It was common knowledge that Ian Tulloch had been angling to be the next chairman ever since he'd arrived on the Board and now, it appeared, he had seized his chance.

“It might turn out to be a poisoned chalice,” I said. “I reckon
there will be more resignations before this lot blows over. What has Howard said?”

“Nothing, at the moment. But what's new? He shut himself away in his office as soon as he arrived this morning and, since then, he has refused to speak to anyone, either directly or on the telephone. I'm actually quite worried about him.”

“I hope he hasn't got his service revolver with him,” I said with a smile. “And jumping out the window of his first-floor office wouldn't kill him.”

Crispin tried to laugh at my poor-taste joke, but it was really not a laughing matter. Roger Vincent had taken one honorable way out. No one would want Howard Lever to take an alternative route.

“Do you know of anyone else who's thinking of resigning?” I asked.

“Apparently, Neil Wallinger has been mumbling about it.”

“He's probably the one who should be made chairman—that is, if they want to regain any public confidence. He's the only one of the current Board with a proven track record as a sports administrator, not that I think he's been much good at it. He's become rather dithering as he's got older.”

“You are so right, dear boy,” Crispin said.

“I reckon the whole Board might have to go. Especially if the press discover they authorized a payment of a hundred thousand pounds from BHA funds for nothing in return.”

“There's a real sense of panic here,” Crispin said. “There are rumors flying round like confetti. Everyone is suddenly worried they may lose their jobs if the authority is closed down.”

“Surely that couldn't happen.”

“You say that, but no one thought the GLC could be abolished.”

“The GLC?” I asked.

“Greater London Council. Closed almost overnight in the mid-eighties by Maggie Thatcher, who claimed it was an unnecessary tier of government and a huge waste of public money. People said she couldn't do it, but she did.”

“Before my time,” I said.

“You young whippersnapper.”

“Yes, all right, Granddad.”

I wasn't sure how old Crispin actually was, somewhere in his early sixties maybe. It was one of those bits of information that he would divulge only on a need-to-know basis and I didn't need to know.

“But who would control racing?” I said.

“Well, all the administration would continue as now. No one is suggesting that Weatherbys should go.”

Weatherbys was the private firm that had been responsible since 1770 for both the administration of British horseracing and the keeping of the
Thoroughbred Breeding Registry
, more commonly known as the “General Stud Book.”

“It is just the regulation and disciplinary functions that would change. There seems to be a growing campaign in the press to reinstate the Jockey Club in that role.”

“But that's ridiculous,” I said.

The Jockey Club had lost its position as the sport's regulatory authority back in 2006 owing to criticism of its self-electing policy and also because of a general desire to increase the transparency and independence of racing's governance.

“Is it?” said Crispin. “The system had worked pretty well for over two hundred and fifty years and now some people are asking why it was changed.”

“But you know why it was changed. Racing was seen as being run by the toffs. It was a throwback to a gentlemen's club of the eighteenth century.”